*
*
CHAPTER 4

The first part of the lunch break had been greatly rewarding for Mandy. The food had been good and the company even better, but a bitter dessert awaited her across the street from Moira's Bar & Grill. After saying goodbye to Wynne the proper way - with a kiss - she had left the restaurant to get back to work.

Her first stop was the jailhouse where she needed to speak to the young man inside Holding Cell One. Coming to a halt in front of the locked glass door, she pressed the small button on the doorjamb that activated the microphone and the CCTV camera installed directly above it. "Sheriff Jalinski to see the prisoner," she said before she let go of the button. She made sure to look up so the CCTV camera would catch a full image of her face and the sidewalk around her.

As the video image was fed onto the black-and-white monitor that had been installed on the jailhouse's sole desk, the deputy on duty would study it closely to gauge whether or not the law enforcement officer was alone or if he or she had been forced to ask for access under duress.

That such an incident had only ever happened once in the 143 years since Goldsboro had been founded - namely in the year 1909 following a botched bank robbery - gave everything a touch of overkill, but the core concept of protecting the law enforcement officers hadn't changed since the wild days of the Old West so the procedure would undoubtedly stay in the rules and regulations until the day where time ran out.

The door was buzzed open before long. Stepping inside, Mandy made sure to close and lock the door before she strode over to the desk and Beatrice 'Quick Draw' Reilly.

Beatrice quickly put away the compendium she had been reading - she had written it herself, and it contained the step-by-step guide that would form the curriculum for the self-defense classes she hoped to establish over the course of the year.

"Sheriff," she said as she got up from the swivel-chair. "Mr. Jensen has behaved himself remarkably well. He's only left the bunk for toilet breaks."

"Very well."

"What in the world went on outside?  I can't recall ever seeing an AirMedic helicopter land in Goldsboro before."

Mandy let out a dark grunt as she moved around the desk to take a look at the black-and-white monitor. Just like Beatrice had described, Lukas was flat on his back on the bunk. His legs were crossed at the ankles and he had his hands behind his head almost as if the situation was old-home week for him. "Miss Donohue said much the same," she said as she took off her Mountie hat. "The patient was Lukas' brother Torsten."

"Oh… all right. The Jensens haven't had the best of days."

Falling silent, Mandy reached for the keys to the holding cell. "No, and it gets worse. It seems Torsten took a drug, a pill, supplied to him by his older and supposedly wiser brother. He almost overdosed."

Beatrice shook her head. "Some family."

"Mr. and Mrs. Jensen work hard to keep the boys on the straight and narrow, Deputy. You know as well as I do that teens and early twenty-somethings are notoriously pigheaded," Mandy said on her way over to the locked door.

"That's very true, Sheriff. I didn't mean to imply they were bad parents."

Though Mandy inserted the key in the lock, she didn't yet twist it. She let out another grunt. "I spoke to Carole Jensen. The news tore her to shreds. I've yet to hear from the boys' father Matthew. The company he works for was told to relay the message at once, but perhaps they didn't see the importance."

"Do you want me to call them again while you speak to the prisoner?  Perhaps I could light a fire under their rear ends," Beatrice said and moved back to the desk.

"That's a good idea, Deputy. Hanson's Meat Processing and Packing Company."

Beatrice reached for the telephone directory at once. "I'll get on it straight away, Sheriff."

After stepping inside the holding cell, Mandy closed the thick door behind her. She and Lukas Jensen shared a long look before the prisoner swung his legs over the edge of the bunk bed to be ready for the questioning.

A somber silence filled the sparsely furnished holding cell. In addition to the uncomfortable bunk bed, the square room only saw a toilet bowl and a minute wash basin - both items were made of form-pressed aluminum rather than porcelain so they couldn't be smashed and used as weapons. The bar of soap on the wash basin was dry and untouched, proving that Lukas Jensen didn't see the need for washing his hands after relieving himself.

Hardly any lewd graffiti or messages had been scribbled on the walls that were made of white-washed bricks. That had been very different in the old days where Arthur 'Artie' Rains had ruled the roost, but Mandy's far stricter policy of emptying the pockets of the prisoners before they were sent inside had paid off handsomely - it had also been a boon with regards to their tight maintenance budget.

"Did you hear that commotion just now, Lukas?" Mandy said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yeah. So?"

"That was your brother being taken to hospital in an AirMedic helicopter. The pill he took nearly caused him to overdose. Had he in fact taken both, he would have died. And you gave him those pills."

Lukas's face showed none of the expected rush of emotions as he looked at Mandy. A deafening silence spread in the holding cell during the moments where the two people maintained eye contact. Then Lukas shrugged and swung his legs back up onto the bunk bed so he could lie down all over again. Another few seconds went by before he said: "I popped two of those pills. All they gave me was an awesome time, man."

"You're also eighty pounds fatter than he is," Mandy said in a sharp tone. "Aren't you at all concerned about your brother's well-being?"

Lukas shrugged.

"What are those pills?  What are they made of?  Where did you buy them?"

"What's up with all those questions, man?  I don't know shit about them. I just bought them from some guy up in Parson Flats, okay?  I bought twenty pills and they were awesome, man. They're all gone now. Tor and me shared the last four."

Mandy forced herself to keep her arms crossed over her chest - if she let up, chances were she would pull a page from Artie Rains' book and smack the prisoner upside his head. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Yeah. I don't know why the hell I'm even talking to you, man."

Grunting at the statement, Mandy moved back to the thick door. "Well, you and your appointed attorney will be talking to Judge Etherington soon enough. In addition to prowling and vagrancy, you'll be charged with possession and distribution of class-A drugs, not just marihuana."

When the news garnered no response from the pudgy youngling on the bunk bed, Mandy had to chew hard on her lips to stop herself from blowing her top. An idea came to her at the last second before she would have yanked the door open: "Add the four acts of vandalism to that list, and we're talking a lengthy prison term, Lukas."

A few seconds went by before Lukas finally showed some emotion. Propping himself up on an elbow, he shot Mandy a somewhat unhinged look. "Those trucks attacked me, man!  I was tripping and they attacked me!  But I got back at them, man!  I wounded one of them and carved the other one up but good!" he said in a slightly bizarre tone.

"And the rear windows at the boarding house?"

Lukas let out a mumbled "Whatever," before he fell back onto the bunk and stared at the ceiling. "I had the munchies. I just wanted to get some chow, man. The old bitch got there sooner than I thought. So I ran."

Nodding at the slight success, Mandy left the holding cell and locked the door behind her. She moved over to the desk to hang the keys on the designated hook. "Did you catch the prisoner's comments concerning the vandalism, Deputy Reilly?"

"Yes, Sheriff. And we have it in stereo," Beatrice said, pointing at the monitor that was hooked up to a solid-state-disk recorder that in turn was connected to the 4K ultra-HD CCTV cameras inside the two holding cells - the entire setup had been donated and installed by Brenda and Vaughn Travers who had been shocked at the rudimentary state of the Sheriff Department's technical equipment following the case involving Torsten Jensen's A.I.-generated prank calls the previous summer.

"Excellent. Were you able to get in touch with Matthew Jensen's employer?"

"Yes," Beatrice said, looking at the notes she had jotted down after the telephone call. "I spoke to one of their shift foremen, but he stonewalled me. I take it they won't allow their assembly-line meat packers to leave their posts outside the regular breaks."

"Mmmm. We'll see about that," Mandy said on her way over to the door. "Thank you for trying. I'll be in the office."

"Yes, Ma'am," Beatrice said, once more making herself comfortable on the swivel-chair. Once she had retrieved her compendium from the desk drawer, she opened it to the page she had been reading when the Sheriff had shown up.

-*-*-*-

Across the street at Moira's Bar & Grill, a downbeat Wynne took a slow sip of an H.E. Fenwyck Dark Lager. The Double-Zero non-alcoholic beers she'd had for their hot lunch had been too lightweight for the gloomy mood that had swept over her after the affair with Tor, so she had allowed herself to take a regular beer for a change - but only one. Most unusually, she sat close to the pool table without actually participating in the game in progress.

Roscoe Finch, one of the junior members of the Goldsboro Pool Association, walked around the pool table chalking his personal cue. To impress the young lady he was on a mid-day date with, he pretended to be a true master of the noble game. Unfortunately, his I'm So Cool & In Complete Control-act hadn't spilled over into his playing as his latest setup had been a flop. All it had succeeded in doing was to create a bad table for him, and his date hadn't even seemed all that impressed.

Even if Roscoe's pool skills still left something to be desired, he had certainly dressed for the occasion: Cowboy boots, straight-cut deep-blue jeans, a spit-polished belt buckle, a white cotton shirt and a leather bolo tie all worked together perfectly to present an elegant ensemble. Upstairs, he had emptied most of a tube of gel into his mousy-brown hair to make it sit like a shiny helmet on his head.

His date, an early-twenty-something woman from Jarrod City, wore ballet flats, denim Capris and a black-and-red flowery top that had a surprisingly modest neckline. It seemed she had wanted to compensate for the subdued nature of her garments by using an entire can of volume on her hair - her ash-blonde locks had been pouffed out to a width and breadth not seen since the glory days of the mid-1980s.

Goldie rested at Wynne's booted feet for a change. With Blackie working over in the sheriff's office, the doggy-cave underneath the pool table didn't hold much interest for her. Now and then, she took a sip of her water bowl or gnawed a little on the stick of beef jerky that A.J. 'Slow' Lane had given her free-of-charge.

"Hiya, Wynne!" a male voice suddenly said somewhere behind the Last Original Cowpoke's shoulder.

Wynne let out a "Haw?  Who that there tawkin'?" as she turned around. She broke out in a grin when she clapped eyes on the former Deputy Sheriff Barry Simms. "Whah, if it ain't ol' Barry!  Howdy, pardnah!  Pull out a chair an' slap yer cheeks onnit."

Barry did just that. Now that he was no longer required to follow the uniform dress code, he had gone for a classic combo of tan cargo pants, a crimson flannel shirt and a neutral windbreaker in a shade of gray not unlike Wynne's car-coat-like jacket. He wore a baseball cap at first, but he took it off to reveal his wet-combed hair.

What he couldn't change, however, was his waxen complexion, the amber-tainted fingers and the yellowish eyes that all stemmed from his heavy smoking habit. Exactly on cue, he reached into his shirt's breast pocket to find a book of matches and his nineteenth home-rolled cigarette of the day.

To be able to cope with the financial strains of smoking sixty or more cigarettes a day, he bought waste tobacco directly from the factories on a wholesale basis. A haulage contractor had a steady, and somewhat undesirable, job of delivering multiple 100-pound bales to Barry's second-floor apartment further up Main Street each and every week.

The only downside to buying waste tobacco was that the third-fourth-fifth-rate products had a distinctly gruesome smell - the clouds of toxic fumes he let into the local environment whenever he lit up could be used as teargas or even pepper spray in case the Sheriff's Department ever ran out of those tools for crowd-control.

"How'dahell y'all been?  I ain't seen ya 'round these past cuppel-a days… or mebbe it been a week alreddy?" Wynne said, reaching across the table to shake hands with her long-term pal. Once that had been accomplished - and she had wiped the ash off her palm - she cast a wary glance at the first Cloud Of Stinky Doom that was already on its way up toward the ceiling of the Bar & Grill.

"It's actually been a full week," Barry said before he took another deep puff of the cigarette. "Me and Aunt Mildred went to Vegas to see the sights. We obviously didn't stay at one of the five-star resorts… or even at a three-star resort… but it was okay, actually. Kinda old-fashioned. Sorta like what you'd see in an old movie from the 'sixties. And I was the only one there under fifty-five."

"So there wussen no bathin' bunnies frolickin' at tha swimmin' pool, eh?" Wynne said, once more reaching across the table to swat at Barry's arm.

Barry let out a chuckle that released another fat cloud of smoke. "Oh, sure there were… but they were all my Aunt's age."

"Ooooo-keh. So… Vegas… didya win anythin'?"

"I didn't win a dime, but Aunt Mildred scored thirty bucks on the slot machines," Barry said with a grin. After taking the final puff of the cigarette, he reached into his shirt pocket to get the next one that he lit with the dying embers of the old one. Soon, yet another Cloud Of Stinky Doom went skyward.

He broke out in a shrug as he stubbed out the spent butt in a saucer that doubled for an ashtray. "I had to do something to get back on her good side. There's always been a cop or Deputy Sheriff in her family, so she doesn't approve of my career choice."

Wynne took a long sip of the Dark Lager that turned out to be the final one. She let out a discrete burp before she put the empty can on the table next to the ever-present reed basket and Barry's ashtray-saucer. "Haw… figgahs. Don't it count that y'all still gonn' be ovah at tha office an' all?  I mean, y'all still gonn' be answerin' tha phoah-ne an' all them things, aintcha?"

"Yeah… update the incident report sheets and stay in radio contact with the Sheriff and the guys. None of that counts. The only thing that matters to Aunt Mildred is that I won't be wearing a uniform."

"When ya reckon y'all be comin' back?"

Another deep puff was needed before Barry could answer: "I don't know yet. My case got caught up in some kind of political mess… and you know how those politicians are."

"Lawrdie, don't I evah… ugh."

Wynne let out a dark grunt that seemed to be responded to in kind from the pool table - there, Roscoe Finch had sent a ball over the boundary and onto the floor while attempting a trick shot meant to impress his increasingly unimpressed date. After producing an impressive Clonkkkkkk! as it hit the floor, the ball kept rolling along the carpet until its progress was stopped by the a leg of one of the tables. Grunting and grumbling, Roscoe picked it up and slammed it back on the pool table so he could try again.

Barry's next cigarette soon went the way of the dodo bird, but - most unusually - he didn't light up a new one at once. Instead, he pushed his chair back. "I think I want a beer. Can I get you a refill, Wynne?" he said, pointing at the empty can.

"Much obliged fer tha offah, son, but I be sittin' this round out."

While Barry went over to the refrigerators to get a can of H.E. Fenwyck's finest, one of the people renting a room in Wynne's Bed & Breakfast next door entered the restaurant seemingly on a mission.

The mid-fifty-something woman - who wore soft-tread sports shoes, blue-jeans and a black vest over a long-sleeved, crimson T-shirt - clutched a piece of paper that she had crumpled up as if it had made her upset. When she spotted Wynne, she made a beeline for the table.

"Miss Donohue, I am forced to file a serious complaint!" the woman said, slamming the piece of paper onto the tablecloth with such force the empty beer can tipped over, and the salt and pepper shakers in the reed basket performed a small dance.

A split second later, Goldie let out a barrage of whimpers as she took off at doggy-world-record pace. In no time flat, the scaredy-dog stormed into the comfy cave underneath the pool table where she promptly wadded herself up into a golden furball.

Wynne stared at the irate woman who - despite a petite frame - seemed to tower over the table. Everything had been hunky-dory when the bespectacled, short-haired woman, Gwendoline 'Gwen' Gilmore from Wilkerson, Utah, had been by the previous day to pick up the keycard for the room she had rented while in town for the large dog show, but something had obviously changed since then. "Haw… a serious complaint?  Shoot, I sure ain't be likin' tha sound o' that… okeh… is yer toilet backed up or som'tin?  We been havin'-"

"That we could have dealt with!  This was shoved under my door not ten minutes ago… read it and you'll understand what I'm talking about!" Gwen said, repeatedly tapping a finger against the piece of paper.

Wynne picked up the offending item at once. "Lemme see… mmmm…. mmmm… whaddahell?!  This he' be a dang-blasted fly'ah from that there Virgin Towah organiza-shun!"

"Exactly!  They're still there right now, handing out more of their crap!"

"Whaddindahell… howdahell did them folks get past tha access panels at them doors?"

"I don't know and I don't care!" Gwen said and smacked her hands onto her hips. "All I know is that my wife is up in our room, crying!  And packing our suitcases!  We've both been through enough religious crapola back home… we sure as hell don't need it on our vacation!"

By now, a mask of sublime annoyance had fallen over Wynne's face. Her chair was shoved back as she got to her feet; then, she stomped across the floor with the same kind of undeniable presence she had possessed when she had worn the Texas Ranger badge at the large Western Parade - and in her strange dream - the previous December.

Barry Simms chose that exact moment to return from the refrigerators holding two different cans of H.E. Fenwyck beer. "Say, Wynne, you know I'm not the world's biggest beer drinker… do you think I'd like the Nineteen-Ten Special Brew or the Dark Lager best?  Oh… you look angry. Where's the fire?"

"No fi'ah yet… but there gonn' be plentah o' hellfi'ah in a li'l while, Barry," Wynne said without slowing down - she and Gwen were soon at the front door. "Mebbe y'all oughttah head ovah ta them de-per-ties an' Sheriff Mandy an' report a murdah ovah in tha B an' B. Or a buncha murdahs, ain't no tellin' yet."

The slamming of the front door left Barry in a slack-jawed stupor that lasted for several seconds before he put down the beers and hurried out of the Bar & Grill to get over to his old brothers-and-sisters-in-arms.

-*-*-*-

Main Street was still fairly quiet save for the ubiquitous rumbling trucks and farm tractors hauling oversized loads of hay. A Lycra-clad Keshawn Williams came whizzing past on his super-lightweight, high-tech racing bicycle after he had completed his regular mid-day 10-mile exercise run. The racing bike was so nimble and the rider so accomplished that he made the farm tractor look as if it was standing still when he overtook it.

Someone who appeared to have lost their spectacles at some point had parked their truck halfway up onto the sidewalk directly in front of Derrike Iverson's notorious dive on the east side of Main Street. When the person responsible for the unusual parking stumbled out of the truck and zig-zagged across the rest of the sidewalk to get to the bar's entrance, it soon became evident that the woman in question was in fact suffering from a bad case of alcohol-induced double-vision rather than forgotten spectacles.

Further up toward the northern end of Goldsboro, Kenny Tobin and Ritchie Lee returned from their fried-chicken feast at the Bug Bonanza. The buddies were en route to the Bar & Grill after Kenny had completed his chores for the day performing guided tours of the family-run bug museum. His old truck had a peculiar, flatulating exhaust note that hinted at a hole somewhere along the pipes.

Nancy Tranh Nguyen had set up a makeshift drawing studio on one of the white benches put up by the Town Council who had hoped they would attract tourists to Goldsboro. A wrapped sandwich and a can of iced tea were kept well away from the rest of the items the talented sketch artist had brought to the session: she was surrounded by huge sheets of top-quality paper, several rectangular boxes containing pens, brushes and pieces of charcoal, and finally a camera that she used to snap photos of motifs that would otherwise have disappeared in the blink of an eye - like Keshawn Williams. Nancy's portfolio rested across her lap to be used as an underlay for her latest sketch of the goings-on on Main Street, but she found time to wave at Wynne who stomped along the sidewalk.

The Bed & Breakfast was located in the next building along Main Street from Moira MacKay's establishment, so it didn't take Wynne and Gwen long to cover the distance. The windbreak had been built with the safety of the guests as the first priority. In addition to the panes of reinforced glass used for all the windows, the metal framework at the doorjambs was of a sturdy kind that couldn't simply be kicked out of shape. To add yet another level of security, an electronic access panel had been installed next to the door.

Whenever the guests signed in, they would receive a six-digit code that they needed to enter on the panel simply to unlock the front or rear doors to the Bed & Breakfast. The code could be used as often as the guests in question wanted during their stay, but the moment they signed out, the code was deleted from the system and would no longer allow access. The six digits would provide one million different unique combinations - in short, more than enough even if everyone within a 350-mile radius decided to come to Goldsboro and stay at Bed & Breakfast at the same time.

All this technobabble had gone clear over Wynne's head, so she had enlisted the help of their friendly neighbor from the trailer park, the Computer Science graduate Brenda Travers, who had written the software code free-of-charge. The actual panels, the rest of the hardware and the hidden wiring had all come from a company that Brenda had worked for in the past as a consultant.

"Yuh…" Wynne mumbled to herself as she punched in her master access code. "So whah'dahell didden this he' gizmo work this time?  Dang-blasted…"

Just as the panel responded to her master code by flashing a green LED and unlocking the door, her eye caught a reflection of a familiar-looking vehicle. Turning around, she glared at the minivan parked at the curb next to the windbreak. "Haw, shittt… ain't dat… yuh, it sure is. Tif'ney. Dad-gummit, dat woman be gettin' on mah last nerve an' all…"

"Sounds like this isn't the first time you've been harassed by them," Gwen said as she walked into the small lobby.

"I done ran 'em outtah mah nebbah-hood earliah taday. I reckon some folks jus' won't take a hint. I bettah be speakin' clearly this time so nobodda can claim they didden undahstand none o' whut I done said," Wynne said as she closed the glass door behind them. She remained there for a moment to make sure the locks re-engaged. The flashing of a red LED and four meaty clunks proved they had.

The small lobby was really only the ground floor of the stairwell. A coir mat had been put inside the door to catch the inevitable desert dust that clung to everyone's footwear. A hand-crafted terrazzo mosaic graced every inch of the floor to add some life to the somewhat sterile environment. The white walls and pale-gray foot panels weren't the world's most exciting design features, but they had been chosen for their ability to clean up easily without using too many chemical solutions.

The staircase to the upper floors was made of stone steps that all sported a coarse surface that provided plenty of grip for even the flimsiest of shoes. A twelve-inch-wide, pet-friendly stair carpet had been added to the left-most part of each step after the coarseness had turned out to be painful for all but the toughest of dogs - like Blackie and Freddie. The problem had come to Wynne's attention when she had needed to carry Goldie all the way up to the top floor after the Golden Retriever had flat-out refused to put but a single paw on the coarse steps.

A corridor that went past the staircase ended at the rear entrance. The red LED that shone brightly from the other access panel offered a clue that the rear door was secure as well, but Wynne made a mental note of checking it just to be sure.

A noticeboard had been put up on the wall next to the door. It was Wynne's task to keep it updated, and she often added brightly colored notes that made the residents aware of future maintenance work and important safety factoids like the monthly fire drill. The noticeboard also featured the current menus for the Bar & Grill and the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor as well as advertisements for Goldsboro's stores and tourist attractions like the town museum, the movie theater and the Tobin family's Bug Bonanza.

Wynne was pleased to see the lobby so clean and inviting - the air was fresh with a faint trace of the soapsuds that had been used to wash the floor and steps. She had spent enough nights at two-bit flea-pits in her younger years to know that the little positives all added up, especially given the present, unfortunate circumstances.

"Gwen, I'mma-gonn' check that there back do'ah there. There wussen nuttin' wrong with tha one at tha front, so I still ain't got no clue how them Virgin Towah folks done got in. Okeh?"

"All right. I'll wait here in the meantime," Gwen said and crossed her arms over her chest.

Wynne jogged through the corridor to get to the rear entrance. The door could obviously be opened from the inside by manipulating the handle the regular way - or else it would be a death trap in a fire - so she went outside and shut it behind her. A few seconds later, the red LED flashed followed by four meaty clunks.

"Haw… this he deal sure be gettin' weird. An', Lawrdie, I plum hate weird!" she mumbled to herself as she grabbed the exterior door handle to give it a few solid yanks. The door remained locked no matter how much effort she put into using the handle. "Aw-shoot… whaddahell be goin' on he'?" she continued as she punched in her master access code to get back into the lobby.

---

Upstairs on the top floor of the Bed & Breakfast, Wynne and Gwen stepped off the staircase and walked along the corridor to get to the suite the guests had booked for two nights. With Gwen and her wife not being the slightest interested in NASCAR, they had chosen a suite on one of the two floors that were held in subdued, elegant colors as opposed to the themed floor that resembled a paint factory run amok.

Wynne had already opened her mouth to inquire about the suite number when she found herself starring in an unexpected remake of the classic Western High Noon - she came to an abrupt halt as she and Tiffany Worth were suddenly face to face.

A hoarse, venomous "You?!" burst from the Mission Chief's mouth at the sight.

For once, Wynne wasn't in the mood for teasing or yanking anyone's chains. Instead, she slammed her hands onto her denim-clad hips and sent an ice-blue, ice-cold glare at the shorter woman. "I dunno howdahell all y'all got in he', but y'all be trespassin' on private propah-ty. Y'all got ten seconds ta gather up yer folks an' tha rest o' yer shit an' geddahell outta mah buildin'!"

The unmistakable message prompted a deafening silence that not only filled the corridor but seemed to suck all the life out of it. Tiffany's group of missionaries soon arrived to see what on Earth was going on and to back up their Mission Chief - at least on an intellectual, non-physical level.

Standing next to Wynne, Gwen had a hard time wiping a smirk off her face.

The proverbial overture of a Battle Royale soon began playing as the needle on the standoff's pressure gauge continued to climb: the combatant in the denim-blue corner scored big in the categories height, reach and temper while her opponent in the dark-gray, Virginal corner had youth, speed/agility and - above all - the holy fire of the righteous on her attribute card.

"No one person can deny the spreading of the Gospel. Our Heavenly Father is loved by everyone and is welcome everywhere," Tiffany said in a voice that was a little too loud and glorious for the circumstances. "And since we spread the joys of the Gospel to those of little faith, we visit even the worst dens of filth!  We'll leave when we're finished singing the praises of Our Heavenly Father. Not a second sooner!"

A dangerous smile spread over Wynne's lips as she pinned Tiffany to the spot. "Izzat a fact?"

"Yes!  Our Holy Book says we shall travel east, west, north and south to spread the Gospel of-"

"I durn-sure wish all y'all would do that this he' dog-gone minnit!  I jus' about hadda'nuff o' y'all. May I suggest y'all leave these he' premises befo' things gonn' get ugly?  Lawrdie!"

"And there you go again taking Our Heavenly Father's name in vain!  I told you twice already not to do that!"

Tiffany's closing salute made the deafening silence return with a vengeance. Gwen had to rub her chin to stop herself from laughing out loud. Wynne just glared at Tiffany who returned the gesture with venom shooting from her eyes.

Before matters could get out of hand, the sound of a nearby Woof! signaled that Barry Simms had been able to relay Wynne's cryptic message to the Sheriff. Soon, the combatants, the missionaries and the civilian spectator Gwen were joined by a visibly annoyed Mandy Jalinski: although she maintained a neutral expression so it wouldn't appear she was choosing sides, her eyes were lit up, large veins thumped at her temples, and the rest of her face was tinged in a shade of scarlet rarely seen among humans.

Down below, Blackie had her tongue out as she ran alongside her owner. It was obvious from her relaxed body language that she hadn't yet fully understood the nature of the assignment - however, that changed the moment she picked up the thunderous tension that hung in the air. At once, she bared her impressive eye-teeth in a sneer while her ears went down flat onto her head. A guttural growl escaped her just to underscore the fact that she had arrived.

"Back off, everyone," Mandy said, holding up her hands to alert the people involved in the standoff that she wasn't willing to take any kind of nonsense from anyone. "All right, I'm Sheriff Mandy Jalinski from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department. I need to know exactly what's going on here. Ma'am, what's your involvement in this situation?" she continued as she turned to Gwen Gilmore.

Gwen had to hide another smirk at the sight of the compact, athletic female Sheriff - something she had never expected to find out in the boonies. "Well, my wife and I are guests at Miss Donohue's Bed and Breakfast. Not twenty minutes ago, someone slipped this note under our door." The crumpled flyer was quickly held out so Mandy could take it. "We're both survivors of a religious terror regime up in Utah so we do not appreciate being solicited by any such organization!  It badly upset my wife, and… frankly… it pissed me off."

"I see. Thank you, Mrs. Gilmore," Mandy said, nodding at Gwen's statement before she skimmed the flyer.

In itself, it was nothing out of the ordinary for the Virgin Tower as it was a combined announcement and invitation to a large-scale open-air sermon at the Square of Worship in Collinstown where the Tower's headquarters was located.

Unlike most of the established religious organizations, the Virgin Tower owned no churches - instead, they conducted all their services and other ecclesiastical events in the open to be under the constant eye of their great, all-seeing Heavenly Father and his first representative on Earth, the late, Most Esteemed Reverend Friedrich Herrmann who had founded the Virgin Tower in the mid-1890s.

The corners of Tiffany Worth's mouth twitched at not only the profanity but the blatant rejection of all she represented. Her eyes darted back and forth between her opponents before she took a deep breath with the clear intent to speak her mind.

Before the Mission Chief could make it that far, Gwen took over with a scathing: "If you wanna see me puke all over your fancy-ass shoes, just start talking, lady!"

The threat hung in the air for a few seconds before Wynne leaned her head back to let out a braying laugh that echoed all the way up and down the corridor - it also made Blackie pull a wide-eyed doggy-stare at her owner. "Yuh-huh?  Lawwwwwwr-die-"

Tiffany just had time to utter a "Stop taking Our Heaven-" before Wynne cut her off by continuing:

"Undah these he' circumstances, I sure as stink-on-shoot would keep mah trap shut, Tif'ney. But mebbe y'all see it diff'rently, haw?"

Everything that could twitch on Tiffany's face did - and all at the same time, too. Without uttering another syllable, she stomped away from the gathering leaving her flock of missionaries behind in a state of abject confusion. A few seconds later, they all excused themselves and took off after their Mission Chief.

"Young fellah, dontcha be goin' nowhe'ah befo' I done had a wohhhhh-rd witcha," Wynne said, barely stopping the last of the well-dressed men before he could leave with the others. "Howdahell did all y'all get in here?  That there access panel on them doors iz saposed ta keep all folks out who ain't got no bizzness he'."

"Someone came out at the same time we wanted to go in. Out of politeness, he held the door open for us…" the young faithful said in a trembling voice that revealed he wasn't too sure what the infidels would do to him.

The news caused Wynne to let out a dark grunt and suck on her teeth. "Yuh, okeh. Figgahs. Ain't nuttin' evah completely foo'proof, haw?  Awright, y'all can find them friends o' yers now. Scoot."

When the young man took off at a fast jog to catch up with his like-minded associates, Gwen offered him a parting quip: "I hope the door slaps you on the ass, pal!"

Even Mandy had to chuckle at that. The flyer was soon torn into tiny, little squares before the resulting pile of scraps was dumped in one of the waste baskets that lined the corridor. "Well, Mrs. Gilmore, it looks as if the matter was solved without bloodshed."

"Apparently so, but I still have to comfort my wife. That's going to take some doing," Gwen said before she paused to eye her companions. "Say… we're all members of the same exclusive club here, aren't we?"

"Yuh, I reckon," Wynne said with a grin as she pointed at Mandy. "We done spent tha past… uh… haw… uhhhh… buncha years undah one roof an' sharin' one heart. Yuh, sure ain't no lie."

Blackie had already relaxed her offensive stance when Tiffany and the others had left, so she ran around exploring the hallway that she hadn't visited too often. Now and then, she added a Woof-woof! to the conversation to show she was still there.

Grinning, Gwen reached out to shake hands with Mandy and Wynne. "That's quite remarkable. I never expected to find that here in the middle of absolute nowhere. My wife and I were married three years ago now… just a low-key wedding at a registry office 'cos we're anything but church people, but we were together for a decade prior to that. Togetherness is damned awesome, isn't it?"

"Yes, Ma'am!" Wynne said and reached out to add a playful, little slap on Mandy's shoulder. "Say… ta apologize fer tha awful screw-up he', I'mma-gonn' give y'all a full refund an' all. Takin' yer money aftah y'all wus treated like this woudden be propah. On top o' that, I'mma-gonn' throw in free meals fer tha dura-shun o' yer stay. I reckon y'all be goin' ta that there dawggie show out yondah at Thundah Park, yuh?"

"Yeah, with our Spaniel Little Evie. Well, that was our plan, but it depends on whether or not I can convince my wife to stay… I can't say yet," Gwen said with a shrug.

"I hear ya, Gwen. Anyhows, no mattah how all y'all's conversa-shun turns out, swing bah next do'ah an' lemme know whut kinda conclu-shun y'all arrived at. Yuh?"

"All right. I'll do that."

The portable radio on Mandy's belt chose that exact moment to add a little squawking interference - several howls, whines and bursts of unmodulated static soon followed. At no point could any of the three people and one dog present recognize anything vaguely familiar in the patterns.

Grunting in annoyance at the faulty and horribly outdated equipment they were forced to work with, Mandy took the radio off her belt and pressed the transmit key. "Mobile Unit One to Base. Mobile Unit One to Base. Are you trying to get in touch with me, over?"

Static-static-crackle-crackle-static-static.

Mandy let out a sigh before she switched the radio completely off. Five seconds went by before she switched it on again. The howls, whines and random static had only grown stronger, so she switched it off for good. "I better head back to the office for a new unit. In any case, I hope the remainder of your stay will be more pleasurable, Mrs. Gilmore," Mandy said as she put out her hand for the traditional shaking.

"So do I, Sheriff," Gwen said with a grin - the handshake duly followed.

Once Mandy and Blackie had left, Wynne shook hands with Gwen Gilmore as well. "Like I done said, y'all gonn' get a full refund an' free meals. Jus' so y'all got some weighty arguments fer ya wife an' all, yuh?"

"Thanks, Miss Donohue-"

"Haw, mah name's Wynne, yuh?  Wynne Donnah-hew from Shallah Pond, Texas. Ain't no Misses he' or ther' or nowhere, no Ma'am."

A smile spread over Gwen's face at the determination in Wynne's voice. "Deal!  Actually… are you busy right now?  If you aren't, I'd like you to meet my wife Audrey. I'm pretty sure she'll be more likely to make up her mind about leaving or staying if you show up in person. And you need to greet our dog, too. Little Evie loves to get to know new people."

"Haw!  Whah, I ain't got nuttin' ta do right now but chug beers an' watch ol' Roscoe mangle tha bayu-ta-ful game. Yes Ma'am, y'all got yaself a deal!" Wynne said and broke out in a wide grin. "Shoot, I plum fergot which suite y'all done booked, anyhows…"

"It's right over here," Gwen said and led The Last Original Cowpoke a bit further down the hallway to Suite 411.

---

Similar to the main entrances at the front and rear of the Bed & Breakfast, each of the suites had their own access panel as an added layer of protection. Instead of an old-fashioned, typically clumsy set of hotel-style keys that would never fit in any pocket, clutch or even a fanny pack, the keycards needed to unlock the doors were the size of a standard credit card.

A keypad that had been integrated in the access panel next to the card reader could be used to enter a special unlocking code in case the customer lost the card, or had simply forgotten it inside the suite.

That wasn't necessary in this case as Gwen had her card at the ready. After swiping it through the reader to unlock the suite's door, she cracked it open just enough to poke her head inside. She knocked twice on the wooden frame to let her wife know she was back - the knocking caused a dog to let out a series of yaps. "Sweetie?" Gwen said, looking inside. "The fanatics have been kicked out. I have our landlady out here… sweetie?"

'I'm clearing out the bathroom,' a female voice said from somewhere inside the suite. The brief message was spoken in a thick voice.

Gwen let out a short grunt as she moved back to shoot Wynne a glum look. "She's still crying. I don't think we can convince her to stay."

Wynne whipped off her cowboy hat and stuffed it under her arm. "I done learned ages ago that we gotta lissen ta whut ou'ah wives tell us… they nearly always know best, yuh?  But les'see whut gonn' happen when we tawk to 'er."

"I agree. Explaining the details can't hurt," Gwen said and opened the door fully to usher Wynne inside.

Like all the suites on the upper floors - i.e. those that weren't part of Wynne's NASCAR-themed extravaganza - number 411 featured a subdued color palette in the shape of pale-gray walls and ceiling, a wall-to-wall carpet in a darker shade of gray, and finally white panels, doors and window frames.

The single-room suite was dominated by a double bed featuring high-quality, gray-and-white cotton bedwear. A pair of bedside tables and a four-drawer dresser with a make-up mirror on top had been put next to the bed. The opposite side of the room saw a dinner table seating three as well as three multi-purpose metal chairs. Inch-thick cushions made them far more comfortable to sit on than their metal framework suggested.

The far wall was home to a square window that offered a view down upon the backyard of the Bed & Breakfast. A pair of low sideboards had been placed on either side of the window so the B&B staff would have room to water the potted plants that graced the windowsill. The first sideboard carried a small TV equipped with an integrated DVD player, and the other held a fair selection of tumblers, plates and cutlery as well as a book of the house rules, a small directory listing the most important local telephone numbers, and - much to Wynne's grumbled annoyance - a King James Bible.

A kitchenette had been squeezed into the corner not too far from the window, but despite the presence of a coffee machine, a microwave oven, a toaster and two electric cooking rings, it was really only good for making the simplest of foods as the guests were expected to visit the Bar & Grill next door for their meals. For the same reason, the refrigerator built into the kitchen table was only large enough to hold the most basic.

As Wynne stepped inside, she noticed the air-conditioning system had been shut off. Before she could inquire about it, she was met by an enthusiastic high-pitched yapping sonata from the Gilmores' dog, a Cocker Spaniel lady who had the frilly hair and classic, cute-as-a-button features the breed was known for.

It seemed the smallish dog couldn't make up its mind on whether or not to be scared of the tall, denim-clad Human, so it stayed just out of the danger zone with the occasional foray inside the Human's reach.

"Silly dog," Gwen said with a grin. "Wynne, meet Little Evie. We've spoiled her rotten as I'm sure you can tell."

"Yuh-haw?" Wynne said and went down on one knee to be at eye-level with the compact dog. She held out her hand in an invitation for a paw-shake, but Little Evie was still too wary of the company to venture close enough for actual contact - the dog preferred to stay back and discuss the matter in a long series of yaps. "Howdy, pardnah!  I be Wynne Donnah-hew an' I reckon y'all be Li'l Evvie, haw?  Ya sure is lookin' fihhhh-ne an' all."

The dog finally gathered up enough courage to approach the tall Human, but the resulting encounter was brief - after the initial meeting, the Cocker Spaniel hurried over to her doggy-basket that had been set up by the sideboards. Once there, she concentrated on a pair of bowls that contained water and dry feed.

Hastily assembled piles of clothing next to an opened suitcase on the bed made Gwen let out a grunt. Moving over to the bed, she covered her mouth with a hand as she observed the clothes in silence.

Wynne noticed the piles as well, but chose not to make any kind of comment until she had offered her side of the story. The opportunity came a moment later when Audrey Gilmore stepped out of the bathroom holding a small plastic bag and dabbing her glistening eyes on a paper tissue.

Audrey seemed to be a few years older than her wife which would suggest she was in her late-fifties. Her eyes were an attractive shade of pale-brown, and - unlike her short-haired wife - her curly, medium-blonde hairdo reached her shoulders. She wore a white-and-blue jersey sporting the familiar logos of the Salt Lake Bees Triple-A baseball team. Below the jersey, she wore pale-tan cargo pants and black socks in bathing slippers - a pair of ankle boots had been lined up by the bed.

She came to a halt as she took in the sight of The Last Original Cowpoke and the acres of denim that had suddenly made an appearance in the suite. A faint smile spread over her lips as she stepped forward and put out her hand. "Hello, I'm Audrey Gilmore. You're the landlady?  I must admit I expected someone… uh… less… oh, I don't know what I expected. In any case, hello."

"Howdy, Audrey!  I be Wynne Donnah-hew, an' yuh, I sure do own this he' establishment."  Once the regular handshake had been carried out, Wynne clenched her fists and stuck them into her rear pockets.

"You're definitely not from around here!"

"Naw. I done called Shallah Pond, Texas, mah hoah-me fer a buncha years an' all."

Wynne eyed the two women for a brief moment while she tried to nudge her neurons into an orderly line so they would created something worthwhile: "Lissen, Audrey… I sure am sorry that all y'all hadda come inta contact with them Virgin Towah varmints. They be gohh-ne now. We usually don't have 'em pesterin' us like this 'cept fer them majah events like ou'ah town parades an' tha Fourth o' Joo-ly celebra-shuns an' them things. Eastah an' Criss-Mas, too, ob'visly."

Audrey nodded in silence as she moved over to the bed where she put down the small plastic bag that contained typical bathroom items. Still silent, she put the next armful of clothes into the suitcase. Gwen came over to her for a little smooch, but that didn't seem to sway Audrey's opinion.

Wynne chewed a little on her cheek as she took in the silent scene. "Audrey, like I done tole yer wife alreddy, I'mma-gonn' give all y'all a full refund an' free meals fer tha rest o' yer stay."

Audrey and Gwen shared a long look before Audrey sat down on the bed next to the suitcase and let out a sigh. The paper tissue was soon put to use wiping her eyes and her nose for a final time before it was shoved under her thigh. "We appreciate the offer, Wynne, but… oh… I don't know if I want to stay. I honestly don't."

"Wynne," Gwen said, "it's only fair to tell you why we reacted the way we did. My wife and I met each other while we were both disciples in a patriarchal religious community. I won't honor them by saying their name. We fell in love and were suddenly able to see how big a cesspool it really was. Think of the worst you can imagine and multiply that by ten."

"Haw…"

"We had to leave to stay sane, but they wouldn't let us. They tried all they knew to keep us under constant surveillance at the main compound where everyone lived, but we finally managed to escape… under a blanket in the trunk of a car. Yes, really. We had to leave everything behind. We disappeared off the face of the Earth for nearly a year before we dared venture back into society at large. We bought a house in another part of Utah and have lived there ever since."

Audrey nodded somberly as she patted all her pockets for a new paper tissue - Wynne came to her rescue by grabbing a box of tissues from the dinner table and handing it over.

"So you see," Audrey said in a thick voice laced with emotion, "when I saw the piece of paper being shoved under the door, I really thought they had… oh… you know… found us. When I looked through the peephole, my blood froze over. I didn't recognize the faces, but there was no mistaking the types…"

Wynne shook her head slowly - her eyes had gained a dark, fiery sheen that was reflected in her voice: "I hear ya. Them freaks be tha same no mattah where we go. Texas, Yoo-taw or he'. Dang-blasted, Audrey… I done had ev'ry confidence that there security system at them do'ahs woudda been enuff ta keep out varmints, but it obvi'sly wussen. I sure am sorry them a-holes done bothah'd y'all."

Silence fell among the three women until Audrey broke it by blowing the trumpet into the paper tissue - it was soon folded up three times and stuck under her thigh like the other one. "Lately, we've been considering moving out of Utah. Not an hour ago, we talked about how peaceful Goldsboro seemed and that we could actually see ourselves living here, but… well. Oh, I know it's not the town's fault. This could have happened everywhere."

"Yuh, it prolly could, but it done happened in mah Bed an' Breakfast!  An' in mah darlin's town, too, an' that sure gives me tha sour burps, lemme tell y'all. Aw, an' jus' ta weed out any con-few-shun, I ain't married ta tha mayor or nobodda on tha Town Council or nuttin'. Naw, mah darlin' be Sheriff Mandy Jalinski. We ain't legally wed or nuttin', but we been tagethah since… since… fer… fer…"

Holding up her fingers, Wynne tried to count how many years it had actually been since the crazy night when she and Mandy had met for the first time - she ran out of fingers well before she ran out of good memories of the years they had spent in each other's hearts. "Haw, I need mah twinkletoes… nevah mind. It been a whooooooole buncha years now, anyhows. Yuh."

Gwen used the comical moment to lean in and bump shoulders with her wife. They shot each other a loving glance before they exchanged a little kiss that seemed to take at least the top 5% off the tension that had filled the suite until that point. Gwen said: "We needed some fresh air after the long drive, so we had a little stroll through town. There's a house for sale over on… Josiah Street, I believe it's called?"

"Josiah, yuh. That be tha newest part o' Goldsborah," Wynne said and broke out in a nod.

"Noted. Well, the house is in our price range, but…" - Gwen looked at Audrey who broke out in a shrug and a wistful smile - "Well, let's see what's going to happen."

A hopeful smile soon spread over Wynne's features at how the mood had improved by leaps and bounds since she had arrived - however, they still had to clear the final hurdle with regards to leaving prematurely or not. "We got a great mooh-vie theatah he'… the Town Museum be perdy neat as well. Keshawn's Second-Hand Treasures is a fa-bew-luss thrift sto'ah an' then we got all them othah sto'ahs like tha Yarn Spinnahs, mah pal Grant's Beer an' Liquor Imports an' tha Tack an' Saddle. We got a Chicky Kingz takeout parlah an' mah friend Moira's bar an' grill next do'ah. Aw, an' we got one o' tha best vet'renarians in all o' MacLean County as well in Doc Gibbs. Could come in handy when Li'l Evvie needs ta be examined or getta shot o' som'tin."

"But no supermarket or even a convenience store, right?" Audrey said.

"Naw. Naw, we ain't got any o' those. We drive ta Jarrod City fer that there food shoppin'. It be 'bout a forty-minnit drive. I reckon there be too few folks in town fer such sto'ahs ta be prof'table or som'tin."

Gwen and Audrey nodded at Wynne before they looked at each other once more - a non-verbal communication went back and forth between them while they began making up their mind on whether to leave at once or stay in town for the entire weekend like they had originally planned.

Wynne checked the time on her telephone - though she was in no rush as such, she wanted to get back to the Bar & Grill for a round of pool and maybe a Double-Zero or two. "Tell all y'all whut… I done said mah piece so I'mma-gonn' leave the really big deci-shun to y'all. I reckon y'all need some privacy ta do that, so… I be gohhh-ne."

"Thank you for coming, Wynne," Audrey said and got up from the bed. "You're right, we need to discuss what I'm feeling right now." She put out her hand for the traditional handshake - over at the doggy-basket, Little Evie said goodbye in her own way.

"Ya sure is welcome an' all," Wynne said and tipped her cowboy hat at Audrey and Gwen before she plonked it onto her dark locks. She had already reached the door when she turned around to face her guests once more: "Haw, I almost fergot… I wanna give all y'all a brief word o' advice befo' I be leavin'. Y'all might be tempted ta visit Derrike Iverson's Bar across the street, but them patrons an' barflies ovah yondah be some o'… well… they ain't tha nicest dudes on this he' green Earth. Catch mah drift?  A-cuppel-a them folks be downright mean sombitches, ack-chew-ly. Pardon mah French."

"Thanks for the heads-up, Wynne," Gwen said with a dark chuckle as she got up from the bed. "Some things never change."

Audrey nodded in agreement. "Yes, thank you, Wynne. We'll be sure to avoid that place."

Smiling, Wynne reached for the door handle. As she did so, she cast a brief look at the suitcase that Audrey reached into to scoop up and remove an armful of clothes - the major crisis had seemingly been resolved to everyone's benefit.

"Wait!" Gwen suddenly said. "Do you have a business card or something that we could have?"

"Haw?  A bizzness cahhh-rd?  Naw," Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow. "Mercy Sakes, that sure be a great ideah, that. Yuh… I reckon I'mma-gonn' get mahself a-buncha them li'l things printed. Ain't got no cahhh-rd, but lemme jot down nah phoah-ne numbah onna… onna… aw… som'tin… mebbe onna papah tissue…"

Moving over to where Audrey had put the box of tissues, Wynne nabbed one before she dug deep down into her jacket pocket for the pencil stump she always carried on her. The first attempt at writing her name and information on the paper tissue resulted in a wild Rrrrrrrrip!

Wynne looked at it in wide-eyed disbelief before she took another section of the same paper tissue. On the second pass, she had almost made it to the finish line when the pencil's tip tore a five-inch long hole in the super-soft tissue. She scratched her neck - then she scratched it again just to be on the safe side. The tissue was soon crumpled up and thrown into the wastepaper bin. "Yuh, okeh… that wussen whut wus saposed ta happen. Lawrdie… okeh, lemme see…"

"How about using a felt-tip pen?" Gwen said, holding up a black pen that she had already taken the cap off.

"Much obliged, Gwen!" Wynne said before she tried again on a new piece of tissue - this time, there were no trip-ups, foul-ups or indeed tear-ups which meant she could present both items to a grinning Gwen.

Audrey soon returned after putting the armful of clothes back in the dresser next to the bed. "Do you and the Sheriff live in town, Wynne?"

"Naw, we got a trailah a-cuppel-a miles down south. Yuh. A nice, li'l place with a-buncha great nebbahs."

Gwen and Audrey shot each other a brief puzzled look before Gwen said: "Pardon us, but… a bunch of great what?"

"Nebbahs… neigh-bors," Wynne said, twisting her Texan mouth into pronouncing every letter so the out-of-towners could understand her.

"Ohhhhh… of course. Thank you," Audrey said with a grin.

Wynne mirrored the grin as she shuffled over to the door - Little Evie took the opportunity to jump out of her doggy-basket and rejoin the scene with a few yaps and shorter woofs. "Haw, yer sure is welcome an' all. Anyhows, I be ovah at tha bar an' grill shootin' some pool an' mebbe enjoyin' a coo' one. Yuh?  Feel free ta call me day an' night if som'tin real crappy-like pops up, yuh… okeh, I may not answah at night, but y'all know whut I done mean!  Bah-bah fer now," Wynne said, tipping her hat at Gwen and Audrey before leaving the suite.

*
*
CHAPTER 5

At the same time that Wynne met and spoke to Audrey and Gwen, Mandy and Blackie had been on a brief foot patrol of Goldsboro just to make sure there had been no further acts of vandalism. Once they had established that everything was calm and quiet, they returned to the sheriff's office where the sticking glass door was forced open by a hard shove by an athletic shoulder. Mandy had barely put her boots on the cracked linoleum when Blackie zipped into the office heading for her special spot just inside the door.

The German Shepherd went straight for her doggy-basket, the gnawing bone and the bowl of water that had been left behind when Barry Simms had come over to report a potential murder taking place in the Bed & Breakfast - she let out a Woof! of appreciation when she realized that someone had refilled the bowl with fresh water since she had seen it last.

Instead of going over to her own desk, Mandy strode over to the watch desk and dumped the portable radio on it. "The damn thing's broken again. I think it's for good this time," she said, putting her hands on her hips.

Don Woodward, who continued to sit at the watch desk while Rodolfo Gonzalez was on duty next door in the jailhouse, took a semi-interested look at the old unit. "It looks all right… what's wrong with it, Sheriff?"

"It's something internal. I'm guessing it's a component failure of some kind. I couldn't get anything out of it but howls, whines and static," Mandy said, giving the defective radio a little shove with an index finger as if it would help. "Have you tried to get in touch with me over the past fifteen minutes?"

"I haven't, Sheriff. It's been quiet."

"Mmmm. Well, someone did. Maybe it was the Senior Deputy."

Don nodded before he picked up the faulty radio unit to take a closer look. Turning it around a couple of times, he let out a brief chuckle when it became obvious that something rattled around inside the plastic casing. "I'm amazed it held together for this long… what, is it from the nineteen-eighties?"

"Probably. No idea. And I don't really care."

Don nodded again as he cast another glance at the museum-ripe piece. "The sheriff's office over in Jarrod City gets new radios every other year," he said as he put it down on the desktop.

The throwaway comment caused Mandy to let out a bitter chuckle. She moved over to the rack that held the other radios to get a fresh unit. After testing it against the base unit on the watch desk, she attached it to her utility belt. "Well, in case you haven't noticed yet, Deputy Woodward… we're as far removed from Jarrod City's standards as is humanly possible."

When Don had nothing to add to that, Mandy strode over to the coffee machine to pour herself a mugful of the dark-brown rocket fuel that passed for coffee at the sheriff's office.

Sitting down at her desk, she arranged a few pieces of paper that she needed to work on before she took the first sip. She had yet to get started on the paperwork when she noticed Beatrice coming out of the restroom at the back - Goldsboro's newest full Deputy Sheriff let out a string of grunts, groans and growls as she used a handful of paper tissues to dry her uniform with a frantic series of dab-dab-dab-dabs.

Mandy cast a brief glance at Beatrice's uniform shirt, necktie and creased pants that had all been peppered with a splash-pattern of dark spots. She let out a brief grunt before she took another sip of coffee. "Let me guess. The hot water faucet backfired?"

"That's an affirmative, Ma'am!"

"There isn't room in our budget to fix it," Mandy said and leaned back on her swivel-chair. After observing Beatrice completing the dabbing and sitting down at the smaller of the three desks, she returned to her paperwork. "Maybe we should find a sponsor… how about 'The MacLean County Sheriff's Department is brought to you by the Elliott Hardware Store. Come to Wyatt's for all your home improvement needs,' " she said with a chuckle.

The darkly humorous comment made Beatrice pick up a note she had written while the sheriff had been busy across the street. "Speaking of which, I managed to get in touch with someone else at Hanson's. Apparently one of the shift managers at the meat-processing line where Matthew Jensen works. The manager told me he'd inform Mr. Jensen at once. That was, oh, twenty minutes ago now. You had just left."

The coffee was more important to Mandy than filling out the forms, so she let the paperwork be and leaned against the backrest of the swivel-chair with her mug at the ready. "Very well. I haven't heard anything yet," she said before taking a long sip.

Beatrice nodded before she put the handwritten note on top of a pile that she had designated Dealt With. "Say, what happened over at the Bed and Breakfast?  Do you wish me to type up a report on it?"

"No, the situation was defused before anything could happen. A team of missionaries from the Virgin Tower had found a way to bypass the security doors. They had upset one of Wynne's guests which in turn upset Wynne. It never grew beyond a verbal standoff."

Down on the floor, Blackie dropped her gnawing bone to add a Woof-woof! that meant 'Too bad, too, because I had already thought out a really great angle of attack on the Human in the dark clothes.'

"I see," Beatrice said. "It feels like the Virgin Tower people have become more aggressive in their proselytizing work recently."

Mandy only had time to let out a "Yeah," before she was interrupted by her personal telephone ringing. The number was unknown so the caller-ID simply read New Contact. She pressed the Accept Call bar at once and put the telephone to her ear. "This is Sheriff Mandy Jalinski of MacLean County. To whom am I speaking, please?"

'It's Matt Jensen, Sheriff. My line boss just told me you had urgent news… has anything happened to my wife?'

Assuming an all-business-like demeanor, Mandy leaned forward at once, put down the mug and readied a large writing pad and a ball point pen for the written information that would inevitably follow. "Your wife is just fine, Mr. Jensen, but I need to inform you that your sons have both been involved in-"

'Wait… what do you mean by sons?  Like in both of them?  Is Lukas here?  And what's happened to Torsten?'

"Torsten has been airlifted to Barton City Central Hospi-"

'What?!  What… why… what the hell's going on?!'

Mandy needed to hold the telephone away from her ear while Matthew went through a long list of juicy curses at a volume mostly known as 'loud.' "Mr. Jensen, I can only provide you with the particulars of the case if you give me space to do so."

'Yeah… all right… I'm sorry. But Jeez, now a guy can't even go to work without everything falling apart…'

"I've spoken to your wife," Mandy continued, leaning forward to write down the exact time Matthew Jensen called her. "She should be at the hospital by now. Torsten was found-"

'Found?!  Was he run over by a car or- oh… I'm sorry. Please go on.'

Mandy tapped the butt of the ball point pen against the writing pad before she held it ready once more - the next tidbit of information was certain to go down like a lead balloon. "I'm afraid I have to inform you that Torsten was found in the acute state of chemical intoxication commonly referred to as a drug overdose."

'Oh, God… is he all right?  Is it… how serious is it?'

"Torsten was conscious and semi-coherent when I spoke to him, but he was certainly severely affected by it on a physical level. You'll need to get in touch with the medical staff at Barton City Central Hospital for the exact details."

'All right… I… I will. That damned kid… I warned him about getting into that crowd. He knows how much it screwed up Lukas!  He told me he wouldn't, but I guess he just… shit… paid me lip service. Yeah, all right, I never listened to anything my old man said, either…'

Mandy jotted down a few stray thoughts that came to her during the conversation. Once Matthew Jensen fell quiet, Mandy returned to tapping the butt of the ball point pen against the writing pad. "I have no info on Torsten's online acquaintances, Mr. Jensen, but I'm afraid this particular incident was caused by your other son, Lukas.'

The line fell so deathly quiet that Mandy needed to check the telephone to see if she had lost the connection. She let out a brief sigh and rubbed her brow before she put it back to her ear. "Mr. Jensen, are you still there?"

'Yeah… what did Lukas do?' Matthew said in a strangled voice.

"He provided the pills that-"

'I'll fuckin' kill him!  I swear to God I'll fuckin' kill that worthless piece of fuckin' shit!'

The fiery words streamed from the telephone at such a volume that Mandy needed to hold it away from her ear all over again - it was so loud that Don, Beatrice and Blackie all stopped what they were doing to stare wide-eyed at the sheriff and the telephone.

"Mr. Jensen… Mr. Jensen, we have Lukas-" Mandy tried, but Matthew continued at maximum volume for another fifteen seconds before he finally needed to breathe. Mandy used that as her cue to resume the conversation: "Mr. Jensen, Lukas was arrested earlier today on several counts of possession of marihuana, vagrancy and for prowling at your neighbor's house-"

'Prowling?!  The fuckin' pervert!'

"With the fact that he also provided the drugs to Torsten, we'll add distribution of class-A narcotics to the list. These are very serious charges, Mr. Jensen, so your son will be appointed an attorney of law and brought before Circuit Judge Etherington-"

'I don't give a shit what happens to that piece of fuckin' trash, Sheriff!  I hope you'll smack him down so hard he won't get back up!  And if you can't, I fuckin' will the moment I see him!'

Mandy's ball point pen was put through an extra-long sequence of taps against the writing pad while Matthew's outburst rolled through the office. "Mr. Jensen, I happen to share your anger at Lukas, but violence won't solve anything. Let the courts deal with him. The evidence is undeniable so he won't get away with it. In the meantime, Torsten needs you. And so does your wife."

'Yeah… yeah, all right. I'm sorry, Sheriff. Yeah… you're right, but… but… yeah. You're right. We… we need to turn this crap around now… now, before Torsten ends up like his brother… Lukas is dead to me, but I need to be at Torsten's side. Carole and me can still turn him around. We… I was a fuckin' failure as a Dad when it came to Lukas, but I swear to God I won't screw up with Torsten… this crap ends now!'

"Sounds like something good could come from this terrible situation, Mr. Jensen. I hope you'll succeed," Mandy said, pushing away the writing pad. "I promise to stay in touch throughout your ordeal so you won't have to fight this on your own."

'Thank you, Sheriff. Dammit, now I have to convince my line boss and my shift manager to let me leave earlier today. It's going to take me… hmmm… nearly an hour and a half to get to Barton City from here, so if I have to wait until the end of my shift, I won't get to the hospital before… shit, way after dark.'

"Oh, let's see if I can't help you with that, Mr. Jensen. Put one of them on. Or perhaps both if you feel it would help," Mandy said while a grin borne of steely determination spread over her features.

-*-*-*-

Twenty to five in the afternoon, the familiar shapes of the Last Original Cowpoke and a Golden Retriever appeared at the glass door of the sheriff's office. The sticking door needed no less than three shoves to get open, but once it rattled against the door stop over by the wall, the greeting was unmistakable:

"Howdy, all y'all!  This he' be tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew back fer mo' o' that there spe-shul brand o' Goldsborian fun an' games, dontchaknow!" Wynne cried, waving her cowboy hat high in the air. It was soon back on her dark locks so she could use both hands to crack open a can of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero that she produced from her windbreaker's pocket.

Psssshhhht!

"Yessirree, I be he' ta chew da fat, drink some beer an' play with mah dawggies!  An' mebbe kiss tha Sheriff, too, if all y'all don't mind… an' she be he' an' all, obvi'sly!"

Woof! - Yap! - Woof-woof! - Yap-yap! - Woof! - Yap!

"Yuh, an' there ol' Blackie be, sure ain't no lie!  Haw, but I don't see tha Sheriff nowhe'ah. Where she at?"

Beatrice and Rodolfo had swapped assignments which meant that the latter sat at the smaller of the three desks while the former had taken up residence in the jailhouse monitoring the prisoner in Holding Cell One. The dapper Senior Deputy looked up and flashed his friend a grin. "She's out on vehicular patrol, Wynne. It probably won't be too long, though."

"Okeh, I can wait. In da meantime, it sure be Fenwyck tihhh-me, yessirree!" Her mouth was soon too busy chugging down a large swig of the non-alcoholic beer to have time to speak, but - as always - the beer didn't last long.

Wiping a suds mustache off her upper lip, she turned to Don Woodward: "An' there we got ol' Don. Howdy, pardnah."

A simple, though far from unfriendly "Hello, Miss Donohue," was all the older Deputy Sheriff said before he returned to the book he read to make the hours go by faster.

Wynne - accustomed to Barry Simms' more jovial approach - nodded a couple of times while she waited for something more to come from Don. When nothing happened, she turned to Rodolfo who could only grin and shrug. Wynne mirrored the shrug before she moved over to the doggy-basket to make good on her promise to play with her merrily yapping and woofing dogs.

---

At the exact stroke of five P.M., Mandy entered the office and made a beeline for the coffee machine without even taking off her Mountie hat. She crinkled her nose in disgust as she took in the stale smell of the dark-brown liquid that been cooking for hours on end.

It wasn't until she had slid the coffee pot back onto the heating pad that she noticed Wynne occupying the swivel-chair at the big desk. "Oh… I guess we have a new Sheriff in town," she said with a grin. "Not only can't I get any coffee, someone stole my chair!  I feel like the family of bears in Goldilocks."

"Yuh?  Well, I reckon I done slept in yer bed as well, so… mi'te as well tick all them boxes, haw?"

Though Rodolfo pretended not to listen in on the private bantering, he couldn't help but let out an acute snort followed by a long series of snickers.

"Aw," Wynne said and got up from the swivel-chair, "I reckon we need-a go inta that there crew room so tha boys in tha peanit gallery ain't gonn' get an earful o' som'tin they can't handle."

Nodding, Mandy strode over to the inner door and pushed it open. "An excellent suggestion, Miss Donohue. We have some important matters to discuss."

"We sure do, Sheriff Mandy!  Blackie, Goldie… y'all jus' stay out he', yuh?"

Woof! - Yap!

"Clevah dawggies!"

The last Wynne and Mandy heard from the outer office was Rodolfo making kissy sounds - once the door to the crew room had closed behind them, she and Mandy did in fact meet for a kiss that turned out to be a long, unhurried and just plain pleasurable affair.

They eventually had to break off the sweet contact to catch their breaths, but they only pulled back a few inches to get the full experience of the other. The proverbial love bolts and pink rose petals that rained down upon them proved that their relationship was safe, sound and unbreakable by just about any force on Earth. There was no need to ruin the moment by speaking so they kept quiet - instead, they let their eyes do all the emoting by transmitting heavy doses of raw, undiluted love.

"Hon," Mandy whispered after a while of nothing but gazing - to re-establish contact, she reached up to caress Wynne's cheek. "Remember that fantastic book we read last year?  'When Green Met Blue' ?"

"Yuh…"

"I still can't believe how close to home that book hit. I mean… look at us."

"Yuh, it be kinda uncanny an' all. Okeh, them charactahs didden act nuttin' like us, but yuh, they sure did look like us. I reckon I got a hankerin' fer readin' that book ag'in… an' that sure don't happen too offen, no Ma'am."

"Perhaps we could read it together?"

"Haw, that would be neat fer sure, darlin'!"

The floor and the round table in the crew room were more cluttered than usual, but the items were soon put elsewhere so Wynne and Mandy had space to sit close to each other. The next natural step was to hold hands, so that's exactly what they did.

"Anyhows… back ta tha ugly, real world. Much obliged fer backin' me up ovah yondah, Sheriff Mandy. Haw, that there Tif'ney woman… Lawrdie, I be gettin' them sour burps jus' thinkin' 'bout her. Them Virgin Towah folks been poppin' up he', there an' ev'rywhere lately. Been gettin' on mah las' nerhhh-ve, that."

"Deputy Reilly said much the same," Mandy said, tracing Wynne's prominent cheekbone with an index finger. "I haven't had the time to really notice. Maybe they've launched a Spring Offensive?"

"Yuh, they certin'ly be ohhh-fensive, awright," Wynne said, breaking out in chuckles at her own pun. "Naw, I ain't gonn' wreck da moment bah tawkin' 'bout them folks. Anyhows. Not that mah next subject be any mo' fun… y'all heard anythin' from that there hospital 'bout Tor?"

"No, but I spoke to his father. That went like you'd expect-"

"Betcha ten bucks he didden take it too durn well."

Mandy let out a tired chuckle. "That would actually be an understatement, Wynne. He was so steaming hot he threatened to come here and kill Lukas for what had happened."

"Yuh, ol' Matt sure got a tempah, awright. I done saw that when we played a round o' pool a li'l while ago. We wussen even playin' fer cash or beer or pretzels or nuttin' so there wussen no pressure at all, but he completely lost his coo' when one o' them shots wus mo' trubbel than he reckoned it oughttah be. I hadda grant 'im a free reset or else he woudda blown his head gasket fer sure. Mebbe it ain't no wondah them sons o' his both got inta trubbel o' some kind."

"Mmmm. Carole Jensen is a pillar of strength, though," Mandy said, leaning over to place a small kiss on Wynne's lips. "She's come over for a heart-to-heart a couple of times when things got too frustrating at home. She works very hard to keep everything together."

"Yuh-yuh, I reckon I be ovah-simplifyin' it an' all, but, ya know… Pa knows best, yuh?"

"Yeah."

A brief pause developed in the conversation, but the moment wasn't wasted as it was filled by the squeezing of a hand, a smile and ultimately a kiss. Grinning, Wynne leaned in for a repeat performance of the kiss before she carried on:

"My old man kinda had the same mentality as Matt. Yuh. I reckon that be a good reason whah I coudden wait ta leave hoah-me back then. O' course, I hadda buncha othah stuff goin' on as well, but… anyhows."

"Perhaps, but you never started dealing drugs, hon."

"Naw, but I sure did mah fair share o' ramblin' back then. Yuh. Them late eighties, early nineties sure wus wild years, lemme tell ya."

Wynne fell silent as she revisited the period of her life when she had toured parts of Texas like a nomad - sleeping across the bench seat or in the back of her old truck, living hand-to-mouth on more than one occasion, never working at the same place for long and never allowing herself to spend more than one or two nights with the like-minded girls she met in after-dark bars.

Sensing she was being gazed at, Wynne locked eyes with Mandy who soon broke out in a wide grin.

Mandy quickly leaned across their chairs to place a quick kiss on her partner's lips before she got up to signal that the end of their little love session was drawing near. "Perhaps for you, hon… for me, those years were calm, wonderful and full of warm milk and honey-coated waffles. That's what Mom always served when I came home from college."

The initial kiss was soon repeated much to their pleasure. "Yuh-haw?  Mah own Ma taught me ta drink Southern Comfort an' smoke cigarettes. Them things wus national pastimes fer bored housewives back hoah-me in Shallah Pond, Texas."

They fell silent again before a third kiss found its way from one set of lips to the other. "How did your talk go with the Gilmores, hon?"

"Aw, I ain't too sure, but them signs say they prolly gonn' stay until aftah tha dawg show. Yuh. Audrey an' Gwen Gilmoah-r. They be neat folks, I be tellin' y'all. They done tole me a horror story 'bout escapin' some kinda reli-guss community or some such who didden wanna let 'em leave. That wus whah ol' Audrey done got so upset bah that there piece o' papah there. Ack-chew-ly, they done tole me they been lookin' at a how-se fer sale ovah on Josiah."

"Oh?"

"Yuh. I deffa-nete-ly woudden mind havin' them in town. Haw, they sure be a lot bettah folks than some o' them there residents we got now… sure ain't no lie."

The sound of the sticking door being shoved open out in the office interrupted a fourth kiss, but they would make sure it would make a triumphant return once they got home.

A short while later, Rodolfo knocked on the door to the crew room. 'Sheriff, A.J.'s here with our supper and some fresh coffee.'

"Thank you!" Mandy said strongly enough to be heard through the closed door. As they both rose to get something to eat, there was just enough time to steal a brief peck on Wynne's lips

---

A double-decker serving cart had been brought into use to act as a means of transporting two large potfuls of fresh high-quality coffee, a stack of wrapped, extra-large sandwiches and a line-up of styrofoam boxes that contained various warm dishes - all of it made by the late-twenty-something short-order cook Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane in the lull before the evening rush hour.

When the deal between Moira MacKay and the local office of the Sheriff's Department had first been drawn up decades earlier, everyone among the old guard of sheriffs and deputies had been satisfied with pre-fabricated sandwiches and bog-standard coffee, but the tune had changed when Mandy won the election and had assumed the proverbial throne - now, nobody could imagine going back to the old ways.

A.J. wore his usual set of sports shoes, blue-jeans, a long-sleeved flannel shirt and a grease-stained apron that had been white when it was new. He had given up trying to grow a beard to look more manly which meant that his chin and cheeks were clean-shaven once more - he had insisted on keeping the mustache, at least for the time being, but the fuzz under his nose wasn't perfect by a long shot.

As always, the fact that 'Slow' Lane spent the entire day toiling at the stoves, the cooking panels and the frying pans meant that a strong scent of fried food clung to his clothes, hair and skin. Down in their doggy-basket, Blackie and Goldie perked up as the delightful smell of sizzling meat reached their sensitive noses, but they soon let out whimpers of disappointment when they realized they would only get in serious trouble if they sunk their eye teeth into the young man's bacon.

"Hi, guys!  I've made you some real goodies today," A.J. said as he moved the coffee pots and the plate of extra-large sandwiches from the cart onto the sheriff's desk.

"Haw, it sure does smell fihhhhh-ne, son!" Wynne said with a wide grin plastered all over her face. "Wotcha got fer us… I mean, wotcha got fer them hard-workin' de-per-ties on this he' evenin' an' all?"

Returning the grin, A.J. pointed at the cluster of styrofoam boxes. "They're labeled so you can see what's what. There's a curry rice dish… a cheeseburger… some pasta and black olives in tomato sauce… a few chunks of tenderloin in cream gravy… fried bacon and chopped onion in mashed potatoes… in short, a bunch of good stuff."

"Whah, that be awwwwwe-some!  Yuh, I reckon I'mma-gonn' go fer… shoot, I ain't got a clue whut I want!"

Don put up his hand at once. "I got dibs on the tenderloin."

At the far end of the office, Mandy came back from the restroom dabbing down her uniform shirt with a wad of paper tissues - the wicked hot-water faucet had done its worst to splatter her uniform with droplets.

Rodolfo soon returned from the crew room with the plates and cutlery they always used for their supper. He quickly put a set down on each of the three desks before he took his telephone to call Beatrice Reilly next door to ask what she would like to eat.

Once everything was in place, A.J. took a stack of napkins that featured the Bar & Grill's new logo: Moira MacKay's signature and a humorous caricature of her in a dress from the turn of the last century. As expected, it had been designed by Goldsboro's artist-in-residence, Nancy Nguyen.

"Yumm-mm-mmie, them there sandwiches sure do look fihhhh-ne as well, haw?  Ya know, I reckon I'mma-gonn' grab me one o' them first but eat it last… yuh?  Like dessuhrt or som'tin. Y'all made one with a slice o' cheese, there, A.J.?  I sure could eat a cheese sandwich on this he' evenin'," Wynne said as she reached for one of the wrapped XL sandwiches.

Though she only paused for the briefest of moments to make up her mind which one she wanted, she found herself shoved back to the tail-end of the line by a horde of hungry deputies and even the sheriff. "Haw!  Whaddahell?  I mean… dontcha be nabbin' all them great- aw, ya sure is nabbin' all them great sandwiches!  Lawwwwr-die, y'all can come back fer seconds anytime y'all feel like it, ya know?!  Li'l ol' me only gonn' be he' fer a-cuppel-a minnits an' all… good shittt almighty!"

Everyone including Mandy chuckled at Wynne's clear frustration as they took their loot and returned to their respective desks to eat. Mandy carried on over to the pot of quality coffee to pour herself a mugful. Sniffing it, she broke out in a wide grin at the exquisite aroma compared to the horrid odor their own coffee always gained after a few hours on the heating pad.

Wynne shot everyone - save for the sheriff - a somewhat annoyed look before she moved over to the serving cart to select one of the styrofoam boxes instead. She ended up picking the one with the fried pieces of bacon and chopped onions in mashed potatoes. The dish was easiest to eat with a spoon, so she nabbed one of those and shuffled over to the watch desk to eat.

Rodolfo had wolfed down his first sandwich in world record time, so he was soon over at the cart to pick up two more sandwiches and the warm meal Beatrice had asked for: the curry rice. "I'll be next door if you need me," he said before yanking the sticking door open.

"Say," A.J. said as he returned to the serving cart to rearrange the remaining boxes. "Do you guys know anything about that weird thing that's going on out on the street?  There's a strange truck parked at the curb sorta up at Derrike Iverson's dive."

Wynne rested a buttock on one of the corners of the watch desk. She focused so hard on shovelling down the mashed potatoes and the juicy pieces of bacon that she only had time to let out a highly eloquent "Haw?  Whazzat?  Who done said 'weird thing'?  Son, we ain't got nooooo need fer them weird things!  Not when we be eatin'… or evah, fer that mattah."

"Perhaps it's the Virgin Tower missionary team trying a new tactic?" Mandy said before she took a large bite out of a pickles-and-pastrami sandwich and washed it down with an even larger swig of hot, top-quality coffee.

"Lawrdie, I woudden put it past 'em…"

A.J. shook his head. "I don't think so, Sheriff. Looks like Artie Rains and that Burdette fella from the gun shop is involved somehow."

Wynne and Mandy both stopped chewing at the same time to let out strong groans.

"Jus' when we done hoped… hell, prayed… them a-holes woudden bothah us no mo'… now whaddahell they be doin'?" Wynne said, stuffing a huge spoonful of mashed potatoes, bacon and chopped onions into her yap to get the most out of it before a new load of stinky-poo could hit the proverbial fan.

Mandy let out a deep sigh before she put down her sandwich and took a napkin to wipe her mouth - one bite and one swig of coffee was all she had been allowed to get. "I don't know what's up, Mr. Lane, but I'm going to find out," she said as she stuck her arms down her uniform jacket's sleeves. The Mountie hat soon graced her fair locks as well.

"Yuh, well I sure ain't gonn' letcha head off inta trubbel all bah yaself, no Ma'am," Wynne said and got up from the watch desk. Unlike Mandy who left her sandwich behind, Wynne continued to chow down the mashed potatoes as she knew only fools would turn their backs on free food - and she was no fool, only a little slow on the uptake at times.

She caught up with Mandy almost at once as the sheriff had only made it to the sidewalk before she had come to a full stop. Together, they stared northbound on Main Street to spot the situation that A.J. Lane had described as 'weird.'

It was in fact a GMC Savannah truck on a modular chassis that didn't have a rear section installed. Instead of a regular feature like a flatbed or a refrigerated box unit, a gigantic loudspeaker had been attached to the truck's frame by dozens of bungee cords. The truck's hood and doors carried several advertisements from companies friendly to their Cause. A lightbar consisting of white and yellow rotating beacons had been installed atop the cab's roof to add some color and razzmatazz to the proceedings.

"Whaddin-Sam-Hill-izzat now?" Wynne said before she took such a large spoonful of her warm dish that she needed all her facial muscles to work together to support her jaw.

Mandy had no answer to Wynne's question, but the startling truth behind the strange occurrence was soon revealed when none other than disgraced former Sheriff Arthur 'Artie' Rains stepped out of Derrike Iverson's notorious - and notoriously rough - bar and lumbered over to the GMC. Although the commercial truck was larger than most regular pickups, Rains' ungainly, overweight frame made it dip down at the left-front corner as he got behind the wheel.

Crossing the sidewalk a few paces behind Rains, the store manager of 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun shop, J.D. Burdette, moved around the front of the truck and climbed into the cab on the passenger side. Once all the rotating lights up on the lightbar were flashing, they trickled away from the curb going at a very slow speed designed to give everyone they passed by a good chance to see them.

It didn't take long before J.D. made the enormous loudspeaker come alive by speaking into a cordless microphone: 'Ladies and Gentlemen!  As we all know, political correctness has become the worst-ever plague to strike our once great nation. P.C. It's time to reclaim those letters!  It's time to form them into something that we can all be proud of!  It's time for the Patriotic Coalition!'

"Whaddinda-wohhhhhhh-rld?!"

Unlike Wynne's typical outburst, Mandy simply let out a deep, long sigh as she took in the sight of the truck trickling toward them at slow speed.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, we have two important elections coming up this year. One for the next Town Council and one for the vital position of Sheriff. We'll reveal our candidates in due time, but know that they're all true-blue patriots so you'll be among friends. If you vote for us, and if the Patriotic Coalition wins those seats, we will not only demand a complete reform of how Goldsboro is run, but introduce sweeping changes to the Sheriff's Office and how their future affairs will be handled.'

As the truck passed by the aforementioned sheriff's office at walking pace, Artie Rains offered Wynne and Mandy a wolfish smile - he even tipped his cap at them before the truck moved on along Main Street.

A mumbled "Whah, that no-good, low-down, rotten-ta-tha-core sohhhhhhm-bitch," escaped Wynne before she spun around on her bootheel and stomped back to the office.

Mandy remained on the sidewalk for a few moments longer. As the truck made a U-turn and began its return trip, she followed Wynne inside.

Blackie growled, Goldie whimpered, A.J. scratched his neck, Rodolfo - who had come back from the jailhouse right in the middle of Burdette's early election speech - had assumed a glum expression and Wynne had planted her boots in the middle of the cracked linoleum and had slammed her arms across her chest. The only one of those present who had little invested in the matter was Don Woodward who soon returned to his tenderloin and cream gravy.

In the middle of all that, Mandy moved in complete silence as she sat down at her desk and took a swig of the high-quality coffee. She remained calm until her lit fuse finally reached the cache of nitroglycerine inside her - then she slammed a clenched fist onto the desk top with such force the shockwave nearly sent the coffee mug, the plate with her half-eaten sandwich and the entire system of In-and-Out trays onto the floor.

Wynne jumped into action at once. The first task was to save the plastic trays from shattering down below, but the second was far more important: she pulled Mandy into a sideways hug that was perhaps in breach of the rules and regulations, but that was sorely needed for both parties.

"Thanks, hon…" Mandy said quietly around Wynne's arm. She forced herself not to look at A.J., Rodolfo and Don Woodward whom she knew would all be gawking.

"Haw, y'all sure is welcome an' all. Lawrdie, things be goin' from bad ta wohhhh-rse ta downright shitty he' in Goldsborah', haw?"

When they separated, Mandy leaned back on the swivel-chair and let out a sigh. "If Rains and his cronies are this active now… with nearly five months to go before the election… what won't they do when we get closer to that date?  Jesus, it's going to be a stressful year."

"Prolly, but I reckon y'all gonn' have plentah o' support, darlin'. If nuttin' else, I'mma-gonn' be there ta back y'all up every dang-blasted step o' tha way. An' y'all can take that ta tha bank."

"I appreciate it," Mandy said and shot Wynne a tired smile - then she re-arranged the coffee mug and the plate as well as all her pencils and pens that had performed a manic dance when she had slammed her fist onto the desk top.

As she did so, she let out a brief grunt as a thought came to her: "Deputy Woodward, please look into the Patriotic Coalition when you have time to do so. It'd be interesting to uncover whether it's a proper organization or something Rains has cooked up on a bender. If you do find anything official, I'd like to know the founders, the list of current members, et cetera."

"Yes, Sheriff," Don said and reached for his smartphone so he could get started on the investigation at once.

Wynne cocked her head to look at her partner. "Wotcha got in mind, darlin'?"

"Oh… just drawing up a few battle plans of our own. Being prepared can't hurt," Mandy said, adding a wink and a smile that had already grown more confident.

"Yuh!  Haw, them foo's gonn' be sorry they ever done trah'd buttin' heads with this he' Amazon strike force… yessirree, we gotta get usselves in good shape fer this he' fight, awright. Hey, dat rhymes!  Whah, I oughttah be a poet."

Wynne punched the air just to show that it would take someone stronger than Artie Rains and J.D. Burdette to get the Sheriff of Goldsboro and The Last Original Cowpoke down for more than a few minutes at a time. "Okeh, an' now fer some coah-ffee an' chow befo' all y'all gonn' steal 'em from me!" she continued, zeroing in on the next round of free food while there was some to be had.

*
*
CHAPTER 6

Three days later - Friday, April 12th - the first day of the big dog show at Thunder Park Raceway a few miles north of Goldsboro.

The scene unfolding at the trailer park's central lawn seemed to be a rerun of one that had taken place earlier in the week: Blackie and Goldie resting on a blanket and Wynne trying to snap the doggy-portraits she needed for presenting - and perhaps promoting - the dogs at the weekend's major event.

An opened six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zeros took care of the liquid entertainment while an older-model smartphone connected to a pair of travel-sized loudspeakers provided the musical backdrop. As always, the telephone streamed the online version of the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack radio station that played everyone's favorite Country & Western, Southern Rock and truck driving classics. The tune playing at present was The Senorita From Mescalita by The Four Flat Tires, the famous boogie-rock band from Texas.

Unfortunately for all involved, the result of the photoshoot was an even bigger bust than the earlier attempt had been. Whenever Blackie sat still, Goldie took off after a butterfly, a bird, an airplane or even a blade of grass that moved in the gentle breeze rolling in from the wide-open desert. Whenever Goldie sat still, Blackie picked up some kind of real or imaginary threat and began to sneer, growl and bark. Most often, they both bolted leaving nothing but a water bowl, a pair of half-eaten sticks of jerky and an empty blanket - and it would always happen at the exact moment Wynne tapped the Take Picture! icon.

Only once did both dogs behave like little angels by sitting still at the same time, but Wynne was so busy fiddling with her telephone's camera settings that she didn't even notice.

When Goldie took off to chase yet another shiny object in the sky - it would be her seventh - Wynne seemed to turn to stone. All that moved were her eyes that in turn looked at Blackie, the empty space on the blanket, Blackie, the empty space, the trailer, the grass, the sky, the telephone, Blackie and finally the inside of her palm as she smacked a hand across her deadlights to stop them from observing all the horrors that insisted on invading her life.

A moment later, Blackie jumped to her paws and began to sneer, growl and bark at an unfamiliar SUV that drove toward the central lawn at low speed.

Wynne - who wore most of her Last Original Cowpoke outfit save for her lined denim jacket - let out a long, slow, tormented sigh as she clambered to her feet to deal with the visitor.

Much to her astonishment, it wasn't something or someone out to dump a month's worth of rain on her parade. Instead, the supposed visitors turned out to be Diego Benitez and the Rottweiler Freddie returning from an overnight trip to Diego's sister in north-western Nevada - much to everyone's delight and relief, Freddie's first encounter with a new group of Humans had gone well.

Seeing Diego in a bronze-colored Acura SUV made Wynne scratch her neck several times and let out a "Haw?"  When her friend came to a halt and rolled down the driver's side window, she shuffled over to the elegant vehicle. "Howdy, Diegoh. Hiya, Freddie!"

WOOF!

"Yuh, ya sure be he', big boy!  Say, friend… wussen y'all drivin' yer ol' Fohhh-rd F-som'tin-or-othah when all y'all done left yestuhr'dy?"

Diego grinned as he stuck out his hand to shake Wynne's. "Yeah, but it crapped out on me. This is my sister's."

To look his best for the family visit that had been a bit more official than the last one, Diego had ventured into Holly Lorenzen's Homey Hair & Nails salon in Goldsboro for the first time in months. His bushy mustache had been trimmed, his sideburns were neat and square-edged, and his mullet had literally been cut down to size.

Though he felt most at home in denim and flannel - or better still, the desert-camouflaged Marine Corps-surplus fatigues he used for hunting jackrabbits - he had dressed the part by donning a pair of sandy cotton pants, a white, long-sleeved shirt that featured golden buttons and cufflinks, and finally a leather bolo tie in a natural shade of brown.

"Lawrdie, them old vee-hickels… yuh. What done happened?"

"The right-hand driveshaft broke clean off the diff," Diego said, leaning his elbow on the windowsill.

Wynne pushed her beloved cowboy hat back from her brow. "Owch. That sure ain't good, nosirree…"

"Nope. I only had one-wheel drive for the last thirty miles, but it made it there at ten miles per hour. Wasn't about to test my luck drivin' four-hundred miles back, though. I had it towed to a local garage, so… yeah. Sucks 'cos it's gonna cost me a bundle I really don't have right now."

"Yuh, I hear ya, buddy…"

The Down-Home Ol' Country Shack began playing The Farristown Hoedown by Harlan's Hayseeds in the background while Diego reached over to turn off the Acura's air-conditioning now the driver's side window stood fully open. "What have you guys been up to since yesterday?"

"Aw, same-ol', same-ol'. Ain't nuttin' in particular. I still be killin' mahself slowly trah'in ta take a dang-blasted pic-chure o' mah bayu-taful dawggies fer that there gigantoh dawg show up at Thundah Park. That be this he' weekend an' all."

Diego nodded as he looked at the empty blanket, the abandoned water bowl and the half-eaten sticks of jerky. "Okay. No luck getting a good one?"

"Well, lemme see…" Wynne said and held up her hand. "None. Nuttin'. Zerah. Zilch. Zippo," she continued, moving one finger up for each negative.

"I wish I could help, Wynne, but I can't. I'm worthless at photography. I can't hold the damn cameras still enough to get clear images. Kinda weird when you consider that I can hit a fly's ass at one-hundred paces with my thirty-aught-six."

"Yuh… weird, dat."

Diego broke out in an embarrassed grin and began to shuffle around on the seat. "Okay, I need to take a squirt real bad, so I better get home before I have an accident in my sister's car."

"Yuh!"

"Hey, check this out!  Welcome to the future, Wynne," Diego said and switched off the combustion engine. After accessing and selecting a feature on the computer display above the center console, an ePower Activated symbol flashed among the regular instruments on the dashboard - then the hybrid SUV drove away in complete silence using its batteries as the sole power source.

"Lawwww-rdie… haw!  Yuh, that mebbe tha fu-chure, but I sure be a gal o' tha past, yessirree. Naw, gimme a Vee-eight an' open pipes an' watch me grin!" Wynne said, not even needing to shout for Diego to hear her.

Freddie was let out of the SUV once Diego had come to a halt at his own trailer. Soon, the black-and-brown Rottweiler joined his canine companions for a fun, raucous bout of Chase Your Tail that saw all three dogs storm into the desert yapping, woofing and barking to their hearts' delight.

That marked the end of Wynne's hopes of ever getting a good photo of the dogs, so she packed up her old telephone, her beer and all the other little things she had brought out there in the hope the session would end well. "Shoot, tha weekend sure ain't off ta a good start…" she mumbled as she gave the central lawn a close inspection to see if she had forgotten anything.

When everything seemed in order, she shuffled around the corner of her trailer and stepped up onto her crooked porch. She briefly watched Blackie, Goldie and Freddie run around in the desert before she moved inside and dumped the load on the kitchen table - within moments, she cracked open a can of Double-Zero with the familiar Pssshhht! and took a long swig.

"Haw, them ca-razy dawggies… now we gonn' hafta get Blackie an' Goldie bathed befo' we can go out ta that there dawggie show tanight. Wondahful. That gonn' be so much fuhhhh-n. Not."

Sighing, she shuffled into the living area of her trailer making a beeline for the sideboard where she kept her collection of old and new NASCAR races. "Aw-yuh, I bettah stock up on som'tin entertainin' befo' it be bathin' time."

Folding her legs, she bumped down on the floor so she could reach into the deepest recesses of the sideboard, soon pulling out a stack of home-made DVDs that she went through one at a time: "Okeh… only jus' watched that one… only jus' watched that one as well… naw, that ain't gonn' work taday… yuh mebbe… naw… naw… naw… naw… yuh, tha 'oh-fo'ah Daytoah-n fihhh-ve-hundred. Yup, that gonn' do nicely. Gentlemen, start yer engines an' all… but not until I done git mahself a new six-pack, yee-haw!"

-*-*-*-

At the same time up north in Goldsboro, Main Street's typical afternoon serenity had been shattered into what had to be 10,000 car-shaped pieces - in fact, it resembled the popular image of the Colorado Land Rush.

Mandy, Rodolfo and Beatrice had lined up three-wide on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff's office to take in the near-incredible sight of Main Street being swamped with vehicles. Unlike the farm tractors or pickup trucks that shaped the traffic 99% of the time, the current invasion was made up of large station wagons and even larger SUVs.

Each and every one of them shared a similar motif of a family up front and one or more dogs in the back - in some cases, the dogs were up front and the family was in the back. The canines rarely had the steering wheel, though, except in one case where a regal-looking greyhound sat on the driver's side of a sporty Jaguar with its paws up on the dashboard. A closer look by the sheriff and the two deputies revealed that the coupe was in fact right-hand drive.

The conveyor belt of tin cans drove through town at no more than ten-twelve miles per hour thus making it Goldsboro's first official traffic jam since the aftermath of the previous year's Fourth Of July parade. The major Western jamboree in December celebrating the premiere of Wynne's B-horror Western had also been large, but Main Street had been closed for traffic at that particular event so it didn't count.

Whenever someone up ahead slowed down, someone at the back honked. In turn, the honking created confusion as so many cars were present that it was impossible to figure out who did the honking and at whom. This caused everyone up ahead to ease off the gas in case they were seen as the culprit, which caused everyone at the back to honk even longer - and louder - to get the slowpokes up front to speed up.

Mandy scratched her eyebrow at the sight of the utter chaos and confusion. "Well…" she said after a while. Her voice disappeared in the idling engines and honking horns for a few moments, but her moving lips proved she spoke on. "-nuts out at Thunder Park this afternoon. Of course a dog show would be popular!  Dammit, we didn't think straight here…"

"Ma'am?" Beatrice said, needing to move up next to Mandy to be heard.

"Wynne has entered our dogs into several of the contests," Mandy said before she let out a deep sigh and shook her head in defeat.

Beatrice digested the news for a while - she spent it sending a dark glare at a driver who was about to cross over the yellow center lines to get ahead in the world. It worked as he stayed behind the large station wagon ahead of him. "But wouldn't it be possible to call the management and have the dogs scratched off their lists?"

"Yes, in theory. It would mean we'd forfeit the entry fee, though. Seventy-five dollars for each of them."

"Ouch… okay. Never mind."

Across the street at Moira's Bar & Grill, A.J. 'Slow' Lane came out onto the sidewalk carrying the usual afternoon tray of sandwiches, quality coffee and a few cans of soft drinks. He was so busy checking the order sheet against the actual products that he didn't pay any attention to the action on the street. It wasn't until he stepped off the curb and set foot on the blacktop that it dawned on him that traffic was bumper-to-bumper as far as his eye could see.

Unable to go anywhere since nobody could be bothered to give him space to run across, he had no option but to stay on the far side of Main Street carrying the food and coffee he had just spent the past twenty-five minutes making.

Mandy noticed at once. She counted to ten inwardly in the hope someone would pause to let A.J. Lane through, but no one did. "Deputies, we need to stop the traffic so we can get our well-deserved afternoon snacks," she said in her patented I'm The Sheriff And My Word Is Law!-voice.

Rodolfo grinned as he put up his hand and stepped into the flow of traffic - it was, appropriately enough, dog-slow so he risked neither life nor limb doing so. While Beatrice held out her arms to act as a uniformed roadblock, Rodolfo made a sweeping gesture at 'Slow' Lane before pointing to the gap that had developed in the traffic to show him the safe way across.

A.J. shook his head all the way across Main Street. "Thanks, guys. I have a rolled joint roast simmering on the stove so I need to get back right away… Miss MacKay will pluck my feathers if I don't monitor it closely."

"Wouldn't want that," Rodolfo said with a grin as he escorted the short-order cook past the sticking glass door and inside the sheriff's office. Once the tray of afternoon refreshments had been put safely on the sheriff's desk, the Senior Deputy held out his arm toward the door.

A.J. was already on his way back out when he realized the person at the watch desk was none other than Barry Simms - as always, Barry smoked a cigarette and read a pulp paperback. "Hey, Barry!  What are you doing here?  Are you back?"

Grinning, Barry put down his latest Sally Swackhamer, P.I. pulp paperback - volume #17, Home-Made Hooch For The Pooch - to give 'Slow' Lane a big thumbs-up. "Not officially… I'm a temp for the temp. Don needed to be at a court hearing over in Jarrod City, so the Sheriff asked me to moonlight."

"Neat!  When you see your Aunt Mildred, you can tell her the rolled roast is gonna be sensational tonight. It's getting the gold star treatment. A filling of chopped parsley with white potatoes, cooked veggies and cream gravy on the side… the works."

"Neat!  I will. Thanks, A.J.!"

Rodolfo had observed the exchange with a broad smirk on his face. "I'm just happy for the sandwiches. One of those you made yesterday… it had slices of chorizo… man, that was awesome. C'mon, A.J., we better get you back to your rolled joint roast so no harm will come to it. Or you."

-*-*-*-

An hour later, the traffic had eased up somewhat, but the tin-can convoy was still going strong through Goldsboro. Mandy had relocated to her desk where she sat with her own telephone glued to her ear while taking notes on her indispensable notepad.

"All right, Mr. Cummins," she said while the tip of the ball point pen flew across the small page. "Yes, we have the same kind of problem here. Traffic, traffic, traffic. Tons of it. No, there aren't any RVs, actually. Mostly station wagons and SUVs… yes. Yes, that means that everyone has to head home tonight and then return tomorrow… unfortunately. Mr. Cummins, I'm afraid I can't provide additional manpower- all right, so you have enough for now?  Good. Yes. Very well, Mr. Cummins. Goodbye."

Mandy put the telephone onto the desktop while she jotted down the last of the information given to her by the Chief of Security at Thunder Park Raceway. Once she had dotted the Is and crossed the Ts, she leaned back on the swivel-chair to read what she had written.

She had a mug of A.J.'s high-quality coffee within reach, but she nearly spewed the mouthful back into it when she came to the conclusion that it had grown stone cold somewhere along the way. Getting up at once, she strode into the bathroom to drain and rinse the mug. The last stop on her return leg was at the coffee thermos where she poured herself the final mugful.

A brief sigh escaped her at the depressing thought that they had already had all the good coffee they would get until A.J. would come over with their supper - typically around six to seven PM depending on the amount of customers he had to cook for over at the Bar & Grill. Until then, they would have to settle for their own, greatly inferior brew. Sighing again, she prepared a batch of ground beans and fresh water so they could keep the vital infusion of the dark-brown beverage going for as long as possible.

Barry continued to puff on his home-rolled cigarettes like an industrial smokestack gone berserk. As usual, ash and other smoking residue covered a large part of the watch desk and his clothes: jeans, a neutral sweatshirt and a vest that he had zipped to half-mast. Because he had been called up on very short notice, he hadn't had time to shave or wet-comb his hair. The stubble wasn't too bad, but the hair stuck out in all directions creating a comical appearance akin to a scarecrow that had been caught in a tropical cyclone.

A constant stream of snickers escaped him as he continued to read the Sally Swackhamer pulp paperback - it seemed the bone-tough Private Investigator and her gal-pal secretary Vicky Prince were up to their armpits in their own kind of doggy-trouble after Sally had been tasked with keeping a prized Great Dane named Thorkild safe from a gang of dog-nappers. As it turned out, it was the dog-nappers who needed all the help they could get when they did in fact get their fingers on the enormous dog.

Rodolfo had been sent south in one of the Durangos on a Search & Inform mission to find where the tail end of the line was at present. It took him so long to report back that Mandy thought he had taken a wrong turn somewhere and had become lost in the endless desert, but he had simply needed to drive no less than four-and-a-half miles south of Goldsboro before the flow of traffic eased off.

While all that had been going on, Beatrice Reilly had gone out on foot patrol to make sure no tempers flared among some of the more easily excitable locals if they suddenly found themselves hindered by the traffic.

Thinking of Beatrice made Mandy turn to look at the wall-mounted clock - it had been a little too long since the deputy's last transmission. The short distance to the watch desk was soon covered after which she picked up one of the portable radios. "Mr. Simms, which radio did Deputy Reilly take?"

"Number seven, Sheriff," Barry said, putting a finger in between two pages of his book so he wouldn't lose track of where he was. "It's a real old one, but number one and three are both on the fritz… not even new batteries can fix them."

"I know. Number one gave up the ghost while I used it the other day. Very well," Mandy continued before she left the office to go out onto the sidewalk. Long glances up and down Main Street yielded no sign of the overdue Deputy. "Base to Mobil Unit Seven. Base to Mobile Unit Seven. Deputy Reilly, are you on this frequency, over?"

Mandy had time to rub her chin and gain a deep furrow across her brow while she waited for a reply - the radio finally crackled to life with a:

'Mobile Unit Seven ready to receive, Sheriff. Over,' Beatrice's voice soon echoed over the airwaves.

A brief sigh of relief escaped the sheriff before she pressed her thumb onto the transmit key. "You're late calling in, Deputy. What's your location? Over."

'I'm presently at Mr. McCabe's gun shop en route to the office. I've arrested an aggressive jaywalker who threw a beer can at a car that allegedly wouldn't give him room to cross the street. Over.'

"I see. Do you require assistance, over?"

'I wouldn't object to it, Sheriff. Over.'

"Very well. ETA two minutes. Base out."  Once the radio had been attached to Mandy's utility belt, she shoved the sticking glass door back open and stuck her head in - Barry looked up at once. "Mr. Simms, I'm off to assist Deputy Reilly. Please call the Senior Deputy and ask him to return at once. Holding Cell Two will have a resident within five minutes."

"Yes, Sheriff," Barry said, swapping his pulp paperback for the telephone in case Rodolfo was out of range of the portable radios.

---

Two minutes later, Mandy intercepted Beatrice and the prisoner on their way back to the sheriff's office. She had to crinkle her nose as a noxious stench of old sweat and stale beer greeted her nostrils as she approached the well-roasted jaywalker.

The man turned out to be Paul McDonald, one of the barflies who typically squandered his meager paycheck at Derrike Iverson's notorious dive drinking watered-down draft or shots of hard liquor that he had scrounged from his brothers-in-despair.

A seven-day stubble covered his chin and cheeks while a greasy ball cap sporting a Freightliner Trucks logo sat crooked atop his long, even greasier hair. His boots were down-at-heel, his jeans were old and faded, and his plaid flannel shirt had seen better decades.

To underscore the fact he couldn't get further down the slippery slope, he carried not one but two small bottles of rye whisky in his shirt's pockets. As a result of his destructive habit, his eyes were permanently reddish and runny. Drool seeped down his chin as his drunken state made it difficult for him to close his mouth properly.

"I'll take Mr. McDonald's other arm," Mandy said as she moved into position on Paul's right.

Beatrice broke out in a relieved smile as the Sheriff arrived. "Thank you, Ma'am. He's a bit heavy on his feet. Seems like the eruption of anger caused his wick to be extinguished."

Mandy only needed a quick glance at Paul's bleary expression to see Beatrice's point. "Mmmm-yes. Well, let's support him. Holding Cell Two is ready. I've called the Senior Deputy back to monitor the prisoner."

"I apologize for not calling in sooner, Sheriff. I had no time to as Mr. McDonald was somewhat aggressive when I arrived," Beatrice said, holding onto Paul's left arm while trying not to get too close to his grungy clothes.

"All right. Were you contacted by a member of the public?"

"Yes, by the driver whose car the can of beer was thrown at," Beatrice said while she kept a close eye on Paul McDonald's rubbery legs in the hope she could keep them from buckling and thus sending everyone fumbling to the ground. "The can didn't hit it, by the way. I have the driver's name and address. He and his family are out at the dog show."

Mandy let out a dark chuckle. "They and ten thousand other people… and in a couple of hours, you can add Miss Donohue and myself to that list."

"You have my deepest sympathy, Sheriff," Beatrice said with a grin.

---

Once Paul McDonald had been processed and locked up in Holding Cell Two in the jailhouse adjacent to the sheriff's office, Mandy drenched her hands and forearms in sanitizer to annihilate any potential germs that had migrated from Paul's grungy clothes to her skin.

Rodolfo had yet to return from his assignment and Beatrice had resumed her foot patrol, so Mandy pulled out the swivel-chair to sit at the jailhouse's desk. She smiled at the sight of the old-fashioned typewriter that had a prominent place on the desk next to a blotting pad and an anglepoise lamp.

Unlike the technological marvel - or horror - next door, the Remington of 1970s vintage was exactly to her liking, and she had soon used it to transfer the prisoner's personal information from the hand-written notes to the proper form.

Once she had finished typing, she leaned forward to verify that she had remembered to add everything: "Paul McDonald… date of birth, May nineteenth 'ninety-three… last known address, the Old Boys' Haven trailer park… occupation, self-employed handyman slash Jack-of-all-trades. All right."

With everything reading as it should, she pulled the form from the typewriter, took the sheet with the fingerprints and stuck them both into a new folder - she closed the arrest by writing 'Fri. Apr. 12 - arr.off. Dep. B. Reilly - proc.by. Shf. M. Jalinski' on the cover using a ball point pen.

She leaned back on the swivel-chair and let out a sigh. Unfortunately, she was only allowed a few seconds' worth of rest before her personal telephone rang. The hopeful smile on her face faded when the caller-ID said Matthew Jensen rather than Home or Wynne. "Good afternoon, Mr. Jensen," she said after accepting the call.

'Good afternoon, Sheriff. For the first time since this damned nightmare began, I have good news!  The doctors 've told us that Torsten will be discharged tomorrow morning after the rounds.'

The smile returned to Mandy's face as she made herself a little more comfortable on the swivel-chair. "That's fantastic news, Mr. Jensen. I'm happy for all of you."

'Thank you… we did cry a little today, but they were good tears. I think that Tor had hoped to get home today, but they're trying to reduce his medication over night so I guess they want to monitor his progress for another half a day. It doesn't matter. I'm just happy I still have a son-'

Matthew's words made Mandy chew on her lips and let out a brief "Hmmm."

'-I can watch grow up. Oh, and I can guarantee you that Tor will never, ever try anything like that again. He told me that in the first real heart-to-heart we've had for far too long. I don't think he'll even take a headache pill the next time he gets a cold.'

"Good. Now, with regards to Lukas Jen-"

'He's dead to me. I don't give a shit about him. He can go to hell for all I care. And he probably will before long if he keeps hanging with that crowd.'

The harsh words made Mandy let out a brief sigh away from the telephone. "Ah, perhaps… but in any case, Lukas Jensen has been relocated to the central lockup of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department in Barton City where he'll await the first of his court appearances. The case was moved to the city court in Barton City because Circuit Judge Eth-"

'Sheriff, you might as well save your breath. You're talking about a complete stranger to me.'

Mandy scratched her eyebrow a couple of times while she tried to compose a reply to Matthew's stone-cold rejection of his oldest child. Ultimately, she settled for saying: "Very well, Mr. Jensen."

'Anyway, I just wanted to let you know about Tor. Would it be all right if I came by the trailer park at some point tomorrow with some beers for Wynne?  I want to thank her for finding my boy.'

"Oh… well, Wynne and I are going to be up at Thunder Park tomorrow. We've entered our dogs in a couple of contests. Perhaps we could swing by Josiah Street instead on our way up there?  If you're home by then, of course."

'I don't know when we can be back, though. No, tell you what, Sheriff… it can wait 'til Monday. I'll call Wynne first.'

"That would probably be best, Mr. Jensen."

'Okay, that's a deal. Thanks for your time, Sheriff. Bye.'

"You're welcome, Mr. Jensen. Goodbye."

Mandy had barely put the telephone on the desktop when the familiar sound of the door buzzer filled the jailhouse's office. Leaning forward, she flipped the channels on the monitor on the desk to learn the identity of the visitor as per the rules and regulations.

'Senior Deputy Gonzalez requesting entry, Sheriff,' Rodolfo said from his spot out on Main Street.

Instead of showing Paul McDonald's supine figure in Holding Cell Two, the monitor fed into the camera installed above the door to the jailhouse. Although it was only in black-and-white, Rodolfo Gonzalez was easy enough to recognize. Mandy followed the procedures to the letter and waited a few moments before she let her Senior Deputy in.

Once Rodolfo had entered the office, he took off his Mountie hat and hung it on a nail on the wall. "The traffic's lighter now, Sheriff… but it'll go crazy all over again later tonight. Those I spoke to are all planning on driving back and forth all three days."

"Oh, how wonderful. Just what Goldsboro needs. More chaos and confusion," Mandy said as she pressed the button on the monitor to make it show Holding Cell Two once more. "As long as we can avoid fender benders, I think we'll be all right. Slow traffic is annoying as hell, but safer."

"Yes, Ma'am. Who's in number two?"

"Mr. Paul McDonald. He's one of Derrike Iverson's regular barflies. We're holding him on a public drunkenness charge as well as jaywalking and disorderly conduct. He threw a beer can at one of the cars," Mandy said as she reached for her telephone.

Rodolfo took a peek at the monitor that showed Paul McDonald sleeping on the bunk. "Okay. Are we holding him for the night?"

"Yes. He's too drunk to take care of himself. If he gets sick or shows signs of alcohol poisoning, call Doctor Gibbs at once."

"Will do, Sheriff," Rodolfo said, already eyeing the jailhouse's percolator that only needed beans and water to produce its dark-brown nectar known as coffee.

---

Outside on the street, Mandy finally had time to go through her telephone's registry. Home was soon found and selected.

'Howdy, darlin'!' Wynne said within moments some eight miles further south.

A smile spread over Mandy's face as she strolled north on the sidewalk - for once, she wasn't in any kind of hurry. "Hi, hon. What are you up to right now?"

'Aw, I been watchin' a little Nascahhhh-r. Yuh, I done watched tha 'oh-fo'ah race that Juniah won in tha numbah eight… aw, that don't mattah now. Right this he' minnit, I be preparin' them bubble baths fer ol' Blackie an' Goldie. Haw, I be tellin' y'all, persuadin' Blackie to dip her paws sure ain't gonn' be easy!  Them dawggies need it, tho', 'cos they been playin' in tha desuhrt all mornin' so they sure ain't fresh no mo', catch mah drift!'

"All right… well…"

'Som'tin wrong, darlin'?'

Mandy rubbed her chin as she came to a halt outside the sheriff's office. "Not as such, no, but we didn't think it all the way through, hon. This traveling dog show is more popular by far than we ever gave it credit for. And I mean way more popular."

'Okeh?  So ya reckon mebbe a-cuppel-a hundred folks?  Mebbe fo'ah, fihh-ve, six-hundred folks or som'tin gonn' show up?  That ain't all that many up at Thundah Park. Lawrdie, I 'membah one time where-'

"Donald Cummins told me they're expecting ten thousand visitors over the weekend."

'Hooooooooooooooooooooly shittt!  Ten thousand dang-blasted visitahs?!  Lawwwwwr-die almighty… Mercy Sakes, that there Thundah Park there gonn' be so jam-packed there ain't even gonn' be no room fer no jam… only 'packed!'

Wynne's odd phrasing caused Mandy to let out a long chuckle. "Yes… probably. What do you say, do you still want to go up there this evening or should we forget all about it?"

'Well… an' throw away a hundred an' fiddy bucks?  I dunno, darlin'… that still be a buncha dough, all things considah'd. Lissen, we alreddy planned ta drive in two vee-hickels in case y'all is called out ta som'tin right in da middle o' da whole thing, right?  Mebbe me an' them dawggies can go bah usselves at first or som'tin?  I reckon li'l Goldie gonn' be hella disappointed if we-'

"All right, let's give it a shot. Separate cars, yes, but we're going together, hon. As soon as my shift ends, my free weekend starts. And this is a family event."

'Haw!  Y'all got yerself a deal there, darlin'!  Yes, Ma'am!  So… the ohh-ree-gee-nal plan still be goin' on, then?  That we gonn' meet-up in Goldsborah at six-thirty or 'round them parts an' then mosey north?  Spend mebbe a-cuppel-a hou'ahs up there tanight an' then mosey back ta town fer some late-late suppah?'

"Yes, I think we should hold onto that plan, hon," Mandy said with a grin. "We wouldn't want to upset Goldie."

---

Down south in the trailer park, the grin was mirrored on Wynne's face as she listened to Mandy's pleasant voice over her telephone.

Kneeling on a blanket that had been spread out just beyond her crooked porch, she sloshed half a gallon of boiling water around a plastic tub to make sure it was free of any germs. Handling the tub wasn't an easy task as it was large enough for any dog save perhaps for Cerberus, the three-headed protector of the Underworld, everyone's favorite cartoon hound Scooby-Doo, or even the original, devilish Hellbeast Of Rattler Gulch from the mid-1940s that had been the starting point of the Halloween legend.

"Naw, we certi'nly woudden wanna upset or disappoint li'l ol' Goldie," she said loudly so the telephone could pick it up - she had put it down on the blanket so it wouldn't end up falling into the bubble bath and die a horrible death like one of its predecessors. "Okeh, tell y'all whut, darlin'… this he' tub be jus' 'bout reddy fer some reg'lar hawt watah an' bubbly shampoo fit fer a-cuppel-a sweaty dawgs. I bettah go find them li'l puppies. Yuh?  In othah words, tawk ta y'all latah, darlin'. Bah-bah an' luv ya. Mmmua."

'Love you too, Wynne. Bye.'

As the call terminated, Wynne wiped her hands on a towel and leaned back on her thighs. Her aching knee joint soon began acting contrary, so she climbed to her feet to give it some rest since she would need to kneel while bathing the dogs.

Once the boiling water had done its job to give the bathtub a thorough cleansing, she threw the spent water into the desert and wiped the tub down with a rag.

"Yuh-okeh. Lemme see," she said in a mumble as she took a gander at the bathing accessories she had already lined up ahead of time: "Dawg shampoo… gallon-sized jug fer da watah… tha li'l scrubbah fer them ears o' theirs… tha medium scrubbah fer dem paws… da really big scrubbah fer da rest… towels… tongs fer them ticks… paw-nail clippahs… toof'paste an' toof'brush… them pink ribbons fer Goldie… tha collahs… shoot, a whooole buncha stuff. Okeh, I sure be reddy an' all. Now les'see where them dawggies be at…"

Looking around, she could see no sign of either the Golden Retriever or the German Shepherd. Instead of waiting for them to show up on their own, she let out a piercing whistle and patted her thigh several times.

A moment later, Goldie raced around the corner of the trailer. When she clapped eyes on the bathtub and the accessories, she let loose in a happy-yapping-frenzy the likes of which the trailer park hadn't been exposed to in years. The golden dog tore around in circles that showed exactly how excited she was about getting pampered - if she could have performed a backwards somersault, she would have.

"Yuh, mah darlin', li'l Goldie… I sure do know how much y'all luv this he' bathin' thing. Okeh, les'get started, yuh?  Haw… wouldya happen ta know where ol' Blackie be at?  She gonn' have a bath, too."

Goldie let out a series of happy yaps while she nodded her doggy-head toward the desert.

"She still be runnin' with ol' Freddie, haw?" Wynne said, shielding her eyes with her hand to catch a glimpse of the two black dogs. She caught a tiny flash of something black racing from left to right just beyond a sand dune, but she couldn't tell which of them it had been. "Yuh… she gonn' be workin' up one helluva sweat doin' that, sure ain't no lie. Blackie!  Blackie, girl!  It be tihhh-me fer a bath, dontchaknow!  Blackie?"

Several woofs and deeper barks wafted across the wide-open spaces, but the exclamations didn't seem to be the precursor of the appearance of either the German Shepherd or the Rottweiler that everyone had thought was the second coming of the mythical Hellbeast the previous Halloween.

Wynne sucked on her teeth for a few moments. Goldie had sat down next to the bathtub in the meantime - she let out a couple of yaps as if to say 'Well, if Blackie doesn't want to go first, I will!'

"Naw, time's alreddy flyin'… ain't no waitin' fer her," Wynne said as she turned back to the tub. Wincing from the aches that shot up from her knee joint, she knelt next to it and pulled over the jug of water and the shampoo. "C'mon girl… it be bathin' time!"

---

Plenty of water, shampoo, scrubbing, fluffy-towel-time and happy yapping later, Goldie looked a million in all her luster and glory. Pink ribbons had been tied into her fur and placed on top of her head like a bonnet of yore, and she even wore pink, little paw footies that - apparently - was all the rage among the owners of Golden Retrievers.

The quizzical look on Wynne's face told a tale of being less impressed by the footie-fad. She chewed on her cheek for a while as she took in the sight of the four pieces of fabric. "Shoot… them things look ree-dee-cue-luss," she said, scratching her neck. "I woudden be caught dead wearin' pink footies, but then ag'in, I sure ain't no dawggie. Goldie, whadda y'all reckon?  Paw footies or no paw footies?"

Goldie glanced down at the accessories. After she had taken a few steps to see how they reacted to her natural gait, she had soon made up her mind and let her owner know by letting out a series of yaps that meant 'Well, they look okay, but they're kinda scratchy. I don't know… yes I do, they're too scratchy. No thanks!'

When the Golden Retriever tried to pull off one of the footies by dragging it on the blanket, Wynne broke out in a grin and soon acted as the head of the Paw Liberation Movement by removing the offending items and throwing them over her shoulder. A happy Yippie-Yappie-Yapppppp! proved that getting rid of them had been the right choice.

A darker Woof… was soon heard from the edge of the desert. A tired, sweaty Blackie walked up to the edge of the blanket and got down on her stomach. Her tongue was already hanging out indicating she needed air and something to drink.

"Howdy, Blackie!  Lawrdie, y'all look 'bout reddy fer a bath, dontchaknow. Okeh, lemme getcha a bowl o' watah befo' I fill up that there jug there so we can git started on y'all. Yeee-hawww, ya both gonn' look so fihhh-ne an' all!  Yessirree!"

Grunting, Wynne climbed to her feet. She needed to pause a moment for her knee to calm down sufficiently for her to shuffle back to the trailer, but she was soon underway to complete her list of doggy-related chores.

When she returned, she paused briefly as she took in the sight of the large and certainly intimidating Rottweiler that rested next to Blackie.

Apart from the brief, exploratory stay at Diego's sister, Freddie still hadn't recovered enough mentally to venture back into the busy, Human-dominated society after the traumatic events he had gone through the previous October, but Wynne seemed to be on his list of people he trusted. The huge dog let out a deep-register WOOF! that made Goldie jump and almost bolt.

"Howdy, Freddie. I sure am sorry, pardnah, but I ain't gonn' offah y'all a bath. Ya see, I got this thing 'bout not particularly feelin' no need ta scrub any kinda nekkid boy, yuh?  An' besides, this he' shampoo don't work with that there wire-haired coat o' yers. Only them long coats o' mah girls," Wynne said as she put the bowl of cool water in front of Blackie before she put the full jug down on the blanket.

Once everything was in place for the next doggy bath, Wynne knelt and leaned back on her thighs. "But y'all can watch if ya like… shoot, that didden come out right… aw, nevah mind, he don't speak-a mah lang-vitch or nuttin', anyhows."

Freddie let out a puzzled bark before he turned to Blackie for a translation. A series of woofs soon brought the Rottweiler up to speed on at least the gist of it, to which he let out another bark and shook his head as if to say 'Those strange, strange Humans…'

-*-*-*-

The clock on the Chevrolet Silverado's dashboard had just flipped over to 6:20pm when Wynne felt it necessary to perform an encore of her earlier gesture: namely smacking a palm over her eyes. The first such melodramatic act wasn't enough by far, so she let out a long, tormented sigh, groaned in annoyance and finally shook her head in despair and frustration with the world in general and her rotten luck in particular.

In the back of the Silverado's crew cab, Blackie and Goldie shared a long look before they glanced ahead at the myriad of taillights ahead of them. Their actions soon mirrored those of their owner: Blackie shook her head just like Wynne had, and Goldie let out an uncharacteristic guttural growl before she dove down into the footwell for a good, old Pout & Sulk session.

The traffic on the State Route leading north to Thunder Park Raceway had been surprisingly manageable, no doubt as a result of Wynne knocking on every piece of wood she could find, but she had barely turned onto the wide access lane leading to the booths at the fairgrounds complex when everything came to a dead stop.

It was obvious the fairgrounds' management team had grossly underestimated the draw of a dog show. Not only did the number of visitors exceed that of a popular race weekend even when the headlining dirt-track stock cars or the Modified Western Tour presented by R.D. Samson Oils & Lubricants were in town - by a factor of at least three - the management had only opened one access booth creating not just a funnel but a chokepoint.

When the SUV ahead of the matte-black truck began to inch forward, Wynne let her foot off the brake to trickle closer to the booth. The joy lasted for all of five seconds, then everything came to a dead stop all over again. She had the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack's Friday Freedom Friendship Show - brought to her by Osterman's Self-Storage Depots; No Matter Where You Are, Osterman's Is Never Far Away - playing on the radio, but the cheery, bouncy notes of Wouldn't It Be Cool? by the country-pop crossover band The Countrygroove suddenly felt intrusive so she turned it off.

It wasn't long before her telephone rang. To keep it fully charged for all the pictures and video clips she was sure to create, she had docked it in the truck's charging port down on the center console. The caller-ID said Mandy.

"Yuh, I sure ain't surprised… or mebbe I be surprised it done took this long," she mumbled as she picked up the telephone. She cast a glance in the rear-view mirror to look at the white-and-gold Dodge Durango from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department that was trapped in the same line four vehicles back from the matte-black Silverado. "Howdy, darlin'. Can ya bah-lieve this he' shit?"

'No. Hon… listen, I'm really sorry, but I just can't face this tonight after the exhausting week we've had. Hand on my heart, mingling with all these people would just wipe me out completely.'

Wynne nodded to herself as she looked ahead at a lone figure wearing a fluorescent-red safety vest - it was one of the fairgrounds' employees trying, and failing, to conduct the traffic. The individual was already visibly flustered and was engaged in a point-and-shout match with one of the visitors to the dog show.

"Y'all don't hafta say sorry fer nuttin', darlin', 'cos I feel tha same. Yuh. Dag-nabbit, we shoulda looked inta it a li'l bettah. But we didden. Haw. Tell y'all whut, whah dontcha head back ta Goldsborah an' ordah us some suppah at Moira's?  Y'all know whut I done luv, yuh?  Then me an' them dawggies gonn' follah as soon as we can… "

'Well, I could definitely do that. You're not upset?'

"Aw-hell-no… not with this he' three-ring circus up he'. Lawrdie, I betcha it musta been som'tin like this back in tha day when tha legendary Bristol Night Race ovah yondah in Tennessee wus really, really big, yuh?"

'I honestly wouldn't know,' Mandy said and broke out in a tired chuckle. 'Anyway, I've just looked at the organizers' website. According to the info listed there, we need to get the dogs inspected before they can enter any of the events. If they're approved, they'll get a sticker on some kind of event card. From what I could tell, that can only be done tonight… which would explain this insane traffic jam.'

"Whaddahell?  Inspected?  We alreddy done entah'd them fer the show an' all!  It durn well cost us a hundred-an'-fiddy bucks ta do so!"

In the back of the Silverado, Blackie let out a grunt that slowly turned into a growl - she would be severely miffed if she had suffered a pink bubble bath for nothing.

'Yes, but… I don't know anything about it, hon. That's what it said.'

Wynne tapped her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel several times. Since nothing happened in the line ahead of the Silverado, she had plenty of time to do so. "Yuh, okeh. Kinda like pre-race tech inspec-shun, haw?  Awright. I s'pose I kinda see tha logic in that. Sorta."

'Once they've been approved, they need to go through the official registration process which will give them a second stamp on the card… or sticker, or something. It was worded quite vaguely.'

"Haw, I sure am glad it wussen me lookin' at that there website, darlin'. Sure sounds like som'tin I woudda choked on. Okeh."

'The inspection apparently needs to be tonight, but there must be some way for us to push off the registration for tomorrow. This chaos is just unacceptable.'

"Yuh, mebbe… haw… haw, I got an ideah I wanna trah first, tho'."

'Okay?'

"Yuh, but I ain't sure it gonn' work or nuttin'. Okeh… first I'mma-gonn' feign some kind o' truck-trubbel so I can pull ovah he' instead-a goin' thru' tha booth." - While she spoke, Wynne checked all the mirrors to see how close the vehicle behind her was - "Then me an' them dawggies gonn' find one o' them there dawg inspectahs so they can get inspected an' get that there first stickah or stamp o' approval or whaddahell-evah… an' then we gonn' head back hoah-me ta Goldsboro an' y'all. An' suppah at Moira's."

'A lot of things need to fall into place for that plan to go smoothly, hon… but all right. Best of luck with it. Love you… the burgers and fries are on me tonight.'

"Yee-haw!  Much obliged, darlin'!  Yuh, an' luv y'all too. Okeh, les'get this he' show on da road. Bah-bah!"

While Mandy briefly flashed the Durango's emergency lights so she would have room to make a U-turn, Wynne turned the steering wheel to the right so she could trickle over to the side of the access lane.

Once at the curb, she switched off the engine, activated the hazard lights and pulled the lever for the hood. "Girls, jus' fallah mah lead, yuh?  We gonn' be playin' a li'l game called Sneakin' Around Wi'tha Cowpoah-ke, yuh?  Trus'me, it gonn' be fuhhh-n."

Predictably, Blackie let out a cheerful Woof! while Goldie settled for a few whimpers down in her safe spot in the footwell.

---

Five minutes later, Wynne held onto a pair of leather leashes as she and the dogs walked toward the northern spectator gate at a brisk pace - the people stuck in the endless line of station wagons and SUVs all sending longing glances in their direction.

Wooooof…

"Yuh, y'all don't hafta tell me, Blackie. I sure know how much y'all hate that there leash an' all, but this be fer yer own safety, yuh?  Y'all bein' a black dawg an' it be gettin' kinda dark an' all them dainnn-geruss wheels he'… naw. Bettah safe than sorry 'z whut I say."

Yap!  Yap-yap-yap…

"Yuh, 'xactly, Goldie. An' it only gonn' be like five minnits or som'tin."

Woof?

"Yuh. Five minnits. Y'all be a big dawg, Blackie… y'all can handle it, awright."

Woof…

---

Unlike Thunder Park's race weekends that were organized directly by the owners of the dirt-track, the dog show simply rented the facilities and the crew of groundskeepers which meant there wasn't a general admission ticket as such - a majority of the revenue was generated by selling parking permits and the registration and entry fees for the dogs.

For the well-off pet owners, a four-digit premium package existed that granted them access to an exclusive club that provided champagne, oysters and caviar for the humans, and top-of-the-line products from the primary sponsor Cazamore Pet Foods Corp. for all the little four-legged darlings.

Wynne and the dogs finally went through the northern spectator gate. She nodded a brief Howdy to a harried-looking Donald 'Donnie' Cummins, the Chief of Security, who had run to the entrance to give his stressed employees a helping hand.

The inspection booth was well-lit and well-placed in the middle of the first footpath - during the racing events, that particular section was reserved for the concession stands so Wynne had visited it 500 times if not more. The square booth was accessible from all four sides so there was hardly any delay in getting to one of the scrutineers once the visitors had made it through the mad scrimmage line out front.

The side of the booth Wynne aimed for was manned by a gentleman in his late sixties. His thinning hair, high brow, full beard and round spectacles gave him an air of being a retired college professor, but his meaty, flushed face and large hands pointed to a life spent doing manual labor.

"Howdy, Mista!" Wynne said, thrusting her free hand ahead for the traditional greeting. "Whah, these he' gor-guss gals be Blackie an' Goldie. I'mma-gonn' bet y'all ain't gonn' have no trubbel figgerin' out who be who, haw?"

"Name, please?" the man said, picking up a clipboard and a ball point pen once he had shaken the visitor's hand.

Wynne narrowed her eyes and shot the scrutineer a steely gaze. "Blackie an' Goldie like I done tole ya, Mista."

"No, I meant your name, Miss."

"Haw!  Yuh, okeh… o' course. Yuh. Wynne Donnah-hew. Dee-ohh-enn-enn-ah an' a whole buncha lettahs. I reckon y'all gonn' find me an' Sheriff Mandy Jalinski on that there list there alreddy. Prolly. Haw, I hope so, anyhows."

The scrutineer moved an index finger down the list until he landed at Donohue, Wynne. 'Blackie' (German Shepherd), 'Goldie' (Golden Retriever). "Ah, yes. All right," he said and took a fresh pair of surgical gloves from a shelf under the counter - the Slappp! that followed when he pulled them on made Wynne wince.

The scrutineer cast a glance at the dogs to assess their behavior when they didn't think anyone was watching them - during the inspection, he would delve deeper into their physical and mental states. "I need to see their entry cards and documentation regarding their genealogical tables before I can go on. Please."

"Yessirree, I got 'em right he'," Wynne said and dug into her jacket pocket - the documents were quickly found and put on the counter. "As y'all gonn' see, I wussen able ta get them there promo-shunnal pic-chures o' them li'l angels. Mercy Sakes, I ain't nevah seen 'em mo' alive as when I done trahhh'd takin' them photos an' all. I musta done snapped a hundred pic-chures o' nuttin' at all 'cos they had upped stakes in tha meantime."

The scrutineer cocked his head as he looked at Wynne. "Miss, I'm afraid you've misunderstood something. You were never meant to take the promotional photos yourself. There are professional photographers here for that exact task."

Wynne froze in place for a few seconds - then her face fell into a gloomy mask. A mumbled "Aw!  Aw-shoot… an' all that hassle… good flip almighty… shoot!" escaped her while she thrust her hands into her pockets.

The inspector read Blackie and Goldie's genealogical documentation thoroughly before he leaned forward to begin the actual inspection process - in the mean time, the dogs both assumed the look of calm, polite and almost cherub-like canines.

---

The inspection turned a little more physical than either Wynne or the dogs had expected, so the occasional Woof?  Yap?! and "Haw, izzat really necessary, Mista?" had been uttered.

The last item on the inspector's lengthy checklist had been crouching next to Blackie to run his hands over her hips - one of the known weak spots on all German Shepherds - but he soon got up and peeled off the surgical gloves.

"Your dogs are in excellent condition, Miss Donohue," he said as he readied two official stickers that were soon attached to the two eight-by-ten-inch pieces of cardboard that Wynne had given him earlier - one for each dog.

"Whah, I sure do thank y'all, Mista," Wynne said and tipped her cowboy hat. "We be workin' perdy dang hard ta keep 'em fit, happy an' healthy."

Nodding, the inspector turned back to the booth to find a stamp and a pad. After the former had been wetted on the latter, he whacked it so hard onto the registration cards that the entire booth shook - down below, Goldie whimpered and Blackie growled at the Human's bizarre behavior. "All right. That'll be one-hundred and eighty dollars, please."

Wynne drew a breath that was so quick it almost sounded like a gasp. She held it for a second or two before she said: "Hold 'em hosses, Mista. We alreddy done paid one-fiddy bucks!"

"No, Miss, that's for entering your dogs into the event itself," the elderly gentleman said while adjusting his glasses. "You'll need to pay one-hundred and eighty dollars for the inspection and the actual registration. Two inspections and two registrations of forty-five dollars each equals one-hundred and eighty dollars."

Wynne blinked a couple of times before she narrowed her eyes down into blue slits once more. "A hundred an' how many?  One-fiddy plus one-eighty is… is… shoot… plentah!  Uh… three-hundred an' thirty stinkin' bucks fer- fer- fer-"

"Oh, I almost forgot… there's also the twenty-five dollar grounds fee for each of your dogs. But you needn't pay that now. Tomorrow will suffice."

Wynne's eyes stopped blinking while she tried to calculate $330 plus $50. Once the outrageous sum flashed onto her mind's internal display, she stared wide-eyed at the inspector for several long seconds. "Haw!  Whaddinda-wohhhhhhh-rld?" she said in a croak. "Ya be chargin' fer them dawggies puttin' their paws on da ground?!  Tell me, Mista, iz there anythin' at all that'cha ain't chargin' us fer?!"

"The drinking water is free. For the dogs, I mean."

"Haw!  Whoop-di-doo, Mista!  Lawwwwwwwr-die, that sure iz a load off!" Wynne cried, slapping her palms onto her thighs. "Gosh-golly-almighty, an' there I done thunk we wussen gonn' get nuttin' outtah it!  Tha watah is free!  Praise the bearded gaaah in tha skaaah fer them li'l favuhrs, haw?!"

"I sense a certain hostility directed at me, Miss Donohue. It's misplaced. I'm not the one making the rules. You need to pay one-hundred and eighty dollars now, or else I'll have to declare the inspection stickers null and void."

Dark, angry storm clouds rolled over Wynne's ice-blue eyes before she shook her head and dug into a pocket to find her wallet. "Holy shittt, dat be one helluva sweet bizzness arrangement all y'all got goin' he'!  Jeebus!  Move ovah, Al Capohhh-ne… y'all got yaself some competi-shun…" she said in a mumble that was just loud enough to be heard by the inspector - not that he seemed to care the slightest what she or anyone else thought.

---

Back at the supposedly broken-down truck ten minutes later, Wynne let Blackie and Goldie climb up onto the back seat before she dumped the documents on the passenger-side seat, lowered the hood and finally got behind the steering wheel.

"Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm… okeh," she mumbled, studying the official timetable that she had managed to nab a physical copy of. The detailed schedule showed that the special beauty pageant that Goldie had been entered in would run from ten to eleven-thirty on Saturday morning, and that Blackie's Agility contest for law enforcement K9 units would start at noon. "Haw, that be purr-fect. Yessir," she continued as she folded the piece of paper and stuck it into her liner pocket so it was safe.

Her telephone was soon in her hand, and it only took her five further seconds to find Mandy's number and select it. The connection was established at once:

'Hi, hon… how did your idea pan out?' Mandy said in a voice that had grown more vibrant than the tired tones it had held earlier - the familiar background noises of laughter, chatting and cutlery hitting plates proved that she had made it back to Moira's Bar & Grill.

"Howdy, darlin'!  Aw, it wus… yuh, mo' expensive than we had done figgah'd. Yuh. A lot mo' expensive. Naw, one helluva lot mo' expensive."

There was time to hear the video poker machine playing its regular electronic trill before Mandy said: 'Okay?  How much did you-'

"Weeeellll, I jus' done paid anothah hundred an' eighty dollahs fer a-cuppel-a stickahs on two pieces o' cardboard. An' tomorrah, we gonn' hafta pay anothah fiddy bucks so them dawgs can use tha ground ta walk on," Wynne said, rubbing her brow as if simply thinking about the extortionate price made her dizzy.

'What the hell?!  That's ludicrous!' Mandy uttered at the other end of the connection, roaring at such a volume the telephone vibrated in Wynne's hand.

"Ah-yuh, sure iz. But lissen, darlin', them dawggies be inspected an' approved an' ev'rythin'. An' we alreddy registered an' entered 'em in them there events we done tawked 'bout. We both know fer a fact they gonn' love it an' all, yuh?"

Another long pause followed. In the background, someone seemed to heckle A.J. Lane for being slow to flip over a frankfurter at the frying pan. 'Yeah… I suppose,' Mandy eventually said in a voice that had lost some of its joyful tones.

"Yuh. I reckon it gonn' be excitin' fer all offus. Anyhows, judgin' bah tha sounds I hear in mah ear… haw, dat rhymes… Moira's seems ta be goin' well tanight, haw?"

'Well, we have the usual clientele here. The O'Sullivans are just getting ready to leave. Mr. Garfield stormed out just as I came in. Miss MacKay told me she had handed him a week's suspension for getting into a yelling match with Mr. Lane about something irrelevant.'

"Yuh, that be Tuckah Garfield, awright," Wynne said and rolled her eyes at the typically abrasive behavior of the perennially grouchy tow truck driver.

In the background, the video poker machine played a cheerful tune that meant someone had won a few dollars. When that ended, a pair of male voices took over the airwaves, but they were too muffled to be discernible.

'I'm sitting near the pool table as we speak. Mr. Finch and Mr. Wilburr Junior are arguing over a foul ball or whatever. It's not overcrowded here tonight… I needed that, actually. When will you be here?'

Wynne moved the telephone away from her ear to look at the time. "Haw, it ain't gonn' be long. Mebbe ten-twelve-fitteen minnits or so. Y'all can-"

'Please don't speed to get home. We've been through enough drama this week already, hon.'

"Haw, I wussen gonn', darlin'. Honest. Anyhows, y'all can tell Slow Lane ta slap them patties on da stoah-ve an' dunk them French Fraaahs, dontchaknow!"

'Will do!'

"Much obliged!  Okeh, darlin', I jus wanted ta letcha know that it went A-OK out he'… tho' kinda expensive an' all. I be seein' y'all in a flash. This he' be tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off. We be gohhh-ne. Bah-bah."

A Woof-woof! and a Yap-yap-yap-yap! from the back seat proved the dogs were eager to get back to their comfy doggy-cave under the pool table. "Yuh, yuh, we be goin'… we be goin'. Keep them pants on, mah bayu-ta-ful dawggies. Shoot… all y'all ain't even got no pants ta keep on. Nevah mind!" Wynne said as she turned off the hazard lights, twisted the ignition key and made a fast U-turn before anyone near her could as much as complain about it.

"Watah an' jerky fer all y'all, an' burgahs, beers an' mah darlin' Mandy fer comp'ny fer this he' li'l ol' Cowpoah-k. Yessirree, this gonn' be a fihhh-ne evenin', awright," she said just before she took the turn onto the State Route on two wheels to blend into a gap in the southbound traffic - the matte-black Silverado soon made a clean getaway from the hubbub at the race track.

Continued

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