“Stop fussing, Roger! Yes, I know. We didn’t order any of the stuff in this package. I’ll just call this number and straighten ‘em out.”
“Ajax-Special. May I help you?”
As she puts the phone on speaker, Betty thinks out loud, “Odd. No list of options.”
“Miss, we got a package from you we didn’t order. There’s no return information.”
“Were the items satisfactory?”
“We didn’t order them.”
“Ajax is here to do your shopping. This shipment introduces Ajax-Special. You will receive everything you need weekly—groceries, meals, the latest fashions, personal items, prescription refills, treats for your bassett hound. Ajax will provide for your addictions—chocolate, gin, cigarettes, marijuana. We schedule appointments—hairdresser, barber, dentist.”
“Wait!” Roger interrupts, “I don’t get it. How do you know about our bassett hound?”
“We know everything. You have no secrets from Ajax.”
“Barber? I know when I need a haircut. I like my dentist.”
“Ajax computers receive daily images. We’re better equipped to decide your hair length. Ajax dental care is excellent. There is a small and reasonable fee for these services.”
“Am I surprised?” Betty quips.
“The small and reasonable fee is $5,000 per month with a promise of no additional service fees or increases for two years.”
Betty chokes. “Sorry, miss. We don’t need you. Thanks.”
“You will be making a big mistake.”
“Look, we get everything at Walmart. We’re not paying $5,000.”
“All big box stores have merged with Ajax and will close. Ajax-Special is your only option. Please consider the excellent services. Are the items in your introductory package satisfactory?”
Roger whispers, “Betty, put her on mute.”
After muting, the voice continues without a break, and Betty realizes they’re talking to a machine.
“The small and reasonable fee is a bargain. We supply everything—internet, cell, streaming, attorneys, doctors, burials,” the voice drones on.
“Listen, Betty. Maybe it’s a good deal.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Can’t you tell it’s a scam?”
“Suppose it isn’t. Don’t we spend that much? Hey! Try it a month. The burial is worth the price, isn’t it? What if I kill myself? Coffins are expensive.”
“Be sensible, Roger. That’s not funny.”
“Just tell ‘er we’ll take it a month.”
When Betty unmutes, the disembodied voice becomes more machine-like. “Suicide is not—acceptable. Ajax cannot—receive the small and reasonable fee—if you are dead. You must agree to Ajax-Special. The small and reasonable fee is a bargain. You must agree …”
Betty ends the call with a click.
“What’d you do that for? We can’t get ‘er back.”
“It’s a scam, Roger. Scam!”
“Where‘re you gonna shop when all the stores close? Call ‘er back. Take the deal.”
“I will NOT!”
“Betty! What’ll we do without Walmart?”
“Roger, stop fussing!”
The car almost drove itself. It’s like that with interstates. Easy drive—three hours—Seattle to Sunnyside. The sky was slate gray, overcast—not a perfect fall day but no morning sun in my eyes. I listened to music—Adagio for Strings, Bobby’s favorite—and slipped into a zone where driving doesn’t interfere with sensing the engine’s rhythm or the mesmerizing ribbon of pavement or meditation.
I’d driven this highway thirty years ago with Bobby in the passenger seat. We listened to Adagio together. Bobby’s Navy career, perpetually at sea, made a relationship nearly impossible, but when we connected, there was magic. His quiet confidence was comforting. I felt protected—an unfamiliar serenity. We crammed months of getting to know each other into a few, brief visits—ten cherished days over five years. We wrote letters in those days before email. Or Bobby would call to say the ship was going to be in San Francisco or San Diego, and I would fly there. When the ship arrived in Seattle, I was already here.
We left for Sunnyside early that morning taking a picnic lunch. We hiked in the countryside in the afternoon and discovered the Golden Pheasant for dinner. The restaurant’s sign portrayed a vibrant, neon bird flying skyward in its undulating light—a metaphor for the flurried flight of our friendship. The sign occupied a commanding presence on the main commercial street. It was the essence of the town and impossible to pass without going inside. The ambiance, the exquisite Chinese fair, and space for quiet conversation met our expectations. The late evening drive back to my apartment in Seattle was a sweet sadness. Bobby left for the ship at sunup, and then I didn’t hear from him for twenty-five years.
During those years, I thought of Bobby often, but I never entertained the possibility of death. Life went on. I’d waited before. I couldn’t change what was happening. It would have been fruitless to try. Then an email arrived. At first, I thought it was someone playing a mind trick. The writer, however, knew the intimate details of our life together, especially that day in Sunnyside. The communication shifted to texting and photos, but no offer of visits. I accepted it. I wasn’t sure about rekindling memories that I didn’t want to tarnish, and twenty-five years changes people. We texted occasionally until the fifth Christmas. I had an address in South Carolina and had been sending birthday and Christmas cards. That year the card had traveled to Charleston and Knoxville and landed in Sunnyside before coming back to me in Seattle at the end of January. Could Bobby be that close? We’d been texting regularly in December, but afterward nothing. What had happened to Bobby? This time there was something I could do—go to Sunnyside and search for Bobby. I had to find out.
I arrived in Sunnyside before noon. I would have lunch at the Golden Pheasant and question some of the staff. I drove the still familiar streets through town to Edison Street. When I arrived, a flatbed truck and a huge crane were blocking the street in front of the building. I parked across the street, got out of the car, and watched in shock as the crane lifted the landmark, neon sign off the building and onto the waiting truck. I found a worker and asked why they were removing the sign. Was it broken? The restaurant, he said, had closed ten years earlier. A new place was opening. The sign had to go.
I asked if he knew Bobby but held out little hope.
No. He lived in Yakima. Didn’t know anyone here.
What about senior living or assisted living places? Were there any around here?
He knew of a place west of Sunnyside. I could check there.
I watched heartbroken as the truck began to pull away from what was once the Golden Pheasant. This had been our place—the thing we had together. Shivering from the cold, misty rain I hadn’t notice earlier, I sensed precious memories flowing away to mingle sadly with the rain on the black pavement below.
The worker noticed color draining from my face and asked if I was ok. I said fine, just disappointed about not having lunch at the famous restaurant. As I walked back to my car, I realized I didn’t want to know what had happened to Bobby. If there were news, it wouldn’t be good news. I had timeless photographs—Bobby sitting on a park bench reading a newspaper, standing on my rooftop deck framed by the harbor, smiling back at me youthful and beautiful. Captured in time, we could be young forever—forever together.
I was kidnapped today. No, not in Kabul or Tehran. I stepped out of my house on a tree-lined street in a typical American neighborhood to go to my doctor’s appointment. Before I could open the car door, an enormous black SUV with tinted windows pulled up and blocked my car. Stunned, I surveyed the SUV and wondered what to do to get it out of my way. Two burley guys in dark business suits hopped out of the back doors, ran over to me, and, one on each side, ushered me into their car lifting me off the ground
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Put me down!”
They shoved me into their car’s back seat. One of them went around to the other door. They both got in and wedged me in the middle. The car screeched off at top speed, and the asphyxiating scent of cheap aftershave hit me like a brick.
I half coughed and half screamed, “Hey! Stop! You can’t do this!”
The woman in the front passenger seat turned around and glared at me, but said nothing. I took deep breaths to calm myself. They hadn’t hit me—yet. Proficient in negotiation, I hoped I could talk my way out of this.
“Look. I have to get to my doctor’s appointment right now. How about if we do this kidnapping thing later?”
“We know,” the woman said in a bland voice dripping with negativity.
“You know what?”
“We know about your appointment with Dr. Napoleon.”
“How do you know that?”
This was met with insolent silence.
I decided to try again. “You have to return me to my car so I can get to my appointment—now. Don’t make me late!”
The driver yelled, “Shut up! We’re doin’ a job here!”
This was not encouraging. The thugs on either side of me looked straight ahead and didn’t blink. They seemed like robots, except for their penetrating scent.
In my most authoritarian manner I tried threatening them, “I absolutely insist that you take me back. Kidnapping is a felony. You’ll go to prison for the rest of your lives. I’m a lawyer. Lawyers know things.”
“We’re not kidnapping you. We’re taking you to your appointment. Our mission is to deliver you on time.”
“What! You’re kidding! I got three reminder calls. It’s on my calendar. What is this?”
“You didn’t call back to confirm,” she replied without emotion.
“Of course not. Why waste time calling when it’s on my calendar?”
“Our mission is to deliver you on time.”
“But I’ve never missed an appointment—not in forty years. I’m never late either.”
“That’s not completely true. You missed a hair appointment in 2007. We need to be sure that never happens again.”
This caught me by surprise. 2007? What happened in 2007? I remembered an appointment when the salon told me the wrong day of the week, but how did these creeps know that and what difference did it make?
“You were also ten minutes late for the dentist last year,” she reminded me in a condescending manner.
“I had a flat tire!” I screamed. “They understood!”
“Doesn’t matter. Our mission is to deliver you on time.” I was sure the repetition was intended to irritate.
“So. What about all the times I’ve been on time? Don’t those count?”
“We know—369 appointments including salon. We’ve been keeping records for twenty years.”
“What about the hours I’ve spent in the waiting rooms? That hair dresser is always late. How about that?”
“One miss does it. You’re considered unreliable.”
The SUV pulled up in front of my doctor’s office, and the two thugs got out.
“Wait a minute!” I yelled as one of them pulled me out of the back seat. “How’m I getting home?”
“That’s your problem,” the woman shouted through her half-open window as the men walked me into the building holding onto my arms. “Our mission is to deliver you on time. Mission accomplished. We’ll see you again before your next appointment.”
Pandora arrived in Epimetheus’ life one afternoon without warning. She was stunning in a silver-lace see-through gown, designed by Athena herself and intended to show the perfection of her god-created body. Her golden tiara studded with precious jewels sat atop her cascading dark hair like fireworks on a mountaintop. She walked into Epimetheus’ house lugging a gigantic ceramic jar, bulging in the middle, painted with red and yellow geometric patterns, and topped with a loose-fitting lid. Setting the jar gently on the floor, Pandora gave a cute little jump and ended up sitting on top of it. She crossed her arms and her legs as if to say, I’m here and I’m here to stay.
Shocked by this unexpected intrusion, Epimetheus shouted, “Hey, what’re you doin’? You can’t be here! Get outa here!”
Epimetheus didn’t want her to go, but he said it anyway because he was afraid. He was also curious. He’d never seen a woman. Pandora was the first—ever. Her magnetism was greater than his fear, and the confusion was overwhelming.
“Zeus sent me,” she explained. “I was directed to deliver this jar to you as a gift.”
“You need to pick that up and take it back to Mount Olympus—now!”
“Epimetheus, you don’t want to reject a gift from Zeus. Don’t forget what happened to your brother Prometheus.”
“Yeah, yeah. Chained up on a mountain with a giant, liver-eating bird, but that was punishment for a theft. Prometheus warned me not to accept gifts from Zeus. Get it outta’ here!”
Pandora’s sweet smile could have melted Prometheus’ mountain, and then she pouted, “You don’t like it?”
“How do I know? What’s in that thing? A bunch of trash?”
“Magic things. But you can’t open it. If this trash can explodes, it’s Armageddon.”
A deafening shriek emanated from the jar, and an earthquake-like rumble shook the floor. The top-heavy jar listed to the right and left and rolled. Epimetheus rushed toward Pandora lifting her off the jar and embracing her body an instant too long. The jar continued to roll causing the lid to drop off, and the contents floated out escaping through the open door to afflict the world. Pandora broke away and slammed the lid back onto the jar before everything escaped. Epimetheus was struck with unfamiliar emotions, and he expected the result would be both good and evil.
“Now you’ve done it,” she said.
“Done what? The jar didn’t break.”
“Released every evil to plague people for eternity. That’s what you did. Misery, cares and worries, thankless hard labor. But I think it’s ok. I managed to save hopeful expectations just under the lid. When things get bad, we can let that out.” She smiled again—this time not so sweetly. “You know, people give Eve credit for all this, but she’s a small time player. Garden of Eden? A talking snake? Ridiculous! At least, this one isn’t my fault.”
Epimetheus rolled his eyes and fumbled his way into the kitchen for some Dionysian refreshment, leaving Pandora sitting on the jar buffing her nails to remove bits of clay left over from her earthborn beginnings.
The foreigner arrived near the town of Andun on foot, an odd circumstance since anyone of substance had an aero-mobile. Red set his book aside and watched him walking far in the distance along the flat straight road across the desert, but he couldn’t make out details.
Red punched his pal Buddy gently on the arm. “Hey, wake up!”
Buddy jumped. “What! What?”
“Look. Out there! Someone’s walkin’.”
“Who? Where? Nowhere to walk to ‘round here.”
“True, Buddy. Who walks?”
“Dunno. Nobody.”
They stared down the road, squinting to see the distant figure approaching in the bright sunlight. From their perch on a large log bench under a gnarly oak with just enough leafy branches to pass for a shade tree, they watched as if it were some fascinating athletic contest.
Buddy broke the silence. “He’s a little guy. Got a big stick. Shoot him with my stinker—easy. Got it right here in my ass pocket.”
“Ease up, Buddy. We’re bigger’n him. Get him without the stinker.”
It wasn’t unusual for Buddy and Red, pals since childhood, to take their lunch hour under this oak and not unusual for lunch hour to become lunch afternoon. They’d worked together at the castle farm up the hill since their early teens doing manual labor jobs—digging ditches and new gardens, cleaning out stables, spreading manure, slopping pigs, butchering animals for the markets. They’d been at the farm for so long that they didn’t even notice the stench of blood and manure that clung to them. The work was hard and nasty, but they were able to find ways to avoid working too hard, and they tolerated the nasty parts. They’d been sent here to do farm work at age thirteen by authorities who said they were ‘unruly and inattentive’ in school, but Red, as he matured and developed an interest in reading anything he found in the town’s library, believed it was a ruse to add to the work force. Having only seven years of formal education, they had been targeted and groomed to be laborers with no hope of advancement—a trademark of this community—and this had taught them to temper their expectations and pursue a minimally productive work ethic. Long lunches provided an escape from the monotony—an antidote for their boredom and discontent.
“Hey, Red. Got ‘nother beer over there?”
“What? You still got half your beer. Drink that.”
“It’s hot.”
“Nothin’ wrong with warm beer. Think we’re made of money? In some places they like it that way.”
Buddy sulked in silence for a minute while watching the slow progress of the foreigner on the road in front of them. Now they could see some details.
“Hey, Red! Look at that great big winter coat on that guy. Crazy in this heat. Least this is something different. Not good as a caper though. When we got ‘nother caper, Red? Need a little buzz, ya’ know?”
Red was a little exasperated now, having explained this to Buddy at least three times. “I told you. Last one was a close call. We barely dodged Sheriff Bonner’s bullet. We gotta lay low for a while. D’you want to get caught?”
“No. Maybe we need stuff though?”
“We’re good. We got ‘nough cash for two months.”
Red understood Buddy’s desire to have some excitement. He could use some himself. In this town there was nothing but work and lunch. Reading about distant places and historical events was his only relief from their repetitive daily activities of work, lunch, more work in the miserable fields and stables, low pay, if any, and the awful hopelessness. Buddy never read and, in Red’s mind, probably never gave life any serious thought as long as the boredom could be broken now and then and he had plenty to eat and drink—beer and ice cream, his favorites.
Buddy jarred Red back to the present. “Wait! What’s wrong with his hair?”
Red punched him in the arm again. “Shush. He can hear you now.”
Whispering, “He’s got funny hair. Real black. Or is it green? Balls! Balls on his hair!”
“Shhh! Cool it!”
The foreigner gave his head a slight shake on purpose, causing the balls and his hair to shimmer in the sunlight. The long raven strands brushed over his face and shoulders. He could see, hear, and understand the two figures on the bench now and observed that they were having an extended lunch and a party under the oak—obvious from the volume of food containers and beer bottles strewn on the ground around their bench. He wondered how tall they were but he could tell something about their overall size by their massive bellies. He knew which of the two was Red from a photograph he’d seen the day before. He was at least six feet and built like a wall—broad shoulders and barrel-chest with a generous head of carrot colored hair that had given him his name and with rosy cheeks to match. The other one, Buddy, was not as tall but broad-shouldered and tough-looking. He also knew their reputation around town for being nothing more than stupid laborers and less than honest. It was known that Red and Buddy were responsible for house break-ins and thefts over the past ten years, but the amount stolen was always so small that the ‘victims’ often didn’t report it. No need to get closer for the foreigner to know that he was about to meet his mark.
The foreigner addressed the two from several yards away to avoid the unpleasant smell of beer and salami mixed with the more unpleasant scent lingering from their morning’s work cleaning out the pig sty.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
Red and Buddy looked at each other as if puzzled, Buddy mouthing the word ‘gentlemen.’
Speaking louder, “Gentlemen? Can I assume you are residents of the town here?”
They still didn’t respond, but they were looking in his direction as if stunned. No one had come along this road and spoken to them in more than twenty years.
Red answered, “Yeah.”
“Very good, indeed. Then you know the area, I suppose. Can you tell me how far it is into the town?”
“Yeah.” Red’s sarcastic response didn’t seem to affect the foreigner, who after a significant period of silence, ventured another question, “Then . . . how far is it into the town?”
“About five minutes by aero. Don’t know about walkin’. Nobody walks around here.”
“Very helpful. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Red and Buddy glanced at each other mouthing the word ‘gentlemen’ again.
“You gentlemen appear to be having a fine meal this afternoon. Is this your usual lunch place?”
Red, the leader of the two, answered, “Yeah, you could say so.”
“You must work at the castle up there?” The foreigner pointed to the immense stone building at the top of the hill behind Red and Buddy. “Are you, by any chance, zoology experts?”
“Nope. We slop pigs and clean shit out of those horse stalls up there. Not much to it,” Red responded.
“I see. I’ll be looking for lunch myself. Can you . . . mmm. Where did you get the food for your magnificent feast here?”
“Down the road a piece at the road stop place. Can’t miss—”
Buddy, impatient with this conversation, interrupted, “Hey, mister. What’s with that funny hair you got?”
Red gave him a harder hit on the arm, now trying to appear polite to the stranger. “Hush, Buddy. Can’t you see this guy’s just lookin’ for information?”
Eyeing the foreigner with contempt, “I don’t like his looks, Red. Don’t like ‘em at all. What kinda guy are you, anyway? Weird lookin’ balled hair. Funny clothes. Where’d you come from? What’re you doin’ here?”
Smoothing things over, Red continued, “We sure do need to know who it is we’re talkin’ to. What’s your business here?”
“You are correct, Mister . . .? Your name, sir?”
“What’s it to you?” Buddy jumped in.
Red decided to cool the conversation. “I’m Red and this here’s Buddy. And you are?”
Avoiding the question of identity, the foreigner pivoted to a different subject. “Ah, yes. I’ve been sent by the mayor of the town of Astrin on the other side of the mountain back there to investigate the cultural amenities of your town. We’re in the market for some art works, sculpture, and perhaps religious objects for our new museum. Is there, by any chance, a museum in town?”
Buddy whispered. “What’s amenity?”
He got no reply because this was Red’s specialty—something he liked to show off about. “No museum. Got a historical society and big library.”
“How about a grand church—with artifacts?”
Red addressed this question with enthusiasm. “We got a Cathedral. Big one, too. Buddy and me—we go every Sunday. Big procession. Incense. The works. Those bells ring out hymn tunes on Sunday, and we got a big organ. Real music.”
“Does the cathedral have paintings and sculpture? Or maybe a gold or silver chalice on the altar?”
Buddy was pleased with himself that he knew the answer to this one. “Sure! Pure gold. Real beauty!”
“And . . . is the altar accessible? Can you just walk into the cathedral and go up to the altar . . . to say a prayer? And get a better look at that chalice?”
Red and Buddy gave each other a curious look, as if they’d considered this question on many occasions. Red responded thoughtfully, “You . . . wouldn’t want to do that.”
“Why is that, Red?”
“Well, there’s always a lot of people around and besides—God would see you walkin’ up there. Why do that, anyway?”
“A simple question. I’ll need to get a good look at the cultural objects in your town to see if our town would want something like it. Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been quite helpful.” The foreigner turned suddenly and left, walking quickly down the road toward the town.
Red was dumbstruck and Buddy completely bewildered. Why would a weird stranger walk up during their lunch break and ask about paintings and sculptures? It was strange enough to see someone on foot, but dressed like that with silly-looking balled hair—that was unimaginable.
“Red? What do you make o’ that?”
“Don’t know. Somethin’ strange about it.” He seemed deep in thought considering whether this could be an opportunity.
“Ya’ think he’s gonna—”
“Steal it? Maybe.”
They sat in silence contemplating this unlikely possibility. Red thought Sheriff Bonner might be in on whatever was coming down. He’d tried to trap them once by sending a cute girl over to get them to talk about their petty thefts, but he didn’t think the sheriff would bother to come up with a character like this foolish-looking foreigner. Could this be a chance to show themselves as heroes instead of dopes and get the town’s attention to the life they were being forced to live?
“Buddy, if he’s planning to steal that communion cup . . . He can’t do that. That belongs to the church . . . the town.”
“Couldn’t trust him. Trust a guy with balled hair? Funny talk? Nope. Don’t trust him. Not a bit.”
“Right. That’s a bad guy!”
“What do we do about it, Red? We gotta figure it out.”
“Yeah. We gotta protect that chalice. He’s walkin’ and we got the aero. We don’t need to use the road. We’ll take the back way.”
“You got it. Let’s get goin’.” They picked up the cooler with the remainder of the beer leaving the clutter from their lunch on the ground with the clutter of past lunches, and they lumbered up the hill toward the castle building where the aero-mobile was parked.
They’d gotten the aero from the dump about a decade ago and by now it was old technology—an antique by any standard. Buddy, the mechanic of the two, had rehabilitated it and kept it in excellent running condition, although his skills weren’t challenged by maintaining an aero. A solar powered vehicle that hovers above the ground and doesn’t roll along pothole-marked roads shows little wear and tear.
As Buddy engaged the starter, they heard the familiar and satisfying whir of the power system. The aero lifted—much like the two-hundred-year old Citroen automobile at the historical society. Hovering a few feet above the ground, Red aimed the aero around the back of the castle and across the pasture, dodging a couple of cows on the way. He pushed the accelerator to the limit and they arrived at the cathedral in less than five minutes, parking behind the building so the foreigner wouldn’t suspect anything when he arrived on foot.
They entered through the parish hall door, avoiding the cathedral close and front steps. The building was uncharacteristically empty—no visitors and no clergy. Red thought this was strange, but it was well past lunchtime when people would stop there to light a candle. Bathed in sunlight from the windows high above the transept, the gold chalice sat on the altar, the light seeming to come from within the cup. Red and Buddy had never seen it glow like that, and for a moment Red thought it could be a different cup substituted for the chalice they were used to seeing at early morning services.
“Hey, Red. How about we stand inside the rail and have a standoff with that balled-hair guy?”
“Think, Buddy. We don’t know about his weaponry under that big winter coat—or if he has super powers. For all we know, he could be a magician—a Merlin clone. Better plan is to hide the chalice until he’s gone.”
They scanned the nave, and seeing no one, Buddy dashed up to the altar and grabbed the chalice. They ran down the altar steps and around to the left to hide in a small dark chapel off the transept. It was quiet and cool in there, and the only sound they could hear was their own excited breathing. Buddy tucked the chalice under his beer-soiled shirt and peeked out into the cavernous space outside the chapel.
Buddy whispered, “Think we should get out of here?”
At that moment they heard the click of the latch of the gigantic oak doors at the front entrance and the creak of hinges.
“Shhh. Too late.”
They could hear the tapping of footsteps approaching up the aisle. They recognized the foreigner’s accent, and then they heard the even more familiar voice of Sheriff Bonner talking to the deputies.
“As we expected, the chalice has been removed. Officer Herbert, what do you hear from the deputies in back?”
Referring to the voice in his earbud, “The aero is back there. They must still be in the cathedral.”
“Check the chapels, the parish hall, and the choir room. Don’t forget to look behind the choir robes.”
Officer Herbert and two other deputies left the otherwise quiet and empty cathedral nave to search. As they hauled Red and Buddy out of the chapel by the back of their collars, the chalice slipped out from under Buddy’s shirt and clattered to the floor.
The sheriff gave out a hearty laugh. “At it again, Buddy? Officer Herbert, book ‘em and read ‘em their rights. Any weapons?”
“Naw. Buddy had a sling shot in his back pocket, but nothing lethal.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Sheriff.” Buddy protests. “We didn’t steal it. We protected it from that balled-hair foreigner trying to steal it. He was gonna steal it—not us.”
“Tell that to the judge. We caught you red-handed this time.”
A look of horror came over Buddy’s face as he was being handcuffed, “What’re ya’ doin’? What’re you gonna do to us?”
“Jail, Buddy. You’re finally going to jail.”
As they began the long walk toward the front doors of the cathedral, Officer Herbert received another message. “Sheriff, Rick is out at the castle farm and says we need to charge ‘em with criminal littering.”
“Ok. Tell him to make nice with the farm manager. He won’t like losin’ his farm hands. And don’t forget to return the chalice to the altar. We can get it if we need it as evidence. I don’t expect this to go to trial. Go ahead and close down this operation.”
Red, Buddy, and two deputies continued slowly down the aisle between the rows of seats, passing through patches of sunlight filtering down through stained glass windows. This hadn’t turned out as Red had expected with the two celebrating their heroic actions in saving the chalice, but he saw it as possible relief from their purgatory. Although he couldn’t be sure, ‘felon’ sounded better than ‘grunt’ and, finally, someone—maybe a judge—was going to pay attention to them. Their lives couldn’t get any worse than they’d been for the past twenty years.
Buddy glanced at Red who always seemed to have an answer. “Do you think they’ll make us slop their pigs now and shovel shit out of horse stalls in jail, Red?”
“Doubt it.”
“Jail might not be so bad, then?”
“Could be.”
“Think they have ice cream in jail?” Buddy never did well with changes, and Red could hear the fear and uncertainty in his voice.
“Don’t worry, Buddy. Keep your head up. We’ll make it through. Like you said, Jail might not be so bad compared to the castle farm.”
The massive oak doors bumped closed behind them leaving the sheriff and the foreigner standing in the transept of the cathedral. The foreigner had already shed the heavy winter coat to reveal an attractive pastel summer pantsuit.
“Sheriff, could one of your agents give me an aero lift home? I’m beat.”
The foreigner’s metamorphosis was no surprise to Sheriff Bonner, who had planned the ruse to end the irritating thefts that had plagued his office for so many years.
“Nice work, Barbara. We finally caught those two no-good, small-time criminals in the act. They’ve always managed to dash off in their aero before we could catch ’em. Thanks to you, we got ‘em in custody now.”
The foreigner reached up to her forehead, grasped the balled black wig. As she slowly removed it, long tresses of honey blond hair cascaded in slow motion over her shoulders.
“That’s my job, sheriff.” She flashed an enigmatic smile. “All in a day’s work.”
