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Marshall picked me up at 5:30 last night. We knew it was going to be a hot evening, so I put on my shortest shorts, push-up bra and tightest, skimpiest tee-shirt I owned. Marshall had on his Tommy Bahamas and Tevas. He had driven the little, loud car. Midnight blue Porsche, with glass packs. We were ready to be seen, and heard.

We raced with the sun. Sunsets on Florida's Gulf coast call for more reverence than many a religious service. You can't be late.

Our drive from Tampa to Clearwater Beach was fast. Also, fun. The radio blared oldies songs as we cruised down streets Marshall used to haunt as a teenager in his `57 Chevy. We avoided the tourist traffic by taking shortcuts only the locals know.

The Palm Pavilion was packed with sun worshipers. We walked in. I was overdressed.

Through sheer luck, we found barstools on the beachside. The misting, osculating fans vibrated overhead keeping us cool as we sipped cool ones. The pungent smell of saltwater seasoned our appetizer. It was good.

Call it fate, but I looked to my left and on the end barstool I saw him there, sitting alone. James Everhard. Aviator sunglasses concealed his eyes, but the way he held his drink and the trademark fitted silk tee-shirt, I knew it couldn't have been anyone else. Was he watching the setting sun or were his eyes focused on the bikini-clad women frolicking on the beach in front of him? That I didn't know.

I turned away. Marshall and I, along with the throng of people now gathered on the veranda, counted down the minutes as the sun slipped through the thin layer of clouds en route to a union with the horizon. The beat of the Reggae music increased with each passing minute. Then came the crescendo like lovers meeting in the night as the sun's sphere gently touched the water's edge and slipped into the horizon. Toasts were made to the now faceless sky, some people even

applauded.

I glanced back to my left again, but JE had vanished into the sultry evening. Only an empty glass remained at his place.

Yes, it was a hot summer's night in Florida.

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Tampa Adventure

I left WW's house with an undeniable urge to head south. I called Dona in Dallas but she was tied up with family and asked for a raincheck. I promised to call her next week and disappointed, I hung up. I headed for Wiley Post airport where a business associate kept his Lear. He owed me a favor so I thought I'd ask if I might borrow his jet. I phoned him on my cell phone and he readily agreed to the loan. It was fueled and ready at his hanger. I filed a flight plan to Tampa and after a checklist run through of the sleek plane, I was taxiing down the runway.

Later, at 27,000 feet, I dialed an old friend's number. "Hello, this is Leroy Selmon," my old friend's voice came through the phone. "Leroy, this is Everhard. Got time for some golf this afternoon?" I asked. "I'll make the time Everhard you old dog! How have you been?" he asked. After pleasantries had been exchanged, he told me he could handle 9 holes, he was a little down in his back. Sixteen years in the NFL had a way of doing that to a man I suppose. We made plans to meet at the little nine-hole, Chi Chi Rodriguez course in Clearwater, later that afternoon.

I landed in Tampa and stored the plane in a rental hangar. I rented a new, fire engine red T-Bird and tossed my clubs into the trunk. I met Leroy at the course and we played a relaxing nine holes of golf and reminisced about our days in college. He still loved Norman and visited whenever he could. His job as Athletic Director at the University of South Florida was going wonderfully and he was truly happy. The University had a beach apartment in Clearwater and he handed me the keys. "Enjoy my friend, just don't pull any of your college pranks and get me fired." The tall man mused. "Me? Never!" I assured him. We shook hands and I thanked him for a fun afternoon.

The USF apartment on the beach at Clearwater proved to be very nice and I wondered just who at the University used it? I decided that it had to be recruits for the USF football team. In any case, I appreciated the loan. I showered and dressed, hurrying so that I could catch the impressive Florida sunset at a trendy place I knew, called the Palm Pavilion. It was not usually crowded with tourists, but generally sported a local crowd. I pulled on a pair of white chinos and a fitted silk tee shirt. I put on my aviator sunglasses and jumped into the red bird.

The Palm Pavilion was just as I remembered, misting, oscillating fans kept the sun worshippers who had packed the place cool, and the view of the beach and the setting sun were breathtaking. I took a seat at an end barstool, ordered a Chevis neat, and enjoyed the view of both the sunset and the curvaceous beauties in their thong bikinis that were both on the beach and in the bar. As I sipped my drink, I saw in the mirror behind the bar, an extremely beautiful, blonde enter the room. She wore very short, shorts a very skimpy tee shirt. She was wearing far more than a lot of women in the room, but there was just something about her that made me forget all the bikini clad ladies so nearby. A tall, sun tanned guy escorted her as I watched them closely through the mirror. I noticed the beautiful blonde look at me with a surprised look of recognition. Then she looked back at her escort and laughed at something he had said. I left my seat at the bar and moved to an area behind the couple. I had to know who this beautiful woman was. It became my mission for the evening. The couple moved to the verandah where a crowd of sun worshippers was toasting and cheering above the sound of the Reggae music. They were cheering and toasting as the brilliantly orange sun slowly sank into the blue green gulf waters.

Yes, it was going to be a hot summer's night in Florida.

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That night, as Everhard tried to sleep, he thought about Kim’s email. He had concentrated on just one whimsical bit of humor in it and had gone off on a tangent about the haunting, green-eyed alien. The email wasn’t about her. Why was he was still so haunted by the lovely alien? It had to be because of the guilt he felt concerning her. He felt as though his literary pursuit of her had driven her away from the group, and he hated that, even though it had been purely fiction, someone had taken it far too seriously. But this email hadn’t even been about her! It had been about Kim and James, and he had just deleted it without even a reply. How could he have been so rude and cold?

He jumped out of bed, started the shower and let the cold water run down his body. Slowly, the nerve centers in his body began to awaken and his head began to clear. He knew what he must do, where he must travel, the quest was about to begin. He quickly packed enough things for a week on the road, left WW a note telling him his destination, and went to the garage. He fired up the V-10 engine as quietly as was possible and backed the bright red Viper out into the street. Phil and Emily had made him a gift of the exquisite machine after their last adventure together. He headed the car east and eased away.

Later, on the Interstate, he opened the beautiful sports car up a little. As the speedometer climbed to an easy cruising speed of 110, he thought about cars and women, and his thoughts about both. The European models were fine, as far as they went. But give him a finely crafted American model any day. Handle like a dream with the raw power and staying power that makes the Porches and Ferraris of the world run and hide! Twelve hundred and eighty-five miles to go, about eighteen hours, he should roll into Tampa about 7 PM.

My cell phone rang. 380-0947 the caller ID displayed. My heart skipped a beat. He was calling me. Should I answer? I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. "Hello," I said softly into the handset.

"Hi Sweetie," the familiar husky voice said to me. "I'm here, I need to see you."

I wondered whether he called all the women in his life, Sweetie, or just me. Did it matter? Yes.

"You're where?" I repeated into the phone. We had a bad connection.

"Tampa, may I come over?"

"James, I'm in Little Rock for Father's Day weekend. I flew in yesterday." Only the crackle of a bad cell phone connection broke the silence. I walked to the second story window of my cousin's home, overlooking the pine trees and maple trees lining the quiet street below and wished I were back home, where the palm trees stood tall outside my window. I needed to see him, to touch his face, to see his smile, to look into his piercing gray eyes.

Finally, James spoke, "Is you-know-who going to be there as well?"

Probably, I said to myself. I wondered if the taxpayers would ever know that, almost every time I was in Little Rock, the Clantons' travel plans coincidentally had also brought them here. I didn't have to respond to James' rhetorical question. He already knew the answer.

"Do you plan to see him?"

"I never do and you know it." I reminded him angrily. "We've been over this a million times before, James. Don't do this to me."

"Then get a restraining order, Sacagawea," he scoffed at me.

"I hate that name." I rebuked him. What judge would believe that a former president and his minions had stalked this little woman's from Oklahoma every step, waiting for her political misstep.

Absolute power it was called in the inner circles and it stunk. I continued, "Shall I get a restraining order for Hillary, too? You know she's supposed to like the girls as well!"

"Well, you are good looking, Ms. Clark, I don't blame either of them." Tenderness and playfulness replaced the sarcasm that had seeped into his voice previously.

Thank goodness, I sighed, it was just the two of us again, alone in our own world void of the ghosts that haunted our past. "My name is Finch now. I want nothing to do ever again with the

Lewis & Clark expedition -- and, Mr. Everhard, I know you're just trying to get into my pants with your compliment," I taunted him. "I'll be back in Tampa Tuesday. Will I get to see you?"

James said nothing on the other end of the line, but I felt the smile on his face. "You know where I keep the key hidden. Make yourself at home," I told him.

The phone line crackled again and we were losing our connection. "Sweetie…," he began but his words were interrupted before he finished and the line went dead.

"Just my fricking luck!" Everhard swore as he lost her cell phone signal. "I drive all night to get here, and she’s in Little Rock!" He chuckled at himself, "so spontaneous, so right now! You might have called", he thought to himself. "Hell, James, the woman has you infatuated. Admit it!" He was tired from his all night drive and she had offered him her place. He decided he would take her up on it. He drove towards the upscale neighborhood in which Kim lived. Ten minutes later, he parked the bright red Viper in the circle drive and walked up the flagstone walk. He looked around to make sure that no one would see him retrieve the hidden key. Not so much so no one would know where it was, but more because digging the damn key out was so degrading! "Sheesh", he said as he reached behind the concrete likeness of a beagle on the porch. There it was, right where she had told him it would be. Kim, the wisecracking, jokester that she was, had inserted the key right where the sun never shone on the stone beagle. He retrieved the key, handling it carefully, as if it had come from a real beagle, and unlocked the door. No self-respecting burglar would ever pull a key out of a dog’s ass. Maybe that’s why she kept it there.

The house was plush, the furnishings and drapes were expensive looking. He took a quick look around. Definitely first-class. He made his way upstairs to the master bedroom. He hesitated momentarily, should he set up in here? Was that presumptuous on his part? He decided it wasn’t. Hadn’t she just told him on the cell phone that she knew he was trying to get into her pants? Why change that perception? He unpacked and found an area in an amazing closet, roughly the size of a small Oklahoma town, and hung up the silk tee shirts and chinos that were such a regular part of his wardrobe. Then he stripped and entered a glass-enclosed shower that could accommodate a party of about 10 easily. Seven different showerheads pummeled his body with warm water from virtually every direction. After ten minutes of tension relieving warm, pulsing, water he dried off, pulled on a fresh pair of boxer briefs, and lay on the massive bed and tried to sleep.

Sleep was slow in coming as he ran everything that had happened through his mind. Kim was in Arkansas, so was old Bill. She seemed repulsed by this situation, but was that really true? A former President of the United States, for God sakes! He knew that he was probably there right now, with a frigging squad of Arkansas State Policemen and Secret Servicemen with sunglasses and headsets, looking at everyone suspiciously……. It was during this troubling thought that he fell into a troubled, exhausted sleep.

I had once loved JE with the passion Scarlett O'Hara yearned for Ashley. My obsession with him made Jay Gatsby's for Daisy pale in the noonday sun. JE was the center of my world, a nutrient for my survival, supplanting the basic food groups with the basic.

But that was yesterday, and yesterday is gone the song mourns. And, I mourned too after the initial rage had settled into a dull despair that even today occasionally permeates my soul during the dark hours while I'm alone.

I had fled Oklahoma to flee him, fleeing the memories, those constant reminders of who I was with him and who I was without him.

I knew he had loved me too and had found me intriguing. At first he told me my past didn't matter, history was only a subject one studied in school. We both laughed. We both had history, but had vowed to begin making our own together, forgetting the others.

Yet, my history, once more entwined with Oklahoma's in the making, caused our harmonious notes of love to turn into sour notes of discord. We had words. Ugly, ugly words and he slammed the door behind him.

That was September 11, 2000. One year to the day before the World Trade Center towers fell, our lives were never to be the same again. The fallout? JE and I had become, well, the cursed words – "just friends."

And, then he phoned me last weekend and called me Sweetie for the first time since our fateful September 11th. We momentarily had stepped back in time. It felt good. But, why had he come to Tampa without warning?

With some trepidation, I had let him stay at my place while I was in Little Rock. Upon returning home, his presence remained strong though he was no longer here. So strong, that I had reached out for him in the night only to realize it was his scent still lingering on my sheets and the Drakkar Noir in my memory.

Could I be unlocking Pandora's box again? Do I dare?

She had told him that she would be back Tuesday, it was now Friday and not a word from her. James knew that she must have again met with him… William Jefferson Clanton, former President of the United States, how could he even hope to compete with that? Their last moments together, that fateful September day, two years ago, had been terrible, intense. Angry words had been exchanged. He had stormed out. He was a fool to think that he could just show up here in Tampa and everything would be all right, all the anger gone, her hurt completely healed. How could he have been so stupid!? …….But he knew why. Because, she had not left his mind for even one moment since that day. Was he falling back in love with her? "No!" he thought, angrily, James Everhard was not ready to love just one woman, it was definitely not his style.

He spent the next hour packing his things, straightening the house and running all these thoughts through his mind, over and over. He was getting more and more angry. He carried his bag down the stairs and set it by the door. "Should he leave her a note?" he thought, "thanking her for the use of the house?" "Hell no! Just leave James! She has let you know how she feels!" He had his hand on the knob, ready to leave forever, when he saw three long, black Mercedes limousines pull up into the driveway. "What the hell is this?" he thought. Six, very large, muscular men, all dressed in identical black suits and ties with mirror sunglasses and headsets on, hurried to the door. Everhard met them on the front porch.

"Sorry Mr. Everhard", the largest of the men said politely, "If you will step back inside, we will need to pat you down."

Everhard stepped back inside tentatively, and another of the men quickly and efficiently patted him down for weapons, while the rest of the team quickly searched the rest of the house.

"He’s clean," the man said to the leader of the squad.

"No one else here." Another of the team reported.

The leader spoke into his head mounted microphone, "It’s all clear. You can bring in number 2".

Everhard was still facing the door, his back to the limousines and the entourage. He heard more people enter the room. Everhard had a pretty good idea who was at the center of all this security and he waited for him to speak.

"Leave us alone here," a familiar voice told the secret service men.

The security team quickly left the hallway and deployed to the outside of the house, covering all the entrances. Everhard had still not turned around to face the important visitor, he supposed he was somewhat in shock.

"Well, at last we meet Mr. Everhard," the familiar, but feminine voice said.

James turned around and was face-to-face with none other than Hillary Rodram Clanton, former first lady and present United States Senator from the state of New York.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Clanton", Everhard somehow managed to utter. "I wasn’t expecting any company today, in fact, I was about to leave." James told her.

"Please have a word with me before you go back to Oklahoma," the charming and surprisingly attractive woman asked him.

"Well sure," James nearly always reverted back to his Okie drawl when he was nervous and at a loss for words.

They walked together through the house to the spacious sun room.

"How do you know so much about me, Ms. Clanton?" James asked.

"It’s my business to stay informed, and call me Hillary, please."

"Okay Hillary, and call me James." He told her. "You obviously have your sources, Mrs…er, Hillary. Do you know where Kim is right now?" James decided to cut right to the chase.

"Well, yes, I do. Or at least I knew where she was five minutes ago. In Arkansas, James."

"With your, uh, with Bill?" James asked boldly.

Hillary looked directly into Everhard’s eyes. "No, not presently. She’s with another man." She read the anger in his eyes and threw more fuel on the fire. "And yes, James, they’re making love…..as we speak."

"Was she lying to him?" he wondered.

She walked up to Everhard, stopping just inches from his face. Then she stood on her tiptoes and gently kissed him.

"I’m sorry to be the barer of bad news James, but ever since my philandering husband started seeing her a few years ago, I have had her under surveillance. She currently has two lovers, not counting Bill. She doesn’t seem to have missed you very much." she said teasingly.

"More lies?" He thought, or perhaps it is the truth.

She continued "But my dear boy; you have no right to be angry. I’ve had my eye on you as well; you do get around, James my boy! There’s that Hamptonsworth woman in Dallas and then there’s TJ in Oklahoma, and Sherry in L.A. and Boonie...

(Jeez, he didn't think anyone knew about that!) 

Shall I continue?"

"Okay, okay, you’ve made your point," James told her.

"No, I haven’t yet made my point James," the blonde senator said, "my point is that I want to get to know you much better myself." James paused for a moment and then took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. Just a moment later they were both naked and in each others’ arms.

For Everhard, one of the most wonderful moments in life is when he first touches a woman with intimate intent. The sense of anticipation, the perception of what boundaries are about to flower open is so impassioned, it makes his blood seethe. They stood in the middle of the sunroom, looking out at the pool, barefoot on a thick carpet of swirling colors and shapes. Their hands moving over each other.

"I love the way you feel," he said softly.

She curled her head against his shoulder, and then she did something quite extraordinary.

"Tell me how," she whispered in response, "tell me everything."

So he did. Every place he touched her, he described, and her body quickened in response. Her thighs trembling, her breath rushing out of her in tiny, perfumed exhalations. He put his arms lower on her and she climbed him like a tree trunk, locking her ankles over the top of his buttocks. She was hot and wet and open, and when he entered her, there was no resistance at all. She came the first time so fast, it took him completely by surprise, and by the time he had recovered, she was climbing that mountain again, shuttering and moaning between her gasped out narrative. This was a Hillary Clanton so far removed from her cool, perfectly composed exterior, that in gasped out delight, she let go of everything she held so dear in her perfectly organized life. He drove into her one more time, throbbing uncontrollably as she urged him on with the throaty sound of her voice, the scrape of her nails along his sweat riveted flesh, the beat of her small heels against the small of his back. Her taunt nipples were rubbing sensuously against his hairless chest; he noticed everything, especially the small screams of pleasure in her throat as he plunged even more deeply inside of her….

Hours later, entwined with him on the sofa, their faces lit only by the moonlight coming through the window, she turned her face to his.

"James," she said, with a touch of wonder, "I’m embarrassed to say that, even at my age, I never actually knew that sex could be this magical, so wild and uninhibited. Always before, for me, it was planned, scripted, and choreographed, never this spontaneous. God, this was so wonderful!"

She paused for just a few seconds, as if in thought, and then she laughed shyly, saying, "I’m not used to completely losing control like that. I usually know exactly what I’m doing, where I’m going and how the current scene is going to play out. But not with you James. With you, it’s like letting go, letting myself be taken wherever we end up. It’s a new type of freedom for me."

James smiled and said, "Sounds like you may have some control issues my dear.. But while we’re doing "true confessions." I must confess that I was a bit surprised with your enthusiasm myself! You’re a wildcat darlin’.

"Hillary laughed and kissed him deeply. She looked at her diamond encrusted Rolex, the only thing she had on, and said, "I must go darling, the guards are probably hungry."

They both jumped up and dressed hurriedly.

As Hillary left, she told him, "I’ll be seeing you again", and winked.

And just like that, the former first lady, a dozen secret service men, and three Limos were gone. Everhard picked up his bag, walked out on the porch, locked the front door, and jammed the key back into the Beagle’s posterior, perhaps a bit too agressively. "Now, that’s symbolic!" he thought, laughing to himself.

After hearing this shocking news on his car radio, Everhard began to think about the situation. Why would the senator call a press conference to reveal this shocking news? It didn’t seem to make political sense. He picked up his cell phone and called his friend W.W. back in Oklahoma. W.W. taught Political Science at a local University back home, and he would see what his take was on all this…

"Hello," W.W. answered.

"Hey Bro’ just driving back from Tampa and I heard the news flash about Hillary Clanton. What’s your take on it?" Everhard asked.

"Not sure James. Under normal circumstances this would be political suicide for a presidential hopeful, but in her case…….Everyone will naturally assume that she contracted the HIV virus from her philandering husband. She will probably immediately divorce the cursed guy, and then the sympathy votes will come pouring in, especially the female vote. Picture this; "Faithful wife given HIV virus by run-around husband." Watch for her to be discussing this on Oprah next week. By God, it might just be brilliant! She’s probably on her way to the oval office! Got to hand it to the old girl, it’s a gutsy plan, but it might just work…

Everhard thanked his oldest friend and punched the "off" button.

So, a potentially brilliant political scheme was being unveiled by the former first lady. Pretty salty. But he was just very glad that he had used protection. Then he thought….The condum he used was one of dozens in a large candy dish on Kim’s coffee table. Every shape size, color and description. Just why were they so plentiful and readily available in her sun room? And what if Hillary had contracted the virus from her husband, had Kim been exposed as well? He had a lot to find out…

The familiar face glared at me from the online Oklahoma newspaper. In disbelief, I stared at the headline over it: James Everhard in Coma.

Oh my God, was my first reaction. What had happened? Though he had never fully confided in me what he did, I knew at times JE lived among and worked with the darker side of humankind. Sinister he had later described one of his business colleagues upon our meeting. Had that person or someone else turned on him?

As my thoughts ran through JE's colleagues like a police lineup, a jangling phone in the background brought me back to reality. I answered it and heard sobbing on the other end. When the female voice finally regained her composure, Donna Vadelle asked me whether I had heard the news.

"No", I answered. I had only seen his face and the headline and had briefly caught the words "under investigation" in the online text.

JE had been run off the road on his return trip to Oklahoma. He was not expected to live, Donna gushed between her tears. There were no suspects in custody at the time, but authorities were looking for a sports utility vehicle bearing Arkansas tags driven by a lone male with two dogs in the back.

I cried. We cried together. And then there was a long silence. Donna and I in parallel worlds yet joined today by a common denominator, James Everhard. Before hanging up she promised to keep me informed, warning me to expect the worst.

I went back to my computer, touching the small face on the screen. As I gently stroked his picture, my mind went back the couple of weeks ago to our last phone call. Though the connection was bad I thought I heard him say he would call me soon again. He never did.

Nor did he even write me a note upon his departure from Tampa.

And now he had been run off the road. By whom? Why? I buried my face in my hands. James Everhard, gone forever? Oh please, God, let it not be.

Total darkness, where was he? What is that noise? "Beep, beep, beep,..." heart monitoring machinery? He opened his eyes, only seeing blurred images. "Where the Hell was he?" he wondered. Then the image began to clear, he blinked, a little clearer now.

"My God, I’m in Heaven, Everhard muttered, you’re so beautiful," he told the blonde angel that stood over him.

"James! Oh Thank God! Phil, get the nurse, he’s awake!" Emily bent down and kissed him gently on the cheek. Everhard grabbed her and pulled her close and kissed her full on the lips.

"James! You devil, Emily said, laughing.

Everhard smiled, "had to steal that kiss, after all, Phil’s out of the room".

Just then a Doctor, a nurse and his old friend Phil Murphy came into the room. The doctor began doing a neurological exam and was asking the battered investigator a hundred questions.

"We thought you were toast buddy," Murphy told him after the doctor finished his exam.

"What happened to me Phil? Everhard asked his old friend, "I can’t remember much."

"Witnesses say that a black Cadillac Escalarde intentionally ran you and the Viper off the Interstate. Hell of a wreck!"

‘The Viper!? Is the car all right?" Everhard demanded.

"It’s totaled old pal. But don’t worry about the friggin’ car. How are you?!" Murphy said.

Everhard stretched and tried moving his arms and legs.

"I seem pretty intact, a little sore I guess. But the Viper, dammit! I loved that car!"

Everhard tried to get out of the bed, but was stopped by the doctor and nurse. The physician dressed in green surgical scrubs spoke to him, "Take it easy Mr. Everhard. There don’t seem to be any broken bones or internal injuries, but you’ve been unconscious for over 24 hours. You’ll have to stay here at least overnight for observation."

Everhard groaned in complaint but lay back down on the hospital bed. "Where are we, anyway? Everhard asked.

"Tulsa, James, " Emily told him.

"Tulsa huh, well I almost made it home."

"Cops are looking for the Escalarde, they got a partial on the Arkansas tag. According to witnesses, it was a male, caucasian, with white or blonde hair and there were two dogs in the back!" Phil brought his friend up to date.

"Doesn’t sound like anyone I know," Everhard quipped.

"Probably some irate husband, after you for entertaining his wife," Phil joked.

Everhard thought about that for a moment. It was possible, he reasoned. At that moment, the door flew open and Donna Vadelle rushed in. She saw that James was alive, and awake, she was ecstatic! She ran to the bed and gave James a long, wet, passionate kiss.

"Oh James, I was so frightened!"

"I’m okay, sweetie, and you look great! I always loved that red sweater!" he told her.

"James, you are impossible!" she sighed and then laughed with her friends in the hospital room, "you’ll never change!"

James kept his mood light and laughed with his friends, but he knew that his assailant was well connected and protected. It would be hard to bring him out into the open. But he would find a way to trap his pursuer….He had to…

(An Adaptation)

It was still dark when Scully parked her car across from the coffee bar that tried to be upscale and succeeded only in attaining an atmosphere of touristy charm. Still reeling from the flood of emotions she had been experiencing over the last few hours, she didn't relish the idea of standing alone on a dark and deserted street waiting for Mulder. The café wouldn't be open for a few more minutes, and the manager wouldn't unlock the doors for anyone before six o'clock sharp. Anyone, that is, except Mulder, so Scully waited in the car, hoping he would be along soon.

They had discovered the place together, on one of their frequent lunchtime forays out of the office when the tension and intensity of the morning called for an hour or so of walking off frustration. It was the perfect place for quiet conversation or for planning a next move when they seemed to have reached a stalemate in some investigation. It was also perfect for just sitting together, sipping coffee and thinking and being secure in the knowledge that come what may, each of them had at least one ally. At some point, Scully began thinking of it as 'our place,' although she would never have said so to Mulder. There was too much intimacy implied by two people having a 'place' or a 'song' or anything that was 'theirs' simply because it held so much meaning for them as a team. But on their first afternoon walk after Mulder's suspension was lifted, they found themselves on this street and Mulder said, "Hey, Scully, there's our place. Feel like some coffee?"

The warm feeling of that thought was fleeting. What had Mulder said on the phone just a little while ago? He had asked her to meet him at 'the usual place,' not 'our place.' Did that mean he didn't think of it in that way anymore? Had she hurt him that deeply? Had she inflicted that much damage on their friendship, and what could she do to repair it?

She could recall a time not so long ago when self-doubt would have been as alien a thought to her as the possibility of psychic phenomenon or extra-terrestrial intervention in human matters. She had been so sure of herself and her beliefs, her science. She had been self-confident almost to the point of arrogance, logical almost to the point of frigidity, and that had been a comfortable existence simply because it was familiar. She wanted it back.

The glow of headlights flashed across her face as Mulder approached from the opposite direction and guided his car into a space across the street. She watched as he turned off the lights and the ignition, marveled at the fact that a man of his size and physical power could look so small and helpless at times, that someone with such a keen and orderly mind could be so emotionally vulnerable, that the person she looked to for strength needed her strength in return.

She waited until he got out of his car before she emerged from her own. And then they stood looking at each other from opposite sides of the street, neither, it seemed, daring to cross the broken white line that represented the barrier between them, a wall built on the cornerstone of a betrayal. Over time, they could tear down that wall or it would grow out of control. She had laid the foundation, so the choice was hers. Her next actions would herald the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning, but whatever happened, on some level she knew that something had changed, that more changes were imminent.

With tentative steps, she began the long journey across the street, pausing briefly, symbolically, as her foot touched the centerline. This was where her part of the quest ended, where she embarked on his share to reclaim the lost ground.

Mulder watched her, his face impassive, but inside a multitude of thoughts and feelings competed for prevalence. This was a woman who had survived more than he would have thought any one person could, a woman who in a few short years had endured more peril, more loss and more heartache than anyone should have in a lifetime, and she had done it all without complaint. She had followed of her own free will as he traveled down a road that might well lead them both into ruination. She stood beside him in places and situations that might cost them their careers, their sanity, or their lives and she did so without flinching, without ever expressing second thoughts, without regret. Respect seemed too insignificant a word to describe what he felt for her. Reverence, veneration, awe. Any one of those came closer, but still paled in comparison to the emotion.

He owed her his life many times over and he would give it for her, without regret, if it came to that. It would mean the end of his search, but he suspected not the end of *the* search, for she had made it her own, accepted it, if unwillingly at first, and pursued it diligence and determination to match his own.

There was a fire within her, a fire that could consume him if he gave himself over to it, a fire from which he was content to draw the simple warmth of friendship, a fire, perhaps the only one, that he did not fear. She had a rare passion, a thirst for answers that would be quenched only by absolute truth. It was not enough for her to believe, she had to know, with her heart as well as her mind.

But there was another side to Dana Scully, a side he glimpsed only occasionally, but still too often. She could be cold, emotionless. He would never use the word cruel to describe her and he would never call her a bitch. She deserved better than that. She *was* better than that. But she could certainly act that way from time to time. She could be stubborn and argumentative beyond the usual mock hostility of their philosophical debates. Although she would accept being wrong with the same grace and dignity she displayed when she was right, every now and then something else would show through. At those moments, he could only hope and pray that it was not what he thought he was seeing - scorn and contempt.

As she stood before him now, the final distance between them a matter of inches that might as well have been miles, he saw a third facet to this complex woman, something he had seen once before, something she needed to reveal more often. This was not Dana Scully, the federal agent or Dana Scully, the woman. This was Dana Scully, the child, a timid, anxious, self-conscious creature that wanted someone to care for her and to tell her that everything would be all right. Every part of her needed that, but this was the only part that would admit it.

Scully looked up into his face, searching as she often did for some hint of what was going on inside his mind. But usually, as now, his face showed only one of two things, either he was joking or he was not, and right now there was no indication of humor. She tried a smile, but it came off looking and feeling weak and silly. That last bit of distance had to be crossed, so at last, she reached out and encircled him with her arms, breathing a sigh of relief when she felt his arms lock around her shoulders.

"I was alarmed when you called so early."

"It’s your old boy friend, James Everahrd. And he may have been a very bad boy."

The year before they were investigating reports of a green-eyed alien, when she had a brief, torrid encounter with JE. She returned to the Bureau without explanation after being missing for three days. It was months before the details became known, and even longer before the conversations thawed.

Breaking the embrace, Scully stepped back to look at him once again. "There's so much I haven't told you."

Mulder nodded. "I know. It's cold out here. Come on." In a move that was neither anticipated nor expected by either of the partners, he took her hand and she let herself be led to the door.

Inside the cafe, Mulder ushered Scully to a table in the corner and went to the counter to see about obtaining some breakfast. He was a paradox, Scully thought. So tortured, so haunted by memory, and yet possessed of a child-like wonder and curiosity. So warm, so caring, so cold and distant. He was so afraid of loss that he never really let himself get close to those he feared losing. They were partners, friends, and yet that friendship never really crossed the line from professional amicability to personal bonding. Oh, they might attend a ball game together, or rent a movie, or share quiet times over a cup of coffee, but that distance was always there. There were certain things neither of them felt comfortable sharing with the other. In a moment of pain, they would turn to each other if they happened to be together, finding in each other a source of instant comfort. They might even talk about it later, but those conversations would always take the form of analysis, probing for reasons and explanations, without ever touching on more personal topics, like how they felt about it or how their experiences effected them.

They knew nearly every detail of each other's lives over the years they had worked together, knew each other as well as they knew themselves. Each could anticipate the other's actions and thoughts, one would start a sentence, and the other would finish it. Yet there was so much they didn't know about each other, so much that remained hidden and denied. So different from JE, who was direct in everything he did.

A hand on her shoulder. Before she could remember where she was, Scully panicked, spinning around in her chair, ready to defend herself. Mulder looked down at her, eyes wide with alarm.

"I'm sorry. You startled me," Scully said, taking one of the coffee cups from him. She glanced across the room at the restaurant manager, who was staring at her unabashedly. "I thought maybe Brenda was out to get me."

Mulder settled into a chair across from her. "That's almost funny."

"She wants you, Mulder. And she thinks I'm what's standing in the way."

"I know. She told me."

Scully started to take a sip of the coffee, then stopped and sniffed it. "Does this smell like almonds," she asked suspiciously.

"Coffee of the day. Cafe au cyanide." He laughed. "It's amaretto, Scully. Drink up."

"The Assistant Director received a call from the political office of the White House requesting a quiet investigation of James Everhard and his recent activities. He was staying in the Tampa home of an unnamed confidant form the previous administration. She was allegedly visiting relatives in Arkansas. Prior to leaving for Oklahoma, he spent the afternoon with the junior senator from New York. Before getting to Tulsa, an attempt was made on his life by running his car off the interstate. The AD made it painfully clear that we were to be invisible, but needed to report all the facts. Certain people are very interested."

Mulder's eyes asked the question his voice wouldn't.

She nodded. Scully was thinking about what would happen if Mulder and JE confronted each other. Mulder’s eyes were focused on some point in the distance, unable to look at her. "Do you want out?"

Scully was silent for a long time, weighing the merits of the truth versus a lie. "Yes," she whispered at last.

"And no," she said. "If I gave up now, I couldn't live with myself. You know that."

He nodded. "If you do decide to... I'll understand."

Scully smiled. She was feeling better than she had in a long time. It must be true, she thought. Confession is good for the soul. "Thank you," she said and leaned across the table to plant a light kiss on his cheek. As she settled back into her chair, she had to laugh. He was blushing.

"What was that for," he asked.

"Oh, just for being you."

The classic black S-Class Mercedes sedan wound its way cautiously through the rain soaked parking lot, eventually gliding silently into a parking slot near the underground tunnel at Saint Francis Hospital.  It was well past visiting hours and the lot was nearly empty.  The hospital, perched on a hill, comforted both patients and visitors with its panoramic view of Tulsa. 

On this muggy summer night, the downtown skyline lights twinkled in the northwest between the intermittent raindrops like a Christmas tree as seen through a neighbor's screened window.  Lightning from the earlier thunderstorm now lit up the otherwise dark sky to the northeast.   But, both vista and rain were ignored by the recent interlopers at the hospital. 

On the driver's side of the Black Mercedes, a portly body inched itself from behind the wheel.  With exaggerated effort, the middle-aged man adjusted his expensive dark suit jacket as he joined his passenger behind the vehicle.  Their walk was brisk and silent as they made their way into the hospital.  For every two steps the driver took, the tall, thin black man beside him took one.

Using a jovial Okie drawl reserved for his minimum-wage constituents, the state's former Attorney General had asked for James Everhard's room number.  His request had not gone unheeded and it was only a matter of minutes before he and his companion entered Everhard's private room, unannounced and without first knocking.

Their visit was brief with the former AG doing all the talking for the visiting duo.  The Okie drawl had been left at the security guard's post and now a barrister's voice filled Everhard's room.  In perfunctory earnestness, the politician greeted his old friend, the patient. 

"Glad that Everhard had survived the crash", the AG said.  "Too bad about the Viper."  Pleased the doctors expected full recovery.  No suspects in custody.  Yet all the while, the tall black man had stood silently with his hands folded across his chest, appearing as a ghostly silhouette in the corner of the dimly lit hospital room.  And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the banal discourse ended with the visitors disappearing into the night. 

Though no threats had actually been made or certain names mentioned, Everhard knew he had just received a warning.  The former AG, a beer drinking buddy and confidant of former President Clanton, had not driven from Oklahoma City to check Everhard's pulse.  Hell no, he
thought.  The man in the black suit, driving the black car and traveling with the tall black man was merely a messenger on this stormy July night.….

... Within thirty minutes of his visit to the hospital, my former employer called me.  It was almost midnight in Tampa, but I had anxiously been awaiting the call.  JE is fine he assured me.  I was still livid, though, and told him so.  Again, he tried to calm me, but to no avail. 

I held the phone in my hand long after our conversation was over.  The conversation had been short, in all contexts of the word.  As the caller made his way back to Oklahoma City, I poured myself another glass of wine.  All my crying, yelling and screaming still reverberated through my mind and body as if I had just received that unexpected call last week from Donna only seconds ago.  Wine had become my solace and I needed another glass.

Yes, I had been forewarned that JE was going to be taught a lesson after his ill-fated encounter with the former first lady, but no one had told me it was going to be a near death experience. A mistake had happened – things got out of hand – it won't happen again, I was told.  But, I'm not sure that I believe it.

After, Morris Rodgers, the former AG of the State of Oklahoma and the mysterious black stranger, whom Rodgers had not bothered to introduce, left his hospital room, Everhard began to try to make sense of all that had happened. Rodgers was undoubtedly the most powerful politician in the state. When he talked, everyone, including the Governor, listened intently. Rodgers was very influential in the former Presidential administration, a major player in the game. Why had he driven from Oklahoma City? Not just to be sociable. He and Everhard had worked together in the past, they had even been fairly close friends, but that was quite some time ago, and Everhard had terminated their working agreement when he was asked to do some rather shady investigations, things that bordered on political dirty tricks. Everhard told him he didn’t need that kind of work, and left Oklahoma for L.A. Then Everhard suddenly remembered that at that time, Kim had been his personal assistant, it was how he had first met her. Rodgers had asked him what he remembered from the crash. He wanted to know what he had told the police. Why all the interest and who was that tall, thin black man? The plot was certainly getting thicker.

As Everhard was pondering all this, a nurse he had not seen before entered the room.

"Time for your medication Mr. Everhard," she said cheerily, and handed him a large capsule in a small paper cup.

"What’s this for? Everhard asked.

"To help you sleep. Doctor’s orders."

Everhard took the capsule, popped it into his mouth and drank the glass of water the shapely nurse handed him.

"That’s a good boy!" the nurse cooed. "Now you get some sleep," she told him as she left the room.

When she was gone, Everhard pulled the capsule from his mouth where he had hidden it under his tongue. He was not about to take a sleeping pill when he had just slept for a full twenty-four hours. He had to stay sharp and get busy!

Everhard had a lot of work to do, and he needed to contact Kim. He had to figure out why someone had tried to kill him, and he couldn't do that here. He jumped up, removed the IV needle from his arm, carefully applied a Band-Aid over the puncture and hurriedly dressed. He slipped out into the hall and saw the shapely nurse who had brought him the pill leaving her chair at the nurse’s station and going into another patient’s room. The hallway was now deserted except for Everhard. He made his way quickly to the elevators. Before the door opened, as an afterthought, Everhard went quickly back to the nurse’s station and dropped the large capsule into Nurse Shapely’s coffee. Then as the down arrow lit and the elevator door opened, Everhard entered the elevator and made good his escape. Outside, Everhard hailed a cab. He entered the cab and the cab sped away into the Tulsa night.

An hour later, a young lab technician approached the nurse’s station to flirt with the shapely new nurse he had scoped out earlier, she was on her first night of duty.

"Hey beautiful, aren’t you new on this floor?"

The nurse didn’t answer, she remained slumped in her seat. The lab technician turned the chair around facing him and gasped in horror! The new nurse, on her first night at the hospital, was dead. Her color was a sickly blue, foam rimmed her lips, and her eyes were rolled up in their sockets.

"Holy Shit!" the lab technician yelled and reached for the phone to call security…..

The Security Guard at the hospital took the call from the excited Lab Technician and quickly placed a call to a cell phone number he had memorized. He explained the situation to the man who answered.

"Damn! That Everhard is proving to be a tough nut to crack!" he cursed, " Keep that Lab tech quiet and don’t let the police get involved," he told the guard. "A clean up squad will be there in 5 minutes. I don’t want anyone checking up on that nurse’s background."

The phone clicked dead and the security guard waited. Exactly five minutes later, six men dressed in identical black suits with mirrored sun glasses entered the hospital. The security guard motioned to them and they quickly took the stairs to their destination. At the 4^th floor nurse’s station, the leader of the six-man team found the body of the woman who had been portraying a nurse and the distraught Lab technician.

"Anyone else know about this?" he asked the Lab Tech,

"No, just me, but why?" he asked.

His answer was swift. The team leader shot him in the forehead with a silenced pistol. He crumpled to the floor. The rest of the team quickly loaded the two bodies into body bags, placed them on gurneys and hurriedly wheeled them to the freight elevator. The team leader removed all evidence of the nurse’s ever having been there, and, as if on cue, the elevator door opened and another nurse walked out of the elevator and came behind the nurse’s desk and sat down. The team leader nodded at her, she nodded back and picked up a chart and casually began making notes in it. The team leader, carrying a plastic bag, quickly went to the freight elevator and pushed the down button. Seconds later, he joined his five teammates who were loading the body bags into a dark Cadillac Escalarde. The black SUV sped away down the rain drenched alley. The entire operation had taken a total of 5 minutes from entering the hospital to leaving it.

The Security Guard picked up the phone and dialed the Laboratory Supervisor’s number.

"Laboratory," the supervisor answered.

"Uh, Tom, this is Fred at the front desk. Jeff, the Lab Tech asked me to call. He has a bad case of the runs, and had to leave. Guess he messed his shorts." The Security Guard said laughing.

"Well damn!" the Lab supervisor answered, "He’s probably got a hot date. I’m going to can that lying turd! That’s the third time this month he’s left work like this!"

"Well, okay," the guard laughed, "sure is hard to get good help now days." He hung up the phone and smiled.

As if a rainy, moonless night could get any drearier, clouds of despair immediately amassed over the former Attorney General's head once he snapped shut the cellular phone clasped in his oversized palm. Momentarily taking his eyes off the ominous, desolate toll road slipping its way through the nothingness of the night, Morris Rodgers glared at his traveling companion sitting next to him still engrossed in a phone conversation of his own.

The quiet sanctuary of the black Mercedes had just moments before been interrupted near the Chandler exit as cellular phones on opposite sides of the front-seat console rang almost simultaneously.

Rodgers had been told James Everhard had left the hospital and, almost as an after thought, he was also told there had been complications. The caller with the Okie drawl would get back to him when more information was known. And, when Rodgers was alone and on a secure phone line.

Now eavesdropping on his companion's conversation, Rodgers attempted to glean what information he could from the one-sided conversation he could hear, but could not understand. "Ebony talk" the former AG groused to himself.

Feeling like the ugly American whose vehicle had just been forced off the side of a Jamaican rain-forest mountain road in the middle of a dismal night, Rodgers cursed this mission he had been imposed upon to make. He could envision the Rastafarians, torches raised high in their strong black hands, encircling their conquest and inspecting his plump, tender-white cadaver.

Would they devour his own pedigreed blood, Rodgers wondered, liked they had sucked the blood from the sacrificial chicken at the voodoo ritual he had witnessed years before Jamaica had become a popular family vacation destination? A cold chill quivered down his spine, and nausea welled up inside him again like it had done then long ago.

When the second cellular phone was finally put back in the pocket, its owner turned to the driver and spoke in his Oxford-educated vernacular he used as a lobbyist for his black compatriots. Rodgers listened in silence as the incredulous turn of events of the still tempestuous night was clarified for him.  Relief he felt momentarily, but not trust in his party's conjoined twin.

It was not his blood at stake; it was James Everhard's. Rodgers had been assured. Everhard could and would be fingered as the perpetrator of the murders. As a matter of fact, the politician was told that the arrangements were already in place.

Everhard’s cab let him out at Donna Vadelle’s condo. Donna was the only person he knew in Tulsa that he felt fairly comfortable dropping in on after midnight. He rang her doorbell. After about two minutes, the front porch light came on and he saw Donna look out the peephole. She immediately opened the door and took him into her arms.

"James, what on earth are you doing out of the hospital?" Donna asked him during their embrace.

"Had to get out of there sweetie," Everhard told her, "I have to find out who tried to kill me and why. May I stay here until I can get some things figured out?"

Donna, arched an eyebrow and smiled at him, "James, you can stay here as long as you like." Donna took his hand and led him to her bedroom. Everhard knew the way; he had been there before.

Donna told him that she had called Kim when she had heard about the car crash. She shared with him how the two of them had anguished and cried together.

"According to Hillary, Kim has two, full time lovers besides Hillary's run-around husband, and I also discovered an eye opening surprise in her candy dish!" Everhard informed her with a tone of disgust.

"Well, did you ever consider the fact, Mr. Detective, that Hillary may have lied to you about the lovers, and planted the candy dish?" Donna told him. "And even if she didn’t lie, what the hell gives you the right to hold Kim to a nun’s standards? You certainly haven’t been celibate since your split up with Kim!"

Everhard knew she was right and he sighed and nodded agreement to Donna as he drained his wine glass. The wine was gone, they had both talked for hours, and, it was almost dawn. James turned off the light, undressed, and the couple lay down in each other’s arms. They made sweet love as only two long time lovers can do. Each knowing every detail about the others’ needs and wants. An hour later, they were both fast asleep.

At nine AM, they were awakened by the ringing of Everhard’s cell phone. Groggily, Everhard croaked a hello. "James, this is Hillary, I must see you! You are in terrible danger. You are being framed for murder!

I am a member of a once very secret, influential group -- the Secret Society of Sacagawea. So too, was the former first lady.

Founded in the summer of 1998, June to be exact, our tacit mission statement was relatively very simple: Women with vision joined together in shaping a new frontier for those less fortunate.

The former first lady was a founder; I was an inductee. Not by choice, but through happenstance I was initiated into this elite group.

My rite of passage occurred innocently enough, which I had wrongfully assumed without fanfare. My helping hands to a prominent black man in the community, to common laborers at work or to neighbors in need had not gone unnoticed by those in power.

An anomaly I was, however, in Oklahoma. Too liberal for one political party, not liberal enough for the other. Unquestionably, an asset to both. Paradoxically, a liability as well.

Still, though, my appearance at a fundraiser or event could guarantee results in funding and votes. And, of course, in media coverage. Democrats and Republicans alike requested my support.

Another anomaly was also the former first lady. At the time, arrogant, Ivy League intellectuals, empowered by the east coast doctrine of narcissism, ruled the airways. Enamored with the former president and his wife, the SSS myth kept growing larger as it was perpetuated by this media usually so engrossed in itself.

Then a sad thing happened en route to the White House. The former first lady became jealous of her husband and me. Asserting untruths about a relationship that actually existed outside the boundaries of romance, she turned vicious towards me, other SSS members and, in particular, her husband. She ridiculed us all, and the media responded accordingly.

As the former first lady became more reckless and mercenary, so to the media. Consequently, the once Secret Society of Sacagawea was no longer a secret to the rest of the world.

A commemorative year 2000 Sacagawea gold coin was commissioned in our society's honor. Purportedly so, that is. Initially obtained solely at Wal-Mart stores, however, this coin's distribution point became a symbolic slap in the face to the former president, his constituents and the south his wife loathed.

Oklahomans have always understood what constitutes a renegade, and the former first lady showed herself as one through her words and deeds to us SSS members remaining true to the code. Now viewed as a fallen Sacagawean, we refer to her as the "Black Pearl of Politics." More significant and as a fallout from her lack of discretion, we are no longer bound by the vows of secrecy to which we were once sworn.

Not surprising to the SSS, the once commemorative golden coins are now cursed in certain circles like the Aztec treasure in "Pirates of the Caribbean", Just ask any Democrat, Al Gore or Janet Reno, most noticeably. And as a result, Brothers Bushes have become the cursed coin's beneficiaries.

James Everhard should take heed if he responds to Hillary's call. He is being summoned to the netherworld, and the ride to it is not in a Viper, but a ghost ship with a brutal master at the helm. Let the reader beware.

James read the cryptic and somewhat confusing e-mail message that had come, addressed to him, at Donna’s email address, on her computer. It was from Kim. It was part explanation, part warning. But, how could she have possibly known that Hillary Clanton had called, wanting to see him? How could she have known he was with Donna? Out of the blue, an email comes, indicating that Hillary Clanton was up to no good and warning him not to fall into her trap. Something didn’t add up. Perhaps it was within Hillary Clanton’s power to know where he was and with whom he might be, but did Kim have the same, covert resources? What was this Secret Society of Sacagawea all about? Was Hillary truly on a vendetta to get Kim? Was the relationship between Kim and the former chief executive purely business? That certainly didn’t fit his image! More unanswered questions. His head ached with all the possibilities. The first thing he had to do was check out this murder framing business. He knew one man who could tap into any police investigation going on anywhere in the world, Bill Chaple. He pressed the Detective Lieutenant’s number into his cell phone. The phone was answered on the first ring.

"Chaple," the gruff policeman answered.

"Bill, are you keeping the streets of L.A. safe?" Everhard asked.

"They’re fairly secure as long as you’re out of town Everhard," his cigar chomping friend answered.

"Listen Bill, I’ve been tipped to a plan to frame me for murder, apparently here in Tulsa. The local gendarmes have anything yet?" There was the sound of computer keys clicking on the other end of the phone.

"Lemme check James," his friend said, "whose ticket did you punch now?"

"Nobody’s that I know of Bill," Everhard replied.

"Hmm, the Tulsa PD, has issued a warrant for your arrest. Seems as though they want to question you about the murder of a John Miller and a Roxxy LaRue, a.k.a. Sandy Shore, and a dozen other aliases. The former, a lab technician at St. Francis Hospital, and the latter, a hooker with an interesting rap sheet. You’ve been a naughty boy Mr. Everhard".

"Never heard of either one of them Bill. There’s some really strange things going on here my friend, and I think I may need a little help. You have any vacation time coming?" Everhard asked his old friend.

Chaple didn’t hesitate, "I was thinking about getting out of town for a while, where can I meet you?"

"Go to W.W.’s place in Oklahoma City, I’ll meet you there or call you," Everhard told him.

"OK James, I’ll catch the noon flight."

Everhard turned to Donna and asked, "My bike still in your garage sweetie?"

"Of course it’s still there you jerk. What do you think, I sold it or something?" Donna rolled her eyes in reply.

Everhard quickly dressed and headed for the garage where he saw the sleek, black Harley chopper sitting in the corner. He took long enough to kiss Donna Vadelle with feeling before he started the loud machine. He revved it a few times and then asked Donna to call W.W. and tell him what was going on. "Tell him I’ll be there in an hour," Everhard shouted over the loud motorcycle’s exhaust.

Donna nodded that she understood, and Everhard roared out of the garage on the low slung, black Harley.

Everhard loved feeling the wind blowing through his wavy black hair as he accelerated the big, black Harley through the Turner Turnpike entrance. He had made the trip from Tulsa to OKC in less than an hour on this very same machine, many times, but that required some very high speeds, and with that arrest warrant out for him, he decided to keep it at a safe and sane 75 MPH. The Harley had been sitting in Donna’s garage for several months, while he had been in L.A. rescuing Phil and Emily from kidnappers; but even after sitting idle for so long, the big Harley "Fatboy" was purring like a kitten. The highly modified engine roared through the straight chrome pipes and Everhard felt free and relaxed for the first time in weeks. This was where he did a great deal of his thinking, alone, tearing down a long stretch of highway on his Harley. He tried to sort out this mottled mess he had gotten himself into. The attempt on his life occurred right after he had had an intimate encounter with Hillary Clanton. Who was mad enough at him, or threatened enough by him to go to such lengths? Was it old Bill? Then Kim tells him, in a cryptic email, about a secret society she had belonged to, it was where she had first met Hillary. She went on to describe how Hillary had become jealous of she and old Bill, and how Hillary had been out to get her ever since. Was that why Hillary had told him that Kim had been, shall he say……so, sexually active after their breakup? Had she, or her bodyguards planted that candy dish? And who was trying to frame him for murder, and why? Was it the same people who had tried to kill him? And what part did Morris Rodgers and the mysterious black man have in all of this? It was just too complex for his limited deductive powers. That’s where Bill Chaple came in. After He had briefed Bill Chaple on the case, he knew the cigar-chomping detective would crack it. Bill had the keenest crime solving ability he had ever known. Everhard could hardly wait to meet with his old friend and find out what he had already concluded.

It was as Everhard routinely checked his side mirrors, that he saw a big, black SUV bearing down on him at a very high rate of speed. Everhard twisted the throttle to its stop and the big bike growled in response. The speedometer needle quickly moved up to 100 MPH and continued climbing as he tried to widen the gap between he and the speeding SUV. The SUV accelerated and attempted to close the gap. Everhard whipped around a semi trailer at 110 MPH and the SUV followed suit. Everhard looked back over his shoulder and watched as the big vehicle began again to catch up. Everhard knew he had a lot more speed left in the bike and felt sure that he could outrun the black SUV, but having a pursuer behind him at high speed was to his disadvantage, he had to have a plan. How could he lose his pursuer?

Two miles behind the speeding vehicles, long haul trucker Floyd Lovelace keyed the mike on his CB radio; "Breaker channel 9, any of you Smokey Bears got a copy on the old T-Town Bullhauler?"

Trooper Vince Carson who had just gotten on the westbound side of the turnpike and was about a mile behind the trucker answered the call. "I’m reading you Bullhauler", the Trooper said, "what’s the emergency?"

"Well I tell ya’ son," the trucker drawled, "A motor sickle just went around me at over a hunert miles an hour, and he was bein’ chased by some mean lookin’ fellers in a black Cadillac SUV. They was stickin’ a rifle out the window when they went around me. You better get em’ before they kill that fella on the motor sickle."

The trooper got the mile marker location of the truck and flipped on his red lights and siren. He called for backup and three other cruisers and a State Trooper helicopter began to close in on the speeding vehicles from overhead and from both the east and west.

Everhard looked at his speedometer and the needle vibrated slightly at the 130 MPH mark. In his side mirror he saw the front seat passenger in the SUV point a scoped rifle out the window. Everhard began weaving from side to side, trying to make himself a harder target. He heard the wasp-like whine of first one bullet and then another fly by his ear. He twisted the throttle again to the stop and the needle moved around the face of the custom speedometer and came to rest at the highest mark on its face, 150 MPH. At this speed, he began to gradually pull away from the pursuing SUV.

"He’s pulling away dammit!" yelled the large man dressed in black with mirrored sunglasses.

"I can’t make this thing go any faster Boss!" the driver yelled back.

The front seat passenger fired three more shots in desperation at the motorcycle as it pulled steadily away.

"Big trouble boss," the driver yelled, "two cop cars behind us." The man with the mirrored shades turned in the seat to see the two Trooper vehicles behind them in hot pursuit.

Ahead, Everhard saw a black helicopter not more than 20 feet above him. He released the tension on the throttle and began to slow down. Behind them, a dozen Troopers had stopped the SUV and had all 5 occupants lying face down in the center median with weapons trained on them.

Everhard watched as first one and then a second helicopter landed in the center median of the turnpike. Two troopers jumped out of the first helicopter and out of the second helicopter jumped another trooper accompanied by his old friend Bill Chaple. The Troopers asked if he was all right.

"I’m not shot," replied Everhard spitting something out of his mouth, "but I’ve swallowed a hell of a lot of bugs at high speed."

The troopers laughed. "We got 5 of your friends back there with a cash of automatic weapons and a couple of empty body bags in their SUV that should yield some interesting DNA evidence," Bill Chaple told him as he chewed on the ever present cigar. "Come on, I’ll have the boys bring in your Harley. A close and very beautiful friend of yours is waiting for you in OKC." Everhard shook his hand and followed him to the waiting helicopter.

Aboard the Highway Patrol helicopter, Bill Chaple filled Everhard in on some of the details of this very strange case. Detective Lieutenant Chaple explained what he knew; "It seems that a hooker, posing as a nurse, was hired to poison you in the hospital. Somehow, she ended up taking the cyanide."

Everhard winced.

Chaple continued, "a witness who was watching while hiding, saw these characters who were chasing you today, come onto the hospital floor and take the nurse’s body. It seems that a lab technician happened along at the wrong time and the bad guys took him out too. The two bodies were found at Keystone Lake with some of your blood, no doubt lifted from the hospital lab, on their clothing. It was, all in all, a pretty sloppy job of trying to frame you. All we have to do now is to sweat these guys we just nabbed and find out for whom they are working. I’m usually very successful at getting that type of information"

Chaple made it all sound so easy, but Everhard still did not know who was after him. Was it Bill Clanton ? Was he jealous of his involvement with Hillary? Or was it Morris Rodgers, or could it be the mysterious black man? He still didn’t know. Perhaps Chaple’s interrogation of the men in the SUV would clear it all up. What Everhard did know was that Bill Chaple could make anyone talk, he didn’t want to know exactly how Bill accomplished this feat but he felt confidant that the information would soon be theirs.

The chopper sat down in WW’s backyard, next to the pool. Everhard watched as WW and the beautiful blonde fought the prop wash of the chopper as they waited for their friends to join them.

And he sweats too much, the tall, thin black mans British accent finally cut through the cool silence in a fellow Rhode scholars air conditioned library. Everyone in Oklahoma sweats in August, the steely gray-eyed Oklahoman challenged, attempting to protect the beloved statesman the two were discussing. Your people have done more harm here than the locust did to Egypt and yet you aim to devour more.

The lobbyist only smiled. Or did he smirk? The senior senator from Oklahoma was not sure, nor did he want to know. The Clantons wanton desires had once again caused towers to tumble. In Oklahoma it would be people, not buildings. Babylon revisited, again.

The state’s former Attorney General would take the fall on the James Everhard debacle. He was the logical choice and the most visible, the lobbyist argued. And, the former AG had a motive. That was about the only thing the two men sitting opposite each other in the aged leather chairs had agreed upon, the motive.Framing Everhard for the two Tulsa murders had gone awry. Bungled by locals posing as Terminator imposters, the fiasco had not gone unnoticed by the press. First the national press corps and now the locals, each with its own bias and agenda. And each vying for the breaking news story, but held hostage by the others in their respective roles of the cover-ups.

The national press corps tracked Bill and Hillarys every move effectively and, not surprisingly, sometimes illegally. More so efficient than the most sophisticated GPS systems invented. Of course the press had known about Hillary and Everhards tryst at Kims in Tampa. And of course, the media sisters in the Secret Society of Sacagawea had cautioned Kim, in particular a sister from the Boston Globe had made the fateful call.Now all lenses were focused on Oklahoma and the two gentlemen, sitting in the senators stale cigar reeked library. A news story would break soon. It had to. Too many had seen too much blood. With highways of blood longer and deeper than the one left by the grand marlin in The Old Man and the Sea, neither man wished to sit idly by as Santiago had done waiting for the first shark attack in the majestic blue Caribbean waters off Havana.

Hell no, the scholars finally concurred. angle the former AG over the side of the sinking boat here in the flow of the states natural, blood-red rivers. The plump, tender white sacrificial politician, when harpooned through the skull, would bleed mightily and hopefully create just the feeding frenzy necessary to part the Red River and keep it separated for their safe escape.

As Everhard left the chopper and approached WW and Kim by the pool, he could feel the disdain and anger that Kim felt. She smiled at him (weakly) and had even embraced him, more as a courtesy than as an expression of affection. WW welcomed his old friend back and then excused himself, so that Everhard and Kim could be alone. Chaple left with the helicopter to question the prisoners. He would soon have the information that they needed. Everhard took Kim’s hand, it felt cold and her eyes looked distant. He led her to the pool side table, where they sat. "I’m glad you’re okay Kim. I was afraid that your life was in danger," Everhard told her. "Why…?

Did you think that Hillary would put out a contract on me? Eliminate her competition?" Kim said sarcastically. "Something like that," Everhard drawled, reverting to his Okie accent. "How could you have slept with her?!" Kim yelled at him, her eyes filled with angry tears. "Now wait just a damn minute!" Everhard’s Okie accent very pronounced now. "I believe there’s been two Clantons at this particular sleep over, one at my house and one at yours!" "James, damn you," Kim yelled, "It’s not at all like that!" "Well, ya’ see, I’m just a simple Okie my dear, and I sometimes have problems figgerin’ out complicated situations, So Kim, Please take this opportunity to explain to me just what the hell is goin’ on!"

Kim looked at Everhard and sighed, "You just don't realize how serious all of this really is do you?" Everhard looked at her and said, "No dear, I guess I don't." "This is about the Tulsa Race Riot nearly a century ago. This is about reparations that one party and a single candidates is planning to pay the survivors after the election. One candidate is being watched very carefully for signs of weakness, anything that might keep her from being elected. You, my friend have thrown a potential monkey wrench into that machinery and have made many people very nervous. That's why some very powerful persons have tried to kill you. However; you appear to them to be a cat with nine lives". Everhard whistled and said, "Never knew that a little, innocent romp in the hay, could make some people so angry!" Suddenly, a shot rang out. The high-powered slug missed both of them and smashed into the pool house, very close to Kim's head. Everhard grabbed Kim and pulled her down with him, protecting her with his body. A second shot rang out and the heavy slug caught Everhard in the back, between his broad shoulders. "James!" Kim yelled, but there was no answer. Kim felt his carotid artery, but there was no pulse. Kim sobbed as she pushed his dead weight off of her. He had saved her life, but it had cost him his......

After the third gun shot pealed through the midday heat, Wayne rushed from the house. To his horror he found the former Attorney General face down in a pool of blood and, across from the rotund corpse, Kim was lying over JEs motionless body.Wayne, theres no pulse in the carotid artery, she sobbed hysterically. I think hes dead.

Wayne gently pulled her away from the limp body, Sweetie, thats not the artery youre touching its his pecker. No wonder you think hes dead.

"A group of very influential black activists apparently came up with this plot when they began to believe that they had no chance of prevailing in their federal law suit. The case is currently in federal court. The 117 survivors of the 1921 Tulsa Race Riot are suing the city and state in federal court for reparations. They claim that the city and state were both negligent in deputizing and arming white Tulsans who were either clearly inebriated or who officials should have known posed a grave threat to the black community. These activists so wanted a victory of any kind, that they actually kidnapped Hillary Clanton, hypnotized her and planted a post-hypnotic suggestion. Every time she heard the words African American, she became passionate about the Tulsa race riot of 1921. The plan was to aid her in her bid for the presidency in 2004 and once elected, she would become a vocal proponent for the survivors. This group was responsible for the phony news release about Hillary being HIV positive. They hoped for a high profile divorce and the resulting sympathy vote sweeping the election for Hillary. It almost worked too" Bill Chaple exclaimed, "until they got too worried about Hillary’s indiscretions, including the one we both know about and started having people killed. The death of Morris Rodgers, who tried to warn James, sent the FBI an audio tape before his death explaining the entire scheme. It also named all the players. It was what got the F.B.I. on track and making arrests all over the country." "Wow, what an incredible plan," W.W. said, "It sounds like the plot for a who dunnit!" "We better go in and take our seats", Chaple said as he and W.W. entered the huge church with the hundreds of people also paying their final respects.

At the front of the huge church, a flag draped casket sat and behind it, a well known, local pastor began giving the eulogy. "He was a friend to many. His role in life was to help others. There are many in this room who owe their very survival to the man we memorialize today". Phil Murphy comforted his lovely wife Emily. "He was a modern day hero, an adventurer, a man to be dealt with by all whose intent it was to be dishonest or to harm a fellow human being. Although he never married, there are many among us in this room who loved him, either physically or emotionally", the pastor paused for emphasis as the front row of beautiful women openly sobbed. Dona Hamptonsworth sobbed audibly; Donna Vadelle tried to comfort her as she also sobbed quietly. Sherry at the Times shed tears while T.J., to her left, was as tough as nails and refused to cry. Melany wore a black veil, which hid her tears, next to her sat a burly man dressed in a dark suit. He was one of Hillary Clanton’s bodyguards. Hillary sat between he and his bookend double; she was clearly very distraught. The pastor continued, "This man, brutally gunned down, before his time, might have gone on to help even more, very grateful persons, but it was not to be. Yes friends, this wonderful man, Morris Rodgers, will be missed by many. Let us pray." James Everhard, who was heavily bandaged and seated in the aisle at the back of the church, in a wheel chair next to Kim, bowed his head.After the service, the entire 64 Knights group (with one 66 groupie) met at W.W.’s house for liquid refreshment. "This is the way old Morris would have wanted it." W.W. said as he toasted the fallen statesman with a bottle of Coors. The entire group raised their bottles and cans in tribute.

End……….(Epilogue????)

We had passed by the closed casket. Morris Rodgers had been laid to rest as stiff and hard as the wooden box we touched. JE and I said nothing as we rubbed our fingers across the mahogany casing. We had paid our dutiful respects and left the funeral service. Rodgers would have done the same had he been the survivor. But he was not.

Like the prominent married Oklahoma advertising executive who had died in the midst of a blow job from his mistress, the media similarly had downplayed the cause of Rodgers’ death. Nowhere was it ever mentioned that he had been gunned down in a Chicago-styled gangland shooting.

The good citizenry of Oklahoma would never know the political warfare carried on by the country’s plutocracy who owned the so-called free press. As long as the 401(k)s and bylines were plentiful, the press corps would be pacified. And bought, no differently from Uncle Tom.

Press, repressed, no longer constituted a democracy.

I knew JE thought it was over. For his safety and well-being, let him think it, I have rationalized. However, I know better. For his sake, too, I am hopeful that he is no longer in Hillary’s scope. But, regrettably, I fear the worst for him and his friends in the future.

Hillary was not the brainwashed; she had been the brainwasher.