For a change, the quest proved an easy one to accomplish - much to Mandy's shock - and the bottled water was soon opened and put into use. She had stripped down to her undershirt and had a mouth full of toothpaste when the door to the outer office swung open on its creaky hinges.

The person who entered the restroom was Beatrice Reilly, and the rookie deputy had clearly bought her own hideous Halloween mask in the same store as Mandy. A dead-tired glance was shared between the two women before Beatrice went into one of the stalls to conduct some morning business.

A persistent coughing from the outer office made Mandy let out several mumbled curses at Barry Simms' expense. The toothpaste muffled most of it, but a few of those that escaped were close to making the cracked mirror fall to pieces for good.

After Mandy had rinsed her mouth using the uncarbonated spring water, she tried to run a comb through her wild hair but gave up after the third attempt. Instead, she poured out a handful of water that she ran over her blond fright-wig in the hope it would return to its natural flat state.

A long groan escaped her when the ancient Bakelite telephone out on the watch desk rang for the umpteenth time; the night from hell had continued straight into the morning from hell as the telephone had been ringing off the hook for what seemed like hours already.

Sighing, she took her black uniform shirt and thrust her arms down the sleeves. Her white undershirt had ceased to be fresh at some point during the night, but she was out of spares as her original undershirt had been worn down and used up the day before. It was still in the plastic bag in the crew room since she hadn't had time to go to the Laundromat - much less go home to their own washing machine - and get it cleaned.

The inevitable knock on the door to the restroom followed a few seconds later. 'Sheriff?' Rodolfo Gonzalez said in a loud voice to be heard through the closed door. 'That was-'

"There's no need to shout, Deputy. I'm right here," Mandy said as she opened the door and strode out into the office. A long sigh escaped her when she spotted the wad of papers in Rodolfo's hand. "All right. We can't push them off any longer. Give me the low-down," she continued as she made a beeline for the coffee machine.

"Believe it or not, Sheriff, but this latest call was in fact unrelated to the other incidents. It was an annoyed resident who complained about his neighbor's crowing rooster-"

"Miracles do happen," Mandy said in a mumble that made Rodolfo smile before he continued:

"So far, we've received reports of vandalism or attempted burglaries from six people who live all over Goldsboro. My gut instinct tells me there'll be more."

"Undoubtedly," Mandy said and let out yet another sigh. Once she had poured plenty of black coffee into the mug, she took a large swig to get back on an even keel - unfortunately, she crinkled her nose in disgust at the horrid taste. "Gawd, this is vile… who the hell made this?" she said before wiping her lips.

"Bessie."

Because of the stressful all-night activities surrounding the four prisoners, the backup arriving from Barton City, the grouchy plumber and the hubbub connected with the noisy and intrusive Facility Service cleaning crew, Mandy had needed to ask the retired dispatcher Bessie Robinson to sit at the watch desk while the deputies worked to restore some semblance of order to the horrible mess. The elderly lady was still with it for the most part, but she had moments of sudden fogginess that caused plenty of furrowed brows and puzzled looks among the others.

Mandy glanced over at the dispatcher who was busy knitting; then she stared into the mug in the hope of finding the culprit for the foul taste. "Damn, she used to make such great coffee… there's definitely something wrong with it," she said before she took another probing sip.

The second test proved it was undrinkable so she took the mug and the entire coffee pot and strode back into the restroom to pour them out into the battered sink. A long groan escaped her when numerous particles of rust and other types of brownish residue swirled into the drain at the bottom of the wash basin - it was obvious that Bessie had used the rusty tap water without checking the quality.

After making a detour to the crew room to get another bottle of uncarbonated spring water, she made sure to put the appropriate amount of ground coffee beans into the machine. "Go on," she said as she filled the tank with the bottled water and pressed the button that made it come to life again.

Rodolfo nodded before he looked at the wad of handwritten notes: "Yes, Ma'am. First up, we heard from the foreman out at Fredericksen's poultry farm. They discovered the lock on one of their utility sheds had been pried open. Nothing had been stolen. Next up was Mr. Nelson McConnell… you know, Wynne's old boss at Chicky Kingz… he reported that one of the side mirrors had been kicked off the Nissan delivery truck that's parked in the alley-"

"Mmmm!"

"Mr. McConnell was rather angry as you may expect. The next one was Miss Tabitha Hayward from the Goldsboro Town Museum. She called to inform us that their rear door had received damage. In her words, someone had tried to kick the crap out of it… and she knew that for a fact because a clear boot-print is still visible on the door. The hinges and the lock withstood the pressure so the vandal was unable to gain access."

"All right, hold it right there," Mandy said and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Before you go on, we need to prioritize our assignments. Nothing was stolen out at the farm so they're at the bottom of our list. The Nissan's mirror is an insurance case so they'll have to wait as well. Barry is paler than a ghost this morning so you'll need to visit Mr. McConnell yourself once you have a spare moment."

"Yes, Ma'am," Rodolfo said and jotted down a few notes on his indispensable notepad.

"The clear bootprint at the museum is far more important. Send Deputy Reilly up there at once. We don't have any Crime Scene-kits left so she'll have to take photographic evidence of whatever she can find-" Mandy interrupted herself to glance around the office. "Wait, where's Deputy Reilly?"

"She went into the bathroom after you did, Sheriff…"

"She came in just as I brushed my teeth… maybe the new lock has jammed. Dammit!" Mandy said and strode back to the restroom at the rear of the office with Rodolfo in tow. The door had only just swung open when the familiar sound of loud snoring reached their ears - it made her break out in a dark chuckle. "I better take care of this one, Deputy Gonzalez," she said over her shoulder.

"Yes, Ma'am," Rodolfo said with a grin. "I'll be up at Chicky Kingz to look at the Nissan."

Once the senior deputy had left, Mandy went into the restroom and moved over to the stall she had seen Beatrice enter earlier. A soft knock on the brand new door yielded little so a harder one was employed. "Deputy Reilly?" she said in a voice that was far less gruff than expected considering she was talking to someone who had fallen asleep while on duty.

ZZZZzzzzzz… ZZZzzzz- 'Oh… just five minutes more…'

"Deputy Reilly, this is the sheriff. Are you ill?"

'The sher- Ohhhh, shit… shit, shit, shit, shit!' Beatrice said; the croaked words were soon followed by a rapid rustling of clothes and ultimately a fly being zipped. Moments later, the toilet flushed and Beatrice stepped out of the stall.

Her complexion was redder than a lobster as she shuffled over to the wash basin below the cracked mirror to wash her hands thoroughly. "Please accept my sincerest apology, Sheriff," she said in a mumble as she reached for the faucet.

"The pipes only produce brown slush, Deputy. You need to use the bottle," Mandy said, pointing at the half-empty bottle of uncarbonated spring water she had used when she brushed her teeth.

Beatrice let out a sigh as she poured the bottled water into her hands and did her best to rinse them. She looked around for the bar of soap that was always there, but it seemed to have gone missing.

Mandy stood akimbo while Beatrice pulled out a few paper towels from the brand-new dispenser so she could wipe her hands dry. "Deputy Reilly, I'm well aware there are mitigating circumstances in this case, not to mention that I needed a nap earlier myself. However, I still need to state a few truths even if they'll make me sound like a hypocrite."

"I understand, Sheriff."

"Sleeping on the job can cost lives. Imagine being on speed trap duty and missing the one who ends up killing an innocent bystander."

"Yes, Ma'am. It won't happen again, Ma'am."

"Very well, Deputy. End of the lecture," Mandy said with a gleam in her eye; she went over to the rookie and put a calming hand on her shoulder. "I will say one thing, though. I can't recall the last time anyone fell asleep while on the toilet. Well done, Deputy Reilly. You've certainly put your name in the record books of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department."

Beatrice's blush deepened and became an all-out fiery attack on her skin. She blinked several times while she let out an: "Ohhhh… I mean, yes, Ma'am."

"Let's get back to business," Mandy said while her face assumed her regular air of authority. "I need you to respond to an attempted break-in at the Town Museum. Miss Hayward reports there's a complete boot-print on the door. Take the camera and get enough coverage of the print so it can be used in court. Our resources are spread too thin today so you'll be working alone. If you need advice, don't hesitate to call me. Do you understand your orders, Deputy?"

"I do, Ma'am."

Mandy moved back to the door and held it open. "All right. Get to it."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Once Beatrice had grabbed their camera equipment and had left the office, Mandy went back to the coffee machine that had just finished brewing a potful of the liquid gold. She took a cautious sniff of it in case it was the machine that had failed rather than Bessie Robinson's coffee-making skills; when everything seemed okay, she poured herself a fresh mugful and settled down at her desk to catch up with the tall pile of paperwork generated by the nightly operation.

-*-*-*-

In a desolate stretch of the wide-open desert five miles north of Goldsboro, Wynne let out a thoughtful "Hmmm…" as she took in the sight of Joe-Bob Millard's abandoned Cadillac Eldorado and the vast rock formation it had ended up against.

Although the land yacht had ended up at a strange angle that saw its front an few inches in the air and its huge tail section resting on the sand, neither the fenders nor the quarter panels had suffered any warping or other visible damage. The doors hadn't been knocked askew by the impact and opened easily. The windscreen appeared to have a small crack in it at the top-left corner, but Wynne couldn't determine if it had been created by the wreck or if it had already been there when Joe-Bob had driven her home from the event at Thunder Park the previous year.

Kneeling at the Cadillac's rear bumper, she scooped a few handfuls of sand away from the tips of the tailpipes before she tried to yank at the exhaust to see if it had come loose by the hard stop. Although there was some play - which was to be expected considering the vehicle's age and mileage - everything seemed to be attached to the various brackets.

She moved up to the front to peek in under the fender. If the driving wheels were too far off the ground, or bogged down in loose sand, they would need to pull it off the rock with Diego's truck. A quick inspection revealed that while the floaty suspension kept the front tires on the ground, the sand underneath them was in fact quite loose.

Diego remained in his Ford truck fiddling with his telephone and listening to the radio while Wynne made three complete tours of the red convertible. Now and then, he looked up to see what his neighbor was doing.

Wynne tried to compile a worksheet in her mind of the many little things she noticed on her tours of the crashed car, but soon ran out of memory space. Instead of pretending she could remember it all, she shuffled over to Diego's F150 and leaned against the open door. "Ya woudden happen ta have som'tin useful fer takin' notes, wouldya?  Lack a notepad an' mebbe a pencil or som'tin?"

"No, I'm sorry, Wynne… I don't. I guess I could have brought one, but I didn't think we'd need it."

"Naw… didden even cross mah mind, neithah," Wynne said and scratched her neck. She turned around to look at the Cadillac from a distance. "Aw, it ain't too much, realleh, but this he' noggin o' mih-ne ain't fit fer 'memberin' stuff lack that."

Diego climbed down from behind the wheel and shuffled around the front of his truck. He glanced at the Eldorado as well before he turned to Wynne: "Why don't you just use the audio recorder app on your phone?"

"Holeh shittt… it can do dat?  Lemme see," Wynne said and dug into a pocket to find her smartphone. After a bit of tapping, staring, swiping and neck-scratching, she broke out in a shrug. "Ain't sure this he' phoah-ne got one o' them there recordahs, Diegoh. Or mebbe it does an' I jus' ain't got no clue where ta look fer the darn thing."

"It's right there, Wynne," Diego said and pointed at a symbol on the display that looked like an old-fashioned radio microphone inside a circle. Wynne only furrowed her brow in confusion, so he tapped the symbol which made the app load. A large circle was soon shown. "Okay, tap that and try to say something," he continued.

"Uh… okeh," Wynne said and tapped the second circle that soon began to pulsate like it was in fact recording what was going on around it. "Howdy, this he' be the one an' onleh Wynne Donnah-hew speakin'…" she said before she shot her neighbor a puzzled look. "An' now what?"

"Now you tap on the square down in the left-hand corner. That'll stop and save the recording."

"Fer Chrissakes, all this he' technah-lah-geh iz givin' me da sour burps…" Wynne mumbled as she tapped the square in the corner. Once she had, the recording was shown as a single entry on a list that had room for a lot more. "An' tap that there thing there ta lissen ta it?"

"Exactly."

Wynne let out a surprised snicker when she heard her and Diego's voices from the telephone. The quality wasn't even close to hi-fi, but it would certainly be enough for what she had in mind. 'Howdy, this he' be the one an' onleh Wynne Donnah-hew speakin'… an' now what?  Now you tap on the square down in the left-hand corner. That'll stop and save the recording. Fer Chrissakes, all this he' technah-lah-geh iz givin' me da-"

"Haw!  Ain't that plum awesome?  Nevah knew the darn thing could do that!  Much obliged, friend!  Ah owe y'all a beah or som'tin!" she said and slapped Diego a high-five.

Shuffling back to the Cadillac across the soft desert sand and the harder flat rocks, she began her thorough inspection at the rear bumper before she made her way forward - the next stop was the gigantic trunk lid.

---

"Okeh, an' the last stop o' this he' Tour De Caddeh be that there front bumpah," she said into her telephone fifteen minutes later. "Them bolts on the left-hand sih-de be sheared off by the impact. The weight o' the chrome done warped it so it be bendin' down-wuhrd all the way ovah ta the right-hand sih-de. Obvis'leh needs fixin', but it ain't preventin' it from rollin' or nuttin'… okeh, we may need-a pull it off fulleh, tho'. Light clustahs be okeh. Hood is okeh… one or two scratches, mebbe, but I be thinkin' they wus there the whole tih-me."

Wynne moved over to the other side of the Cadillac to conclude her inspection. "Haw, that there chrome grille be mashed up ag'inst da radiatah itself, but… yuh, it ain't be touchin' it. That there be good news, yessirree. Ain't no bent coolin' thingamadingdongs or nuttin'. No visible leaks or nuttin', neithah. Okeh, that be it fer now. Uh… bah-bah!" she said and tapped on the square in the lower-left of the display. She grinned when a sixteen-minute recording appeared on the list.

"Diegoh, I need-a hand raisin' da hood!" she shouted so her neighbor would hear her. Once he had shuffled over to the convertible, they worked together to lift the heavy piece of metal that had only suffered minor cosmetic damage to the forward edge. "Nih-ce an' easeh, yuh?  Nih-ce an' easeh at first, Diegoh," she said as she peeked into the gap that slowly grew wider. "Ain't no tellin' if any o' them hoses or som'tin are… naw, lookin' fih-ne… yup!  Okeh, les'get this he' thing fulleh open."

"Man, look at that huge thing!" Diego said and let out a laugh.

"Yuh, that there be one helluva General Motahs lump o' iron, awright. Five-dubbel-oh cubic inches but hardleh aneh hosses. Them Caddies be designed fer floatin' along, dontchaknow. Sure ain't no muscle cah-r!" Wynne said with a grin before she bent over to check out a few of the details.

"Ayup, that there carburetah seems okeh… distributah is okeh… mebbe a li'l dusteh. It got enuff fluids fer them brakes an' the powah steerin'… radiatah ovahflow lookin' fine an' drah. Them shock towahs ain't rusteh or nuttin'… now lessee 'bout them dipsticks," Wynne said and reached for the one in the engine. "Oil level lookin' fih-ne… mebbe a li'l dark, but that prolleh been that way fer a while. Ya know what, Diegoh?"

"No?"

"I reckon it's tih-me ta trah startin' this he' ol' thing," Wynne said and reached into her jeans pocket to retrieve the set of keys Mandy had given her the day before - it was the set that had been confiscated from Joe-Bob when he had been brought into the jail house after his drunken rampage at Moira's Bar & Grill.

Undaunted despite her near-legendary ability to always end up holding the short end of the stick - any kind of stick, and in any kind of situation - Wynne opened the huge driver's side door and got comfortable behind the white steering wheel.

She had to chuckle at the way the driver's seat had been arranged by its former user. Because of his vast girth, the Manbeast Of Yucky Flats needed to sit so far from the wheel he was almost on the back seat. It suited her long legs just fine, but she needed to lean a good distance forward to put the key into the ignition. "Yuh… he' goes."

"I better take a step back," Diego said with a grin.

"Wish me luck, buddeh!"

"Buena suerte, Wynne!"

"Bonneh Swelte?  Ain't had the ple-shure," Wynne said with a grin before she turned the ignition key. The first attempt only produced a cough, a splutter and a cloud of pale-blue smoke to spew out of the tailpipes, but a second try yielded the result she had been hoping for - the large engine came to life and soon settled down to a low and steady idle.

She kept a close eye on the various gauges on the dashboard to catch potential problems before they would turn into dramas, but everything seemed fine. "Yuh!  Yuh, lissen ta that ol' lump o' iron purrin' lack a mountain lion, yessirree!  It got gas an' that there brake pedal feels fih-ne… ain't too swampeh or nuttin'. Okeh, lessee if the tranneh got a knockin' when that there rock done stopped it."

She moved the column-mounted gear lever into reverse and listened hard for any clunks, scrapes or other bad noises that would indicate problems with the three-speed automatic. None came, so she let her foot off the wide brake pedal to see if the torque converter was strong enough to carry the heavy car away from the rocks on its own - although it gave it a valiant try, it wasn't quite enough to move the heavy car across the soft sand on its own.

To get things rolling in the literal sense, Wynne gave the throttle a little tap to help the process along. The front tires grappled for traction but were unable to find any; all that came out of it were cascades of soft sand that were kicked up by the treads.

"Wait a minute!" Diego said as he looked at the spinning wheels. "Hold it, hold it!  You're just digging a bigger hole for yourself… I got a couple of two-by-sevens over in the truck. They'll work fine."

"Okeh!" Wynne said and eased off the gas at once while Diego jogged over to the old workhorse. She kept the engine running and took the opportunity to keep an eye on the various gauges - everything continued to be in fine fettle.

Diego was soon back with a pair of planed boards. Kneeling, he dug out some of the loose sand and shoved the flat planks in under the driving wheels. "Okay, try again… slowly," he said as he got to his feet.

Nodding, Wynne put so little pressure on the gas pedal a raw egg wouldn't have cracked. The heavy vehicle rocked a little as the rubber reached the planks, but it soon became obvious the solution had worked.

"It be workin'!  It sure be workin'!  Yeeeeee-hawwwwwwww!" Wynne cried and waved her cowboy hat high into the air as the Cadillac was able to get enough traction to creep back from the large rock.

Oh-point-four seconds later, a horrible scraping sound from somewhere up front made her slam her foot onto the brake pedal which made the huge land yacht bob and roll like it was caught in a storm. "Whut. Wus. Dat?!" she croaked as she craned her neck to look past the open hood.

Diego was already investigating, and he soon stepped back into view flashing a big thumbs-up. "It's only the crooked bumper, Wynne!  It's scraping along the desert floor. You're still good… you need to keep it straight as an arrow for another five feet or so or you'll fall off the planks. Okay?"

"Okeh, Diegoh. Thank the bearded gah in the skah fer li'l favahrs," Wynne said and once again applied a tiny amount of pressure to the throttle. She kept her eyes firmly glued to Diego who walked beside the car, directing her like an approach controller on an aircraft carrier.

"And… and… you're clear of the planks. Keep going. Gimme a full, right turn, too. C'mon, c'mon!"

"I heah ya, good buddeh," Wynne said as she let the Cadillac trickle along. The silky-smooth power steering made the low-speed turn as easy as A-B-C even in the challenging conditions, and the front of the large car was soon pointed toward Diego's F150.

The persistent scraping noises made her wince, but the bumper had already suffered so much damage from the impact that it needed to be replaced no matter what else happened - then, from one moment to the next, the noises stopped.

"The bumper just went bye-bye, Wynne!" Diego said in a cheery voice from beyond the open hood. He appeared a short while later dragging the chrome bumper that had been sheared clean off by scraping along the coarse ground. "Okay, you're off the loose sand. Stop here."

Wynne let out an emphatic "Awwww-shit!" at the sight of the severed bumper, but Diego just grinned.

"No sweat, Wynne. I'll put it up on the bed. I don't think it can be reused, but who knows."

"Yuh…" Wynne said before she stepped out of the vehicle. She knelt to peek in under the exposed front - the strange look it gave the Eldorado made her think of someone having lost the lower half of their dentures.

A push here, a pull there, a tug here and a touch there failed to make any proverbial alarm bells go off. "Okeh, the steerin' looks good an' all. No bent arms or nuttin'. Shocks an' coils be lookin' solid. Rotahs an' calipers also look fih-ne. Mebbe a li'l rusteh, but ain't nuttin' ta worreh 'bout. Ain't no leaks that I can see. Ain't no brown streaks on that there oil filter… it be boh-ne drah. That there steerin' wheel didden wobble, neithah. Y'know, I reckon we got usselves a 'seventeh-six Caddeh Eldahradah Con-vahr-tibbel, yessir."

"I'm still not sure what you actually want with the old crate, Wynne," Diego said, holding two cans of Fenwyck's finest: a Double Zero and a Dark Lager. Wynne got the Double Zero while he cracked the other one open at once.

Wynne sat back on her thighs and took a long swig of the non-alcoholic beer. "Haw, it ain't fer me, Diegoh!  I be thinkin' I wus gonn' get it in tip-top shape fer ol' Joe-Bob. Give it an A ta Z job down at the Bang an' Beatin'. Okeh, J-B ain't always the easiest o' fellas ta be 'round or nuttin', but I mean… that's jus' his personaliteh, yuh?  Lawrdie, ain't nobodda he' be saints. Nobodda. Ain't even them saints be lack saints no mo'."

"He might not come back, though…"

"Naw. Then I'mma-gonn' contact them there next o' kin o' his an' offah them a fair prih-ce fer this he' vee-hickel. I sure don't wanna see it get scrapped or nuttin'. Nosirree."

Wynne got up and leaned her rear against the hugely long fender while she enjoyed the rest of the beer. Once the can was empty, she threw it back to Diego before she checked the dipstick for the automatic transmission. The oil was pink and smelled fresh which indicated it had been changed within the past few months. "Yuh, be lookin' fih-ne. Okeh… okeh… gotta think now. Okeh… haw… the idle's runnin' as smooth as a dang sewin' machine. Still no leaks or nuttin'. Tell ya what, there, Diegoh… I'mma-gonn' trah ta drive it back ta Goldsborah. Sure is."

"Okay…" Diego said and let out a short laugh. "I better stay close behind, yeah?  Don't forget I have ropes, chains and the tow bar ready if you change your mind or if it breaks down."

"Works fer me, friend!  Let's get this he' big-ass, ol' Caddeh on the road. Yessirree!" Wynne cried and promptly got behind the wheel of the huge land yacht once more.

---

The fact the Cadillac Eldorado made it back to the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop in fine form and without a problem in the world proved the Age Of Miracles still hadn't passed.

After attracting plenty of attention from a few gobsmacked folks standing on the sidewalk, a broadly grinning Wynne soon drove it onto the forecourt of the biggest and best - not to mention 'only' - auto repair shop in all of Goldsboro. It didn't need gas so she drove past the pumps and onto the paved area by the main garages and their roll-front gates.

The convertible was the only vehicle there that wasn't a pickup truck, and yet it managed to take up more space on the inner court than all but the biggest of the off-road warriors.

Diego reversed his old Ford up behind the Cadillac and immediately went to work offloading the dented, warped bumper. Since they had nowhere to store it, Wynne popped open the gigantic trunklid that revealed enough luggage space to support a family of eight going on a two-week vacation.

The door to the sales office soon opened to reveal Cletus Browne, Wynne's closest confidante in the short period when she had worked for Otto Kulick the Third as Key Broom Manager - i.e. she had swept the floors. The dark-skinned African-American salesman broke out in a grin when he took in the sight of the enormous Eldorado and the woman behind the wheel.

Dressed as impeccable as always, Cletus wore suede loafers, dark-blue designer jeans and finally a white Western shirt complete with a leather bolo tie. As he walked closer to the Cadillac, he donned a tan Stetson; the gesture made his gold Minatakis Diamondis wristwatch sparkle in the sun.

"Hello, Wynne. Nice to see you," he said and put out his hand for the traditional greeting. "Say, isn't that Mr. Millard's Cadillac?"

"Sure is, Cletus. Howdy, ol' pal," Wynne said as she shook hands with the salesman. "Yuh, me an' Diegoh jus' rescued it from that there desurht where it done wound up aftah ol' Joe-Bob got ill an' went off the road."

"Oh… that's right. I did hear something about that," Cletus said as he made a slow tour of the dusty vehicle. "Mmmm. The front looks a little worse for wear."

"A li'l, yuh. It done hit one o' them there rock forma-shuns… it musta been a low speed impact, tho'. Nuttin' major an' 's onleh cosmetic. A li'l ding he' an' a li'l dent there. As y'all can see, yuh?" Wynne said and pointed at the front of the Cadillac that had received the most damage. "That there missin' bumpah is obvis'leh the one stickin' outta the trunk."

"Right," Cletus said as he looked at the aforementioned item.

"Yuh," Wynne continued as she used the sleeve of her sweatshirt to buff up a small area on the right-hand side fender. "The ragtop don't work none, but da motah an' the tranneh be in tip-top shape an' all. 's a five-dubbel-oh S-code, type sixty-six-E that be purrin' lack a kitten. I ain't checked the VINs, but I bet y'all gonn' find it ta be numbahs matchin'. Can't imagine it woudden be."

Cletus nodded several times as he took a closer look at the classic car. "Interesting… very interesting. Did Mr. Millard give you a power of attorney to sell it, or…?"

"Naw, it ain't fer sale, Cletus. What I be aimin' at is fer y'all ta bring it back ta its formah gloreh an' all. Make it look lack it's nineteen-seventeh-six all over ag'in an' this he' thing jus' rolled offa that there assembleh line, yuh?" Wynne said and pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow.

Taking a step back, she began to point at the various items on the car while she spoke about them: "Buff up da chrome an' brightwork. New whitewalls 'cos them tires that 'r on it now be way, way too old. Need a new hubcap on the right front… it gone missin'. Da carburetah needs adjustin'… it kinda be runnin' a li'l too lean. Mebbe a li'l rust work if needed. Mebbe a new windshield. I reckon it got cracked in the wreck. It only be showin' a li'l, but there wus some wind noise that wussen there the last tih-me I done drove in it. Deffah-nete-leh fix that there ragtop. Needs new actuators on both sih-des, yuh?  Buff an' touch-up that there paint job… but dontcha dare changin' the colahr, ya heah?  Clean an' restitch that there upholstereh… aw hell, I don't hafta tell all y'all how ta make a cah-r shine."

Cletus nodded a couple of times as he listened to Wynne's list. "This would be an exciting restoration project, no doubt about that. Cadillac parts are very expensive, though. Re-chroming the bumpers, the headlight clusters and the grille alone will set you or Mr. Millard back several thousand dollars."

"Yuh, mebbe so… but it sure be worth it," Wynne said and stuck her hands down her rear pockets. "Dontcha reckon, Cletus?"

"Oh, definitely. Tell me… would you do this if it was a Lincoln Continental or a foreign car?"

"Aw, hell no!" Wynne said with a grin. "Anyhows, me an' Diegoh ain't got no mo' tih-me fer now. Them keys be in the igni-shun. I wus thinkin' y'all put a covah or some such ovah it fer now, an' then we could discuss it mebbe come Mondeh or Toosdeh."

"We're open Sundays, Wynne-"

"Nuh-uh, friend!  Tomorra is the Daytoh-nah fih-ve-hundred. I ain't got tih-me fer nuttin' but that. Nuttin'. From he', I'mma-gonn' stop bah the Grant-Mastah an' buy 'bout seven crates o' beah, yessirree. Need Ah say mo'?"

Cletus performed a quick round of mental arithmetic to calculate how many beers would fit into seven crates - 'a lot' was the short answer. "Wow… how many people are you going to have over?"

"Aw, it gonn' be me, mahself and Ah!" Wynne said and poked her chest three times in rapid succession. "An' Mandeh, o' course. But she ain't gonn' be watchin' 'cos racin' ain't her thing. She gonn' be in charge o' the food, tho'. We gonn' have a ton o' patahtah salad an' a whole buncha them there frankfurhtahs that we gonn' put on the outdoah barbecue an' all. An' Ernie's hawt sawce, yessir!  Lawrdie, I sure hope all them shitteh things he' in town be ovah an' done with bah then. We done filled our quota o' crap alreddeh!"

"Yes, I noticed the activity over at the sheriff's office last night. All those police vehicles created a real mess on Main Street."

"Haw, I bet they did!  Well, then, bah-bah fer now, Cletus. Tih-me fer me ta be movin' on, dontchaknow," Wynne said and extended her hand for the traditional greeting. After shaking hands with her friend, she jogged back to Diego's F150 and climbed into the cab.

The old workhorse soon came to life and drove off the auto repair shop's lot and onto Main Street. Once they were heading in the proper direction, Diego took his telephone to see what time it was. "Shit… time's running pretty fast now, Wynne. Would you mind hurrying a little once we hit Grant's?"

"Not in the least, ol' buddeh," Wynne said with a grin. "The Grant-Mastah know I be swingin' bah so he done slapped mah name on them crates an' put 'em bah the doah. Ain't gonn' take but a couple-a minutes."

"Good 'cos I need to shower, shave my arms and comb my chest hairs before I head off to my sister's. We're having a traditional chili con carne that'll-" He interrupted himself to laugh out loud at the baffled look on Wynne's face. "Yeah, being a guy sure ain't easy, Wynne. We got hair everywhere!"

"Yuh, I know from havin' mah eyeballs catch fiah from seein' Ernie in his wife-beatah undahshirt. But shavin' yer arms!  Ah mean… dag-nabbit, friend!  That be devo-shun ta the famileh right there, huh?  Lawwww-rdie…" Wynne said and let out a laugh that matched her friend's.

*
*
CHAPTER 9

Wynne whistled a jaunty tune as she walked across the lawn between the mobile homes. The seven crates of beer needed to be kept out of direct sunlight, but they took up far too much space in her trailer to store them in one spot - one had gone straight into her refrigerator, the second could fit under her bed, the third had been stored vertically inside the tiny broom cupboard and the fourth had been able to fit under her couch with a little cussing and a lot of elbow grease. The fifth, sixth and seventh crate needed to be kept elsewhere so she had gone on a little journey of exploration to find spots that would provide enough room for the square, unwieldy crates.

She and Ernie had exchanged house keys a long time ago after all the troubles had hit their small trailer park, so after walking over to Ernie's place, she unlocked the inner door and attached the little hook that would hold it wide open - a necessity to get some fresh air inside during the long, scorching summers as the trailer was on the lee side of the others.

Now she was there, she gave the living area, the kitchenette and the bedroom a brief check to see if anything was out of the ordinary. A few LEDs shone bright-red on Ernie's advanced TV and digital recording equipment, but they were supposed to. The potted plants were all droopy and dull so she made a note of giving them a little water later even though she had so little knowledge of those things that she might end up killing them all.

The contents of the refrigerator were fine save for a plastic bowl filled with a nasty-looking, brown gunk that sat on the back part of the top shelf. Crinkling her nose in disgust, she reached for the bowl only to let out a grunt when she saw a sticky-note on the lid that said Marquessa Chili cultivating experiment - do not touch! in Ernie's handwriting. "Huh… okeh… whatevah," she mumbled and slid the bowl back onto the glass shelf.

Moving into the bedroom, she had to chuckle at the sight of the feminine items and accessories that Bernadine had added. When Ernie had been a bachelor, he had often walked around in bathing slippers, boxers, a ton of body hair and little else. The white-and-pink cushions, drapes, lampshades and quilted bedspread that inhabited the small bedroom at present suggested that those days were long gone.

Her initial exploration over - everything seemed fine save for the air being on the stale side - Wynne returned to her own trailer to get the first of the remaining crates.

Goldie and young Renee Tooley played a game of tag on the lawn like they had done the entire day; Goldie's tongue was hanging out indicating she was in dire need of a break, but the lit firecracker of a girl she played with showed no signs of ever wanting to slow down.

Renee's mother Estelle sat on their trailer's doorstep with a dead-tired expression etched on her face that showed clear signs of premature aging. She took frequent sips from a mug of coffee and deep puffs from a cigarette to keep herself upright. The cleaning lady who worked two jobs six days a week to support her family - her husband was on sick leave from the slaughterhouse down south and spent most of their money in Derrike Iverson's dive - looked about ready to drop.

She had just come back from her early-morning job in Cavanaugh Creek and had a few hours to kill before she drove north to Goldsboro to clean the rooms and do other kinds of odd jobs around Mrs. Peabody's boarding house. The Saturdays were always the worst since she couldn't get a nap after returning home from her first job - her young daughter couldn't be left unsupervised for that long.

Wynne walked back to Ernie's trailer carrying the first two of the remaining crates. She had initially mistaken herself for being Superwoman by attempting to lift all three crates in one go, but when her lower back had told her in a rather insistent, non-verbal fashion that she needed to forget all about that, she had settled for the top two crates - the return trip to get the last one mattered little in the overall scheme of things as she had nothing on her agenda for the rest of the day.

She furrowed her brow as she glanced over at the haggard-looking Estelle Tooley who continued to puff on her cigarette and sip her coffee. Grunting, Wynne let out a mumbled: "Dang'it, Ah gotta find a way ta help the ol' gal or else she gonn' be headin' fer an earleh grave. Lawrdie, Ah need-a think hard 'bout that… sure hate ta see li'l Renee end up in trubbel. That dang drunkard Frank sure ain't fit ta take care o' her on his own, nosirree. Gotta think…"

---

"Okeh… so that be one-hundred-an'-sixteh-eight beahs… yuh," she said after she had put the final crate on Ernie's kitchen table. Leaning her backside against the edge, she held up her fingers to help her do the math: "An' that breaks down ta nineteh-six o' them there Dubbel-Zerahs, sixteen Pale Lagahs, sixteen Dark Lagahs, sixteen o' them Nineteen-ten Spe-shul Brews, eighteen o' deah, ol' Ernie's fav-ah-rites, them Midnight Velvet Stouts an' fih-nally, uh… uh… shoot. Okeh, nineteh-six… an'… an'… uh… haw, six o' them there Extra Strongs, yessir!  Lawrdie, sure gonn' be one helluva parteh!  I jus' hope that there Daytoh-nah fih-ve-hundred don't end up disappointin' me or nuttin'… hate it when that happens. Yuh."

Stepping back outside onto the central lawn, she closed and locked the door to Ernie's trailer. After she had made sure the screen door was secure so it couldn't gain a mind of its own in case of high winds coming in from the desert, she shuffled back toward her own trailer.

Goldie had cried enough and had planted herself right in the middle of the lawn to show that her decision was irreversible. The Golden Retriever's rib cage went like a pair of old-fashioned blacksmith's bellows as she tried to get some air back into her doggy-lungs.

Renee Tooley still had plenty of energy left, so she had found her neon-yellow soccer ball and the Lilliputian-sized goal that she used to practice her penalty kicks. The young girl sang an entire array of toy-commercial theme songs at the top of her lungs while she kicked the ball around - much to the consternation of not only Estelle Tooley but Goldie as well.

Wynne soon returned with a large bowl of water for her beloved pet. When it disappeared down to the last drop within thirty seconds, she let out a loud chuckle and went on another trip to the faucet. She came back dragging a two-gallon bucket that Goldie could enjoy for a while.

The Golden Retriever was soon just as lost to the world as Renee Tooley was, so Wynne shuffled back to her own trailer after waving a see-ya-later to Estelle.

Mother Nature insisted that she visited the bathroom before doing anything else, so that's where she went. After Operation Splish-Splash had been carried out, she shuffled into the living room where she began flicking through the channels on her TV in the hope of finding something that wasn't doom, gloom, despair and false promises from Televangelists.

Five minutes' worth of depressing headlines and infomercials for exercise equipment, prayer circles, cyclone vacuum cleaners, surveillance equipment and kitchen utensils convinced her it was a lost cause. Turning off the TV, she threw herself onto her couch where she let out a bored sigh. Then another. Then another. Then she dug into her jeans pocket to find her smartphone - Mandy's number was soon selected from the registry.

Yet another sigh escaped her when the call went to the voice mail service. "Lawrdie," she mumbled as she stretched out her arm to slide the telephone onto the coffee table, "this he' day started with me bein' all bah mah lonesome… then it got good with Diegoh an' the ol' Caddeh… an' now Ah'm all bah mah lonesome all ovah ag'in. Durn. Ah realleh oughtta make some coffee or som'tin, but Ah jus' can't be bothah'ed. Naw. Mebbe I oughtta get some shuteye… yessir. Jus' fih-ve minutes-"

Before she could snuggle down on the couch, her telephone rang. Reaching for it double-quick believing it was Mandy returning the call, she already had a broad grin on her lips and a humorous quip all lined up when she realized the caller-ID said Ernie.

The cold fingers of worry reached in through her chest and grabbed hold of her heart. Sitting up straight, she accepted the call. "Howdy, Ernie… ya ol' sombitch. Whassup?" she said in a voice that was kept in a remarkably neutral tone despite the storm of concern that brewed within her.

'Hiya, Wynne, ya ol' rascal. Aw, a little of this and a little of that,' Ernie Bradberry said from the other end of the connection.

The strange mix of relief, sadness and a slight tremble in Ernie's voice made Wynne get to her feet and rub her brow hard. "Lawrdie, Ernie, that don't sound too good, mah friend," she said as she pressed the phone closer to her ear like it would help her hear better. She went over to the window to look at Goldie and Renee on the lawn; it seemed to be half-time in the soccer match because Renee sat next to Goldie and a ran a pink hairbrush through the golden fur.

'Well, it kinda is and it kinda isn't. Let me explain… the good news first. Bernadine is recoverin' well. Our newborn is healthy and strong. She's a tiny little thing and she needs to stay in one of those incubator things, but them doctors say she's a fighter. She's inherited that from her mother 'cos I've been on the brink of faintin' for God knows how long now.'

A smile flashed across Wynne's lips; it didn't last long before the concern had conquered it once more. "Aw, that is good news, ol' buddeh. I be gladda heah it. Not the faintin' thing, tho'… y'all need-a watch out fer wotcha be standin' close ta in case ya drop, yuh?"

'Yeah…. anyway, them docs have stitched what needed to be stitched and all those things. Bernadine's bloodwork is apparently fine. She's tired like hell but mostly in good spirits. If this had been a regular birth, she would probably have been discharged later today, but… shit. There's nothin' regular about this one.'

"Haw, ain't that the truth. So… what's the less good news, Ernie?" Wynne said as she returned to the couch, sat down and leaned against the backrest. Needing something to toy with, she grabbed a soft cushion that she began kneading with her free hand.

'Well… they discovered what actually happened with all the bleedin' that set the whole thing in motion. Turns out Bernadine did suffer a partial miscarriage-'

"Lawwwwr-die, Ernie…"

'-but what… what in fact came out… Jeez… was an undeveloped… or underdeveloped fetus or whatever the hell them doctors called it. They used a buncha fancy Latin words I didn't understand jack-shit of, but… but afterwards, Bernadine told me it was our daughter's twin that just hadn't… been… oh, fully formed… or ready… or whatever. Jeez, she's takin' it way better than I am. I'm shakin' and got the pukes just tellin' you about it. Okay, I just wanted… I just needed to tell you. Yeah. So… what have you been up to today?'

"Nevah mind that now, Ernie," Wynne said and jumped to her feet. Her jaw was set in stone as she strode into the bedroom to shed the work clothes she had worn while tending to the stranded Cadillac. "It don't mattah shit what Ah been up ta, but it does mattah what Ah'mma-gonn' do… an' Ah'mma-gonn come down ta see y'all an' Bernadeeh-ne as fast as that there Silveradah can go, friend. Come hell, high watah, zombies, goblins or Butch'ad Backpackahs… Ah'mma-gonn' be there. Yessir."

'Oh, you don't-'

"Tha'hell Ah don't, ol' buddeh!" Wynne said as she unbuttoned her work jeans and threw them onto the bed. Her favorite pants - the faded Cowpoke jeans - were soon located and jumped into. "Y'all be hurtin'. Bernadeeh-ne be hurtin'. Ah'mma-gonn' be there. End o' discus-shun."

'Thank you. It means a lot.'

"Ah jus' need-a call Mandeh first, then Ah'm outta he'," Wynne continued as she grabbed her nicest pair of cowboy boots. Putting them on was a two-hand job, so it was time to end the conversation: "Okeh, Ernie… Ah need-a go, but we's gonn' hook up in person soonah than y'all gonn' bah-lieve. Talk ta ya latah, good buddeh. Bah-bah!"

'Bye, Wynne,' Ernie said before the connection was closed.

The washed-out sweatshirts flew onto the floor before she grabbed a new one that was clean, fresh and much nicer to look at: it was a retro design promoting the legendary colors of the #33 Skoal Bandit Oldsmobile from 1991 when Harry Gant had earned the nickname that had stuck with him ever since - Mr. September.

The lined jacket and the battered cowboy hat closed the deal. The Last Original Cowpoke had arrived and was ready for action.

---

Seven minutes and another failed attempt to get in touch with Mandy later, Wynne slapped a palm across her face and let out a long, pained groan. The needle on the Silverado's fuel gauge showed that she could forget all about driving to Cavanaugh Creek if she didn't gas up first. The only problem with that was there were no filling stations between Goldsboro and the large Gas 'n Go! truck stop down in Nowhere, NV., and that was miles and miles beyond Cavanaugh Creek. The smaller Gas 'n Go! near the Haddersfield Pass summit where Wynne had worked for a short period as a night attendant had been shut down for renovations.

"Awwwwww-hell. Jus' mah rotten luck!  Ain't nuttin' but rotten luck in this he' crap-tastic lih-fe o' mih-ne!  If Ah hafta drive all the dog-gone way north ta Goldsborah ta gas up an' then drive all the dog-gone way south ta that there hospahtal in Cavvah-naw Creek, it gonn' take me fer-stinkin'-evah!  Wynne Donnah-hew, ya dang-blasted foo'!  Whah diddencha gas up yestahd'eh?  'Cos howindahell wus Ah saposed ta know 'bout this he' deal taday, that's whah!"

Exiting the Silverado, she locked the doors while she tried to rack her brain to come up with a solution. Her other truck, a 1979 Chevrolet K10 she had bought as a hobby restoration project, literally lay around in a handful of pieces so that was out of the question as well. Brenda and Vaughn were away all weekend on their camping trip; Diego visited his sister. Frank Tooley had caught a ride with a buddy to drive to Goldsboro after dropping off his wife at their trailer because Estelle needed their truck to go to work.

The options for finding a wheeled transport quickly whittled down to a choice between Ernie's custom Ford F350 Super Duty truck and Renee's pink, kiddie-sized bicycle. Grunting, Wynne made a left-hand turn and strode back over to Ernie's trailer.

Unlocking the inner door all over again, she began rummaging around in Ernie's man-cave-like den for the familiar key fob. She had to dig through two dozen empty beer cans and stacks of hand-written notes containing recipes for his legendary hot sauces before she found the elusive keys. "Gotcha… ya li'l sombitches," she mumbled as she stuffed the keys into her pocket and strode back out of the trailer.

---

Blasting south on the State Route, Wynne put on a pair of Ernie's spare sunglasses so she wouldn't be recognized driving a Ford of all things. She had the radio blaring on Ernie's favorite music station: the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack that broadcast out of Lansingburg.

The station offered a nice mix of recent hits and genre classics that she hummed along to to take her mind off her friend's bad situation. At present, Clyde Bookman, jr. sang his number-one hit from 1984 titled Wimmen & Boozin', Winnin' & Losin' - themes that Wynne had plenty of knowledge of.

She checked the time before she hooked her phone to the jack on the dashboard that offered a hands-free service. By doing so, she could hear the other part of the conversation via the truck's speaker system which was a marked improvement in road safety.

The white digits showed ten minutes past two in the afternoon when she chose Mandy's number and tapped on the little bar. A short time of inactivity went by before the call went to the voice mail service. "Awwwww-shoot!  Whaddindahell's goin' on up there in Goldsborah?!" Wynne said, smacking her clenched fist onto her thigh. "Wussen nuttin' wrong when Diegoh an' me done left that there Caddeh at Cletus'es!  Dag-nabbit… them de-per-ties an' mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandeh bettah not be in any kinda trubbel!  If they is, Ah'mma-gonn' get real bitcheh 'bout it!"

Without thinking too far ahead, she pulled the telephone's cable out of the jack on the dashboard. When the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack came back on air playing Beau 'Jailbird' Wheeler's 1967 classic, Night Train To Freedom, she nearly jumped through the roof as the volume had turned itself up to a mere notch below apocalyptic.

"Hoooooooooleh shittt!  Now whaddahell's wrong with that there frick-frackin' thing?  Mah poah eahs!  Dang, now Ah don't hafta worreh 'bout diggin' no eah-wax fer a week, I'm tellin' ya!  Lawwwwr-die," she croaked as she frantically turned down the volume to a more humane level - just in time, too, as the station played a few loud jingles before they went to a commercial break.

Sighing, grunting and groaning, Wynne shook her head several times to get the buzzing bees out before she turned off the radio for good and focused on the road ahead.

-*-*-*-

Goldsboro's Main Street hadn't seen such a gathering of impatient and downright grumpy citizens since the pitchfork-wielding mob that had been formed after the Air Force had attempted to transport their super-secret giant lizard through town.

After the efficient local grapevine had spread the news that John Nolan and his long-haired cronies had been spotted in town prior to their arrest in the desert, countless residents of Goldsboro had checked their sheds and garages to see if they had been affected by the crime wave - as a result, no less than eight grouchy, grumpy people had lined up outside the closed door to the sheriff's office to file reports on vandalism, attempted burglaries and assorted other destructive crimes.

Inside the office, Mandy moved into the center of the room and put her hands in the air to indicate she needed everyone's full attention. Bessie Robinson continued to knit to her heart's delight at the watch desk, but Barry, Rodolfo and Beatrice all stopped what they were doing to focus their tired minds on the sheriff and the words of wisdom she was certain to deliver.

"All right," Mandy said while she made sure to look all her deputies in the eye. "I know we're tired and that our patience has been worn down. The citizens waiting outside are still to be treated with the utmost respect and professionalism. They'll be angry and resentful… they may even accuse us of not doing our jobs properly. However, I do not want to hear any smart-alec comments from anyone in this room. Get the information you need. Write the reports. Thank them and tell them we'll get to it as soon as time allows. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Rodolfo and Barry mumbled. Beatrice did one better by rising from her swivel-chair and saluting her superior. Though Barry snickered at his colleague's eagerness, Lady Fate made sure his bad deed didn't go unpunished as he soon broke down in a hacking, spluttering coughing fit.

Mandy rolled her eyes and shook her head slowly as she strode over to the door. A slight groan escaped her when she noticed that Councilwoman Bonnie Saunders formed the Valkyrian vanguard of the line. There was little she could do about that, so she unlocked the door intending to only usher the first few inside to keep it manageable.

From one moment to the next, the quiet sheriff's office turned into a gobbling turkey pen when the grumpy residents simply pushed Mandy aside. The entire group swarmed in and spoke up at once with each of them demanding to be the first to be heard.

The ruckus caused the door to the crew room to be nudged open by a black muzzle; Blackie soon peeked out to see what the hubbub was about. The fearless German Shepherd admitted defeat at once and hurried back to safety to get as far away from the noisy humans as possible.

"Settle down!" Mandy said in a strong voice to overpower the wall of noise that rose from the irate people. "All right, all right… settle down!  Settle down!  Please!  We can't have all of you in here at once!  Some of you need to wait outside… please!"

A few of those who had less serious cases to report let out plenty of muted grumblings but did what they were told by shuffling back out of the sheriff's office. Once half of the human swarm had re-formed an arrow-straight line outside the door, Mandy closed it and strode back to the center of the action. "Thank you. Let's get started," she said as she distributed the first batch of angry citizens between her three deputies.

Councilwoman Saunders found a chair and wheeled it over to the sheriff's desk. Within moments, she began to tap her fingers on the tabletop. Mandy wanted to lead by example so she found a ball point pen and the appropriate forms before she offered the angry woman a smile and a "Good afternoon, Miss Saunders."

---

Soon, everyone was busy: Beatrice Reilly met with Tabitha Hayward, the custodian of the Goldsboro Town Museum, with whom the rookie deputy had already filled out most of the report involving the bootprint on their back door.

The ashen-faced, amber-fingered, nicotine-chewing-gum-chewing, tobacco-smelling - not to mention hacking and coughing - Barry Simms was a terrible match with the health-fanatic Nelson McConnell whose Nissan had had its left-hand door mirror kicked off, but the charmer Rodolfo Gonzalez applied plenty of the ol' magic to Cathy Pearson, the female owner of the Tack & Saddle leather goods store that had the door handles broken off their main entrance.

Bessie Robinson observed it all over the rim of her grandma-style knitting glasses that were perched low on her nose; she had an amused half-smile on her face as she took in the hectic activity of all the younger people present.

The observations didn't stop her knitting, and her needles almost sent out smoke signals from moving so fast. She had yet to notice that it had perhaps gone a little too fast at some point during the process as the sweater she had worked on for close to a week had three arms - of course, with Goldsboro attracting alternative lifeforms on a regular basis, it wasn't out of the question they'd be visited by a three-armed individual one day.

---

Once Nelson McConnell had left Barry's makeshift desk wearing a look that was even grumpier than the one he had arrived with, Barry reached for his pack of home-rolled cigarettes to light up. A firm and insistent - but not too stern, yet - call of "Deputy Simms. Would you mind?" from the sheriff meant he put the tobacco away for later and took two fresh pieces of nicotine chewing gum instead.

Chewing with great vigor to get the most out of them while they were new, he waved the next fellow over to him. It proved to be one of 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's employees who assumed responsibility for keeping the gun shop open whenever the big boss was off to a trade show somewhere. "So, Mr. Rosenthal," Barry said as he flipped through a wad of papers to find the right report that had already had most of its fields filled out; he didn't notice that the man he was speaking to shook his head with just as much vigor as Barry's jaw chewed on the gum.

"That ain't-" the man said, but Barry cut him off at once:

"According to the case file, you reported that a glass display case used to promote coming attractions was smashed and that the expensive poster was subsequently torn in half. Do you have anything to add before I finish the paperwork?"

The mustachioed, mid-twenty-something Jay Daniel 'J.D.' Burdette - who wore army boots, sturdy cargo pants, a football jersey, a baseball cap and a hunting vest all held in various shades of dark-green-and-brown camouflage - cocked his head and looked at the deputy like he was the three-armed fellow Bessie's sweater was meant for. "Number one, my last name ain't Rosen-whatever, but Burdette. Number two, that ain't what happened at all, Deputy!  Some jerk tried to throw a rock of some kind through the armored window. Tell me, what the hell are you ass-scratchers even worth if you can't keep something as simple as that straight?!"

Barry sat in a stunned silence as his eyes shifted again and again between the case file and J.D. Burdette whose angry demeanor told a vivid tale that needed at least an R-rating. He scratched his chin once, his cheeks twice and his neck three times before he let out an embarrassed: "Oh… there's… there's… been a minor foul-up somewhere, Mr. Burdette. Let me… uh, let me see if, uh… where it might, uh… have been." While he spoke, he flipped through the next wad of files to find the correct documents so he didn't have to start over filling in the fields.

At the same time, Beatrice Reilly had a grumpy representative of the Goldsboro Movie Theater sitting at the small desk at the back of the office. Looking at the initial documents, she soon realized she had found the other half of Barry's minor foul-up - the case file from McCabe's gun shop had found its way into her pile by accident.

It took her four tries to excuse herself from the irate Abraham Rosenthal - who worked as the movie theater's public-relations manager and distributor liaison - just to move over to Barry's desk to swap the case files. "Sir.. Sir… Sir… Mr. Rosenthal, I apologize for the inconvenie-"

The middle-aged fellow from the movie theater let out a rumbling "You should!" and made a big production number out of looking at his wristwatch to show that his time was far more important than the deputy's. "The glass display case is one thing, but I don't think you people realize that we have to compensate the studio for the one-sheet!  These things hold great value, you know, but they can't be insured. This might cost us the shot at a premiere!"

Nodding and smiling for all she was worth, Beatrice kept silent as she held the ball point pen ready at the first field on the document. Once her visitor had blown off some steam, she said: "Just to check… your name is Mr. Rosenthal, Sir?" - The impressive huff let out by the middle-aged fellow proved he was anything but impressed by the level of efficiency shown by the people working for the MacLean County Sheriff's Department.

---

Twenty minutes later, the ringing of the near-ancient Bakelite telephone on the watch desk made Mandy and her deputies let out a collective groan. Bessie Robinson took the receiver at once and held a notepad ready. "Good afternoon, you've reached the Goldsboro- I see. Just a moment, please," she said before she held the black receiver high in the air so the sheriff could see it.

"Sheriff Rains, telephone for you!  It's from H-Q up in Barton City," Bessie said with a smile; it faded when she happened to notice the senior law enforcement officer sitting behind the desk wasn't Artie Rains at all but someone younger, skinnier and rather more female altogether.

Barry coughed, Beatrice cocked a disapproving eyebrow and Rodolfo let out a quiet snicker. Mandy, who did none of the above, excused herself to the last of the people who had come to file a report - the employee from Morton Fredericksen's poultry farm - before she rose from her desk and strode over to the veteran dispatcher. Standing next to the watch desk, she took the receiver and held it to her ear. "This is Sheriff Jalinski speaking. Go on."

While she listened to an update from Barton City regarding the four prisoners that had been transferred to the county jail for further processing, she reached into her pants pocket to find her own telephone. She furrowed her brow when she realized it had turned itself off and that she couldn't get it to fire up.

The news filtering through the connection was more important for now, so she stuffed her own smartphone back into her pocket to deal with later. "I see. Thank you very much, Sir," she said as she turned back to the knitting Bessie. "Yes, my deputies did an outstanding job. Yes, Sir, I will. Thank you, Sir. Goodbye," she continued before she put the receiver on the hook.

She looked at Barry, Rodolfo and Beatrice in turn to offer them a smile and a nod. Although everyone was dead on their feet - Barry in particular was more gray than pink - they still grinned at the positive mention.

Grinning back, she strode over to her own desk and the person from Morton Fredericksen's farm. She had barely sat down when the Bakelite telephone rang again.

Bessie took it at once and readied her notepad. A few notes were scribbled down and a few words were exchanged before she put the receiver back on the telephone and tore the page off the pad. "Sheriff," she said and held up the note. "That was Mrs. Skinner from the Town Council. She would like someone to come over and help her and Mr. Elliott re-capture Foo-Foo… her Chihuahua. It was spooked by a large dog and ran away into Mrs. Skinner's neighbor's garden where it ended up in a goldfish pond. It refuses to come back to dry land."

A few moments of disbelief followed before Rodolfo let out a braying laugh. Beatrice fought hard to contain a similar laugh, but Barry was far less amused on the whole: he let out a long string of mumbles that included a few unhelpful suggestions on what to do about rat-sized dogs that played in other people's ponds.

"Deputy Simms," Mandy said in a voice that held a certain degree of cheekiness, "You look like a man who could use some fresh air."

"Ah… no, Ma'am. Not really," Barry said; his face had already gained another few lines and an even darker shade of gray at the thought of the level of physical activity he would without doubt be forced to show in the assignment.

A smile forged of pure steel spread over Mandy's face. "Get to it, Deputy."

"Ah… yes, Ma'am," Barry said and got up from the makeshift desk where he had been sorting the paperwork. A ball of scrap paper thrown by the resident sharpshooter - Rodolfo - hit the messy deputy on the back of the head as he moved away from the desk. Turning away from the sheriff, Barry offered his senior colleague a wagging single-fingered salute that required no translation to be understood.

*
*
CHAPTER 10

Far south of the Chihuahua's misadventures in the goldfish pond, Wynne raced along the State Route in Ernie's F350. She was on the final stretch leading to Cavanaugh Creek and could already see the high-rises in the financial district emerge from the grayish haze that always seemed to hover above the large city.

She was forced to slow down as the traffic around her grew heavier. Although most vehicles moved away from the concrete canyons downtown, enough of them went toward the central parts to create a mess.

It seemed that even Saturday afternoons were able to create rush hours in the large city as she soon found herself in the middle of the typical mish-mash of lumbering city and overland buses, smoking delivery trucks, taxi cabs, noisy motorcycles and soccer-mom-mobiles large enough to have room for the entire team - the latter vehicles always took the greatest risks to get across the intersections before the red lights would come on.

The Community General Hospital came into view as a white-and-gray colossus a mile or so further along the main road that ran all the way to the City Hall Square downtown. To give Ernie a heads-up that she was close by, Wynne plugged her telephone into the jack on the dashboard. The correct number was soon found and accessed - a few moments later, Ernie's familiar voice filled the cab of his own F350.

'Hiya, Wynne…'

"Howdy, Ernie, ya ol' sombitch!  Lissen, I jus' gone an' done som'tin that ain't happened too offen… I be drivin' a Foh-rd."

'Ya whut?!'

"Yessirree, an' not onleh that, but it's yer Foh-rd!  I be headin' south on that there main road goin' thru' Cavva-naw Creek, yuh?  Southbound an' comin' evah closah ta that there hospahtal, yessir. It ain't gonn' be moah then mebbe ten, twelve, fifteen minutes or so befo' I'mma-gonn' be at that there parkin' lot. Y'all heard anythin' mo' 'bout Bernadeeh-ne since we las' done spoke?"

'Yes and no. After you and I had our earlier talk, the senior doc of the maternity ward… oh boy, he's an old stuffed shirt, let me tell you… but anyway, he swung by to see Bernadine and me and we talked for a while. He said he'd prefer to keep her under close observation for another few days. She actually complained about it 'cos she feels a lot better already. Honestly, I wouldn't object if the docs wanted to keep her for a month, but don't tell her I said that!'

"I ain't gonn' tell nuttin' to nobodda, old friend. Y'all have mah wohhhh-rd," Wynne said and broke out in a vehement nod though nobody was around to see it. "Anyhows, I hear ya… Lawrdie, if this wus me an' Mandeh, I reckon I be a bowl-a nervous Jell-O if she as much as yawned out loud or som'tin. Yuh."

'Yeah. I knew you'd understand.'

"Yuh. Lissen, I ain't got far ta go now. I alreddeh got an eyeball on that there hospahtal," Wynne continued as she had to come to a halt when a set of traffic lights turned red ahead of her. "Two mo' intahsec-shuns an' I be there. Y'all need som'tin sweet ta chew on or ta drink?  An' y'all bettah not be sayin' a Fenwyck Extra Strong, 'cos that prolleh ain't gonn' work, friend!"

'You read my mind, Wynne!'

"Yuh… yuh, I kinda figgah'ed I would… so y'all need anythin'?"

'No, we're pretty well covered here, thanks. Bernadine's on some kind of weird protective diet or some shit, and I can't even look at food without havin' my stomach churn.'

As the traffic lights turned green, Wynne rammed her boot onto the accelerator which made the Ford leap ahead with a throaty roar. The two cars taking up space in the left lane were soon passed which enabled her to drift into it to get to the turning lane at the next intersection - she only just knew where she was, so if she missed the main turn-off to the hospital's parking lot, chances were she would be spending a good portion of the rest of the day trying to find her way back.

"That's a big ten-fo'ah, Ernie… ferget the food an' drink. Okeh, sure ain't gonn' be long befo' I come a-knockin'. So… I be seein' y'all in a-"

'Hold it, Wynne… we've been moved from the ward we were in the last time you were here…'

"Aw-shoot… much obliged, buddeh. Lawrdie, them hospahtal securiteh folks woulda hauled mah ass ta the slammah had I gone inta somebodda else's room an' done yelled 'Howdy Ernie, ya ol' sombitch!' Awrighteh… where y'all at, then?"

'It's a little hard to explain-'

"In dat case, there ain't no need fer y'all ta tell me, friend… I prolleh onleh gonn' ferget, anyhows," Wynne said and let out a self-effacing laugh. "I'mma-gonn' ask in that there recep-shun, huh?"

'Sounds like a plan, Wynne. See you in a little while.'

"Haw, ya sure will, Ernie. This he' be the one an' onleh Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off, yessir. I be ten-ten on the sih-de, southbound an' down. Catch ya on the flip-flop, pardner!" Wynne said before she reached over to close the connection.

---

After arriving at the vast, impersonal parking lot of the Community General Hospital, Wynne found a spot as close to the main entrance as possible so her feet wouldn't be worn out from walking for what seemed like miles across the paved surface.

A dark grunt escaped her as she took in the sight of the acres of concrete. Although the hospital's management had added flower beds and rows of low, evergreen hedges to break the monotony, the sparse greenery could not overpower the sea of gray surrounding it. Dozens of tall lamp posts had been put up in strict patterns to provide plenty of light, but she had no doubt the parking lot would still be a spooky place to be come nightfall.

She let out a mumbled curse as the umpteenth attempt to establish contact with Mandy came to the same miserable end as the others had done - all she got out of it was the voice mail service which wasn't what she wanted. "Naw, ain't gonn' work… dag-nabbit!" she said to the telephone's blank display. "Whodahell can mah sweet, li'l Mandeh be talkin' ta fer so long?  Aw, gotta be da brass up at headquartahs in Barton Citeh or somebodda… them folks oughtta geddahell off the air 'cos I wanna talk ta my pre-shus darlin'!  Crap!"

Yet another attempt yielded no success whatsoever, so Wynne let out a deep, dark grunt and vacated the Ford. Just as she did so, a white delivery van from one of the local florists drove up to the main entrance and double-parked right in front of the glass windbreak at the main entrance. A driver wearing brown coveralls and a baseball cap stepped out and went to the rear of the van.

"Haw!  Wouldya lookie there…" she said before she upped the pace to get to the delivery guy before he could leave. Hurrying toward the white van, she made the driver jerk up and jump back when she whipped off her cowboy hat and waved it high in the air. "Hold it right there, fella!  Ah need a wohhhh-rd! Lawrdie, ain't no need ta look like Ah'ma-gonn' rob ya or nuttin'… Ah jus' need a wohhhh-rd. Yuh?"

The driver, a Japanese-American in his late twenties, stared at the approaching Last Original Cowpoke like he couldn't quite wrap his head around the fact that someone actually looked like that in real life, much less spoke that way.

"Howdy!" Wynne said once she was close enough, "Ah wondah if y'all might be tha same fella from that there flowah shop who done delivah'ed them flowahs Holleh Lorenzen up north in Goldsborah sent ta Ernie Bradberreh an' Bernadeeh-ne Russell the othah day?  'Cos if y'all is, I done ordah'ed 'em!  Yessirree, them flowahs wus fer mah deah friend Ernie an' his wih-fe who be admitted at this he' hospahtal. Well, she is, but he be with'er. So… wus ya?"

"Lady," the driver said as he slammed the rear door shut with his knee, "I got no clue what the hell you're talking about. Leave me alone. I got a job to do." With that, he strode over to the main entrance carrying an armful of white cardboard boxes all marked Fragile - Do Not Stack.

"Whaddindahell wus dat all 'bout?" Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow. She needed to scratch her hair a couple of times before she broke out in a shrug and followed in the delivery guy's path to get to the main entrance. "Lawrdie, the nuhr-ve o' some o' them there big-citeh folks. An' people say us countreh folks 'r backwuhrd an' jus' plain, ol' weird… I mean, sheesh!"

---

Inside the hospital's vast lobby that was just as cold and impersonal as the parking lot, Wynne made a beeline for a round reception booth located at the exact center of the room. The flower delivery guy gave her an extra-wide berth as he walked past to get back to his van, but Wynne had already lost interest in the rude fellow by then.

A snaking line had formed to get to the reception booth, so Wynne needed to fall in behind a family of three. The parents were engaged in a quiet discussion with each other and had little time to keep an eye on their young son - the kid tried his best to do his worst with regards to sticking out his tongue, thumbing his nose and making moose-ears at the tall, denim-clad woman behind him.

"Snakes Alive… whah do Ah always end up in these he' kinda situa-shuns?" Wynne mumbled as she counted to eighty-eight on the inside to stop herself from speaking her mind to the little pest or his parents.

The line moved at a slow pace, but at least it gave Wynne an opportunity to notice she had skipped a cog in the thought process. As she studied the people ahead of her, she realized they all held little, yellow pieces of paper that looked as if they had come from some kind of ticket machine.

Two people had joined the line after her; both had the yellow pieces of paper in their hand. The elderly fellow who stood behind her seemed normal enough, so she turned to face him, tipped her cowboy hat and said: "Howdy, Mistah. That there li'l piece o' yella papah… where'd y'all get that?  I didden see nuttin' nowheah that done said I need-a grab one, but… y'all got one so I reckon I bettah ask befo' I get up dere an' make a big, ol' foo' o' mahself."

The cane-wielding gentleman in his late-sixties furrowed his brow as he digested the stream of words. After a while, he lit up in a smile. "Oh, right!  You need to use one of the machines over by the entrance," he said and pointed his cane at the metal apparatus in question. "It lists a few options and then you press the screen… and out comes one of these," he continued as he held up the yellow slip.

"Shoot… okeh. Much obliged, there, Mistah," Wynne said and tipped her hat again. Leaving the line and thus exposing the gentleman to the little brat - being so impolite gnawed at her, but there was little she could do about it - she strode across the floor to get to the machine. "Okeh… lessee… one, book a tih-me fer a blood sample… naw… two, tawk ta a doctah… naw, that ain't it, neithah… ah, three, help ta locate pay-shuns!  Yessir, three be mah numbah… whah, o' course it is," she said with a snicker as she pressed the field on the screen that said #3 Get Help To Locate Patients.

The familiar yellow piece of paper was soon printed out; it said she needed to go to desk number three in the reception booth. Looking back at the central area she had just left, she broke out in a grin when the line she had been in led to the first of the three desks rather than the one she needed to be at - even better, only two people waited at number three. "Yessirree, numbah three strikes back!  Fih-nalleh some o' that there good fortune… Ernie, mah friend, ain't gonn' be long now," she said to herself as she moved back across the floor to add The Last Original Cowpoke to the tail-end of the short line.

---

As the elevator doors opened with an electronic ding, Wynne stepped out and had a look-see at the floor she had ended up on. It wasn't the right one, so she spun around on her heel and strode back into the elevator car.

A floor up, the circus act was repeated.

Another floor up, the circus act was repeated one more time.

Yet another electronic ding later, her luck changed for the better and she found herself on the correct floor. She looked left, then right, then left, then right all over again. Though the lady at desk number three had given her a map of the layout and a hand-written note with the exact number of the ward Ernie and Bernadine had been moved to, the numbers stenciled on the walls and doors didn't match what it said on the paper no matter which way she held it.

"Awwwww-shoot…" Wynne mumbled as she stared at the white walls and the confusing mess of abbreviations and other types of short-hand codes and illogical numbers she found there. A red arrow pointed to the right; a yellow one pointed to the left. Wynne remained in the middle of it all without a clue where to go.

She was already on her way back to the elevator when she heard someone calling a name that sounded quite a lot like her own. The person calling hadn't been close - more like down the other end of the endless corridor - but she hurried back to where she had just been and whipped her head around several times to see if she could spot Ernie's familiar figure.

A resounding "Lawwwwwwwwwr-die!" burst from her when she clapped eyes on Bernadine Russell who had to be at least the distance of a football field away from her. The Reverend waved her arm high in the air to catch Wynne's attention; the wave was reciprocated at once as Wynne yanked her cowboy hat off her dark tresses and swung it at the same kind of altitude reached by the Reverend's arm.

Bernadine wore slippers and a standard-issue white-and-blue hospital gown. She carried a knitted cardigan over her shoulders that she held together with one hand while she continued to wave with the other. Although she walked in a tender and cautious fashion - which came as no surprise to anyone - she was still able to maintain a decent pace as she closed in on her visitor.

Wynne set off at once to intercept her best friend's wife. Moving fast to prevent the rotten luck that always seemed to stick to her to spread to Bernadine, she almost ended up having her nose and brow introduced to the hard walls and then the linoleum floor when a young nurse hurried out of a room pushing a medicine cart.

The cart slammed sideways into Wynne's right thigh and knee which altered her trajectory and sent her on a direct collision course with the opposite wall. "Hoooooleh shitttt!  Cau-shun on da speedway… we almost done hadda wreck on da home stretch!" she croaked as she managed to support herself by putting a hand on the wall at the very last moment.

Once she had moved herself upright, she glared at the young nurse. "Whah, y'all reckon ya be fightin' fer the lead o' the Southern Fih-ve-hundred or som'tin?  Back it on down, will ya!  Or mebbe ya ain't noticed this he' bein' a dang- blasted hospahtal?"

"Pardon me," the nurse said before she gathered up the boxes of medicine and moved on like nothing had happened.

Wynne blinked several times as she tracked the nurse hurrying away at breakneck speed. "Ah mean, realleh… she be runnin' lack she done stole the whole, darn thing… dag-nabbit, that coulda been nasteh. Head-first inta the outside retainin' wall… rubbin' may be racin' an' all, but this he' wus ree-dicka-luss!"

"The nurses all have to move at that speed to make their rounds," Bernadine said; she smiled and put out her hands for a two-handed greeting. "We really appreciate your support, Wynne. Thank you for coming."

"Howdy, Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne!  Lawrdie, it sure be good ta see y'all ag'in!  Aw, ya welcome an' all. Ain't no way y'all could keep me outta he' or nuttin', anyhows," Wynne said and took the hands offered to her. She gave them a strong squeeze but decided against pulling the frailer woman in for a hug.

Once the initial greeting was over, she took a half-step back to get a better look of the gal who had become a friend. Bernadine's wavy, blond hair had turned dull and flat from her involuntary stay at the hospital. Her bloodshot eyes proved there had been many stressful moments over the course of the past day and a half - not the least of which the severe physical strain of giving birth and then the emotional strain of being told about the partial miscarriage.

"I gotta say, y'all look bettah than I imagined ya would. Congratula-shuns on yer babeh an' all. An', uh… an'… an' I wus sorreh ta heah 'bout that there… othah… uh… thing. The bleedin' an' all that."

Bernadine nodded. Her eyes glazed over for a brief moment but it was gone as fast as it had come. "Thank you, Wynne. Our Lord had other plans for that soul."

"Yuh, well," Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow. "I'mma-gonn' hafta take yer word fer it an' all 'cos that there ain't realleh mah field o' ex-puhr-teese or nuttin', but, uh… yuh. Say, wotcha done ta ol' Ernie?"

"He fell asleep in his chair after he had spoken to you!"

Wynne broke out in a relieved grin now the subject matter had turned to a far safer topic. "Yuh, that be Ernie Bradberreh, awright. Plum wore him out, didya?"

"I'm sure he'll be wide awake once we get back," Bernadine said and hooked her arm inside Wynne's. "Come on, let's surprise him."

"That there sure sounds lack a plan, Rev'rend… les'go an' meet ol' Ernie," Wynne said and began shuffling along the endless corridor at a gentle speed so Bernadine could keep up.

---

Twenty minutes later, the single-bed ward that Bernadine had been given due to her special standing within the Church Of The Holy Crusader echoed from the merry chatting, laughing and good-natured ribbing that flew back and forth between the old friends.

Beyond the standard-issue hospital bed that had been placed up against the wall at the center of the room, the ward was better furnished than most: a two-seater couch and a low, round table had been placed up against the wall opposite the bed, and a square table surrounded by three chairs had been placed underneath a window that overlooked parts of Cavanaugh Creek's hazy skyline.

Although the ceiling, the walls and the curtains were still held in the same shade of gray as everything else in the hospital, a potted plant nesting in a colorful cachepot had been put on each of the tables to provide touches of humanity to the impersonal, monochrome visuals. The bouquet of red roses Wynne had sent through Holly Lorenzen continued to stand proud and tall; they had been given the prime spot at the center of the table by the window so Bernadine could see them from the bed.

A collection of advanced electronic machinery had been lined up close to the bed for the patients who needed such support, but Bernadine had been unplugged from most of it during her stay in the ward - the situation had been markedly different when the doctors had initiated the labor.

"I hope y'all be reddeh fer a lengtheh tale, there, Ernie," Wynne said as she throned on the two-seater couch with her legs crossed at the knee; Bernadine had gone back to bed and Ernie sat next to her so he could hold her hand. " 'Cos Goldsborah sure been thru' a buncha sh- uh, weird stuff while all y'all wus he'. Them de-per-ties done arrested a long-haired fella fer all sorts-a sh- uh, stuff."

"Sounds eventful," Bernadine said.

"Haw, ya ain't heard nuttin' yet, Rev'rend!  An' then, Lawrdie!" - Wynne slapped her thigh for effect - "Then we wus all off ta that there desuhrt chasin' aftah mo' bandits lack in one o' them there ol' West-urhns, yessir!  We sure wus… Sheriff Mandeh an' me an' them dawggies an' Quick-Draw Bea an' Rodolfo an' ev'rehbodda. Well, not Barreh 'cos he ain't worth a bent dih-me when it comes ta physical ac-shun, but ya know… all us able-bodied folks, yuh?"

Ernie grinned; he cocked his head like he was trying to decide whether or not his friend was lying through her teeth. Like his wife, his skin had turned pale and his eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep. His trademark mullet, mutton-chop sideburns and walrus mustache had been joined by a two-day grayish-black fuzz on his cheeks that made him look even scruffier. The severe lack of beer in his system hadn't seemed to reduce his bulk any, but it would most likely need longer than forty-eight hours. "Really?" he said after a short while.

"Yuh, realleh!  Cross mah heart hope ta choke on a pea-nit!  Haw, I be tellin' ya, Ernie, all we wus missin' wus a troop o' them Texas Rangahs ridin' ovah that there hill guh-ns a-blazin'. Yessir!  O' course, I ain't sure if them Texas Rangahs even be allowed ta ride in Nevada or nuttin'… aw-hell, that be beside the point an' all. But anyhows, I wus glad I didden have a milkshake or nuttin' befo' we gone inta the desuhrt 'cos that there rockin' an' rollin' in the Durangah would-a sent that there shake bubblin' outta mah nostrils, ain't no lie!"

"Business as usual, then?" Ernie said with a grin.

"Y'all can deffa-nete-leh say that. O' course, there been some bad sh- uh… stuff happenin' too. Ol' Joe-Bob Millard mi'te-a been in his last rasslin' match. He done fell ill on his way hoah-me from Derrike's the ni'te befo' last. Yuh. It sure don't look too good fer the ol' Manbeast… naw."

"Damn…"

"Yuh. He done wrecked his Caddeh north o' Goldsborah, but that wus the effect, not the cause. Naw. He wus alreddeh, shoot… down fer the big three-count by then. Las' I heard, he wus still hangin' on in a hospahtal up in Barton Citeh, but ya know… he sure ain't no feathah-weight or nuttin'. So… yuh."

Bernadine gave Ernie's hand a little squeeze. "I'll pray for Mr. Millard. He's the obese gentleman who usually hangs out at Moira's bar and grill, isn't he?"

"Yuh, that's right, Rev'rend," Wynne said; she chewed a little on her lip while she pondered whether or not to speak her mind about her view of the praying part - she chose to keep mum. Instead, she locked eyes with Ernie who responded by smiling and shrugging. "But anyhows… me an' Diegoh done rescued Joe-Bob's Caddeh. It onleh needs a li'l T-L-C ta look fih-ne so we done parked it up at that there Bang an' Beatin' Bodeh Shop fer latah, yessir. We's gonn' get it back ta its full gloreh. I sure hope ol' J-B gonn' be bah ta see it shih-ne."

A slight lull developed in the conversation; Bernadine used the break to sweep the duvet aside and swing her legs back over the edge of the hospital bed. The slippers were soon back on her bare feet.

Within nought-point-two of a second, Ernie jumped up and held the knitted cardigan ready to put over his wife's shoulders - Wynne's eyebrows shot skyward at seeing the blinding tempo of her dear, but occasionally dawdling and lead-butted, friend.

"Wynne," Bernadine said as she closed two of the cardigan's buttons, "I was thinking… would you like to see our daughter?"

"Haw, I sure would, there, Rev'rend… where she at, anyhows?" Wynne said and got up from the couch.

"She's further along the corridor in a special ward," Bernadine continued as she and Ernie shuffled over to the door with their arms hooked inside each other's for support.

Wynne hurried ahead of the pair to hold the door open. Once they were out in the endless corridor, she crossed over to walk on Bernadine's other side to offer a double dose of support if she needed it.

They moved at a slow pace for a few steps before Bernadine's strength had grown sufficient enough for her to walk a little faster. "She's in an incubator so you can obviously only see her through several layers of glass, but Ernie tells me it's still a magical experience. Isn't that so?"

Ernie nodded. "Yeah. She's so tiny, but… but it's a person. You know?  She ain't a thing, but a someone. It's magical."

"Wouldya lissen ta y'all, Daddeh-O?" Wynne said and let out a grin. "Until now, ya onleh used that kinda lang-witch when it came ta beah or them Foh-rds… or yer hawt sawces, o' course."

"Yeah… becomin' a daddy does change your perspective. Didya ever consider it, Wynne?"

"Whut?  Becomin' a daddeh?" Wynne said and let out a loud laugh that also claimed Ernie and Bernadine. "Naw, an' sure ain't becomin' a mommeh, neithah. Naw. That wussen fer me. Or Mandeh fer that mattah. An' Lawrdie, back in them days where me an' Phyl wus the right age an' all… hoa-boy, that woudden ha' worked fer nobodda. Nosirree."

"You and Phil?" Bernadine said and furrowed her brow.

"Ah, yuh, with a whah… pee-aitch-whah-elle. Phyllis."

The proverbial light bulb came on above the Reverend's head at Wynne's explanation. She nodded and smiled at the woman walking next to her. "Ohhhh… right. You had me confused for a moment there."

"I be known ta do that from tih-me ta tih-me, yes Ma'am," Wynne said with a grin.

---

For the first time in years, Wynne had no humorous quip lined up and ready to go. She and Ernie stood on the far side of a glass wall that allowed a good view of the ward used for premature births. Twenty-one incubators had been set up in three rows of six; the remaining three were at the back hooked up to special equipment that made them appear like something out of a science-fiction horror movie.

Because of the high risk of introducing germs to the environment, only the biological mothers of the babies present could be allowed past the glass wall and over to the actual incubators. Bernadine stood next to the one where Christine Frances Bradberry did her best to grow though she had seen the light of day an entire month too soon.

A pair of nurses wearing masks and other kind of protective clothing moved around the aisles monitoring those of the incubators that were in use. Now and then, they entered data on hand-held devices or fiddled with knobs or sliders on the actual machines.

The room was cold, sterile and impersonal despite the dimmed lighting that was held in a strange, orange hue - and yet, the presence of the tiny babies who occupied fourteen of the twenty-one incubators gave it a spark of life and hope.

Bernadine waved and pointed at the one their daughter was in. Wynne duly waved back. "Lawrdie, this sure tugs on them ol' heartstrings, don't it, buddeh?" she said and glanced over at Ernie who had turned so emotional he couldn't speak. "Ya gotta hand it to them doctahs. I ain't too fond of 'em, but on occa-shun, they sure know what they be doin'. Wouldya look at that there tineh thing…"

"Yeah," Ernie said in a thick voice. He took a breath like he wanted to say more, but the words never came. Ultimately, he just let out a sigh as he kept his eyes glued on the incubator and the tiny child inside it.

Wynne nodded and wrapped an arm around her dear friend's wide shoulders - she would usually be the last to shut up, but even she understood there were times when words would only ruin the moment.

---

The magical moment of peace and pride was in fact ruined a few minutes later by the arrival of a group of somber-looking people. An elderly lady in a wheelchair was pushed along by a woman in her early forties who bore a strong family resemblance to Bernadine. Two men in their fifties walked behind the ladies each holding a bouquet of flowers.

All four were dressed in dark clothing fit for funerals, Sunday sermons or mass Evangelical gatherings, but not visits to the maternity ward of a hospital: the men wore black leather shoes and business suits over white shirts that appeared to have starched collars. Their black, narrow neckties, stony faces and unfashionable haircuts only underscored the image of stark righteousness they wanted to convey.

The younger of the two women wore a shapeless, featureless charcoal-gray dress that made her seem decades older than her face seemed to suggest. The elderly lady in the wheelchair wore a black dress that resembled a mourning gown from the nineteenth century - she wore a black, bonnet-like scarf that covered her hair, but she took it off as she was pushed along the smooth linoleum floor.

Ernie let out a muted groan as he clapped eyes on the four people who came ever closer. The contrast between their monochrome city outfits and the far more colorful rural fatigues worn by he and Wynne could not have been greater. Another muted groan that turned into a sigh escaped him as he leaned in toward his friend to whisper: "Caution's about to fly durin' green-flag pit stops, Wynne."

"Y'all be sayin' we got trubbel comin', ol' buddeh?" Wynne said and looked at Ernie - when she noticed his eyes were focused on something behind her, she turned to glance at the four people who were almost upon them. "Aw… yuh. That there be exactleh wotcha sayin'. Lawrdie, wouldya look at them blessed-be-the-holeh folks there…"

"That's Bernadine's mother and younger sister… the guys are like special envoys of their branch of the organization," Ernie whispered.

"Huh?"

"Think of them as mobster enforcers," Ernie continued in a whisper before he stepped forward and put out his hand.

"Izzat a fact?  Haw, them fellas sure look lack that, ain't no lie. Yuh… it wus bound ta happen," Wynne mumbled as she moved away from the large glass pane to face the monochrome group.

"Your Grace," Ernie said and bowed to the elderly lady in the wheelchair before taking her right hand to give it a gentle squeeze. After barely getting a nod in return, he moved onto Bernadine's sister and shook her hand the regular way. The two gentlemen were greeted last - neither of the stone-faced individuals seemed too impressed with the rotund, jovial Ernest Bradberry.

Wynne narrowed her eyes and chewed hard on her cheeks as she took in the scene. A string of sour comments bubbled up inside her; they were begging, pleading, kicking and screaming to be let out, but she didn't want to ruin anything for Ernie or Bernadine so she kept her lips sealed tighter than the vaults at Fort Knox.

The five people soon moved over to her. She cast a single, freezing-cold glance at the two gentlemen at the back whose stony attitudes and holier-than-thou expressions proved without the shadow of a doubt who and what they were. Bernadine's sister deserved a little more courtesy so Wynne cracked a half-smile at the younger version of her dear friend's wife.

The curious lack of activity from the elderly lady in the wheelchair was soon explained: she waited for Wynne to take her hand and bow to her like Ernie had done.

Wynne wasn't about to do any of that. Instead, she put out her hand in the regular fashion and said: "Howdy, Ma'am. I be Wynne Donnah-hew, a long-tih-me friend o' this he' famileh. Nih-ce ta meetcha."

The younger sister and the gentlemen at the back all gasped; Ernie pinched the bridge of his nose and looked as if he was trying to swallow a very loud and just as inappropriate guffaw. The elderly lady narrowed her eyes but took Wynne's hand and gave it a gentle shake.

Once the embarrassing scene was over, Ernie stepped forward. "Ah, Wynne, this is the Supreme Reverend Emeritus of the local chapter of the Church Of The Holy Crusader, Her Grace Maxine Russell. And my wife's sister Charlene."

"Howdy, Charleeh-ne," Wynne said and put out her hand - it was stared at rather than shaken for the first few seconds, but Bernadine's sister went through with the traditional greeting after a brief delay.

Once the typical pleasantries had been exchanged, Wynne stuffed her hands into her rear pockets and assumed a neutral expression; Ernie still seemed to be holding back a guffaw. One of the stone-faced gentlemen from the organization looked at his wristwatch while Charlene wheeled her mother fifteen feet away from the denim-clad woman in case her boorish manners were contagious.

An awkward silence spread among the five people. It was only broken when Bernadine stepped out of the inner room to greet her mother and sister. After a short while, the five members of the Church Of The Holy Crusader all walked slowly down to the single-bed ward at the far end of the corridor to continue their conversation in more comfortable surroundings.

Wynne kept her eyes on the group for a while before she broke out in a shrug and shuffled over to Ernie who had been left behind. "Tell ya whut, ol' buddeh," she said at her regular volume, "y'all sure cracked that there jackpot big tih-me when ya hooked up with Bernadeeh-ne, 'cos, dang… them othah folks… haw-shoot."

Ernie scratched his fuzzy chin and cheeks before he broke out in a slow nod. "Yeah. I know. Biggest stroke of luck in my life. Even bigger than meeting you, eh?" he said and nudged an elbow into Wynne's side. "But honestly, the people in the Young Crusaders that Bernadine is in charge of are completely different. Remember how open-minded and… well, alive… they were when they came to Goldsboro for the pool tournament?"

"Haw, yuh… I sure do 'membah 'em gettin' drunk off their asses, awright!  We hadda drag 'em up ta Missus Peaboddah's boardin' house one at a tih-me 'cos they wus so drunk… an' there wus a whole stinkin' pool team of'em!  It took us forevah…"

"Yeah," Ernie said with a grin. "I guess the top brass of all organizations, not just the religious ones, are so set in their ways they just turn to stone. Ya know?"

"Yuh. Yuh, I do. Anyhows… I reckon it be tih-me fer me ta hit that there road hoah-me. I heah a beah callin' mah name… naw, it be screamin' mah name!  An' whodahell am I ta argue with a beah?"

They smiled at each other for a few moments before Wynne wrapped her arms around her rotund friend and pulled him into a back-slapping hug. "Lawrdie, Ernie, keep lovin' that darlin' wih-fe o' yers, ya heah?  Y'all bein' so fih-ne tagethah it's a dang-blasted ple-shure ta watch."

"I will… we will," Ernie said and reciprocated the back-slapping.

"Much obliged. Whoa, buddeh, y'all ain't easeh ta get close ta!  That there beah gut o' yers sure does prevent a gal from giving ya a propah hug, dontchaknow…"

Ernie took a small step back and broke out in a cheeky grin. "Yeah?  It never stopped my wife!"

"Awwww-hell, we ain't goin' there, Ernie!  Nuh-uh," Wynne said as she shook her head hard and clapped her hands onto her cheeks in a comical fashion. "Lissen, I bettah get outta he' befo' them po-faced folks return an' mo' shit gonn' hit da fan. Y'all gotta promise ta keep me posted. Yuh?"

"Of course. I'll call you tomorrow night after Daytona."

"I be lookin' forward ta hearin' ya moanin' 'bout that there all-Chevrolet top ten, yessir!" Wynne said and gave her friend a playful slap across his belly.

"Ha!  That'll be the day!"

"Yuh, an' that there day gonn' be tomorra, dontchaknow!  But anyhows, Bernadeeh-ne be bizzeh with her mothah so… tell 'er I done said bah-bah, yuh?  Catch ya latah, buddeh!"

"Bye, Wynne, ya ol' rascal!" Ernie said and offered his friend a wave and a wide grin. "Get home safely… and don't scratch my truck, you hear?"

Wynne shot her friend a dark glare that she was unable to hold for long. Letting out a long string of chuckles, she walked along the endless corridor to reach the elevator and begin the long voyage to her own world back in the trailer park.

---

Downstairs in the lobby, Wynne had only just set foot on the smooth floor before she needed to take an urgent step to the side to avoid being bowled over by a well-dressed woman who hurried toward the elevator. "Whoa!  Whaddindahell's goin' on with all them speed freaks around he'?!  Y'all need-a watch where ya goin', pardner!  This he' bein' a hospahtal, ain't no supahspeedway!" she said and clamped her hand onto her beloved cowboy hat to make sure it stayed on her locks.

When the other woman missed the elevator by a matter of one second and six inches, she turned around to deliver an evil glare at the person who had prevented her from reaching it in time. Her expression changed from anger to surprise and then to bitter resentment as she took in the sight of the tall, denim-clad woman. "You!" she said in a hoarse voice.

"Whah, if it ain't wotsherface!  Haw… Tif'neh!" Wynne said and slapped her thigh in a mock display of joyful recognition. "Lawrdie, Ah nevah figgered Ah be seein' y'all ag'in. The folks ya meet 'round these he' parts, yuh?  Ah be gobsmacked an' that don't happen offen, lemme tell ya. So, how's that there mis-shun-areh bizz goin'?  Con-vuhr-ted anyone ta the Virgin Towah lateleh?  Naw?  Didden Ah read somewheah that all y'all had some kinda daileh quotah y'all needed-a fill out or som'tin-"

"I'm not talking to you!" Tiffany Worth said through clenched teeth. The eyes of the outreaching missionary from the Virgin Tower religious organization shot fire that should have incinerated Wynne on the spot, but didn't - however, it wasn't for a lack of trying.

"Ya ain't?  I reckon somebodda iz talkin' ta me… mebbe I be hearin' things. Woudden be the first tih-me," Wynne said as she stuck an entire pinkie into her right auditory canal to dig out a few nuggets. The incident with the loud radio on her way to Cavanaugh Creek meant her excavation yielded nothing, so she slipped her hands into her rear pockets instead. "Aw, lookie there… them elevatah doahs be openin' fer ya. Bah-bah, Tif'neh."

As soon as the doors had moved to their outer stops, Tiffany spun around and stormed into the elevator car. On her way there, she used her elbows to shove aside a hospital porter who exited at the same time pushing an elderly gentleman's wheelchair.

"Have a real nih-ce day, there!" Wynne said and waved her cowboy hat. Once the elevator doors had closed, she chuckled and continued out to Ernie's custom Ford F350.

---

"Aw, I bettah kick some lih-fe back inta that there phoah-ne befo' I be headin' hoah-me," Wynne mumbled as she climbed behind the steering wheel. The telephone was soon found and turned on. "Wa-hey!  Mah sweet, li'l Mandeh fih-nalleh done called me!" she said out loud as she pressed on the right spot on the display to return the call.

A few moments went by before the sheriff's voice came on to say: 'Hi, hon!'

A big grin spread over Wynne's features; she closed her eyes and leaned back on the plush upholstery to make herself comfortable. "Howdy, darlin'!  Lawwwr-die, y'all been bizzeh!  I been tryin' ta call ya the whole, dang day an' all!"

'I'm sorry. The telephone's battery had gone flat and it took forever to get it to recharge.'

"Ugh, hate it when dat happens, yessir. Anyhows, hearin' ya voice be like findin' a can o' cole beah in that there hawt an' drah desuhrt… real nih-ce an' all!"

'Glad to hear it. How is the Reverend and Mr. Bradberry?'

"Aw, they be fih-ne. Bernadeeh-ne done showed me their d- uh… their newborn. Lemme tell ya, Sheriff Mandeh… that wus one helluva experience. Yuh."

'Don't tell me you're feeling clucky!' - Mandy let out one of her rare laughs at the other end of the connection.

"Naw, 'course not. But seein' that there tineh, li'l kid sure wus spe-shul. How 'r things up in  Goldsborah?"

'Calm for now. We're going through piles of paperwork. With a little luck, I can actually make it home tonight.'

"Lawrdie, I sure as stink-on-shoot hope so. 'Cos, dang, spendin' them nights alone jus' ain't fuh-n no mo'. Not aftah bein' tagethah fer so long. Tell ya what, there, Sheriff Mandeh… wouldya mind if I swung bah Goldsborah ta pay all y'all a li'l visit?  I promise I ain't gonn' be bringin' no shitteh luck or nuttin'-"

'Have you eaten yet tonight?  Where are you, exactly?'

"Naw, I ain't eaten a crumb all aftahnoon, dang'it. An' I still be at that there parkin' lot bah the Communiteh General down yondah in Cavva-naw Creek. Whah?"

'Oh, I was thinking that if you came by, we could perhaps buy a new round of mystery boxes from Chicky Kingz… provided that Mr. McConnell wants to have anything to do with us.'

"Sold!  Y'all got yerself a deal there, darlin'!" Wynne said with a grin - after a few seconds, her mind had parsed the rest of the sentence. "Uh… whah shoudden he?  What done happened that I ain't aware of?"

'Their Nissan was vandalized by one of the three gentlemen we arrested in the desert.'

"Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die!  No wandah ol' Nelse be havin' his undahshorts in a wad!  Haw!  Lemme tawk ta him once I get back… I be sure he ain't gonn' be so pisseh with me an' all," Wynne said as she turned the ignition key. Once the engine had come to life, she selected drive and began to roll toward the exit. "Okeh… I be on mah way, Sheriff Mandeh. I reckon that there rush hou'ah jus' gonn' be nuts he' in Cavva-naw Creek, so… hmmm… yuh. But anyhows, I'mma-gonn' be in Goldsborah befo' y'all know it!  See ya then, darlin'!  Luv ya!  Mmmmua!"

'Love you right back, hon. Please don't race too hard to get here. It doesn't matter if it takes you ten minutes more to get back.'

"I heah ya. I deffa-nete-leh prefuhr ta have fou'ah wheels undah me than angel wings on mah back, yessirree. Anyhows, this he' be the one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off!  I be ten-ten on the sih-de, northbound an' headin' fer hoah-me. I be off, bah-bah!" she said with a grin before she closed the connection, grabbed Ernie's spare sunglasses and turned on the radio to get the latest traffic report.

The reception of the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack station was poor, so Wynne tried clicking the row of pre-set buttons to find another station. The Voice Of Cavanaugh Creek came in crystal clear so she stayed with it.

The split second the host of the afternoon Driving Home Show - presented by the Quint Corp. Oils & Lubricants; Quint Equals Quality as their jingle said - threw to the roving reporter who sat in a helicopter somewhere above one of the big city's vehicular arteries, the difference in volume was so great that Wynne jerked a foot off the plush upholstery all over again and came within a few inches of sideswiping a Mercedes-Benz SUV in her befuddlement.

"Lawwwwwwwwwwwwr-die!  Whaddindahell's wrong with dat dere dang-blasted ray-dee-ohhh?!  Aw, fer cryin' out loud!" she roared as she scrambled to press the right key on the advanced infotainment system to preserve the tiny amount of hearing she had left after the second airborne assault by the sneaky circuitry.

She continued to growl - and her ears continued to ring - even as she turned onto the wide avenue to begin the long slog to get out of Cavanaugh Creek and onto the State Route. Soon, the F350 was surrounded on all sides by tin cans of various shapes, sizes and colors.

The first thing that happened was that a customized Chevrolet pickup from the 1960s drove up next to her. Wynne smiled and gave the two men in it a big thumbs-up to show her appreciation of the red-and-silver paint job and the chrome wheels, but the hand gestures she got in return made the smile melt clean off her face. "Whah, the nurh-ve o' these he' big-citeh folks…" she mumbled until she remembered that she was in fact driving a vehicle that had a blue oval emblem on the grille rather than the bronze-colored bow tie. "Yuh, okeh… mah bad. At least I be wearin' them sunglasses so nobodda can pick me out in a lih-ne-up," she said as she peeked at herself in the rear-view mirror.

---

The worst of the jams soon eased to allow her to up her tempo. Her first stop would be the trailer park where she would pick up Goldie and swap over to her own truck; after that, she would drive to Goldsboro and hook up with the other half of her soul.

The smile that spread over her face at the mere thought proved she couldn't wait to meet, greet, hug and hold Mandy Jalinski - not to mention kiss her silly at the first given opportunity.

*
*
EPILOGUE

Sunday, February 20th - late in the evening in the trailer park.

Wynne blew a long, slow raspberry as she reached for the remote to turn off the TV. Once the screen had turned black, she fell against the backrest of her couch and slapped a hand across her eyes.

The curtains were drawn and only a single lamp had been turned on to get the full effect of the noisy, colorful spectacle that had been broadcast from Daytona beach, Florida. The living area of the trailer was in reality too dark now the TV was off, but Wynne couldn't be bothered to get up from the couch and turn on a few more lights.

Pile of empty beer cans littered the couch, the low table and even parts of the floor - mostly Double Zeros, but there were a few 1910 Special Brews and Dark Lagers as well. The disposable plastic cutlery and paper plates that had been used for the potato salad, the grilled frankfurters and Ernie's hot sauce had been pushed aside so Wynne could sit with her long legs up on the table.

Blackie and Goldie shared their regular doggy-basket down on the floor in front of the noise-making box. They seemed pleased with the darkness and the silence, and used the moment of peace to snuggle up a little closer. Like their owners, they had been treated to a grand feast consisting of cool water, jerky, frankfurters and even chicken bones from the day before.

Two seconds later, Mandy peeked into the living area alerted by the sudden lack of sound from the TV for the first time in four and a half hours. She chuckled as she took in Wynne's dejected posture. Though she had been in the middle of something in the kitchenette, she strode over to the nearest light switch and clicked it on before she made herself comfortable next to her partner.

The grueling forty-eight hour shift she and the deputies had been forced to endure had made her decree that the sheriff's office would only have a limited crew on hand for the entirety of Sunday - she, Barry Simms and Beatrice Reilly would have the day off while Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez, the retired Bessie Robinson and the subbing Don Woodward from Jarrod City would be present to deal with all the daily niggles that could crop up at a moment's notice.

To keep with the casual, day-off theme, Mandy wore open-toed bathing slippers and a loose-fitting sweatsuit that sported the logo of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department. She leaned in toward Wynne and began to rub the long, denim-clad thigh. "I guess it's over. Who won?" she said quietly.

"Aw, one o' them peskeh Foh-rds," Wynne said and leaned forward. "A Toyo-turh done finished second. An' then a Foh-rd, a Foh-rd, anothah Foh-rd, anothah Foh-rd… an' yet anothah dog-gone Foh-rd an' so on an' so forth until tenth dang-blasted place an' da first o' mah Chevrolets… dang'it."

"Oh… I guess that's bad?"

"Well, it sure ain't good, darlin'… okeh, I done seen worse at Daytoh-nah, but… haw. Whutevah. There's always next week, yuh?"

Wynne broke out in a one-shouldered shrug before she reached around Mandy to pull her closer. Once the distance had been reduced to nothing much at all, she leaned in to nibble at the tender skin on the side of Mandy's neck. "Now this he' bizz, on the othah hand, be perdy dog-gone good. Yes, Ma'am," she husked before she really got going with the special skill of applying tongue to skin.

Ten seconds later, a telephone rang - the ringtone proved it was Wynne's rather than Mandy's official phone.

"Awwwww-sombitch!" Wynne growled as she tried to reach the noisy thing without breaking off the sweet contact. The two actions were diametrical opposites of each other so something had to give. The lure of the warm skin far outweighed the need to check the impersonal telephone, so she let it ring to its heart's delight.

After a few failed attempts, the caller gave up and it fell silent again. Another thirty seconds on from that, an incoming text message was announced with a cheery Pling-Plong!

"You better see what it is, hon… it might be important," Mandy whispered. She had kept her hand running up and down Wynne's thigh throughout the small event, but she stopped her movement to allow the warmth of her palm to seep through the denim.

Sighing, Wynne broke off the nibbling-session to check the text message. "It be ol' Ernie… ya want me ta read out loud whut he done wrote?"

"Sure."

"Okeh… Hiya Wynne, ya ol' rascal!  How 'bout them Foh-rds?  Didden ya say som'tin 'bout an all-Chev top ten?  Mebbe ya meant a revurhse top ten?" Wynne said before she let out an impressive snort. After selecting Reply To Message, her fingers moved across the tiny on-screen keyboard to compose the answer: "Yuh, yuh, yuh… at least it wussen one o' them Toyo-tuhrs!  An' now y'all need-a 'scuse me 'cos I be havin' a post-race parteh on mah own, yessir."

After tapping on Send, she kept the phone close but Mandy even closer. A scant minute later, a new text message came through with a loud Pling-Plong!  "Aw, sheesh…" she mumbled as she took it. "Don't do nuttin' I woudden do!  Buy y'all a beah next tih-me we hook up. C-U-A-O, Ernie," she said in her regular voice.

Wynne chuckled and put the telephone away for good. "Don't do nuttin' he woudden do… haw, that be rich considerin' what he an' the darlin' Rev'rend Bernadeeh-ne done while they wus he'. Lawrdie, 'member when-"

"Isn't it time we stopped talking?" Mandy said with a wink.

Down on the floor, Blackie and Goldie let out a few sounds that almost sounded like snickers. After sharing a knowing doggy-look, they vacated the living area so their owners would have some privacy.

Wynne nodded and grinned. Then she grinned a little broader. Then she reached around the compact, athletic frame of her sweetheart and dove head-first into the opening movement of the ancient symphony…

*
*
THE END.

Bard's Page

Back to the Academy