"Wildfire" Series

[Joey "The Handyman" Handy]

****Author's note****

I thought I'd post this series to show everyone kinda what I will eventually be working towards, and maybe get a bit of feedback.  It's one of the series I was most proud of when I was writing for Joey Handy in the WGWF.  Please note that the Grim mentioned in this series is NOT the Grimm we have here, but rather a character handled by the mind behind Dominator.  (For a great example of that character, see the thread in this forum that he posted.)  Also bear in mind that I didn't bother looking up Handy's wife and kids' names for posterity to start here, I just started from scratch. So there will be continuity issues there.  I also left off the trash talk sections because the majority of those reading it here wouldn't know or care about those mentioned. I hope you all enjoy them, but I'm not going to take the time to do any fancy layout for them.  With that said, I present the "Wildfire" series.


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Wildfire, Part One



The sheriff dismounted his car, a toothpick hanging from a corner of his weathered and stress wrinkled mouth. A sea of red and blue flashing lights from police cars and an ambulance gave the setting sun some competition. For an auburn autumn day, it had been a hot one, reaching close to 85 degrees. Wiping sweat from his brow before donning his hat above his bespectacled eyes, he glared back at the sun with disdain. "Welcome to the Midwest," he grumbled to himself, shaking his head. A much younger deputy approached him, the look of confusion on his face, bordering on fright, stopped the elder peace keeper in his tracks. "What's going on, Jimmy?"



Jimmy Stroud stammered a bit at first, grasping for the words to come out of his mouth. "I've..." he finally managed, "I've never seen anything like it in my life, Sheriff."



"Well, out with it, boy! What is it?"



Jimmy shook his head, his mind still not grasping the scene. He motioned for the Sheriff to follow him. "You're not going to believe this."



As the Deputy cleared himself out of the way, the lawman took in the situation. Several other deputies and a pair of coroners were gathered about, snapping pictures with cameras and phones alike. One of the coroners, wearing every type of protective apparel at his disposal, haz-mat suit, thick gloves, and booties covering his feet, just peered up at the Sheriff, shaking his head, gobsmacked. The body he was tending to was frozen stiff his hands crumpled up in an agonized pose and a fearful silent scream... well... frozen in place. The steam from the temperature difference rising up a few inches before vanishing, yet the cadaver didn't seem to be in a hurry to thaw.



The corpse was a man he knew all too well. It was Billy Joe Cannon, a local farmer, who had turned into a mean drunkard in these last few years after his farm began to not turn a profit due to his refusal to use chemically enhanced crops. After he crawled into the bottle, he began physically abusing his wife and son, as if he were blaming them for his failing farm. Domestic disturbance calls, drunk and disorderly arrests, even an OUI had made the once good victim an all-too-familiar face. All around the body and in a trail leading into the woods a half mile or so away, the ground was covered in an equally stubborn frost with a curious twist; the tops of the plants looked as if they had caught fire and burned away.



The Sheriff stood with his hands on his hips, completely agog at the mysterious panorama. "What in the royal blue FUCK am I looking at?" His proclamation stopped everybody in their tracks in silence.



********



I sat in my car, heading down Nebraska Highway 79H towards Scotts Bluff. I had been given another assignment slathered in crypticism. This time, all the piece of paper told me was "Wildfire." It took me nearly two days to figure out what the hell it all meant. I'd probably still be scratching my head if a fateful song hadn't aired. Michael Martin Murphey's "Wildfire," had given me a few clues. Thank the Creator for Google, though even the search engine practically looked at me when I asked where "Yellow Mountain" was located. Scotts Bluff is the sole rocky up-jutting structure in Nebraska, the rest is flat, dark, and even the dirt doesn't want to be there, kinda like western Kansas.



I was deep in my own little world, wondering if I was ever going to be able to get my hands around Grimoire's throat. He had signed up for this TV Title tournament, but had pulled his usual disappearing act, even before he was scheduled to show. It ate at me like a cancer, my mind seething, the silence of the long road trip its only worthwhile company. Both "Professor" Baxter and I had been knocked out of the tourney, me losing to Hunter and he to Jason Twisted. We had a chance to redeem ourselves and gain a number one contender's spot at the pay-per-view. Even that lofty goal wasn't enough of a distraction to keep my mind from that demon-spawned clown.



"You gon' turn yo' heart dark if ya keep pressin' 'bout Grim."



The Jamaican accent was familiar enough, but the suddenness of its appearance nearly caused me to wreck the car. I regained control before my swerving caused us to flip on the lonely highway. Pulling over to the side of the road, I looked at my unexpected passenger with an anger that was nearly uncontrollable. "What. The fuck. Are you trying to do? KILL ME? AGAIN?" My heart had slowly began the process of not jumping from my throat as I grimaced at The Patron. I clasped my chest, taking in deep breaths in an attempt to return my bodily function to my control before I had a different kind of accident.



The Patron only looked at me with sadness in his eyes, shaking his head in disapproval. "If ya go down dat road, da road dat leads to da clown, ya no gon' like whatcha find. Stick to ya a-sine-mints. Leave da clown be."



"I appreciate the advice," I growled at him, "but you brought me back for a reason. If it's not to get my revenge on Grim, then what is it? Running these cryptic errands for A.R.R.E.S.T.?"



"Yes." He glared at me with authority in his eyes, but I refused to back down.



"What if I'm not interested? Huh? What then? What if I want to pursue my own agenda?"



"Then," he stated matter-of-factly, "I'd be force ta take back da gift I gave ya."



"The tool bag? Take it!"



"Not da bag." He poked me hard in the chest. "Ya second chance. Da fates have smiled on ya, mon. Don't be squanderin' it."



Before I could respond, he vanished in a puff of thick black smoke. I fanned the foul, sulfuric smelling fog away from me, rolling a window down to let in fresh air. "FUCK!" I pounded the steering wheel of my rental car in a flash of anger. As it slowly subsided, I rested my head on the same abused wheel, banging my head lightly. Taking a few more deep breaths, I checked traffic to make sure it was okay to rejoin the road. I had gotten back into driving mode for a half a mile when...



"Don't fret over it, son."



The mental interruption of yet another unscheduled passenger caused me to do a repeat of the bad Nascar driving demonstration. As I returned the car to the side of the road, I tilted my head slowly, angrily at the voice that had startled me. This time, it was the Reverend that had possessed my bat. "You too?" I queried in disbelief.



"God put you here for a higher purpose, my child." His soothing voice slated my emotions.



After a long, uncomfortable pause, I looked at the Reverend, a look of pity on my face. "Why are you still here? You should have crossed over once I cleared your name."



He sighed, nodding his head. "You and I crossed paths for a reason. It was no sheer coincidence. The Creator chose me to help you, as you have helped me, and help you, I shall."



"You..." I stammered, "gave up eternal peace, to help me?"



"Indeed, my son." I was flabbergasted. Part of me remained angry that he gave up his chance at heaven, the other part of me grateful for it. "As for the demon-clown... I'll help you when the time is right. Just remember, Wrath is one of the seven deadly sins, son. If you continue down this path, you could BECOME him."



I turned my head in shame, examining the opposite side of the road. Without looking back at him, I stated, "I can't help it. It's all I think about. I..." As I returned my attention to the passenger seat, I once again found it empty. "...am talking to myself. Awesome."



Placing the car in drive, I regained my momentum down the dusty, darkening, flat road. Merely a few more miles racing perpendicular to the waning sun, I came upon the red and blue lights surrounding a lonely house on a dirt road. Almost as if to block out the sun in defiance, the large, monolithic monument of earth known as Scott's Bluff cast its lengthening shadow over the landscape as I pulled in. "This must be the place," I muttered to myself as I stretched the driving aches out of my body.



To Be Continued



********

[Joey "The Handyman" Handy]

Wildfire, Part Two

I got to the scene just in time to stop a coroner from touching the corpse. I had caught a glimpse of something from out of the corner of my eye. I pointed to the ground squirrel hopping its merry way towards the apparent permafrost trail that had been surrounding the cadaver and led into the shadows of Scott's Bluff. As the adorable creature touched the edge of the never-ending iced grasslands, it let out an awful, brief squeak before becoming a rodent-sicle in three seconds flat. The coroner became wide-eyed with disbelief. Me? I just cocked my head in wonder. Reaching inside my tool bag, I felt a pair of insulated gloves. Donning them, I reached in and calmly pulled the frozen body out of the trail, where it began to thaw almost immediately.

"Who the hell is this guy," shouted the Sherriff indignantly, "and why is he touching my crime scene?"

His words caught my suspicion. Why would he think this is a crime scene if any other lawman would have called it a freak of nature? I narrowed my eyes at him, flashing him my A.R.R.E.S.T. badge. He motioned for the coroner to finish placing the victim in a body bag as he gathered me to his side away from the rest of the onlookers.

He looked around, making sure we were far away from prying ears. "I'm the one who gave you a call."

"So you think this was something deliberate?" I questioned.

He shook his head at the ground. "I'm damned near certain it is. This is the third time this has happened in eighteen days. Each one six days apart. I'm running out of deputies to send to the call so they don't figure out what's going on."

"Did the other victims have anything in common with this guy other than the way they died?"

"Yeah. They were all bastards in their own rights. This guy was an abuser and an alcoholic. The one before that was the owner of a textile mill hereabouts. He was, shall we say, a less than agreeable employer with a history of hiring illegals so he didn't have to pay them minimum wage."

"And the first one?"

"Well, he was the prize winner. His name was Edgar Webster. He loved to take advantage of the townsfolk."

"What did he do?" I half expected to hear that he sold children into slavery.

"He was a banker. I lost track of how many times I had to serve eviction papers, collection notices, and lawsuit summons on his behalf." The sherriff wiped the sweat out of his eyes. With the setting sun, I doubted that perspiration would be something he'd have to deal with for much longer today. "He'd hike up people's interest rates every time they were late, even a day."

"Thank you, Sherriff." I knew there had to be more to it than that. There had to be a connection I had yet to see. "Who's in the ambulances?"

"That would be the wife and the son." He paused, exhaling deeply. "Poor woman lost not only her husband, but her son too."

Now it was my turn to look shocked. "The son died too?"

"Nah, but he may as well have. He's in a state of shock. Psychologist says he may never come out of it. He keeps babbling on and on about a woman on a horse."

"I'd like to talk to the boy, but I want to see his mom first."

"S'up to you," complied the peace-maker.

He gestured towards the wagon that housed the woman. I could hear her weeping in despair softly as the person I assumed was the psychologist in question consoled her. "You have to be strong now, Margaret, for your sake and for your son's." The bawling woman sniffled, nodding her head in agreement at the other female in the business suit. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, almost as if she were trying to use her own hair to give herself a facelift, yet she was in her mid-twenties. She stood as I approached the grief-torn woman, stopping me in my tracks. "Who might you be?" Her fancy professional garb gave her the air of a real ball buster. I flashed her my credentials, but she seemed unimpressed. "Never heard of it. What do you want with my patient?"

I assured her that I simply wanted to ask her a few questions. Then, her necklace caught my eyes. She was wearing a rusty nail tied to the end of a piece of hemp, not exactly a bauble one would expect from a woman of her caliber. She caught me eyeing it as she tucked it away in her blouse. "You are..." I queried.

"Leaving," she stated. "Try not to upset Margaret or her son any further than you have to, if you please." She didn't even wait for my reply as she walked off with a stern, confident, and powerful gait.

I approached the new widow, careful not to set her on the defensive from the start. "Margaret, is it?" She nodded wordlessly, her big green eyes bloodshot from emotions overflowing. "My name is Joey. Joey Handy. May I sit down and talk with you for a while?"

Before she could respond, an owl hooted from the tree above. Panic overtook her face. She slipped past the EMT overseeing her, nearly bowling me over as she fled to the other ambulance. "NO! Not again!" She clambered into the back to clutch her son, who also seemed to come to life after hearing the bird. I ran over to observe as she rocked her son in her arms, once again weeping at full stream as he babbled on.

"Wildfire is coming! Wildfire is coming!"

I spun away from the vehicle as the EMTs closed the doors, finding the Sherriff amongst the crowd. "You and I need to talk." I sat in the police car as the lawman spun the details of the first two occurrences. I still couldn't see the connection that I needed. "Has anything like this ever happened before?"

"Yeah. It's happened a few times, but it started way back in 1894." My ears perked as he continued. "Legend has it that Mary Beth Craft was a lot like Margaret. She was married to an abusive sodbuster on these very lands. Her only respite was a horse that she dearly loved..."

"Let me guess. The horse's name was Wildfire."

"Yup," agreed the Sherriff. "Just like the song. Anyways, her husband was jealous of the affection she lavished on that steed. One day, in the middle of winter, he came running in the house to tell his wife that her prized pony had busted down the stall and gotten away. There was a blizzard that night, but Mary Beth went out lookin' for her horse just the same. Her body and the horse were never found. The folks 'round here say she comes back every once in a while to claim those who do others wrong."

I soaked the tale in solemnly. Finally, I opened the car door and dismounted. "I'll do what I can from here, Sherriff. In the meantime, you may want to gather a list of people who fit that sort of profile."

"Shit, son," began the peace officer, "you just described half the county."

I broke away from the policeman, locating my bag once again. Inside, I found a pair of thermal work boots and coveralls. "Looks like I'm going for a stroll." After equipping myself with the garments, I took off to follow the trail of frost left behind. I couldn't wait for the day to break. The frost may be gone, it may not. I couldn't take that chance. Not when there may be a boy's life in stake. It was going to be a long night.

********

[Joey "The Handyman" Handy]

Wildfire - Part Three

As I walked, following the oddball frozen-burned trail leading off into the main peak of Scott's Bluff, Nebraska, I couldn't help but wonder about everything. I mean, hey... outstretched before me was a vast spanse of nothing, so I may as well preoccupy my mind, huh? Save for the dropping temps and the frostbitten grasslands, I was my own com... pa... nee... My thoughts trailed off as I spied something in the distance.

"What. The hell. Is that?" I stopped in my tracks, peering at the moonlit horizon. Squinting didn't seem to bring whatever it was into clarification. With each step, I could begin to make out a shape. I hastened my pace, my breath hanging on the cold northerly wind. I began to envision four legs, perhaps a torso, but the shape didn't make sense to my mind.

Past the first silhouette, I could see a few more shapes, maybe three. None of them made sense, at least not until I got right up on them. The first appeared to be what was left of a buck. What was left of him stood proud, majestic, and apparently clueless to whatever had killed him and two other deer. As I investigated, I figured out why their shapes didn't seem right. The bottom two and a half feet of their bodies had been frozen in place almost instantly. The top portion was just like the grasses in the landscape, charred as if someone had barbequed them right where they stood. Each stood in the path I followed. Each had been caught unaware of whatever thing did this, no more spooked by it than they were of each other.

The sight of the rotting animals was nearly enough to make my lunch return for an encore. I quickened myself past the unfortunate beasts. I spun behind me, avoiding one last glance at the critters, and looked up at the full moon, thankful for its light. The Yellow Mountain was well within my reach now. As I shuffled my feet down the path, my boots let out an odd ring. Looking down, I watched something scoot past the reach of my foot, but only barely. Producing my phone, I used the flashlight app to shine the way. It shone on something small and metallic. Curious, I picked it up, examining it as best I could in the night's dim light.

"A nail?" It had a squared off head and was rusty, like it had gone undiscovered for decades. I absent-mindedly placed it in my pocket. The foot of the mountain was in front of me. Scott's Bluff loomed over me, as lifeless as a statue, yet somehow it seemed to call to me. I could see no path to scale it on. "Guess I'll have to climb."

Part of me really wanted to wait for day to break before I ascended. It would have been the smart thing to do. I was no rock climber, and this was a rock that begged for my blood, much like I knew Jason Twisted would be doing. He had as much reason as this slab of granite did, as much sense too. Neither he nor this structure were expecting me to rise above them. They didn't want me to put that effort in, to give up upon seeing the monumental task ahead. They didn't know me very well.

Handhold passed foothold, no easy task in work boots, much less coveralls, until I finally came upon a ledge. I pulled myself up, panting and heaving, grateful for the respite. "Hoo!" cried an owl perched just above me, catching me off-guard. If my heart hadn't been racing from the exertion already, it surely would have been now.

"Get the hell away from me, mouse-breath." It glanced at me with all the give-a-fuck of a rich man stepping over a homeless man before flying off to find dinner. The beat of its wings was nearly rythmic. "Wait," I recollected from a wasted life filled with nature shows. "An owl's wings didn't make sounds. That's how they sneak up on their prey." This fact didn't make the sound cease, in fact, it seemed to be getting closer. "Hoofsteps!" I stood on the two foot ledge, looking around in a near panic, since the sound appeared to be directing itself at me. I could see a pinpoint of light appear on the face of the mountain behind me. As the sound grew, so did the beacon.

I clambered off to the farthest side of the ledge, scrambling for a way to give whatever was coming a wide berth. I finally managed to eek out a side distance of about six feet when an apparition of an Appaloosa emerged from the rock itself. Its front half was a beautiful, well groomed brown fading into a black and white speckled Chris Page, I mean back half. Around its hooves, a blue flame flicked about and its mane and tail were a red flame that cancelled out the one at its feet. I must have not been its quarry for the night. It galloped past me as if I didn't exist, off in the same direction as the owl had flown, its whinny echoing over the plains.

Slowly, I returned to the ledge. I'm not sure if my body had had quite enough or if my mind had taken that title. The sun awoke me from my slumber, warmth caressing my face like a lover. Remembering the previous night's adventure, I stood bolt upright, casting my glance at the rock. It seemed solid enough, but how could a steed just prance through it as if it weren't there? It was solid, no openings. my back foot slid perilously close to the edge, nearly causing me to fall off. I decided that now would be a good time to get my feet back on solid ground. As I descended, I made up my mind to follow the fresh trail and see where it led.

********

[Joey "The Handyman" Handy]

Wildfire: Part Four

I echoed the new path left by the spectral combusto-frigorific mare, taking extra care not to touch the wraith's trail. Anything left in its wake suffered the same fate; charred at about the two foot mark, and flash frozen from that point down, and whatever the cause, its effects seemed to last for up to a full day. The wide, flat expanse of acreage that lay in front of me in the form of a furrowed corn field, recently harvested. I'm not sure if it was my proximity to the nightmarish pathway or the wonderfully unpredictable Midwest weather that put the chill on the air, but my face was the only part of me that felt it.

I had gotten lost in my own thoughts about this case and my brightening WGWF career before I had noticed that I had inadvertently crossed the border of both the town and the swath of destruction. I'm not sure if it was the allotted coveralls and work boots given to me by my Tool Bag of Destiny, or if had luck on my side. My face felt like it was starting to burn, so I quickly dismounted the path, looking out into the horizon at the town, still a good half of the field away.

the sun climber higher in the sky, but was still low enough to have just that special wake-up glow. I held my hand up to drown out the glowing ball of fire. That's when I noticed her. A beautiful lady, dressed in what looked like a lacey late nineteenth century night gown, scrambled around the course I was following. She was shouting soundlessly as if looking for a lost pet. I even saw her raise a single hand to her mouth with the same silent shout. Clouds overtook the sun for a brief instant, making my on-looking easier. There was a frosty aura around her, nearly obscuring her in what seemed to be a non-stop dusting of snow. She continued her cries, finally locking eyes with me.

Her face contorted into something unspeakable. Her eyes sunk so deep and dark that they very nearly no longer existed, save for a demonic red glow at the center. Her hair snaked, almost Medusa-like, flaring out behind her as if blasted by an unfelt gust. Her face elongated, her jaw dropping at an angle that was anything but human, exhibiting teeth that would make a crocodile cringe. Her body, once lithe and gorgeous, became nearly skeletal and exaggerated, her flawless garb tattered and rotten. the ghastly image rushed me with a speed surreal. I held my ground, but still took a guarded stance, unsure of exactly what I would be able to do if this thing took the mindset of harm. Absent-mindedly, I reached into my pocket, grasping the first thing I could hold as a weapon. My hand freed itself from the confines of the pocket just as the poltergeist came within a hair's breadth of me. I held up my closed fist to the apparition, causing it to shriek out in what appeared to be agony. It crossed its arms in front of its face, exploding in a burst of frigid air and snow.

Just as she vanished, the sun returned a glorious beam of welcomed warmth to my face. Confused, I looked at my still clenched fist with the wonder of a puppy. Slowly, I unwrapped my fingers to reveal the lifesaving device; it was the nail I had picked up during my excursion last night. I puzzled over the miniscule token for a few minutes. finally, it hit me. "A horseshoe nail?" I spun it this way and that until I was absolutely convinced of my prognosis. The patina of rust around the head and pitted body of the nail suggested an age that I've seen in iron spikes of its like in museums. Even one from an era that the spectral woman would surely have been more rotted away, but it appeared stout enough that it could be used even today if a blacksmith were in a pinch.

I continued down the causeway into the town and was not the least bit shocked to find another sea of flashing lights surrounding the taped off wreckage of an expensive looking vehicle. I drew near the scene, politely making my way through a sea of onlookers. As I stepped up to the cordoned area, I took the scene in. A Mercedes steamed in the middle of the road, the front end of the once beautiful maroon luxury car divoted deeply enough as if it had met a tree grill first. There was no foliage within a good ten feet of the car, certainly not one that was large enough to leave that sort of damage. The doors of the car remained shut, the officers and paramedics standing about scratching their heads. The road has a coating of black ice on it, yet the driver didn't seem to have lost control.

The windows of the car were tinted as darkly as the local laws would allow, preventing a good peek inside, but it was plain to see from the silhouette that the driver wasn't moving. The Sherriff began to reach for the handle, when I stopped him. "I wouldn't do that," I shouted as I crossed under the partition. A couple of the deputies scrambled to run interference, but he waved them off after he got a gander of who I was. He backed wisely off the door as I suggested. I reached into my bag blindly, pulling out a pair of work gloves. I leaned in to catch his ear, glancing at his badge's name plate. Dillinger. I don't know why I never learned his name before. "Sherriff Dillinger, could you have your guys get these people out of here before we open this up? Make sure they all avoid the black ice too."

"Do you know what's going on here?" he questioned, no shortage of suspicion in his voice.

"It's coming together, but I'd rather no one impressionable were here when we opened that car door."

He did as asked, directing his uniformed cohorts to carry out the instructions. A few of the men grumbled about conspiracies and secret government institutions. Another started to sing , "Let It Go," from the movie "Frozen," which earned him a clap to the back of the head from the Sherriff. "You start singing that again, Billy, I'm going to shoot you where you stand myself. Then I'll force feed you every copy of that damned movie I can find." The deputy chuckled, but did as told. Once they had cleared away most of the peanut gallery, I suggested we get a tow truck to move the car to a more secure location. The trail of frozen ground ended at the front end of the car and the top half of the vehicle looked as if it has been through a microwave. I wanted to open the cab some place a little less public.

Just as the wrecker pulled up, we all heard a groan come from within the automobile. I grabbed the handle, yanking the door ajar. The Cannon widow's psychologist poured out onto the street, bleeding from a gash on her forehead, but otherwise not in the shape I had imagined she'd have been in. The same string she had wrapped around her neck the previous night when we'd met feel from her blouse, exposing a nail very similar to the one that had saved my life just a few mere minutes earlier. I carefully helped her up and out of her car, making certain she didn't touch the permafrost beneath her car.

Glancing inside, I couldn't tell what she'd knocked herself out on, but I presumed it was the steering wheel. Using my gear to its fullest, and the driver's hesitant instructions, I placed the car on the pulleys to have it hauled away someplace more private for further inspection. I could tell she'd been knocked about pretty well, her previous resting bitch-face look replaced with a dazed and possibly concussed appearance. I directed a medic to give her a thorough examination. After a few minutes, he decided that it would be a good idea if she were to take a ride to the local hospital. I nodded my agreement, but added one simple instruction; that she be allowed to keep the nail on her at all times.

I watched as the caregivers snapped the doors to the buggy closed and it disappearing into the small town's outer roads. I returned my attention to the Sherriff. "Can you verify something for me?"

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "I can try."

I pulled the nail out of my pocket, displaying it for him. "Is this a horseshoe nail?"

He shrugged. "I guess. It kinda..."

"Sherriff Dillinger, this is base, come in," interrupted a voice from the police band.

"For fuck's sake! What now?" he grumbled before pressing the speak button on the handset on his shoulder. "Dillinger here. Come in."

After a few seconds, the reply came in reluctantly. "Um... Could you get to the Jacobsen farm on Route 71? A meteor crashed near the reservoir there and some of his cows are missing."

He threw his hands up in the air in disgust. "I live in the fucking Twilight Zone!" Clasping the mic, he responded. "Yeah, Judy. I'll get up there as soon as I can." He shook his head in disbelief, landing his eyes on me. "You need me still?"

I waved him on. "Go ahead. I'm going to check out the car, maybe visit the psychologist and the mother and son at the hospital. I can't give you any answers until I know them for myself." Satisfied with that answer, he mounted his vehicle and headed off to the "crazy shit du-jour." I watched him depart, both of our days filling up with things that neither of us could have imagined.

To Be Continued

********

[Joey "The Handyman" Handy]

Wildfire Part Five

I scoured the wreckage of the psychologist's car. They had graciously towed the vehicle to an empty garage with good lighting and left me alone with it as ordered by Sherriff Dillinger. There were horseshoe shaped indentions on the trunk, the roof, and the hood, just as I had figured there would be. I stood upright, my hand in my chin. "I'm missing something. I have two ghosts, both with frosty demeanors. I have three victims, all of whom were somewhat deserving of their fates. One was a greedy and corrupt banker. One was a bastard of a textile mill owner. The third, an abusive alcoholic. But why the shrink?" The thoughts perplexed me. "There's a piece of this puzzle I'm not seeing."

I exited the garage, looking directly at the deputy. I knew I couldn't talk directly to the deputy about all of the cases, since the Sherriff deliberately kept all of the details from his men to prevent them getting too close to the supernatural truth. For the fifth time this week, I heard an owl hoot from the rooftops. Distracted by the bird, I asked the deputy, "Where can I find Margaret Cannon?" The officer looked at me as if he were lost. "She was the farmer's wife."

A light came on in his mind. "She's probably at the hospital visiting her son. Poor kid still hasn't snapped out of it."

I thanked him, turning the car over to their department with a warning for them to avoid touching the frosted parts as it may still burn their skin and got into my rental car. I typed in the hospital the deputy indicated into my GPS on my phone and headed that way.

"Da boss say you doin' a good job." The sudden appearance of the Patron made me swerve all over the road as I tried to swallow my heart back down my throat. He laughed as if he were at an amusement park while I righted my trajectory. "You doin' so good, you dah-zerve a fish, he say."

"First off," I growled as I brought the car to a screeching halt at the side of the road, "What? A fish? What. The actual. Fuck?" The Patron shrugged his muscular tattooed shoulders in response, indicating he had no clue how the Boss thought, either. "Secondly, I wish you'd have the decency to announce yourself somehow so I don't get in an accident and die. Again. And Finally, I'm sick of the Boss' cryptic crap. Parlay that message with a kick in his junk the next time you see him for me."

He chortled briefly at my indignant quip. "He say he got another mission fo' ya when ya done wit' dis one."

He handed me a slip of paper. I pocketed it without so much as a sideways glance. "I'll get to it once I'm done here."

"Good 'nuff." The Patron clapped me on the shoulder. "Congrats on ya title too. Ya goin' ta be a biz-ee mon." He disappeared in a puff of black smoke.

I quickly rolled down the passenger window to air out the vapor of his departure. "Hello? No smoking clause in the rental agreement!" The cold air rushed in, welcome at first, but quickly chilling me. I returned the glass to its proper position as the monotone voice from my phone directed me to make a right turn ahead to reach my destination. I found a parking spot easily enough and directed myself towards the information desk. The receptionist, though a bit hesitant to give me information even after I showed her my badge, informed me of the floor the kid's room was on and how to get there. Thanking her, I headed towards the elevator and the pediatric wing.

I sighed remorsefully. He's about the age my son was the last time I saw my kids. My heart panged with the weight of my solitude. I missed them, even as bratty as they were before. I didn't know where they were or what they were up to. I wondered how big they had grown. I worried if they were with a good family together, if they had been split apart, or even adopted at all. My wife was an only child, her parents already passed away. They had told me before I came back that they worried over the direction their daughter's life had taken with her obsession with Grimiore Xmyles, an obsession I could relate to, but in a different way.

I wiped a lonely tear from my cheek as the doors dinged open on the third floor. I departed the lift, checking for room 313. Placards mounted on the wall showed me the way. The slip of paper taped to the door finally gave me the boy's name: Tommy. I knocked, waiting for a few seconds. I overheard a piece of furniture shift as if someone dismounted it. Seconds later, a weary, weepy female face peeked through the door. I showed her my badge as my memory recollected her. She was the widow, and the boy's mother. Weakly, she allowed me to enter the room. "Is your son okay? Has he gotten any better?" I whispered.

She shook her head with regret. "He's still catatonic. The doctors say he may never recover."

"How about you? How are you holding up?"

She looked at me, seemingly shocked at the thought of anyone caring enough to ask her. "I'm making do, I suppose, considering."

I nodded, understanding completely. "I'd like to talk to you for a bit, but first, I'd like to talk to Tommy, if that's okay."

She accepted my proposal, allowing me full entry through the curtains. The boy was curled up in a fetal position, one of his thumbs in his mouth as his unblinking eyes stared out the picture windows, yet not really seeing the scenery. She walked up to her son, lovingly brushing his hair with her hand. "He hasn't done that since he was three."

I walked over to a built-in seat near the window, setting my tool bag down. Snapping it agape, I reached inside, pulling out a pair of pliers, a hammer, and a small piece of rebar about the thickness of a finger. I studied the items, knowing what I had to do. I knelt next to the boy, placing myself in his line of vision. "Tommy? My name is Joey Handy. I'd like to talk to you if I could. But I see you're not in a talking mood, so I'll just make you something first. Is that okay?" His mother nodded her approval. I checked the rebar against his fingers to see which one was closest.

I pulled the nail from my pocket, trapping the head of the nail between the rebar and the floor. Using the pliers, I twisted the nail around the steel until I couldn't form it any more. I gave it a couple of light taps with the hammer to finish the job. I stood, admiring my makeshift craftsmanship. I slowly slid the ring I had made onto his right index finger. "Now I don't want you to think we're going steady." His mom giggled a bit, probably the first time in at least five days.

As the jewelry slid home, Tommy began to blink, slowly removing his thumb from his mouth. He began to sit up, his daze fading. "Where... Where am I?" He saw me, a perfect stranger looking at him with relief, his eye went wide, searching the room for someone familiar. They came to rest on his mother. She rushed in with a fierce hug as they both teared up.

"Oh, Tommy!" He smothered him with kisses as only a loving mother should. "Oh, my baby, my boy!"

I stepped back, giving her all the room she needed. A nurse burst through the door, no doubt checking on why the child's vital signs suddenly returned to normal. "What's going on... in..." From the dumbfounded look on her face, I could tell she was perplexed at the recovery. As her words trailed off, she simply gawked in awe, her hands to her mouth.

I smiled as I gathered my bag. Before I slipped out, the mother stopped me, her eyes filled with gratitude. "Mr. Handy, I can't thank you enough."

"Yes you can," I corrected her with a smile. "Just come talk to me when you're ready, and make sure he doesn't take that ring off, at least not right now. Not until I get to the bottom of this." I stepped out as more nurses shuffled past me with disbelief. I stopped one of the healers, sternly informing her to let the rest of them know that the ring doesn't move.

I patiently sat in the waiting room, sipping what was possibly my seventh cappuccino. Finally, Margaret entered the room, her once bereaved face now looking much more human, albeit still exhausted. "He's getting discharged. The doctors are stumped." She began to weep. "My boy's going home, Mr. Handy..."

"Please call me Joey."

"Joey," she clasped my shoulders, the waterworks flowing freely and her lips quivering. "You are an angel." She buried her head in my chest as the dam burst on her emotions.

I gave her a hug until her heaving subsided, rubbing her as a friend would. When she was strong enough to break free, I looked at her. "I'm hardly an angel. What I am is a man on a mission. Right now, that mission is to put an end to this so you and your son can move on with your lives." She looked up at me, knowing what that might entail. "For that to happen, I need honesty from you. I need to know what you do about what happened with your husband."

We sat there in conversation for a few hours, one of the only times I was ever grateful for the snail's pace hospitals took when releasing a patient. She explained to me about how their crops had failed for the last few years due to drought. The banker that had fallen victim first had threatened foreclosure on their farm. She had also been a dedicated, yet severely underpaid employee at the textile mill, and had gotten laid off, replaced by someone who would do her job for nearly half the wage. She didn't even have to explain her husband to me, yet she did anyways. I listened intently, but still no mention of the psychologist.

Finally, I had to ask her point blank about the shrink. She and her family had begun to see the doctor when her husband had begun his abusive and addictive ways, yet nothing seemed to help. That was when she told me about a private session she had with the woman. The psychologist had claimed she could help, but it was rather unconventional. She recollected performing a ritual of some sort under the full moon prior to the first attack. She didn't understand what it was that the rite was supposed to accomplish, and the doctor had kept her in the dark, citing that it was better she didn't know.

Just as I was beginning to understand the scenario, a nurse wheeled Tommy into the room. His eyes were bright and hopeful, the proper look all kid's eyes should have. "They won't let me walk out, mom."

The nurse bent down, joking with him. "I told you it was hospital procedure, kiddo."

"Let's go home," interjected Margaret softly.

Tommy looked at the trinket on his right hand with wonder. "Thanks again for the ring, mister. It's neat. I can't believe you made it out of a nail."

I walked over, ruffling his hair with the expected protest from him. "Just keep it on for a while, okay? Just until I know you'll be safe." I turned my attention to the mother. "Do you have an old barn on your land?" I quietly asked so that the nurse couldn't hear me. She nodded. "Look around for old horseshoe nails. If you find one, keep it with you at all times. I'm not sure why, but I think they will protect you."

"What are you going to do now?" Margaret inquired.

"I'm going to visit your psychologist," I informed with an uncontrolled bit of venom in my voice.

As I began to get past Tommy, he snatched hold of my arm, his eyes clouded completely white. "Bring them together and they will rest." His eyes returned to normal as if nothing happened before I could react.

"What did you say?"

"I told my mom we should go home to get some rest." He and the others looked at me as if they had not seen what had just happened.

I swallowed hard, forcing my smile to return. "You do that, kiddo." I patted him on the shoulder reassuringly as I left. I knew my work wasn't done. Not. Just. Yet.

To Be (hopefully) Concluded...



********

[Joey "The Handyman" Handy]

Wildfire - Part Six

I watched as the so-called psychologist hastily closed up her shop, several bags in her hand. She had called for a taxi, and I had paid the driver to leave the car and take the rest of the day off. She never saw the transaction before she loaded the smallest of the bags into the bag seat with a thud.

"Are you gonna sit there, or are you gonna load my stuff?" she griped without so much has an upward glance.

"Depends," I retorted. "Are you going to tell me what your hurry is?" I tipped up my hat, locking the doors to prevent her escape.

She gazed at me, wide-eyed and fearful, tears welling up in her eyes. "I have to leave! That thing is going to come get me!"

I grimaced at her cowardice. "So you'd rather leave and let that mother and her boy suffer?" Shame filled her eyes as I continued. "You need to tell me what you and Margaret did. Maybe then I can fix this."

She recoiled from me, trying desperately to escape. After a few minutes of reassurances, she finally relaxed in the idea that I had no intentions of harming her. I explained to her that whatever the ghostly pair she conjured was, it would not stop until they had fulfilled their function unless I knew what brought them here in the first place.

"It started with an old legend from the 1800's, before Nebraska was even a state." She explained to me the story of a woman trapped in an abusive relationship. "Back in that day and age, nothing would ever be done about it. The woman's only joy was her prize horse."

"Wildfire?"

"Yes." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Her husband grew jealous of her doting on that animal. One day, during the winter, her husband lied to her and told her that the animal escaped. He had no idea that she'd take off after the animal during a blizzard in only her nightgown. Later that night, the horse must have sensed something was wrong. It busted down its stall and galloped off into the snow. Neither of them were found alive. During the next year, the farmer grew remorseful of what he'd done and performed a ritual to summon his wife back to him. Six days later, his body was found frozen to death in the dead heat of summer. Neighbors swear to hearing an owl screech for those six days, too."

"And you performed this same ritual?" I inquired. She nodded, her face examining the disgusting carpet in the back. "You know that meddling with that sort of thing is dangerous. Why would you do that?"

"I'm a doctor, a scientist," she explained. "I didn't believe that anything would actually happen. I just thought it would give her some peace of mind." She looked up at me, pleading. "Please! You have to save me!"

"How did you know about the nail?" My anger welled up inside me at the level of this woman's arrogance and cowardice. "How did you know it would protect you?"

She sighed deeply. "I'm not the first one to summon them." She began to nervously fiddle with the nail at the end of the hemp necklace around her. "Every time they are brought back, they take the people who summoned them with them before finally leaving. I read somewhere that an old rusty horseshoe nail provided protection for a while. Eventually, they get those who brought them here."

Finally, I snapped. "YOU PUT THAT WOMAN'S LIFE AT RISK, ALL BECAUSE YOU WERE IGNORANT!" My screaming caused her to shrink back a far away from me as possible in the back seat. Her reaction snuffed my rage like a candle. Inhaling deeply, I relaxed my ire. "Tell me about the ritual. I need to know everything."

I sat and listened to her spin the yarn of that night. Weeping the entire time, she finished her tale, her mascara running a marathon down her face. She didn't look like the hard-assed woman I was first introduced to when I arrived. Now, she was more a scolded child than a woman with a master's degree. I explained to her what Tommy had said to me while in a trance, "Bring them together and they will rest?" she puzzled. I nodded, knowing I was no closer to the answer than she was. She sat in thought for several minutes. "I wonder..." Perplexed, I awaited her epiphany. "You said they were separate entities, right?" I agreed. "I wonder if they're still looking for each other."

The same light went off in my head. That had to be it! The only problem was I didn't know how to make it happen. Our brainstorming got interrupted by a loud thumping followed by some scratching on the roof of the cab, both of us nearly crawling out of our skin at the sound. The scratching made its way down towards the hood of the car. Finally, with a hefty hop, an owl lit on the front of the car. Its head twisted this way and that, an action I would have considered comical under normal circumstances. Now it just gave me the gollywobbles. Its wide gaze peered past me, looking directly at the psychologist, screeching as if it had located its prey.

One final tear fell down her face as the doctor turned to me, resigned in her fate. She removed the necklace, handing it over to me. For the first time since I'd seen her today, there was a solid determination in her voice. "Take this. End it. Save Margaret and Tommy." I was dumbstruck. I unlocked the door and she stepped out into the street without a word or second glance. Dusk was coming and so was her fate. She glanced back at me through the open cab window. "Get to the farm. Find the place where the old barn was. That's where we did the ritual. That's where you can put a stop to this."

I raced like a NASCAR driver to the Cannon farmstead. Tommy was busy swinging from a rope tire swing as I pulled up. His mother, keeping a vigilant eye, had been sweeping the leaves off of the porch. The screeching brakes put her on high alert as I dismounted the cab. "Tommy! Do you still have the ring I gave you?" He glanced at his hand to confirm, a grin on his face. "Good. Keep it on." I turned my attention to his mother. "Did you find any more nails?"

Margaret's sullen face grew worried. "Only one. And an old horseshoe." She paused. "I hung it over the door for good luck." She jerked her thumb to her entryway where the old shoe stood watch.

The stillness of the air brought a chilling sound, a scream from just outside of town, close to where the psychologist's office was. I knew the unthinkable had happened. I ran onto the porch, removing the necklace from my pocket in the process. I put it around her neck with one fluid motion. Removing the shoe from its hanging place, I asked for the loose nail she'd found. It was time to put a stop to these specters, once and for all.

I ran to the newer barn, causing the horses kept there to stir. Grabbing a bridle, I located some twine and laced the horseshoe to the leather like a decoration. Off in the distance, I could hear hoof steps approaching. I zipped to the door, swinging it wide. The sound of the impending stampede was coming from Scott's Bluff, not the town. The psychologist might have been onto something after all. Either way, it was heading in this direction. From the direction of the scream, a wailing seemed to grow with equal speed. I knew the time was coming. I had to prepare, and fast.

I made another ring from the nail Margaret found, hastily hammering it into a size I hoped would fit. I had a plan. Bringing it to fruition was going to be another matter entirely. I didn't know how to get the attention of the ghostly mare, but I did have an idea of what would garner the other wraith's wrath.

"Tommy, go inside and don't come out, okay?" The urgency in my voice caused him to act without question, terror growing in his heart. I scurried up to the porch and stood in front of Margaret, a soft look of regret in my eyes. "Forgive me." Before she could react, I hauled back and slapped her across her face, sending her spinning to the deck.

She held her hand up to the warm spot on her cheek, the outline of my handprint welting up under her caress. Tears and an unfathomable hatred welled up inside her. I could see it. It was a nearly palpable rage from her years of a torturous marriage. It snaked its way through the air, wrapping me in a smoky cocoon that I'm certain only I could envision. "That's right," I thought to myself. "Give it to me." As the last of her anger became corporeal around me, I ran off to the site of the long-demolished barn where the rite was performed.

This was going to be the final stand. Either these ghosts would return to their slumber, or I'd become a Joey-sickle. I scrambled to don my overalls and work boots, unsure of what the future would hold for me. One thing was for certain; there would be no room for error.

To Be Continued...

********

[Joey "The Handyman" Handy]

Wildfire - Part Seven

This was it. The final showdown between myself and the two entities that haunted this land, and more importantly haunted a woman and her boy for the last six days, sending anyone she had issues with to an icy death. Now the specters had come to collect. My gut told me that the blood-curdling shriek I heard come from the city a couple of miles away on this still, chilly autumn night belonged to the psychologist who had helped Margaret invoke these spirits of vengeance.

I knew I wouldn't have time to investigate to see if my hunch was correct. All I could do was react quickly enough to hope that the trap I had set would serve its purpose before the boy became an orphan, or worse. I had backhanded Margaret in hopes that she would have enough hate in her left to make me a primary target.

This was the time I needed. If I failed, she, and possibly her son, would become victims of these unearthly creatures before they were laid to rest. Then again, if I failed, I would be too dead to care. Been there. Done that. Let's not do that again sometime soon, okay? Encased in a smoky cocoon of emotion that only I was privy to, I sprinted to the location of the long-demolished original barn where the horse known as Wildfire was kept when he was alive.

I had the bridle I had tied the horseshoe to in one hand and the second ring I fashioned from a nail in the other. The hoof steps of the approaching nightmare echoed from the direction of the Yellow Mountain, also known as Scott's Bluff. From the edges of the city, the wailing of the banshee, fresh from the claiming of her latest victim, seemed to be aimed at my direction now. Far above me in a tall spruce, an owl hooted from its sentry point.

The air temperature began to plummet upon their approach. My mind raced as quickly as my face began to feel the effects of frostbite. My bag was empty, no more tools or protective gear to offer up this time, other than the Dickies cover-alls and Wolverine steel toed work boots. Heh. My bag was a brand whore. Who knew?

I knew exactly zilch about wrangling a horse, much less donning a bridle, and I was going to have to do this all while avoiding getting frozen stiff, not to mention the other ghost. I'd have to hope that they both didn't converge upon me at the exact same time. At least that way, I'd have a chance. I was playing a hunch to begin with, hoping beyond desperation that all I had to do was to get these two ghastly figures to recognize each other in order to finish their reign of terror once and for all. I was basing that hunch off of the very song that had brought me here to begin with. Michael Martin Murphy sang about this very duo and how they both lost their lives. Perhaps if I could get them to find each other they would finally be laid to rest, maybe even for eternity. That was only if he based his lyrics in reality.

Reality.

My brain was amused by this word and how what I thought was real a year ago and what reality actually is could have ever become so vastly different in such a short spanse of time. Then again, I was also not alive back then, so that tends to put things in perspective. If I had a nickel for all the instances of "perspective" I'd received over the last year, I'd be a rich man.

A bone chilling feeling crept up my spine, bringing me crashing back to the here and now. My body froze in place as I realized I could no longer hear the hoof beats. Short cold bursts of breath crept around my covered neck and onto my face. My head sank, knowing if I turned around, I would see the ethereal figure of Wildfire. Slowly, and most certainly without my brains better judgment, my body spun to meet the mare full on.

I was expecting some horrifically twisted version of a steed, warped and disfigured by negative energy. I was pleasantly surprised to see that was not the case. Apart from the fiery red eyes and blazing mane and tail, the beast looked more sullen than threatening. It panted its cold breath in a mild whinny as I reached up to see if I could touch it. Despite its frigid appearance, it was soft and warm, shying away slightly before relaxing to my caress.

I reassured the creature as I timidly placed the bridle in position, the horseshoe hanging to the back of the device on its neck. He accepted the bit as all well trained horses would. I half expected his mane would burn the bridle away like tissue paper, but it had no effect. As I reached up in an attempt to touch his mane, he bucked away from me. I could tell he was reacting to something. I could only hope I wasn't hurting the poor thing.

I observed him for quite some time before I came to a conclusion. "It's not me you're nervous about, is it big guy?" As if in response, the horse clopped his hoof and nodded. "Smart horse," I remarked before the realization finally hit home. I couldn't hear the wailing of the other poltergeist, either.

My blood froze in my veins. This time, my body went into overdrive. My head spun this way and that in an attempt to locate the missing entity. My previous run-in with her left me, let's say, a bit more than apprehensive. I faced the direction of the town, but found nothing. Another nervous neighing from Wildfire caused me to jerk in his direction, coming face-to-face with the gape-jawed Medusa of a wraith.

Her sunken eyes, pinpointed by a red glow in the center, glowered at me as she shrieked her disapproval of my actions against Margaret. I could see the black smoke of the mother's hate reach out to the specter, beckoning her into action like a lover. The spirit breathed in the blackness, inhaling it like the aroma of a Thanksgiving dinner, with an equally famished result.

"Dinner time, bitch," I taunted. "Come and get it." I produced the makeshift ring, flipping it nervously from one hand to another as an experienced knife fighter would his blade, only without the skill and coordination. The ring bounced off my right hand, I'm pretty sure just to spite me, flailing to the ground and bounding away from me.

A defeated feeling overcame me as I watched the homemade jewelry retreat from me, lighting on the end of a weathered and rotting board from the defunct barn. The ghost watched with equal parts amusement and chagrin, sensing I had just sealed my own fate. I hadn't realized that this ghost could smile, much less nearly chuckle sadistically at my blunder.

Slowly, she stalked towards me, her thin, clawed arms outstretched in what I could only guess was not an offer for a hug. Her already elongated maw, stretched further to accentuate an ear-piercing scream. I cowered, covering my ears from the assailant. I could feel cold begin to embrace me with her shrieks. Every muscle in my face, being the main unprotected part, began to feel as if it were being flash frozen.

Her hands enveloped my head, the painful process of a cold death only becoming tenfold with her touch. Just before my hearing closed off, I heard one finally whinny of protest from Wildfire. I turned my widening gaze at the animal as he stomped on the end of the board opposite the ring, flinging it up in the air. My rapidly freezing muscles managed to upturn my hand. For once, my reflexes didn't betray me. The ring plopped onto my palm. Fighting an overwhelming desire to give up and sleep, my crackling arm doubled on itself, bringing the ring into position over her right hand.

I mustered what fight I had left within me, sliding the bauble onto her hand. As I did, the apparition let out one final wail. It started out as a cry of agony, and slowly thawed into a scream of a more human nature as the form itself melted back into a human shape. I fell to the ground uninfluenced by her thrall, feeling my body begin to unfreeze. My nerves were ablaze, but the sight of the beautiful woman who once stood as something unspeakable distracted me from the pain of frostbite.

She glanced at her hand, unsure of what had just transpired. Lost and alone, she scoured her surroundings, coming to rest on the familiar form of her beloved pony. They had finally found each other. She approached her steed, his fiery mane snuffing and looking more natural. I knew then that Wildfire could see her, but she was too far lost within the confines of a vengeful spirit to locate her prized familiar. Despite the animal's efforts to lay his master to rest, and despite the owl's helpful hailing, they had nothing to connect them together.

Now, thanks to the relics I had used, they were drawn together like magnets. The woman looked at me, gratitude now filling her once-spiteful eyes, as she mounted her mare. Her gown flowed behind her peacefully in an unseen breeze. Wildfire's mane and tail matched the rhythmic wafting, both of the specters looking majestic and regal. She nodded at me in appreciation, the horse clopping and nodding in agreement with his rider.

The sun began to peek over the horizon, its rays giving a soft glow to the once-menacing apparitions. As I thawed, they galloped off towards Scott's Bluff. As they did, she threw her arms in the air triumphantly like a patron on a roller coaster. Higher the sun climbed until its warmth obscured the retreating ghosts in its caress, now and for eternity. Drained and overwhelmed, I lay on the ground, allowing the fireball in the sky to warm me, but it was the growing warmth within that made this whole endeavor seem worthwhile.

********

[Joey "The Handyman" Handy]

Wildfire - Epilogue

As I wrapped up my stint in Scott's Bluff, I wondered what would be next on my plate. My mind wandered over every tangent it could think of, and several that it couldn't. Finally, I remembered the piece of paper that the Patron had handed me.

Shoving my hand into my pocket like a man digging frantically for change for a toll booth, I retrieved the slip of paper. The note was wadded into a ball, nearly crumpled to the point of illegibility as I opened it. I had a feeling that my business wasn't quite finished around this area, but the hand scrawled parchment redirected me away nonetheless. In red crayon and big bold and somewhat childish looking letters, it read:

"Come home. We've found your kids. See you at HQ. Merry Christmas."

I don't know just how long I wept after reading that. I'm not even sure how I got back to Kansas City in the rental car. All I know is I parked my car in front of the Sanitarium Bar and Grill on the corner of12th and Locust in Downtown, crawled through the "secret entrance" located in the oven of the kitchen (I'd like to shoot the fucker who thought that one up.), and headed straight for the office of the man whom I've never seen, but was responsible for my second chance.

There was no name plate on the door. I didn't know what, or who to expect. Rapping politely, I awaited an answer. "I gave at the orifice," joked the voice behind the door. Seeing my lack of action, I heard the person clear his throat, a bit disgruntled. "Oh, fer... Get in here, will ya?"

I unlatched the tumblers, pushing the entry wide. The back of the chair beyond the desk was turned to me. Talk about dramatics. At least he wasn't not hackneyed in his self-indulging mind games. I grew impatient, wanting to know where my kids were. I think he sensed my agitation, smiling as he spun around. When my face met his, my eyes grew wide, and my irritation swelled into full blown fury. "YOU?"

He began to speak, as I lunged full throttle, wanting to shake his throat until he turned blue, and then shake it some more just for shits and giggles. He deliberately allowed me to grasp his neck, choking out a sentence. "If you want to know where your kids are, I'll need to speak. I suck at charades."

I accentuated my frustration a bit more before letting him go. "This had better be good, Marc, or I'll rip your fucking throat out."

"Please," he started with an authoritative voice. "Call me Mr. MacGwire. Or if you prefer..." Again he pause for dramatic effect. I was not amused. "[REDACTED]."

********