*****Chapter 1*****
By Kris St.James

The sun rose wild and brilliant as Jake Warren drove North on I-25/10 toward Las Cruces, New Mexico. His 1957 Bel Air reflected the vermillion beams from the chromed bumper and wingtips as he rest a weary hand on the bottom of the hard plastic steering wheel. The concentric circles and wing-like cross bar floated before him like a bull's-eye. He shifted uneasily on the broad bench-seat, looking for another comfortable position, but not too comfortable lest he drift off to sleep again. The long Texas trek last night was showing its effects as he struggled to keep his dry, weary eyes open. He reached forward and turned the radio dial, looking for something to keep his interest, found another Mexican mariachi station which irritated him enough to keep him awake. The thermos at his side was nearly empty, so he began looking for a service station to refill it and his Bel Air.

The flat red interior was contrasted sharply with black trim and chrome. He absently rolled the window knob with his left index finger and tried to interpret the disc jockey's Spanish, guessing at every third word and the context of the whole message based on his tone and the few words he did recognize. It worked, as the unfamiliar sounds of the foreign language and music forced him to actually think about what he was hearing and distract him from his nightmare. His stomach was empty and he decided to stop at the next exit and look for a restaurant and possibly a safe place to park and nap. The jagged Organ Mountains hemmed him in to the East while the West stretched out into an unforgiving red-grassed plain that eventually butted the Rio Grande.

A quick bite at a truck stop and a refreshed thermos and gas tank helped him regain his focus as his destination drew nearer. Truth Or Consequences lie waiting another 100 miles. He rubbed his rough jaws and absently pulled at his bottom lip, thinking about the turmoil of the past week. About the money and photos and documents in the trunk and the gun beneath his seat. About Paula and Nicholas and Jeb. He tried to remember what she had said two weeks before during that last phone conversation, but he couldn't get the words to come out right. He was only half listening at the time, but he knew the words were permanently recorded in his brain if he could only try hard enough to replay the conversation, he believed they would come out and he would be able to put everything together at last and be able to sleep. To breathe. Sleep would have to wait.

The cold morning air blew his hair in torrents as he made his way through Las Cruces, noting his passage along the highway with a slight dust cloud behind him, ushering him forward although he progressed with the anticipation of a condemned criminal to the gallows. But there was no turning back. There was nothing to turn back to. Truth Or Consequences mocked him from the last hundred miles and he burned inside to meet his fate, whatever that was. The old woman had almost laughed when she told him what he had to do; where he had to go. Who he had to meet. Was it real? Could it be true? Could it really be true? There was only one way to know, and this knowledge would change everything forever for everyone.

The morning mist burned off as the sun rose steadily upward, increasing in strength and calling forth the blossoms on the cacti, rousing the reptiles dormant beneath cool rocks. Several large lizards raced alongside the Bel Air, darting quickly, strange to Jake who had never been to the desert and was unaccustomed to seeing reptiles that large and that fast. An antelope grazed lazily across the flat expanse and blankly watched Jake float by in the Bel Air. The sky changed from fire to water and some wispy clouds could be seen to the East beyond the Organs. The giant White dunes lay before him like some bleached carcass, teasing the idea that there were beaches nearby; that the ocean lay just beyond and the blistering eye could be extinguished by diving in.

The gypsum dunes formed from a dying lake actually creep Northward on the wind like an albino serpent, slithering some 30 feet per year deeper into the Tularosa Basin out of the northern end of the Chihuahuan Desert and cover 275 square miles. Many of the reptiles and insects have bleached white over the centuries to provide some form of camouflage from predators. Everything fights to live out here and the weak are simply food.

The tulare, or 'red-grass'� gave the landscape a Mars-like feel; other-worldly and in-human and anything that survived there seemed unnatural. Yet life was actually present in some abundance and the unseen established order thrived at night, unseen by the burning eye. From the pitch-black came the nocturnal howls and shrieks of the desert life, devouring and evading each other, leaving only their marks in the sand to speak for the unknown horrors that took place there. Jake looked long and hard at the dunes, trying to make some sense of their existence, trying to imagine how a beach could exist there and almost believing he could smell the Gulf. White birds soared overhead, further adding to the illusion that a frothing sea was just beyond the next dune. Another Oryx appeared along the horizon, grazing and scanning the silent Bel Air with its long, slender perfectly V-shaped antlers, its black blazed face immobile except for the chewing. Transplanted here from Africa, the foreign antelopes ran wild and were no longer hunted, protected by the Nation Parks service. The Oryx suddenly bolted, startled by an unseen threat and in a second was gone from sight.

Jake began to weave a little on the highway, drowsiness again threatening to overtake him, pulling him off the road with its siren-song of sleep. He sat upright and again fiddled with the radio, trying to find something to occupy his mind and keep him from sleeping, from dreaming. Sleep pulled hard against him, fighting for control of his mind, whispering to him, caressing his eyelids and he blacked out for a second.

The Bel Air swerved off the highway, striking the old man he hadn't seen walking along the right-of-way. Jake immediately awoke into some sort of hyper-acute awareness of what had just happened and yet instantly denying that it could have happened. He immediately slammed on the brakes bringing the Bel Air to a sliding stop. Smoke and dust enveloped the car, its tail fins cutting through the surface of the cloud and taillights glaring red-eyed back at its victim.

Jake sat bolt-upright, gripping the hard steering wheel full force, threatening to crack its chipped plastic covering. The radio was still blaring happy mariachi. He coughed as the dust cloud enveloped and filled the car and finally after a month of seconds he saw the frail figure lying in the dirt behind him. Both he and his unintended victim had slipped over the right-of-way and down a slight embankment, out of sight of the main road. The few cars that were traveling continued by unaware of the accident.

The figure looked extremely small and pitiful and Jake could almost understand why he hadn't seen the old Indian dressed in black carrying a small bag and a walking stick. What could he possible be doing out here? Jake's mind began racing and was actually hoping the old man was dead, hoping to simplify everything to the point that he could just drive away. If he was dead, what more could Jake do? The nearest phone was 75 miles away and by the time he could get there and actually call anyone, someone else would probably find him. Except no one could see the body. The only witnesses were the tire marks through the dirt and the quickly dissipating dust cloud that evaporated into the wind and was now gone forever. Jake sat for a moment trying to think, trying to decide what was the least complicated action to take, feeling the pressure, the urgency of his destination and his destiny. While the disbelief sloshed around in his head, reality pierced icily through, and he instinctively decided to run, but before he took his eyes away from the mirror, he saw movement. As harsh as the land was here, Life would not be vanquished so easily; would not give up its hold. He was alive.




*****Chapter 2*****
By Kenny Blade


Jake mumbled an expletive to himself as he squinted into the rear ' view mirror. He drove his dusty boot into the underside of the passenger dash, partly in sheer disgust that the powers that be had just tossed another shovel of coal into the furnace of his season in hell, and partly because the lock on the glove box no longer worked and he needed a cigarette. He skillfully snagged the half empty pack of Lucky Strikes as they fell toward the floorboard. He tapped the crumpled pack against the steering wheel and fished one of the filter-less death warrants out with his lips. He threw the pack back into the glove box and fumbled around in the remaining contents that hadn't fallen into the floor, locating a flashlight held together mostly with Duct tape and dirt.

He sat motionless for a moment, watching the desert weeds sway in his side mirror. At first glance, the light breeze appeared to be causing the rustling.
After a moment it became obvious that the traveler he had clipped was trying to bring himself to a sitting position. Jake flicked at the handle and forced his weight against the door. It was stiff and difficult to open. Probably from the impact of the old man, Jake reasoned. He began his way slowly back to where the man had now progressed to an upright, albeit slumped over, position. Desert life scampered in all directions like prehistoric Matchbox cars as Jake made his way through the weeds to where the bloodied figure sat moaning.

Banging the flashlight against his thigh, he was able to get a weak but illuminating beam of light that met the old man's eyes. "What the'�, the old man groaned, It's not enough you try to make me a permanent part of your grill, now you want to blind me too!?!" Jake shoved the flashlight in his back pocket and leaned down. "You ok?" "Oh yeah, I'm great" he said glibly. "I had just been thinking how I was tired of walking along this desert highway and I wish someone would come by and run me over with a God ' dang tank straight offna Detroit assembly line!" Jake reached to take the man's arm. "Don't need your help!" A large cut had been opened on the stranger's forehead. Probably the hood ornament that now lay on it's side, Jake reasoned. He pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped the blade open, causing the old man to recoil. "Hey'�look'� don't want no trouble. I got no money'� Just leave me here. I ain't tellin' no one you hit me." Jake grinned. "You don't under'�" "No.Really. I understand completely. You were tired. It was an accident. You didn't mean to launch me into the sky like a geriatric desert missile. I won't tell no one." Jake placed the blade between his teeth and removed his coat. He pulled on his outer T-shirt and gathered it in his hand. With a quick slashing motion, he removed a swathe of his shirt and folded it into a tourniquet of sorts. "This is for your head. You're cut pretty badly."

The old traveler sat motionless, staring off into the desert as Jake gently maneuvered the cloth around his head. "Not too thick, I have a hat laying 'round here somewhere. That is if you didn't knock it into the next county!", he scowled. Jake smiled to himself as he tied the knot as firmly as he thought would be comfortable. The old man appeared to be of Indian descent. His skin, broiled by the heat of the day over many years, was thick and rough like sandpaper. Not unlike his present demeanor, although Jake had a difficult time finding fault in the man's poor attitude. He had, after all, just run him over. That would tend to ruffle the feathers of the most ardent passivist. "That should do for now, old man. I can drop you wherever you were going if it's not off the main road." Jake folded the knife and returned to his jeans pocket. He reached down to help the man to his feet. With the flick of his wrist, the old man brushed him away. "That's mighty generous of you there, but no thanks. You already gave me a lift once and it didn't make for much of a bargain. No, sir'�, I don't have that far to go, and despite your best efforts, I CAN still walk. He began looking around as he walked back to the area where he had landed a short while earlier. "Suit yourself, Tonto. I'm running late as it is." Jake said as he made his way to the car. His pace slowed as he approached the dusty car door handle. Dang that old Indian!, he thought to himself. Dang my conscience! Jake thought the events of the last several days had long since exorcised his demons of any sense of compassion. He didn't have time to care about this. The old man was bent but not broken. He'd actually gotten lucky, Jake reasoned. He gripped the handle and pressed the button. He looked over his shoulder and saw the old man kicking threw the weeds, cursing to himself, his arms flailing wildly. Jake closed his eyes and sighed. "When will I ever learn'�" he said to no one as he brushed the hair out of his eyes and waded back into the tall brush. " The old man stopped in his tracks and yelled toward Jake. " What're you doin'? I thought you had someplace to be?" " I'll help you find your hat. It's the least I can do."




*****Chapter 3*****
By Wren L. Miller


Jake glanced at the old man sitting on the bench seat next to him. He cleared his throat and grabbed his Luckys off of the dash. He held them out to the old man.

"Want one?"

The old man waved them away. "I quit those a long time ago."

"Oh." Jake pulled one out with his lips, then spoke around the cigarette. "Mind if I have one?"

"It's your life." The old man turned his head to look out the window.

A few miles later, Jake switched on the radio again. Static. He whirled the dial. Nothing but static. The old man watched him, then turned back to the window.

"Hey, I'm sorry about your hat. I'll buy you a new one." He turned and smiled at the old man. "Name's Jake, by the way."

The old man looked back at him and blinked. "This hat was my father's. It's not something you can just replace." He looked at the hat he was cradling in his lap and ran a tender finger over it. "It's the only thing I have left of him."

Jake cleared his throat again. "I'm sorry." He focused back onto the road. A few minutes passed in silence again, then the old man spoke. "Mick."

Jake swung his eyes over. "What?"

"Mick." The old man grinned. His teeth were surprisingly white, and none were missing. "That's my name. I figured I should tell you since you told me yours. Y'know, common courtesy and all that."

"Oh. Uh'sure." Jake nodded. "Common courtesy and all that."

"Look, I know I was being a jerk back there, but I do appreciate the ride."

Jake laughed. "Hey, I'd be a jerk too if I'd just been hit. I'm actually amazed that you're not hurt." He rubbed his forehead. "Well, I mean, not seriously hurt."

Mick touched his own forehead. "Yeah." He rubbed the makeshift bandage like it was itching, and brought his hand back down. "Well, it's like life, y'know. One minute you're trudging down the road, and the next minute, something runs over you." He sighed as he touched his hat again. "And, I've had my share of run-overs."

Jake looked straight ahead. Run-overs, eh? He was sure this old man knew what he was talking about, but Jake had been run over plenty of times himself. Take Paula, for instance. This woman had been his whole life once. When his sons had been born, each time he thought he couldn't take that much love. It filled him, consumed him. His family became the pride of his life. Each goal he pursued was for them, each dollar, each deal. He thought he had what every man desired, and more! Then out of the blue, Paula left him, taking the boys with her. Each time he asked himself why it had happened, he came up blank. Did she leave because she wasn't happy? If so, why didn't she say anything? Why take the boys? She knew he'd be devastated if he couldn't see his boys, yet that's how the divorce worked out. She cited "irreconcilable differences," whatever that means. The boys would live with her, and he would only get them for a few weeks in the summer.

His hands began to cramp, and he looked at them to see that his knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel. He mentally counted to ten, then one by one, he released each finger.

"I see you've been hit a coupla times, too, eh?"

He had forgotten Mick was there. "Yeah." He glanced over. "Hey, let's get you to a doctor, alright?"

"Sure, sure, if you want to take me." Mick rested his elbow on the door. "But I don't really need to go."

"You're going to need stitches for that cut."

"Nah. It'll heal." Mick just nodded in the wind and held his hat on his lap.

"Still, I think we shou'"

Mick held up his hand. He looked over at Jake and said, "I'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

Jake looked at Mick. Really looked at him this time. He realized that Mick really wasn't as old as he had first thought. Through the leathery surface of the man's skin, Jake could see a vitality that the old don't often have. "Mind if I ask you a personal question, Mick?"

"Shoot."

"How old are you, anyway?" Jake shifted in his seat. His mother would've smacked him upside the head if she were here.

Mick chuckled. "Well, hell, that ain't all that personal! How old do I look?"

Jake grinned. "You look older than me, but younger than my grandfather. How's that?"

"Heh. Yep, I guess that's about right. I have good genes, y'know. My daddy was the same way." Mick smiled and looked at his hat again. "I remember my mama would get quite jealous sometimes, but that's just how it was. It's that Indian blood."

"Yeah, my mother would be the same way, I guess."

The car bumped over some railroad tracks, and Jake thumped his head on the roof. Mick bounced up and down until they were over the tracks and back onto the asphalt. Jake looked around the town they had just entered. To the left, there was an old train station that looked like a good wind gust could knock it over.

Beyond that, a Texaco station that still had the old pumps. To the right, a community center that also doubled for the town library. Next was the town hall. Beside that was an old Spanish-style church, Our Lady of the Rose Catholic Church. The building was beautiful, and Jake thought he might like to take a look at it if he got the chance. Across the street was a small hardware store. The
proprietor was standing at the open door, waving a fan over his face. Jake nodded and smiled, lifting his hand. The man just stared at him.

"Turn here," said Mick.

Jake turned left onto a residential street, and old man directed him to stop at the third house. Mick opened the door, and hesitated before he stepped out.

"Well, I sure do appreciate the drive and the chat."

"It's no problem." Jake smiled. "You be sure to have someone look at that cut. It was pretty bad."

"Yeah, ok." Mick looked at the house. "This is my daughter's house. I'll have her look at it. Would that make you feel better?"

"Yeah, it would. Thanks."

Mick grinned. "Sure. Well, I guess this is the end of the road for me. Maybe we'll run into each other again, eh?" He held out his hand.

Jake laughed and shook the other man's hand. "Yeah, maybe."

"Alrighty." Mick stepped out and slammed the car door, squashing his hat onto his head. "Be seein' ya!"

Jake waved, and pulled away from the curb. He made a U-turn at the next intersection and drove by the house again. Mick was at the door, but he turned and lifted his hat as Jake went by. As the hat came off, so did the bandage that Jake had put on there. Jake grinned at Mick, then he slammed on his brakes, skidding several feet. He stared at the old man, who was heading back toward him.

Where the bandage had covered a gash worth many stitches on Mick's forehead, the skin was now smooth. There was no sign of any injury.





*****Chapter 4*****

By Lu Swart

Jake desperately searched the rear view mirror of the Bel Air. His shirt was plastered to his body. Sweat dripped down into his eyes. He brushed the tears from his eyes as the sweat poured off of him in spite of the cold night air . His mind raced. The events of the last 3 weeks crowded in on his consciousness as his overly tired mind sought desperately to grasp with the realities of the events.

His eyes sought the rear view mirror as though for an answer of all he had left behind him. He ran his dry tongue along his cracked lips. The events tumbling in to his thoughts. He thought first of Paula, Nicholas, and Jeb. His thoughts lingered on Paula, he tried again to remember what she had said during that last phone call. He couldn't get the words to come out right. He needed to focus more and try a little harder to replay the conversation, he believed they would come.. then the old woman's smiling face flickered into his mind'�'�'�then the Indian!

Mick and his smooth forehead. Who or what was Mick? The feeling of terror gripped him in its clutches, as it had when he had seen Mick's smooth forehead. His eyes gripped the rear view mirror. It had probably been one of the stupidest things he had ever done in life. Running scared, that's what he was doing now, When Mick had started heading back to his car, he had felt such an overwhelming terror. So he gunned the engine and hit the interstate as though the demons of hell were on his heels and maybe they were! His eyes checked the rear views again. He was safe now at least 50 miles away. The urgency of getting to Truth or Consequences and what he come to do weighed on his mind. He tried to concentrate on that wisp of a memory of a phone call. He had to remember. Mick's face came into focus and his full tooth smile seemed mocking now as his eyes flickered to the rear view mirror. His gut felt like someone had slugged him as he saw that his rear view was filled with the flickering of red and blue lights and the siren split the still night air.

Oh man he thought 'NO! Not now!'�
He pulled the Bel Air over to the edge of the road. A squat stout officer slowly rambled up behind him his hand on his pistol, flashlight torching in his hand.

'Yes officer can I help you.'�

'Do you have any idea how fast the speed limit is here, Sonny? License, registration, and proof of insurance please.'�

Jake groaned within as he kicked the glove compartment to open it. The movement caused the officer to draw his weapon.

'Put your hands on the wheel. Now!

'Hey man the glove box sticks don't go crazy now!'
The glove box fell open with a flop. His hands gripped the wheel.

Keep your hands on the wheel!

The officer stepped back and leveled his weapon at Jake. He opened the door of the Bel Air. As he struggled to get it open he glared at Jake.

'Keep your hands up and get out of the car!'�

'Now! Get out of the car!'�

'Put your hands on the car, spread em! The officer kicked his shoes to separate his feet apart.'�

'Now put one arm behind you'�
Jake felt the cold steel of the cuffs on his wrists. He felt the officer's deft fingers patting him down. The officer relaxed a little once this was done. He ordered Jake to get into his patrol car.

'Hey man I told you the glove box sticks! I wasn't threatening you. I was just getting the registration and proof of insurance.'�

'Well now, Sonny, we can get all that figured out. Now my understanding is that there is nothing in your car that would concern me. Right?'�

'No man just the info you requested on the car that's all that is in there.'�

'So do I have your permission to look in your car?'�

'Sure man, whatever'�

The officer rambled back up to the Bel Air, easily opening the passenger side door and taking out registration and insurance papers. Then he walked around the front, his flashlight flickering over the grill and hood of the car. He came around the driver's side and opened the door again, closely examined it, then came back to the patrol car and radioed the dispatcher, requesting a backup unit
to Jake's dismay.

'What is wrong! I got to get to Truth or Consequences it is important!'�
The officer started to read him his rights and then asked if he understood them?

Jake tiredly nodded his head.

'What am I being arrested for?'�

'Well it seems that a red car matching this description was called in as being involved in a hit and run about 50 miles back. They found a bloody hood ornament on the ground near where the accident took place Looked for your hood ornament.

Its not there. Blood on the grill and this'� The officer brought out the tattered piece of leather. Jake recognized it immediately as being a piece of Mick's hat.

'No body was found, and no one was taken into the emergency room. A lady caller stated that she saw a car weaving all over the road. She saw it hit an old Indian
who was walking with a cane and carrying a black bag. In your car tucked under the seat is a black bag and wedged between the seat and the passenger door is a cane. I think we need to have a talk down town.'�

Jake's mouth went dry and his thoughts tumbled wildly how could he explain about any of the past 3 weeks of events. How could he explain about Mick! Then another thought slugged him in the gut. How could he explain about the money and photos and documents in the trunk and the gun beneath his seat!




*****Chapter 5*****
By Kris St.James

White Sands Missile Range

The phone rang once and then went dead, then rang twice. The signal. Everything that was pending up until that point was now in place. She looked thoughtfully at the phone, noting its shiny, black surface, her reflection contorted along one curve, stretching her face into a carnival caricature. She thought to herself that she had changed just as the reflection now showed: twisted, contorted, contrived. She hadn't looked at herself in the mirror for weeks, ashamed at what she might see, pretending she was some sort of actor and not really living this nightmare. Thinking that this was somehow a movie and all movies, as everyone knows, aren't real. All movies have happy endings. Movies have heroes. They also have villains.

The secrets that she was privy to were the stuff of movies. Fantastic. Had she not seen evidence, the proof, she would have walked out that day laughing to herself, working up a list of friends to call and share the ridiculous story and have a good laugh. A story so bizarre that maybe she wouldn't tell anyone for fear they would look at her as if she were crazy. Treat her as if she had lost touch. Well, she'd make it clear that she didn't believe the story; she was just telling them because it was so bizarre. So incredible. Fantastic.

But, she had seen the evidence and now she could never tell anyone anything ever. That's because Anna Stephens will soon cease to exist. Because everyone will soon cease to exist. Will cease to exist in any meaningful way, anyhow. Anna snapped back to the room and the desk she sat in when the door knob slowly began to turn. She was only half aware of its movement, as its silent rotation clockwise was just visible over the edge of the phone she was entranced by. Her eyes lifted heavily, sleepily; as if all the Earth had suddenly slowed to 1/4th speed and gravity had given way to weightlessness. The door knob rolled to the right and the jamb split open, allowing the light inside to spill out. It barely illuminated the dark hallway outside, exposing the arm and latex gloved hand that now entered holding a small, clear bag filled with a whitish powder. The hand tossed the open bag into the room, spilling the substance on the floor in a dusty exhale and quickly closed the door.

Anna Stephens stared in shocked disbelief. The one door exiting the small office was engulfed in a whitish cloud and the powdery, smoky substance billowed upward and toward her. She quickly held her breath and moved toward the window, trying to raise the blinds with one hand while covering her mouth and nose with the other. She began fumbling with the lock, but the window was painted shut. Anna began to feel a burning sensation on the back of her legs and turned to peer over her shoulder, watching the ghost cloud filling the room, wisping and wandering toward her. She began to cry, pinching her nose, feeling her lungs burning with a need for oxygen knowing that her involuntary reflexes will take over in a second, drawing air into her.

She looked one last time out the window, one last time at the sky, the earth. She quickly thought of her whole life, tears welling up in her eyes, distorting her last vision of it. The cloud engulfed her. She began to rock back and forth uncontrollably, fighting her lung's demand for air, feeling the intense chemical burning on her sensitive skin, shutting her eyes to try and block out the invasive substance. He heart pounded loudly in her ears, her pulse surged, screaming for oxygen. Her hand trembled as she exhaled noisily, turning and running toward the door with nothing to lose. She grasped blindly at the knob, trying to turn it. She clawed at the wood, her lungs on fire with the carbon dioxide building there. Involuntarily, as she predicted, her autonomic reflexes quickly, shallowly, drew in the clouded air and Anna Stephens died.

Outside, two cars started once their occupants were satisfied that she had not escaped the room. The driver of the first sped away going Southwest toward Las Cruses, the other contained the visitor, who removed the gloves and laid them on the seat beside him. In the backseat was another like him; identical to him. An exact replica of the original who now drove them out of the parking lot and South, away from the office and out toward the desert. Two soldiers nodded as the cars pulled out of the Las Cruces/Alamogordo Main Post Gate and drove away on Highway 70. Forty thousand feet overhead, a heavily modified F117-R roared at MACH 2, creating the distinctive sonic boom.


***


The booming sound overhead shook the patrol car windows noticeably as the officer began filling out the Incident/Offense Report on Jake. He looked up and muttered to himself something about wanting to ride by those pilot's homes at 3:00 am with is siren on and see how they enjoyed those 'sounds of freedom'�. As he was trying to locate the aircraft, a dark car pulled slowly by and braked momentarily, then continued on. The officer paid it no mind as he steadily searched the sky for the offensive aircraft. Jake began to squirm in back the patrol car, trying to adjust to sitting with his hands cuffed behind him.

The dark car returned, having circled the block and now pulled up along side the patrol car, its blackened rear window slowly scrolling down. The police officer looked over just as silenced handgun extended from the dark interior of the sedan and two quick shots were fired, both into his unprotected neck. Blood splattered across the windshield of the patrol car and his lifeless body slid over the fender and onto the ground. Jake leaned back just in time to avoid a bullet which shattered both rear windows. The car stopped and the rear door opened just as the requested backup patrol car rounded the corner. The passenger turned his attention to the approaching police car and fired a quick shot at it, striking the front windshield at a glancing angle, cracking the glass. The shooter quickly returned to his seat and the car sped off with the second patrol car in pursuit.

Jake knew he only had seconds before another patrol car would appear. He kicked the remaining tiny shards of safety glass out of the rear window and awkwardly crawled through, dumping himself out onto the ground. He rolled over to the dead police officer and wrestled free the keys that are tucked in his gun belt and released the binding handcuffs. Jake stood and looked pitifully at the dead man, knowing that he probably had someone at home who will be devastated by this event. He looked over at the Bel Air and thought to himself that this horrible moment was merely child's play compared to what potentially awaited.

He ran to his car and started the engine and peeled out onto the street, passing a flashing, howling patrol car that was coming to aid the fallen officer. He turned down an alley and made a hard left onto a one way street, going the wrong way. Several cars panicked seeing the old car coming head-on and swerved to avoid hitting him, causing a three car pileup as Jake weaved between them and back down another side alley. He turned onto another street, this time going the right way with the traffic. Jake turned again and got to an onramp and quickly accelerated to merge with traffic. He swerved a couple of times as he fumbled under the seat reaching for the gun. Jake tucked the gun into his waistband and kept his eyes glued to his rearview mirror as much as possible.

Twenty minutes later Jake turned off the highway and found an abandoned parking lot beside an old gas station. He knew the Bel Air had to go. It stuck out like a sore thumb and he hated the thought of parting with it, but it was now a liability. He got out and went to the trunk. Like the glove box, the trunk required 'special'� handling to open properly. After several tries, the trunk lid popped open to reveal a backpack containing the documents and the money. He pulled it out and slammed the lid shut, then walked around to the passenger door and opened it. There was Mick's black bag and cane. Jake heard a siren in the distance and quickly grabbed the bag and cane, resolving to solve this new mystery when he had two minutes to think.

Behind the old gas station was an abandoned pickup with a very low tire. Jake ran over to take a look and discovered the keys in the ignition. A quick turn revealed a dead battery. Jake opened the hood and then went back to his trusty Chevy Bel Air and drove it around back beside the truck. He pulled the old battery out of the pickup and replaced it with the Chevy's. Another turn of the key resulted in power, but required considerable effort to start. Once the old truck started, Jake piled his cargo inside and cautiously pulled out onto the street. No one was in sight. Overhead the F117's boomed again.

The old pickup sputtered the first half mile before eventually smoothing out and running surprisingly fast. He had to find an open service station quickly to attend to the low tire, but would wait as long as possible to evade the police who would be looking for the Bel Air and anyone fitting his description. Jake drove another ten miles and finally risked checking the tire at a Chevron station that wasn't doing much business at the moment.

After pulling into the lot, he found a coin operated air pump and began filling the low tire. He gave a quick inspection of the truck and saw no further damage or mechanical problems to worry with. Just as he finished with the tire, Jake heard the jets overhead again and thought about the policeman and his narrow escape. The immense weight of the last few days and the horror of witnessing a murder began to settle in and Jake could feel his chest beginning to tighten and his eyes to burn as the emotions rose into his throat. No time, he kept telling himself. He recovered his composure and got back into the truck.

The black bag and backpack sat in the floorboard of the passenger's side. He looked around the parking lot and could see no one, so he picked up the black bag that Mick had left behind. It was a small handbag, much like an old fashioned doctor's bag back when doctor's made house calls. The top of the bag was held together by a small leather strap with a dull brass clasp. Jake tentatively turned the clasp and folded back the strap. He carefully opened the bag and looked inside. Across the parking lot, a slimly built Indian in a faded black shirt and jeans began walking toward the idling truck.

Mick.



*****Chapter 6*****
By Wren L. Miller


Ted had never understood his grandfather's ability to stir up trouble. When he saw the old, red pickup pull in to the gas station, he shook his head. "What have you gotten me into now, old man?"

Earlier that day, he answered the phone in his air-conditioned apartment to hear his grandfather give cryptic instructions for meeting a certain man. No greeting, no explanation why, nothing but where and when. Ted was curious enough to find out what was so important, but he wasn't stupid. First sign of anything major, and he was out of here.

He peered through the back window. The driver was just sitting there. Was he waiting for someone? Was he waiting for Ted? Ted started forward, then stopped. He turned back to the convenience store. He needed some water. He bought two bottles and looked out the window. Yeah, the truck was still there. Might as well see what this was about.

He opened the door, and the chime sounded across the parking lot. The driver glanced out his window then looked back down. Ted sauntered over to the driver's side and tapped on the window. The driver jumped and looked at Ted with a deer-in-the-headlights look. He relaxed slightly and rolled down the window. "Can I help you?"

Ted smiled. "Actually, I was wondering if I could help you?"

The driver laughed. "Help me? Why would I need help? I don't need help." His eyes darted from Ted to the road to the parking lot to the store and back to Ted. "No, I don't need help."

"Alright, buddy. Whatever you say." Ted stepped back and opened one of the water bottles. He took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The driver watched him, and rubbed his own lips. "Say'�"

"Yes?" Ted turned back toward the truck.

"Do you know where I can get a decent meal around here? Somewhere out of the way would be best."

"I know the perfect place." Ted indicated the passenger seat. "Do you mind?"

The driver looked wary for a moment. "The last time I gave someone a ride, he turned out to be some kind of mutant. How do I know you aren't one, too?"

Ted laughed. "Do I look like some kind of mutant to you?" He stepped back and spread out his arms.

The driver shook his head. "The other guy didn't either." He looked at Ted. "Well, enough crazy things have been happening, one more wouldn't hurt." He jerked his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."

***

Jake watched the Indian move around the hood and open the door. He reached over and pulled the black bag closer to the middle. The Indian saw it and raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Jake was glad. He didn't want to talk about it, anyway.

The Indian introduced himself as Ted, then gave him directions to the nearest town. Jake eyed him a moment, then pulled out onto the highway. He hated to think it, but there was something about Ted that reminded him about Mick. He shook the thought off. Mick was miles away by now. The only similarity between the two Indians was their heritage. He hoped.

They pulled into the small town. Jake blinked. He didn't see anything that resembled a restaurant. "What is this place?"

"It's called Truth or Consequences."

"What?" Startled, Jake jerked the wheel, bringing the pickup into oncoming traffic. He jerked it again to correct it, then glanced at Ted. "What did you say?"

"Truth or Consequences." Ted smiled. "Yeah, I know. It's a big name for such a small town, but somehow it fits." He looked at Jake. "If you turn at the next intersection, there'll be a little hole-in-the-wall place where we can get something to eat."

Jake nodded, and turned where Ted told him to. Another block, and they reached the diner. There was nothing on the outside to indicate the place as an eatery'no signs, no other cars, no people coming out with toothpicks sticking out of the sides of their mouths. In fact, if Ted hadn't assured him it was still open, Jake would've thought it had run out of business a long time ago.

They stepped inside and Jake sighed as he was hit with a blast of cool air. The inside was dark, and when his eyes had adjusted, he saw tables and booths scattered around the room. He realized that the building was bigger than it had appeared from the street. Ted led him to a table on the far side of the room and sat down. "I have yet to find a place that serves food as good as they do here. You'll love it."

"Yeah. Okay." Jake sat down, too, and put his head in his hands. It felt so good to just sit still. No one was chasing him, no one was spontaneously healing, there weren't any cops getting killed, and best of all, there was food coming. He could smell it wafting in from the kitchen, and he went faint. He hadn't realized her was so hungry.

"Hi, Ted. How are ya?" A small Mexican woman stood by the table, pad in hand. "What can we get for you today?"

"Hey, Lupe, give us two specials." Ted smiled at Jake. "Will that work?"

Jake just waved his hand. Lupe grinned and took their orders back to the kitchen. Soon, the food was sitting in front of the two men, and they dug in with pleasure. Ten minutes later, Jake sat back in his chair. "You're right. That is the best I've had in a long while."

Ted nodded. "Hope you left room for dessert." He grinned, which faded when he looked over Jake's shoulder. "Not what I wanted to see right now."

Jake looked over his shoulder and saw the silhouette of an old man come into the restaurant. "Who is that?"

Ted didn't answer. Jake looked back to see Ted sitting in his seat, his face as stone, as the old man stopped at the table. He looked at the old man, and jumped out of his chair, backing into the wall. "No! You stay away from me, old man!" He held his hand out as if to ward the old man from coming any closer.

Mick smiled. "Hello, Jake. It's nice to see you again. We've been waiting for you for a long time."

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