Stepping Up at Christmas

There's a big storm blowing it's way up the coast

It'll be here today and it's kids who'll cheer the most.

Around here they close down the schools at first sign

Of a snowflake flying in the air, no matter how benign.

Today's the biggest Internet shopping day of the year.

We'll go online to order and they'll ship 'em over here.

With the hard part of Christmas all but in the bag

We've little else to do so time will start to lag.

There's time to think about what Christmas means to me

Kicked back with feet up, admiring the decked out tree.

My wish for this Holiday Season is that at least a few

People will take the time to consider me and you.

Did you do something charitable for your fellow man?

Did you pass the Salvation pot putting naught in the can?

How about that handicapped parking space out front of the store?

Did you put the Buick in it to scorn the crippled and the sore?

How about that neighbor who couldn't find his cat?

Did anyone help him? Did they think to do that?

The family on the back street has no smoke coming out

Of their bent little chimney and it's rusted little spout.

Will someone stop by houses on the other side of town

To ask the better off to lay a few dollars down.

It's one less eight dollar drink with the office crowd

A gesture that will make your heart very very proud.

It's Christmas time! Draw you loved ones warmly near.

Give a little more, dear ones, it's only once a year

It's Christmas time! Let's do the most we can.

To love each other freely and bring joy to every man.

It's Christmas time! You say you can't do very much?

Just give a little of yourself to everyone you touch.

A Gnarly Pyrate (Yo! Ho! Ho!)

Don's Christmas Gift to You - Enjoy!!!

Long time readers of this blog may recognize the story of Bob The Elf from last Christmas. Here it is again, with an updated title, to uphold the Christmas tradition of having a little something non-traditional served up for Christmas. After all, December 25th is Jimmy Buffett's birthday, too.

THE GOLD BUTTON
(How a Florida Crow Saved Christmas)
by Don Winfield

From a thousand feet above, the shiny object looked like a shimmering jewel glistening in the noonday sun. It caught Ralph’s eye so he tucked his wings in and dived down for a closer look.

It was a warm and sunny south Florida day, and Ralph was flying alone as usual. He’d been following I-95 looking for something to eat or pique his interest. He was busy picking up shiny objects and passing time until someone threw the last bite of a burger or some greasy fries out of a car window. He was really wishing for a stale bit of glazed doughnut. The other crows in the flock gave Ralph the bird equivalent of the cold shoulder. He looked and behaved different than they did so the other birds usually shunned him. He never preened, didn't like road pizza, and had a few curiously red tipped feathers on the very top of his head. Ralph tried to not let his estrangement from the flock bother him. He knew he was as good as any other crow, and suspected he was a lot smarter. “Why would anyone want to eat that nasty road stuff?” he thought.

Ralph zeroed in on the shiny object, and as he zoomed nearer he realized it was under the heavy mesh of a storm grate. He landed on the grate and immediately found that the shiny thing was a few inches out of his beak’s reach. Ralph cocked his head to one side and gave the gold button a closer look. “That looks like an engraving of Earth with a trimmed Christmas tree on it,” he mused. “I wonder where it came from?”

********

In a chilly workshop far north of Ralph’s nest, a short, round, fresh faced, and very worried little fellow in a green suit and pointy red hat, rubbed his neck worriedly. Softly, he kept repeating, “oh me, oh me, oh my.” Bob was a very minor cog in the gears of Santa’s well oiled Christmas machine. The little elf had just made a shocking discovery. Bob thought he should run and tell his boss. Petunia Elfson his pretty, red-haired, and often snippy supervisor, needed to know what he’d just learned. The big sleigh was scheduled fly away in fifty-nine minutes, but suddenly everything had gone horribly wrong.

Yesterday, December 23^rd, a frantic e-mail arrived from a gi-normous toy factory in Taiwan. It was the worst possible news to the North Pole. Every single Wobbleezer Action Figure had to be pulled in. The recall was urgent and all-inclusive. Toy testers in a rural village in northern Ireland had easily disassembled a Wobbleezer and eaten 13 small pieces. Both four year old researchers were being closely observed, and the tiny parts were expected to pass within a day or so. Nonetheless, danger lurked within every Wobbleezer, and they all had to go back to Taiwan for repairs. Bob knew that this meant they’d all be scrapped at the toy stores that collected them and replacements would be rushed out from the factory. This time of year even a rush shipment would take about five weeks. That would be about five weeks too late for Christmas.

Although Bob was worried he decided not to panic. After all toy procurement was Horner’s job. Horner was an old elf that had worked for over 200 years in Santa’s Workshop. Horner knew all the procedures. He would handle the Wobbleezer problem. Horner could remember when he and 10,000 other elves labored all year long to make enough wood and metal toys for all the children of the world. Now, a couple of decades of computerization, various cutbacks and downsizing, had reduced Santa’s workforce to sixteen harried, nervous, and overworked elves. Each of the sixteen had a very specific job, and none overlapped. Days were long and stressful, but Horner was at the top of his game.

Santa's Elves don’t get sick and the last injury was almost 100 years ago when Mrs. Claus accidentally sat on Moe. She had heard news of an escalating war in Europe and was very worried about the children there. While parking her oversized posterior in a loveseat near the radio, she failed to notice Moe who was napping before his shift. Poor Moe suffered a broken leg and was out of work four weeks starting in late October 1914.

********

The always cheerful Horner had happily tackled the latest disaster and was feverishly making arrangements to get new toys to replace the defective Wobbleezers. Old Santa was in his usual laid back condition with wisps of smoke encircling his head and a cheery smile on his round face. Nothing seemed to bother the man in the red suit, as long as his pipe was lit and smoke kept filling the air.

With the toy recall problem now in Horner’s capable hands, Bob had another extremely pressing issue to worry about. Santa’s sleigh was also being recalled. A small company in India had recently bought out the failing Japanese carriage maker that had been making Santa’s Sleighs since the early eighteen sixties. Things hadn’t gone well since Toyota and the rest of the Japanese manufacturers took over the auto industry late in the twentieth century. The tiny sleigh maker just got sucked into the vortex and disappeared. Now, at 11:01 PM on Christmas Eve, an urgent call from India had caused a real disruption in the Christmas delivery schedule. Santa’s one and only sleigh absolutely could not fly tonight! The flaw which Indian quality control testers found in its construction was terminal. The Quality Control Manager at Happy Sleigh Works in Scalpur, grimly stated that even one attempt at landing on a rooftop would certainly kill Santa, his reindeer, and maybe even some innocent children. Bob could not build a whole new sleigh. With no solution in view, Santa was have to be grounded.

“Oh me, oh me, oh my,” Bob repeated. “What ever will we do? Santa surely must make his appointed rounds.” It seems that elves often talk like that.

As Bob was thinking there was no solution in sight, the lovely Petunia saw him standing in the workshop with a frown on his face and his head hanging down. “Bob, you must go fetch Santa’s red outfit. We need to get him suited up, no matter what,” she shouted. “Santa’s journey has been happening for 2009 consecutive years, and it won’t be stopped by a couple of silly little glitches!” Bob shot off as fast as he could run for the climate-controlled closet where the internationally famous red suit was kept. He pulled it off the rack with great care. The big hand made wooden hanger always seemed to keep the suit perfectly pressed and ready for action. The little Elf noticed something amiss. “That’s strange,” Bob thought to himself. “It's never hung up with one button left undone.”

“Oh me, oh me, oh my!” Bob wailed. “Things keep getting worse and worse! How could this possibly have happened?” Beads of perspiration ran into his eyes and his fingers trembled as he held Santa’s splendid red suit up to the light for closer inspection. There was no doubt about it. There were only seven gold buttons. The eighth button was missing!

Hearing Bob’s exclamation, Petunia dashed into the huge closet with a worried look on her chubby pink face. “Whatever is the trouble, Bob?” Then, quickly seeing the problem, she cried out, “oh my stars! The Christmas Tree button is missing!”

The two elves were stunned. They just stood there in the humidor staring at Santa’s only red outfit in total disbelief. How could this have happened? Every precaution is always taken. Nobody ever touches The Suit until it’s time for Santa to go out on Christmas Eve. A thorough search of the otherwise empty closet was completed in less than ten seconds. The red Santa Claus Suit is the only thing ever kept in the climate-controlled room, and the floors and walls are kept immaculately clean to avoid contamination of the nearly two thousand year old garment. The button truly was missing.

********

Bob didn’t know why Petunia was so upset. He didn’t know that Petunia was the only living being who knew how important the missing gold Christmas Tree button really was. Without that button, there would be no Christmas presents for millions of children and adults around the globe. That button did many of the usual things that buttons do. It fastened Santa’s pants to his big red coat so they wouldn’t fall down when he’s exiting chimneys. It held Santa’s coat closed to keep him warm on the cold winter night. It also did something else that only Petunia knew.

The missing button was the one and only Magic Button! It was the talisman that made Santa’s big night possible. Its globe and tree engraving gave that button the awesome power to carry Mr. Claus around the world in only one night, bringing happiness, wonder, and gifts to the billions of children who believe in the magic of Christmas.

********

In a Christmas Palm south of Miami, Ralph the finicky crow was roosting atop his latest prized possession. It had taken Ralph a lot of time and patience to finally get his beak on the shiny object he’d spotted in the storm drain. Shiny things were his weakness and near downfall. Many times Ralph had barely escaped being electrocuted while landing on high power lines to inspect something he’d seen reflecting the bright Florida sun. On several occasions he’d nearly spent a second too long sitting in the center of the fast lane on I-95 trying to pry some glistening bit of this or that out of the melted tar. It’s hard to judge the speed and closing rate of an 18-wheeler when your attention is fixated on a ‘must have’ bauble.

Hundreds of short trips from the saw grass to the drain grate had done the trick. Slowly, Ralph had put enough grass and sticks in the grate so that a road crew making a routine drain inspection had to remove the grate to clean it out. Ralph watched patiently perched high in a nearby palm, waiting for the right moment. The second the workers paused for a quick water break, Ralph swooped down from his branch. In a flash he grabbed the button and minutes later Ralph was admiring his latest prize in his cozy nest in the top of a Christmas Palm.

********

The hands on Santa’s Ready Room clock were a blur. It seemed like the last 49 minutes had passed in 49 seconds. At 11:50 PM the alarm bell on the tall overhead doors leading into the workshop storage area started ringing. The doors slowly opened. Outside stood a line of eighteen wheelers loaded with enough Wobbleezer replacements to please every child who’d asked for one. These were labeled “Wabbleezers” but the subtle difference in spelling would not be noticed by the excited children. The kids of the world would be very happy to have the safer and longer lasting copies manufactured in Akron, Ohio.

Elfin magic filled the air, and in a flash, the Wabbeleezers were wrapped and stowed in the faulty sled. Nobody told Santa of the recall or that he would soon be airborne in a dangerous toy laden sleigh.

********

Bob’s fingers were bleeding. He’d chewed his fingernails beyond the quick and was still gnawing like a beaver on a mission. His nervousness did not escape Petunia and Horner alert eyes. They couldn’t do anything to make Bob feel better about the things he was sure were going wrong all around him. He knew the sleigh was dangerous and may harm Santa and many innocent people. He knew that the missing button was important, but not how necessary it really was. Horner didn’t know the button was missing, but he’d seen the sleigh recall. Horner also knew that Petunia would never put Santa or children at risk, so he was just calmly waiting to see what would happen.

Quickly, Bob glanced at the clock once again. 11:59 PM. Santa laughed a jolly “Ho, ho, ho,” as he bounded out of the green room and jumped into his waiting sleigh. Eight tiny reindeer snorted and pawed at the warehouse's concrete floor, waiting for the doors to open and let them fly. Santa grabbed a handful of reins and started calling each reindeer by name.

********

In south Florida, a black crow with a red splash of color on the top of his head was suddenly thrown high into the air above his Christmas Palm nest. Disoriented, he flipped over and over barely getting his wings spread in time to avoid a serious beak plant in the sand. As the stunned Ralph glided to the ground under his palm tree, he wondered what had blasted him out of his tree so suddenly. The confused crow slowly shook it off. Finally gathering his senses Ralph flew back to his nest to check the damage. He was hysterically happy when he saw that the nest was fine but seconds later his little bird heart saddened as he realized his prized gold button was gone.

********

Meanwhile from a secret village near the Arctic Circle, a jolly old man, eight tiny reindeer, and a very sturdy sleigh rose into the starlit North Pole night. The jolly old elf was toasty warm. His pants were secure, and all eight buttons of his coat were intact. The gold Magic Button had miraculously reappeared at the stroke of midnight, its magic making everything perfect for Santa’s big trip.

Petunia moved silently to Bob’s side and took his hand. As he smiled into Petunia’s shining blue eyes, the elf named Bob breathed a huge sigh of relief. Santa was safely on his way. The children of the world would get their presents again this Christmas just as they had every year for the last two hundred years.

RESTARTING - AGAIN (a poem)

RESTARTING - AGAIN

2010 Don Winfield

A grim future was but a fable

Of another person’s life.

Now it’s come to the table

Sure as the kids and wife.

Yesterday seemed like a window

Where man was his own master

It became a surreal doorway

Open on the path to disaster.

Madoff took a lot of dreams

Ground them to pieces small

GM lost the auto brands

And Wall Street took the call.

Good news from Obama

We’re good to go it seems

They’ve finally found Osama

But only in their dreams

If we all stick together

Hold each other to stay warm

The welfare line seems cozy

No work but what’s the harm?

Another year is dawning

Resurgence is on the way

Two thousand ten is waning

New lives for all, they say.

A GUEST CONTRIBUTION

Today's short story is a special one. This unedited short is from an old friend of mine who currently is nurturing orchids in Brazil. Mel is deservedly living the good life with his lovely Brazilian wife. I'm sure you will enjoy this story. I know it will make you think, and possibly it will invoke thoughts of some unique occurrence in your own life. Enjoy!

The Wedding Guest
by Mel Chaplin

He watched her as she turned.
She and her buddy moving off into the distance.
He just stood there.
Reflecting and absorbing the conversation, like a dream that had just transpired.

A woman and a man in their mid-40's approached him.
Holding hands and smiling.
Short. Chubby. Dressed in black suits. Wearing black wigs.
Here, at Amy's wedding, where he thought he would know no one.

She had simply said, "Hello, you are Mel Chaplin, aren't you? You may not remember me!
You were responsible for giving me the most exciting adventure of my life".

...the MOST exciting adventure of my life.
Now that was an interesting opening statement
said even in the presence of this little chubby man,
who he thought must be her husband.

Yes. He took them both in with his eyes and mind.
They were definitely a couple.
The kind of couple that seem to grow to resemble each other, as some couples do over time.
In fact, maybe they do resemble each other right from their first meeting and that's what draws them to each other.

And he returned to the conversation which was just taking place in this lobby next to the Louis XV reproduction table flowing with flowers and candles and half empty glasses of champagne.

She gave her name maiden name and introduced her husband.
She's right.
He did not remember her.
He was looking at her after she had made this amazing confession and wondering,
Who is this woman and where is this conversation going?
He composed himself. Smiled.
And responded. "Oh, Really?"

She had seen him at one of the tables.
He was with a group of people, but also alone.
How long had it been?
He had aged. Gray, Balding and bearded but still...she knew him instantly.
His face was also a bit worn, with a straightforward-look-in-your-eye pride.
His aura was unmistakably recognizable. Still the same features.
This was the countenance of the young man she had spent hours thinking about... starting when?
Over 30 years ago.
And if the truth were known, yes, even now into the present.
Wondering... what had happened to...
Wondering... what if she had only...
And there he was.
In this room.
At this wedding reception.

Was he alone?
What events had shaped his life?
In fact, at this moment in his life, who was he...really?

Did he need to know about the memories that he had provided her?
Did he need to know that over the years those memories had given her spiritual being
wings to endure those humdrum moments, those realities, which comprised her life?
Did he need to know that she still returned to the thrill of that night,
that place, as her greatest moment of adventure?

She watched him throughout dinner, unobtrusively of course.
He looked dapper.
Suspenders.
A charming little bow tie.
Cufflinks shimmering and bouncing light.
Tortoise shell glasses.
Ruddy cheeks.
A cultivated look.
A statement.

He smiled and laughed and spoke with people at the table.
He looked around the room.
He looked at her.
But when he looked at her it was the same look he had when taking in the wooden trim on the door, or the way the rays of light were dispersed from the chandelier. And the way he visually absorbed most people in the room who took his interest.
Taking them in while his mind was elsewhere.
She saw that when he looked at her.
She saw that as she watched him looking at others and his surroundings.

Was he married?
Where was his mate?
Did he have a partner?
What had happened to him during those three decades?
Would she ever know?
In fact, what did she really know about him at all?

He had wandered into the lobby, looking around at the pseudo-artwork hung on the walls, statues mounted in prominent locations and a large bowl of flowers on the table in the center of the room.

She thought... he should know how important the memories he had provided her with had been to her, to her entire life...since that one night.
She also thought that this moment of contact, even if it were just for a few moments,
would allow her to measure her memories against reality.
She felt comfortably that she could do this now.
She needed to hear the cadence and timbre of his voice for more than just a few seconds.
For longer than the few seconds she had heard his youthful speech. The only time she had heard him speak..
She knew she needed to see his facial and physical response to her confession.
She knew this was childish. She knew the confession would more than likely have no meaning for him whatsoever...
She knew he would walk away and never give that night...her memories...this confession...one other thought.

But she also knew she was here, hand in hand with her husband, Mr and Mrs "X".
While he was alone.
If she didn't catch her breath and allow this moment to happen...make this moment happen...there would never be an opportunity again.
Yes, she thought.

Yes she responded.

Her mind returned to those memories of over younger days and she wasn't even nervous for one second, as she thought she would be.
Her speech just flowed as she recreated that night.

"You lived on Stenton Ave. right near the drug store. My girlfriends and I walked to that drug store every night in the summer. When was it? I was 15. It must have been '62 or '63. After we got the soda at the Deli, we shuffled through the magazines at the drug store and we left. We killed time. We crossed the street and there was your house. That was part of the planned route. Your motorcycle was parked outside. It was beautiful. Shinny silver and black, big and totally out of place in 'our' neighborhood. We would just stand there and stare at it and wonder about who owned it and where the owner was and make up stories and giggle."

"We know this motorcycle was very well taken care of...the kind no one had better even touch. And we didn't. Until that summer's day...on a dare. I walked up to it. I touched the leather seat, it was not as I expected, it was firm. How do I mount it. I rested my foot on the rubber peg. swung the other leg over and there I was perched upon it."

"A second later you came out the door.
I slid off the seat and expected you to be upset.
Instead, you just said, wanna go for a ride?"

"Go for a ride? Wow!
The idea of really riding on a motor cycle was about as real for me as going to the moon. And about as scary. But my girlfriends were all standing there waiting for my response. You had just asked the question any one of us had dreamed you would ask but you asked me.
My head throbbed.
My heart pounded.
The sweat beads gathered on my eyebrows.
I could feel my thigh tremor but the only possible response was , "sure!".
You got onto the bike.
Fiddled with some controls, and with a few deft kicks the engine roared into life.
You gave me a helmet and I got on behind you.
I sat hugging your chest.
Scarred to death."

"Out onto Stenton Avenue we headed. Dust and wind stung my face. I held on tightly, with sweaty hands. We turned onto a winding road and as the bike tilted from right to left going thru the turns I felt a thrill and fear, I've never known since.Ten minutes later we were back to the corner of Stenton & Durard."

"What happened afterwards?" Hubby wanted to hear more - maybe.
"Nothing", she responded.
"My friends were on the patio, where you parked the bike, waiting for me when we returned.
I got off the bike. You got off the bike. We all said good bye and that was it!"

He looked at her and she thought she heard him wonder...why didn't you come back for more?

"We continued to walk to the drug store and then across the street past your house, the parking lot, your motorcycle...every night for the rest of the summer.
I never saw you again.
Then you moved and I went away to college...
And I still always think about that ride every time I see a motorcycle actually lots of times."

"Hmmm...You're right I don't recall that, but I've got a poor memory.
But I'm sure it happened. I'm glad that evening was able to provide you with so much excitement and memories over the years. Thanks for sharing that ."

They walked away.
She didn't know him one bit more than she did before she shared this filled with meaning and emotional confession of her life. But sharing it had been easier than she had thought.
And now she was...she was... liberated from herself.

He watched their chubby short bodies diminish as they waddled away.
He once again became absorbed in the sounds and sights of the people the movement in the room and the dynamics of the interactions. Chatting amicably with other strangers

Mr and Mrs "X", they were out of his space. And he reflected.

Yes, he remembered.
Maybe not her specifically...but the general feeling.
Asking a girl to go for a ride on a motorcycle..
Smelling the robust scents of summer of the city...
Of summer...on bare skin.
Sensing the changes of temperature as day turns into dusk and pockets of cold air surprise you,
even on the hot nights.
The sensation of the power of the machine becomes a part of you with a twist of the throttle.
The oneness with the landscape as it hurtles by.
Feeling the tightening of her bare arms around your firm stomach.
Feeling your chest tighten.
Feeling your groins dig into the bike.
Feeling the balls of your feet push into the pedals.
Feeling the softness of her breasts
and the firmness of her young nipples pushing into your back.
Feeling her warm breath on your neck.
Feeling the wind sting your face.
Moving forward and fast.

Peanut Brittle Run

In line at the neighborhood Eckerd's Pharmacy, things were getting a little tense. The 'church lady' looking woman being served at the register was there for the long haul. She made her third request for the cashier to go check a price, run down some Aspirin, or sort through the available stamps for just the right picture, when the gentleman three spots behind me cleared his throat. "B-itch", he hacked! The other five of us in the line glanced quickly in his direction, and most gave him an approving nod. I was late as usual for my Monday afternoon guitar lesson, and getting a bit antsy, myself. Just behind me, a little old lady in a brown knit cardigan and a matching knit beanie with two frolicking puppies embroidered on it, poked me in the back. I half turned toward her with a raised eyebrow. I couldn't wait to hear what she had to say about the unhurried shopper ahead of me.
"I'm going to pretend to faint", she whispered. "Catch me, and in the confusion the man behind me can push that woman out of the way".
That made me laugh right out loud. I thought I was the only one who got cranky when someone did their year's worth of business at the only open register with a long line behind them.
I shook my head 'no', and offered a suggestion. Turning toward the line which was now nine shoppers long, I said. "Listen folks, it looks like it's going to be a little while longer. The shopper ahead of me has just noticed that five of her items that are not marked correctly. How about we have a rousing sing along?"
That broke the ice. At least four shoppers wanted to sing songs. One suggested "Bringing In the Sheaves". Another thought that "Koumbyah" was appropriate, while two others wanted to sing sad songs of death and destruction. One guy just swore. We finally settled on "Margaritaville", a song everyone knew. After a verse of two of that, we had attracted a crowd of wide-eyed employees and shoppers. Most importantly, it accelerated the time it took the 'church lady' to decide she didn't need the disputed items. She paid and left the store.
The cashier thanked us profusely and the gathered employees and shoppers applauded vigorously.
I paid for the two boxes of peanut brittle I'd picked up, and went to my lesson.
It just goes to show you. Sometimes you can turn a bad situation around if you can only look at it from another point of view.

A PIRATE'S CHRISTMAS

Pirates say “yo, ho, and a bottle of rum”

What’s a Pirate to sing when Christmas is come?

Ye rattle yer sword and jingle yer bell

Deck all the decks and wish 'em to hell

Yer cohorts and mates are welcome to beer.

The rest of 'em dogs ain't getting' no cheer.

No grog, no grub, and no drinkin' rum.

These pirates 'll not, no never feed scum!

We'll show 'em the 'cat'! Walk ‘em into the sea

Grab our booty ya will? No quarter for ye!

Pirates sing “yo, ho, and a bottle of rum”

Time to dance on the deck. Christmas is come!

So sing “Jingle Bells” and “Oh Holy Night”.

Keep yer pint of rum in yer hand real right.

It's Christmas under the bones and the skull,

Honor yer mates at the Holiday lull.

Now we'll sail away in this ship of wood,

The gov'ner 'll catch us if his headin' is good.

We'll binge and frolic in much warmer climes,

No more plunderin', pirates. It's Christmas time!

by Juan da Pyrate

The Game

The Connecticut Committee met Thursday evening. They decided that immediate action was necessary. Barbara O'Reilly caught the next plane to Australia. A week later, she was still in Sydney, lunching al fresco at the Bondi Trattoria Café on Campbell Parade.

People moved along the sidewalk toward Bondi Beach or heading back downtown. Few took notice of the tall, well dressed brunette having a seafood salad in the open air. Barbara watched each pedestrian carefully, her sapphire eyes alert to every detail. Blending well, she was just another thirty something business woman having lunch.

Her waiter returned with Barb's check. She carefully laid out the exact change for the meal. Tipping is considered rude in Australia, and she didn't wish to stand out. Her watchful eyes soon saw what she was waiting for. The swarthy waiter standing by the cafe's side door nodded almost imperceptibly to an old woman shuffling along the opposite side of Campbell Parade. He dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and quickly slipped inside the cafe'.

Barbara took one last swallow of Perrier and stood. She slowly arranged some items in her purse, smoothed her skirt, pushed her chair in, and casually stepped into the light flow of sidewalk traffic. Barb and the ancient woman were both heading downtown.

Barb strode gracefully along the street, keeping her subject in sight. The crone seemed unaware that she was being followed, but Barb knew better. Ten blocks and five direction changes later, Barb was standing in a dank alley, her back against the rear entry of a closed haberdashery. After moving ahead of her subject, she'd stopped in a public toilet and disposed of the chestnut wig and dark business suit she'd been wearing. Now, she was a tall statuesque redhead, wearing a white turtleneck, yellow vest, and designer blue jeans. Her right hand held a small silver revolver.

The target entered the alley from the street. Her now youthful pace quickly carried her to within a few feet of Barb. Suddenly the door of the abandoned store burst open, slamming Barb into the alley's opposite wall. She managed to stay on both feet. Instinctively, Barb raised the Colt and fired. The waiter froze in mid swing, the stiletto's long blade missing Barb by less than an inch. A dark hole appeared between his eyes, looking like a squinting third eye as he crumbled to the damp bricks. Barb's gloved left hand deftly retrieved the waiter's dagger. The young man disguised as an old woman had no time to change his course. The thin blade slipped silently between his ribs and through his heart. His last few seconds were wasted trying to understand his fate. "Allah Akbar" he whispered.

The untraceable Colt was placed in his lifeless hand. His plot would be exposed and his bombs destroyed during the investigation. Amin's jihad was over.

Jimmy Buffett music from her iPod filled Barb's ears as the 767 lifted into the warm Sydney night. "Next week," she thought. "Another game."

The Barber's Chair

“Good morning, Charlie,” said the tall, dark, and plain stranger. He sauntered into the one chair barber shop and eased into the only empty on deck spot. “How's that sore on the old Johnson?” he queried. “Did you use that ointment I told you about?” He picked up a copy of “Field & Stream” and thumbed casually through a few pages.

Peter, the barber, cast a bent eye toward the stranger and wondered who he was. “Huh?” Pete asked. “How ya doin'? Don't believe we've seen you in here before.”

“Funny man, Charlie. You know who I am,” the new arrival said softly. “How are things with you and that gorgeous blond wife of yours? You two were actin' like 'next stop no-tell' Saturday night. Ken and Barbie's night out.”

“Say what?” Pete the barber sputtered. “Not me! You got me mixed up with someone else, pal.” Pete noticed the other customers suddenly getting interested in street traffic. Nobody was looking at Pete or the stranger.

“Maybe. But you weren't too mixed up about what you wanted Saturday night. Come to think of it, the deeper Blondie's hand got in your pants, the more confused you looked. Everybody at Ollie's Oysters was real focused on that hand,” the man grinned.

“Wha, wha, what the hell you talkin' about?” Pete stammered.

A pretty face with a mane of auburn hair poked around the corner. Green eyes flashed with great interest in the conversation. Caroline Postal didn't say word.

Noticing the flash of red from the shop's office cube, Pete loudly threatened to toss the tall man out. “Bob and Roy here will back me up, so don't give me any shit, buddy!” Pete nodded toward the other two customers who were trying to look busy.

Roy, a paunchy middle-aged customer sitting in the chair nearest the door said, “What the hell! What are you sayin'? Pete was with me Saturday night, just like he always is. Yessir! Texas Hold-em at my place, every Saturday.” Roy pushed his sliding horn rims back up his rather large nose.

“Sorry guys,” the stranger said. “Roy, I won't ask you about that young 'pretty boy' you were checking out at the bar.” The tall man scratched his chin and continued. “I'll admit I thought you two were gonna slip out and hook up in the parking lot.”

"You son of a bitch!” Roy screamed, jumping to his feet. Bob's grab nearly missed, just barely snagging Roy's belt loop, and yanking him back into his seat.

“Settle down, Roy, this guy's just having some fun with you boys”, Bob said quietly. “No need to make a big fuss about it.”

The latest exchange between the barber and his patrons brought the red headed woman out of the office. She stood larger than life, hands on her hips in the middle of the shop. Feet set shoulder width apart and green eyes flashing dangerously, she was looking for some answers.

“I don't know who you are mister, but what you're saying sure adds up,” she said. “Every Saturday night Pete, who you know as Charlie, goes out saying he'll be at Roy's playing poker. When I call his cell, it's never on. When I call Roy's house the machine's turned off. It’s always the same for Bob's. I can't reach him 'til he stumbles home at four or five AM!”

“Callie, honey,” The barber stammered. “You can't believe this guy! Every Saturday, it's poker at Roy's. We shut the phones off so we don’t get interrupted.”

“Hey, I'm sorry if I've made trouble for you dudes,” said the stranger. “I didn't know about all the secrets around here.”

“How about you, Bob?” he went on. “Is that chunky little brunette you were with your wife or another secret? You had your hand on her ass all night.”

Now Bob was hot too. His wife was, in fact, a chubby brunette whom he'd been begging for years to lose weight. His 5'7”, 210 pound body left Bob with little room to squawk. No matter. He felt since he'd married a shapely 102 pound prom queen fifteen years ago, she ought to stay thin forever. As unrealistic as that fantasy was, Bob clung to it. Hearing some stranger call his wife fat was more than he could take. Angry, Bob lost control and lunged toward the cocky stranger swinging like a windmill.

Pete's shapely 6' 3”, 150 pound wife, Caroline Postal, stepped calmly between them. Afternoons in the tanning salon had bronzed her body; a lucky gene pool gave her beauty, and two hours at the gym every morning kept her fit and athletic. With her glistening auburn hair flowing past her collar and her carefully shaped eyebrows giving her a permanent sultry look, Caroline could have stopped Bob the pudgy accountant with a glance. Extending a long, tanned arm, Caroline quickly halted Bob's lunge toward the tall stranger. She flicked him backward into the chair he just jumped from. The wooden chair splintered as he landed. Bob foolishly rebounded to continue defending his hefty wife's honor. Teetering, still dizzy from the sudden change of direction provided by Callie Postal, he lost his balance and fell back into the rubble. Old and dry, the chair had exploded into a hundred pieces. A broken spindle held one leg upright, waving in the air. Bob landed in the exact same spot he'd just vacated. Unluckily, as he fell, the chair leg was perfectly aligned to Bob a painful eight-inch goose. This unfortunate insertion caused Bob to shoot back to his feet screaming. Running blindly to escape the pain, he missed the doorknob and flew through the plate glass onto the sidewalk. Bob was bleeding from his face, hands, and butt. The broken chair leg sticking out of his backside. Howling like a wounded wolf, Bob ran down Mill Street toward the traffic light. At the corner of Mill and River, chair leg wagging like a Labrador Retriever's tail, Bob hung a right and disappeared. As he rocketed passed the bus stop, the wino on the bench raised his brown bag.

“Evenin' Bobby,” he mumbled. “What's the rush?”

Back at the barber shop, Caroline had a laser eye on her roving husband and his lying pal. “Bob'll be alright,” she said. “That's what he gets for being a part of your filthy scheme.”

The barber and Roy looked like they'd just seen The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Heavy emphasis on the ghost.

“Wipe those stupid looks off your faces, you imbeciles!” Caroline hissed. “I'm going to divorce your raggedy ass, Peter Postal, and MY next call after the lawyer will be to your wife, Roy. I'm sure Reggie'll be ecstatic to finally have a reason to take you for everything you own! Serves you right. I'm sure you and your 'boyfriend' will be very happy together!”

Stunned, Roy and Pete stood like the statues on the Courthouse lawn. Neither knew what to say and was not really sure of what had just happened. Fifteen minutes ago life was perfect. Now, both could see nothing but years of misery ahead.

“Get out of my shop! Both of you!” Caroline said.

For tax purposes, Pete's wife already owned their barbershop and everything else they had. In his infinite smugness, Peter Postal had insisted on setting up their financial affairs in this manner, making his wife the sole owner of everything. He was her only employee. It occurred to Pete that he might have just been fired. He was right.

Roy loved his wife beyond anything he could even imagine. He was devoted to making her every waking and sleeping hour nothing but paradise. So blinded was he by his own idealistic feelings about his wife and marriage, Bob had no clue about Regina's reality. He worked twelve hours a day, selling worthless stock to retirees to provide luxuries for Reggie. While he swindled geezers, his highly overpaid gardener, Raul, was trimming Bob's wife's golden bush into a delicate astrological sign. Not her sign, but if she'd ever let him see it, Bob wouldn't have known it was Raul's.

Caroline Postal knew that the stranger's information was just what her friend was praying for. Now Reggie could grab the proverbial diamonds in the mine and give good old Roy the shaft.

The tall, dark, and oddly less than handsome stranger slowly rose to his feet. He glanced around at the trashed barber shop.

“Well,” he said. “It looks like I can't get a haircut here today.”

As he made for the door, he reached into his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out his iPhone, and quickly typed in his password. He hit “Survey/Results” on the touch screen menu. It lit up instantly and he punched in; “Barbershop: Reactions recorded/Survey complete.”

Smiling as he reached the sunny sidewalk, the stranger decided to hit the nearby tiki bar. Time to enjoy a boat drink on the way to his downtown campus psych lab. The report could wait a couple of hours. Strolling easily down Washington Street, he suddenly broke into laughter.

“Rod Serling,” he thought. “Eat your heart out.”

MORNINGS WITH GRANDMA SMITH

Every morning was a re-run of the one before. Out of my comfy bed at what I now know was 5:30 AM, dress in the uniform of the day for a preschool country kid, and go off to Grandma’s by 6:00. Mom and Dad both worked in Binghamton, and that seemed like a long way off to me. I know Mom had to be dropped off first and then my Dad had to be at his job by 7:00 AM. Mom’s job at Rosen Brothers Bag Co. didn’t start until 7:00 either, but she would have to kill the time between being delivered for the day, and when the work day started. For her brilliant mind sewing bags all day was boring and strenuous, but my I never heard my mother complain. My dad worked for New York State Department of Public Works as a truck driver. That was likely no picnic either, but combined with mom’s paycheck it put shoes on all eight Winfield children. When school began we each had 2 new outfits, sneakers, shoes, and boots for when the snow flew. I was the youngest child, and had to wear a lot of hand-me-down clothing including boots. I frequently had to “grow into them” for the entire season. They were always junk before my feet caught up.

Life at Granny Smith’s, however, was always exciting and new. Even rainy days were bright, cheerful, and filled with fun. I’d spend all day playing in the hayloft, eating apples off the trees in the orchards, or just rolling down the sloped lawn to lie in the grass and watch puffy white clouds float lazily across the azure sky. Winters I would ride my sled on the lawn or build snowmen in the back yard. It was all light and cheerful at Grandma's. Gran was never grouchy or angry, no matter what I did. The best part was that my sister wasn’t allowed to beat me at our Granny's. For safety sake, I stayed at Grandma’s side as much as possible.

As I stated, the day began at Grandma’s house about 6 AM. By 6:30 there would be fresh hot pancakes on the kitchen table. Steaming, they'd be heavily laden with butter and all the sugar or syrup I wanted. Granny would fry up bacon or sausage, and usually there would be fried potatoes on the side. I could have as many tall cold glasses of milk as I wanted, to flush it all down. Let me tell you. If you haven’t had hot pancakes with lots of butter and maple sugar on them, you haven’t lived.

After breakfast, during the clean up, Granny Smith requested payment for her services. While she scraped and washed the breakfast dishes, I was expected to sing. I had to sing loud to be heard by a woman in her late seventies who was also listening to the morning news from a Philco radio perched on a corner shelf above the kitchen table.

I knew all the songs. My young brain absorbed the words and music by listening to the ever present radio programs in Granny’s kitchen and the Motorola console radio in my living room at home. At home we later had a small black and white TV and once a week I could see and hear the top ten songs being sung by the performers on “Your Hit Parade”. I remember “Snooky” Lansen, Gizelle McKenzie, and Dorthy Collins, performing weekly. There was another regular male vocalist but I can’t recall his name.

Every morning I’d have to serenade Grandma while she worked around the kitchen. Sometimes she’d be working there half the morning, caning fruit or vegetables, and I’d still have to keep singing. The concert would be over when the day time soap operas came on the radio. It would be The Many Loves of Helen Trent, Guiding Light, or some other current drama capturing my Grandma’s attention. I needed to listen very carefully because I’d be live DVR (digital voice recorder). If she missed a word or a sound effect, I’d have to replay it for her verbatim. I was proud of my ability to remember all the dialogue long enough to keep Grandma current, and my sound effect repertoire was extensive.

I got more than I knew at the time, from my years of mornings in Grandma Smith’s kitchen. I learned to listen carefully and be able to recall what I’d heard. I even learned to carry a tune. That ability served me well in school. It helped me to be instrumental in starting a “Boy’s Chorus” in Sixth Grade. Later I brought in male voices to create the first “Mixed Chorus” in my high school. I sang in community choruses for many years, and could always hit the right notes. Decades later, I can still accurately recall the lyrics to hundreds of songs.

The greatest things I got from those preschool years and the summer months of early grade school, were more precious and irreplaceable than any talents I may have developed. The very best part of all those mornings and days with Grandma Smith was just spending time with her. I got to know her and love her while she gave me more love than I ever have, or likely ever will, receive from another person. I didn't have to share her time and attention with seven siblings. Most of the time it was just Grandma Smith and me.

Burning Need

Man! Sun's hot today! Blindin'. Couldn't find the RayBans under the trash. Ought ta clean up. Maybe when I get back. Prob'ly right where I left 'em.

Downtown's all nasty. Somebody ought ta clean this place up, too. I need ta score fast 'n beat feet.

“Where ya been, Billy? Ain't seen ya 'round fer awhile.” Keep walkin', dude.

That explains it. Billy's been inside. Jail don't let ya hang out downtown too much. Three hots 'n a cot's all ya got.

“Hey, Zoe! How's it hangin', girl?” Whoa! She looks like the hind legs ah hard luck. Man, turnin' 23 was hard on that chic! Prob'ly all that strippin' and shit.

Ah, there's the place! Get it and get outta here before I'm covered wid all this crap. It's like the air's full'a 'tude down here.

People even walkin' funny. They in the street! Dude told me there's cracks in the sidewalk and ya'll turn an ankle. I ain't seen no craters. Seems like a car'd do ya more damage. Assertin' a little power, I'd say.

Can't believe Mel's didn't have any. This is bull shit! Used to be you'd score anywhere. Some days just ain't worth getting' up.

Couple more tries before I chuck it.

Sixteen blocks to the 'Meat Emporium'. Word on the street they got a new load.

“What the hell! I'm 2 minutes late? That's bogus, Wally! You just screwin' wid me 'cause I borrowed some from yer sister!”

She was just wastin' it. Man! That skanky ho'd never use that stuff. She just keepin' it 'way from us what really needs it.

Two hours, seventeen minutes! Still nothin'. Maybe Joby's got a little tucked away.

Ten blocks, and Joby's “out!” What's this? It's a conspiracy! They all lookin' at me from roofs n cellar windows and laughin' their asses off! I'll fix 'em. Next time I'm fat, they kin all piss up a rope. “Ain't got any an ain't heard ah any.” That's what I'm sayin'. Some friends. Friends don't do ya like that!

“Yo! Homey!” It's a guy in a clown suit. “Look like ya seriously hurtin'.”

“Sho am. Been all over town tryin' to score. Nobody's got any. Costs too much, they say.”

“I got one little piece left, Mac. It's real dark. 'Bout 90% pure. It'll cost ya, big time.”

“That you, Joby?”

“Hell no! Who the hell's Joby?

“Sorry. I just thought.... well.... Joby knows my name's Mac.”

“Just sayin', fool. Like Buddy, Bud, Pal”. Ya buyin' or not?”

“How much? I'm a little light, dude. Check comes Wednesday.”

“Special today. One time deal. Gimme ten.”

“Deal! Here. Six ones.... and that's sixteen quarters.”

“Yo! How'd ya figger I'm Pal?”

“Lucky guess. Now, gimme that friggin' chocolate!”

Who'll Watch the Watchers-Part IV (Conclusion)

Fatal Mistakes

Rolling across the Everglades at a leisurely 75 mph, Sean and Jim rode in silence. Both were deep in thought, considering what they knew so far. An hour earlier, they'd learned that a possible hero who'd found a missing six year old girl, had suddenly, inexplicably disappeared. Where was Jeanie's bike? Where was her camera? Those items could possibly bring this case to a quick end. They'd wanted to talk to Swank about how he found the child and if he's seen anything that could help, but running in the middle of the night put him on the top of their suspect list. Orin Swank was an expert Everglades survivalist and both detectives knew they wouldn't be able to hunt him down alone.

As they neared the place Orin had 'found' Jeanie Strong alive and called 911, they passed a woman driving a black Nisan Titan heading out of the 'Glades. She'd have gone unnoticed but for the flaming shock of auburn hair billowing out of the Titan's open window. She must have recognized that the Crown Vic was a police car because she threw a snappy salute as they passed, which Sean, who was driving, automatically returned. After discussing how pretty she was, neither detective gave the Titan or its red haired driver another thought.

Liz Smyth, six feet, titian haired, and blue eyed, was on vacation. She had five cute freckles on her nose, and a heavy black belt with mace, a baton, and a Glock 9 under her seat. She was a third degree black belt in Karate, and carried a gold badge from the Maine State Police Investigation Unit.

Liz had earned this Florida vacation and decided to spend it in solitude in the Everglades, communing with alligators and snakes instead of the two legged animals she routinely had to deal with on the job. Her last big case involved a murdered antiques dealer from Upstate New York, and she ended up killing the suspect when he'd tried to kill her boyfriend to get to her. Following the resolution of that case Liz was promoted to Sergeant. Three days later she was on the road to Florida's Everglades for some R & R.

Liz had just set up her camp near Lake Okeechobee and was heading into Moore Haven for ice and supplies for the week. She was surprised to see two plain clothes cops heading in the direction of Okeechobee. Since they were in a county unit and it was early afternoon, she figured they weren't going fishing.

In Moore Haven, Liz quickly grabbed her supplies and high tailed back to her isolated camp on the edge of the lake. She couldn't put humanity and the horrors of her most recent case behind her quickly enough. She only wanted some serious relaxation, exploring and shooting Everglades wildlife with her digital 35mm Canon.

A quarter of a mile north of Liz's camp, on the shore of Lake Okeechobee, the white smoke of a campfire rose lazily through the gumbo limbos and mangroves. A well worn iron skillet held a sizzling catfish, freshly caught and covered in hot Cajun spice. Nearby, as the fish fried, a burly figure fashioned a dark green 10' X 10' nylon tarp into a makeshift lean-to. As he worked he was thinking seriously dark thoughts about his future. Orin Swank reached for his 30.06 rifle. He checked the chrome 38 revolver tucked in his belt, and nodded to himself. A small pink girl's bike was tied to the back of the big Kawasaki. He covered the machine with brush and went back to his frying pan. Patting the pocket of his cargo camos he felt the lump of a pink digital camera and grinned. He had gathered all the evidence, and the rest of the loose ends would be tied up real soon

“This'll be over soon,” Swank muttered aloud. He knew he had to get rid of Jeanie and get away for a fresh start. In Orin's sluggish brain, that was the only solution. Kill the witness and go somewhere nobody knew him. “Nobody 'round here 'll miss me nohow. Like folks say, Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Next morning, break of day, the search party met in a diner parking lot on FL 27 outside of Moore Haven. Detectives Bailey and Yamamoto led the party into the Everglades from Moore Haven. The FDLE Profiler said that the place where little Jeanie had been kept was probably a very familiar and favorite spot for her kidnapper. The dogs would look for the bike and camera. If they were right, Orin Swank may have returned there to grab the evidence and figure out his next move.

As the task force of fourteen FDLE agents, eight Glades County deputies, and two bloodhounds went into the dense forest, they considered the possibilities. Maybe Orin didn't know he was a suspect and just happened to go on an impromptu 'glades camping expedition. Then, he'd probably be easy to snag. But, if he suspected he'd been found out, he'd be hard to bring back alive. A death sentence awaited a convicted child kidnapper and rapist in Florida.

Orin saw the cloud of dust rising from the trail into the 'glades about the same time Liz Smyth pushed her kayak into the lake.

Liz stepped into the yellow plastic craft and backed it away from shore. She squinted in the bright morning sun rising above Okeechobee. She let her mind go free, enjoying the sounds of the Everglades and being surrounded by such intense natural beauty. Pulling her new Wayfarers down and grabbing the paddle, she headed North along the shore. The best pictures of birds of prey and other animals slaking their morning thirst would be along the shore, so that's where Liz decided she'd be shooting today.

All that dust meant only one thing to Orin. The cops were coming! He had to get away! No boat, no way to swim across the huge body of water, and the posse is getting closer by the second. Orin's mind spun as quickly as it could, as he ran toward the lake. Then he saw his salvation. God had answered his hastily uttered prayers. Coming silently toward him close to shore, was a woman in a small yellow kayak. Swank quickly jumped into the water and began floundering, waving his arms and yelling. “Help! Help! Help!”

Liz was startled by the sudden appearance of someone in the lake. Seconds earlier she'd scanned the shore and there was nobody there. Now, a big man in camouflage clothing was in the water and apparently drowning. Without hesitation, Liz began paddling toward the man as fast as she could. As she reached the quickly sinking man, she sprung from the kayak into the lake to haul him to shore. His weight was not an issue for the fit six foot Maine State Trooper, and she quickly pulled him to safety. She rolled the big fellow onto his belly and pressed on his back to push out any water he'd taken in. He began to mumble, “I'm ok, get off me! I'm ok!” Liz helped him roll over onto his back and was looking right into the barrel of a shiny Colt 38 revolver.

“Whoa, big boy!” Liz said calmly. “You're gonna hurt someone with that thing. I'd really hate to eat lead for breakfast.”

“Get back!” Orin shouted. His eyes were the size of saucers and the blood vessels were bulging in his temples. The confusion and anger of not scaring this young woman made him hesitate for just a split second.

In that second, Liz kicked the 38 away with a long leg simultaneously pulling her pistol from the back of her belt. Swank saw the big black automatic and God at the same time. His fingers were grasping for the missing 38 and praise for The Lord was spewing from his slack mouth all at once.

“Praise the Lord! Please God, save me from this crazy bitch!” he prayed at the top of his lungs.

“You didn't pull a gun on me because I saved you, mister,” Liz said backing away from the hulking swamp man. “What the hell is going on here? Let's see some ID”

“Ain't got none! Wouldn't give it to you if I did, bitch!” The fat man lay thrashing around on his back, feet kicking struggling to get up. “Who the hell you think you are, pulling that gun on me? I'm just campin' here and fell in is all.”

“Pulling that gun on me after I saved you looks pretty damn funny.” Liz was not about to let the big man get off the ground until she knew she had him under control. Then she heard people crashing through the heavy underbrush, and the baying bloodhounds. That gave this scene a whole new meaning. This hulking brute was a wanted man!

Liz had no cuffs or anything else to secure the man. She figured she could hold him at gunpoint until the searchers arrived. Suddenly in a surprising display of agility, the giant flung himself off the ground and and knocked her flat on her back in the mud. The Glock spun through the air and into Lake Okeechobee with a sickening splash.

Orin grabbed the chrome Colt off the ground and spun toward Liz's supine form. In his excitement he didn't hear Sean Yamamoto order him to drop the gun. As he swung the muzzle toward the female trooper, nine rapid shots resonated through the forest. Liz saw a red trickle start to run down the side of Orin's head. His eyes, wide with surprise, stared unseeingly at her as he fell hard on his face a foot from where she lay.

Epilogue

The evidence was overwhelming. There was no question that Orin Swank had kidnapped and molested Jeannie Strong on the shore of Lake Okeechobee. Luckily Swank had no idea how to operate the small pink Canon digital Jeanie had been carrying. Swank's face, his car, his shotgun, and even the alligator tattoo on his left forearm were clear in several digital shots. The distinctive stumps and tree carvings around the clearing where she'd been left to die were in many photos on the camera as well. After learning what her late husband had done, even Nellie Swank didn't sympathize with Orin. His guilt certain, nobody wished Orin Swank had lived to stand trial. No trial, no chance to get off. Orin got justice and the price was right.

Who'll Watch the Watchers - Part III

The Chase Is On

“You're friggin' crazy, man! What the hell is wrong with you?" The young cop was scanning for any other inhabitants. "Nobody sleeps hanging from their ceiling in a hammock. Whoa! That a gator skin you're wrapped in?”

Sean was used to hearing comments like that. People called him crazy and they were right. He just wrote them off as gormless, and maybe some of them were.

Detective Jim Bailey from the Glades County Sheriff’s office stood staring at the naked cop hanging in the condo's only bedroom. “You're out of your mind, Sean”, he said. “What the hell are you doin' hanging there like that?”

“If you gotta ask, you can't understand,” Irish-Japanese-American Detective Sean Yamamoto mumbled sleepily. He was resentful that his sleep had been interrupted one short hour after he hit the hammock.

“Well get your ass outta there and lets have at it. The 'Glades Pervert' is at it again, Sean.”

“Oh, Christ! What is it now?”

“That little girl from down near Citrus Center. She's turned up alive. Some 'bubba' that goes to the same church as her family found her.”

“What's the problem, Jim?” Sean queried absentmindedly. “They live close to where she turned up?”

“That's just it Sean. She was way out by Okeechobee. Thelma from the Comm Center said the guy who found her lives down by Citrus Center too. No way a six year old wandered over sixty miles”

“Hummm. Thelma's a pro. We better go with her gut and check this dude out,” Sean said, heading out the door. “You drive Jim, you can get from Lakeport to Citrus Center quicker than I can. Lights and siren bud. What's this guy's name?”

“Orin Swank. Rumor is he's a poacher. 'Gator skins, big cats, illegal stuff like that. Word is he's not too bright but there's nobody better out in the 'glades. Like he's part animal.”

“Record?”

“Drunk and disorderly, public intoxication, assault-no weapons. Got beat up under suspicious circumstances 20 years ago by a black truck driver from Citrus. Dude put him and his daddy in the hospital a few hours apart, and nobody'd say what started the fight. Somebody put Orin back in the hospital a few days later. Truck driver was gone on a run then, but again nobody'd talk.”

“Yeah, they're closed mouth out there in the 'glades.” Sean kicked back in the brown Crown Vic's passenger seat. Jim floored it and they were soon flying down FL 27 at triple digits. The police spec Ford's tall gearing kept the engine loafing at that speed, and Jim had Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett's 'Five O'Clock Somewhere' on the CD player, cranked to about 80 db. Forty minutes later, Citrus Center's faded and rotting corporate limits sign receded in their rear view mirror. Sean had the GPS set to the address Jim had for Hank and Jenny Strong's. The little four room house was on a grass centered lane, three dirt roads off the highway. The Vic kicked up a billowing cloud of dust as it rolled to a stop in the dirt yard out front. A little blonde girl playing in the front yard, got up and ran inside when she saw the cruiser pull up.

Before Sean and Jim could get out, the screen door swung open and a thin man with a deeply lined red face and sunken blue eyes came out. He ran a calloused workman's hand through his wispy gray hair and gave the Sheriff's Detectives a wary look.

“You boys from the Sheriff?” he asked, glancing toward the Ford's back seat.

Harkness Strong looked like he hadn't slept or eaten for a week, but his voice was clear and unwavering. His piercing blue eyes had 'born again' intensity.

“I'm Detective Yamamoto and this is Detective Bailey,” Sean said taking the outstretched hand that could probably crush a coconut.

“Well detective, you sure don't look Japanese. That your work name?” Hark asked smiling crookedly.

Yamamoto knew he didn't look Japanese. If fact he didn't resemble his father at all. His friends called it a virgin birth. A clone of his Irish mother, the former Mary Margaret O'Hearn, he didn't want a DNA test. Sean loved his dad but If his mom had a secret, it was hers to keep. He ignored Hark's comment and began asking him about the four days and three nights his daughter had been missing.

Hark Strong seemed genuinely convinced that Jeanie had ridden her bike for miles and miles and just got lost. He had no idea why she would do that. No, she'd never done anything like that before. She'd always been very reliable and had never even stayed overnight with a relative before then. That she couldn't account for her bike or her camera, her two most prized possessions, didn't seem to trigger any doubt in Mr. Strong's mind. He was a man who just believed whatever people told him, and let it go at that. Odd as it was, Sean and Jim believed the man.

“Mr. Strong,” Sean asked quietly. “Would you mind if we talked to Jeanie about this?”

“Of course not. She doesn't seem to remember much, but mama and I figured maybe she fell off her bike and hit her head, or something.”

While Hark went to fetch Jeanie, Sean told Jim to look her over carefully while he questioned her. He wanted Jim to see if he could detect any scrapes or bruises, especially a knot on her head or a cut that might show where one had been.

“Hi, Jeanie. My name is Sean. I'm a Glades County Detective,” Sean told the wide eyed little girl. Do you think you could talk to me about being lost?”

“Sure, Mr. Sean. There isn't much to tell, though,” Jeanie said. “I went out to take some pictures with my new camera and got lost.”

“Jeanie, do you know where your bike is?” Sean asked.

“Nope!” Jeanie blurted out and a tear suddenly rolled down her cheek. “I lost it and my camera too! I can't have new ones 'cause daddy says we can't afford 'em.”

“That's too bad, Jeanie. You never know, they may just turn up after all,” Sean smiled at the pretty little girl. “You remember where you last saw your camera?”

“I, I, I'm not sure. I thought I took some pictures out in the swamp. A 'gator came right up to me and smiled. Mr. Orin told me I was wrong. But the last time I thought I saw it, I thought I saw Mr. Orin kick it into the swamp and stomp on it. I prob'ly just 'magined it, though.” Tears were now streaming down both of Jeanie's cheeks.

Her mama came into the room and saw her crying. She scooped Jeanie up and told the two detectives that Jeanie couldn't answer any more questions. She'd gotten lost, and that was all there was to it. She just wanted to forget about it and let Jeanie get back to her normal life.

Sean and Jim said that would be fine, thanked the Strongs, and walked out to the Crown Vic. They looked at each other for a few seconds and nodded at the same time. Both cops had the same thought. Jeanie could remember what happened but probably all the adults involved were encouraging her not to. That very likely included the man who abducted her. EMS had taken Jeanie to the hospital in Citrus Center when they got her from the swamp. The Strongs knew Jeanie had been sexually assaulted, and were denying it. Sean and Jim weren't overlooking that horrible fact, however. They were now looking directly toward Orin Swank.

Heading back toward Lakeport, Sean got the Glades County Chief of Detectives on the radio. “Ronnie,” he said. “I want to talk to Orin Swank. Could you tell me where he is right now?”

Sean relayed Swank's address to Jim who spun the Ford back toward Citrus Center. Next stop, Orin Swank's shotgun shack.

“He's gone”, the heavyset woman at the door said. “When I woke up this morning his side of the bed was empty. Orin took some under-drawers, a couple pairs of jeans, some fresh tee shirts, and disappeared. No note or nothin'. He's never run off like that before. What do you boys want him for, anyway?”

“Mrs. Swank?” Jim asked, noting her red eyes and the damp hanky she held.

“Yes, I am. Been married to Orin for 19 years, and he never done nothin' like this before. I'm really scared!”

“Is that Plymouth yours or his?” Sean queried slowly edging toward the rusty Reliant K.

“No, and that's the thing. Orin never goes anywhere without that car.”

“How else could he have left? Any other vehicles around?” Jim asked.

“Well, the 4 wheeler out in the shed. That thing's his pride and joy, it is. Keeps it clean as a whistle all the time.” Nellie beamed with pride at the mention of Orin's big Kawasaki ATV.

The trio walked out behind the shotgun shack, down a short path to the woods.

“That's strange,” Nellie blurted. “The lock is missing. Orin gets real mad if anyone unlocks that shed.”

Detective Sean Yamamoto pulled the shed door up and out. There, inside the steaming little shed, sat a naked dirt floor. All three just gawked then looked back and forth at each other.

Jim Bailey broke the silence. “Now we know how he left. Where the hell do you suppose he's headed?”