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CHAPTER 5

Wednesday, February 2nd - 7:12 AM

The regular morning routines of the Jalinski-Donohue household had needed to be held off until a certain, pressing matter had been resolved. Although it involved one of the ladies in a fully undressed state, there was nothing erotic or even remotely romantic about the scene that played out in the sleeping area of their trailer.

Looking as if she would much rather be anywhere else at that particular moment in time, Wynne was face-down on their bed wearing a pained grimace and nothing else.

Mandy sat on the side of the bed applying what amounted to half a jar of Pain-B-Gone to Wynne's neck and long, bare back. Although she tried to be as gentle as possible, the groans that escaped Wynne weren't borne of pleasure but of the throbbing stabs of pain that shot up from her abused muscles. Every square inch from her neck to her lumbar region resembled a runway at an international airport: several layers' worth of rock-solid, prime-quality concrete.

The sleeping area, and in fact the entire trailer, reeked of camphor and menthol which almost necessitated wearing deep-sea diving clamps over their nostrils - Blackie and Goldie had already escaped and were playing in the desert.

"Hon, you're completely knotted up back here," Mandy said as she scooped out another glob of ointment and began to distribute it onto Wynne's skin. "Not a cluster of smaller ones, just… well, one huge knot from your neck to your butt."

"Lawrdie… y'all… don't… hafta… tell… me…" Wynne said in a croak.

"Do we have another jar of Pain-B-Gone?"

"Naw… last… one…"

"In that case, we're almost out," Mandy said as she stared into the plastic jar containing the world-famous, bright-blue ointment that could cure any kind of sub-skin ailment.

"Shit…"

Mandy completed the latest pass and moved back slightly to see if she had missed any spots. "We should have bought some more when we were in San Cristobal. I don't think we can buy it here."

"Naw… don't… reckon… we… can…"

"Are you still in pain?"

"A… li'l… but… less… than befo'. I owe y'all mah lih-fe, darlin'… dang-blasted, all this he' shit jus' from carryin' a-cuppel-a pieces o' furni-chure yestuhrdy. I mean, whaddahell?" Wynne said while she shuffled around on the bed to try to get into a position where she could actually get up on her own. "Lawrdie, I sure ain't eighteen no mo'… darn'it."

Chuckling, Mandy wiped her fingers clean of the excess Pain-B-Gone on the edge of the jar so nothing would go to waste. "Would you like to be?"

"Naw. Not if it done meant I hadda live mah teen ye'ahs all ovah ag'in. That wus a shitty time fer me an' not jus' 'cos of mah head injury."

"Me, neither. I wouldn't object to a second pass of being twenty-five, though," Mandy said and leaned in to place a kiss on Wynne's lips. What started as a single smooch soon turned into a series of little pecks all over the face of The Last Original Cowpoke.

Locking eyes, they remained close to soak in the presence of the other - or in Wynne's case, to tap into some of Mandy's strength. "Yuh," she said in a low, husky voice. "Mebbe I oughttah trah some o' that there yoda that Brendah be practicin' or som'tin. I reckon mah fitness ratin' ain't even reachin' dubbel-digits."

"Yoga."

"Yuh, whut I done said," Wynne said and tried to get her naked behind off the bedsheets. Her face contorted into a mask of pain as she clambered to her feet. For the first several seconds, she could only stand there in a semi-leaning pose with her hands on her knees while resembling an old, crooked and gnarled tree that was ready to be chopped down and used for toothpicks.

She uttered a "Sombitch…" before she needed to clench her jaw and draw her lips back in a sneer to have enough power to stand up straight. She finally rose to her full height, but the snaps, crackles and pops that came from her bones proved it wasn't just her muscles that had been strained the day before.

A glum mask fell over her face as she reached for her undies, her top and the warm housecoat. "Darlin', I sure be real sorry that I done made y'all waste all them dang-blasted minnits on me. I know how impahrtant them quiet mornin's is fer y'all."

Mandy shook her head and got up on tip-toes to place another kiss on Wynne's lips. "Shared time is never wasted, hon. Didn't I just sit next to an all-naked you?"

"Yuh, I s'pose y'all did… find any new wrinkles on mah buhhhh-tt?"

"Maybe one or two," Mandy said and a broke out in an exaggerated wink that made Wynne let out a knowing chuckle. "I still have time for coffee and the newspaper. Are you all right now?"

"Yuh… yuh, fer da most part, anyhows. Lawrdie, I'mma-gonn' sound like a rockin' chair taday. Ya know, creak, creak, groahhh-n," Wynne said while she tried to make heads or tails of her bra. After the third failed attempt of putting it on, she literally threw it over her shoulder and settled for donning her undies and the warm housecoat.

---

Twenty-five minutes later, Wynne stood by an open window in the living area to wave goodbye to Mandy who drove to work in one of the Dodge Durangos. The strong scents of camphor and menthol had receded enough for Blackie and Goldie to come back inside, and they were busy having breakfast out in the narrow corridor.

Wynne chuckled at the sounds wafting in from the hallway. "Howindahell can two dawggies be that noisy slurpin' watah an' munchin' on dry feed?  Mercy Sakes, it sure sounds like they done brought a buncha furry friends ovah fer a fun weekend or som'tin… an' it only be Wennsdy!"

She reached out at regular speed to close the sliding window, but regretted it at once when the muscle that ran across her right shoulder blade decided to act up. The resulting jab of pain sent a splash of sulfuric acid all over her entire side that made her come to an immediate, contorted halt. "Augggh… that sombitch… aw, fer cryin' out loud… this gonn' be one helluva fun day… not."

The pain caused her to tense up which in turn caused the pain to grow worse. Even putting one foot in front of the other - in the process generally known as 'walking' - made her abused muscles send out distress calls, so she needed to stop three times to try to loosen up just to get over to the couch.

Once there, she made sure to have everything within easy reach: a mug of coffee, a teaspoon, a jar of coffee creamer, a plate carrying a halved bagel, the blackcurrant jam to go onto said bagel, one of their daily newspapers and finally the remote control for the TV.

She had already committed to sitting down when she was notified of something she had literally forgotten to bring to the table. Her telephone was charging over on one of the sideboards, and it chose that moment to ring. And ring. And ring. And ring.

"Awwww-sombitch!  Y'all know wotcha can do with yerself, dontcha?  Dontcha?!  Y'all wanna play ruff with me, ya li'l sombitch?  I'mma-gonn' make y'all regret it 'cos nobodda messes with Wynne Donnah-hew, nosirree!"

Unfortunately, the telephone had little respect for her barked comments, or indeed sympathy for her plight.

Though it finally stopped ringing and went to the voicemail service, it would only be a matter of time before it would ring again, so Wynne clenched her teeth and clambered up from the couch. She needed to lean over and put her hands on her knees for the first few seconds while her back protested the loudest, but she eventually staggered away from the couch and over to the sideboard and the forgotten telephone.

The caller-ID said Unknown Caller and Wynne couldn't be bothered to investigate who had tried to get in touch with her. Once she arrived back at the couch, she put the telephone next to her and began slurping her coffee and munching on her bagel. The morning newspaper was unfolded and read - and the telephone never rang again.

---

Fifteen wonderfully lazy minutes later, Wynne caught a glimpse of a Dodge Durango driving into the grassy area between the trailers. She tried to stretch up to see better, but even such a simple gesture made a sharp pain rip through her lower back. A mumbled "Augghh… sombitch," escaped her as she clambered to her feet to look out.

The profanity was soon replaced by a "Haw?" when the person who stepped out of the vehicle from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department wasn't Mandy but Beatrice Reilly. "Whaddahell's De-per-ty Quick Draw doin' out he'?" she mumbled as she watched the Deputy Sheriff walk around the rear of the SUV and point at a spot on the lawn.

Wynne craned her neck to see what else was going on out there. She could only make out the front of a white Chevrolet Blazer which didn't help much. The sound of several car doors slamming proved that more than one person was outside. "Whodahell them folks be?  An' whaddahell they be he' fer?" she said in a mumble.

When an older and a younger man came into view wearing coveralls and sturdy workgloves, Wynne began to suspect she had missed a cog in a thought process somewhere - then everything came back to her in a sudden rush. The men were obviously those who wanted to buy the old Chevrolet K10, and Beatrice 'Quick Draw' Reilly was there because Wynne had asked her toward the end of Barry's birthday celebration if she had time to come out to the trailer park and provide a little uniformed security in case the men were trying to do the sneaky on her.

All in all, Wynne realized she had lost track of time. "Awwww-shittt… them's the folks who be he' fer mah ol' K-ten… an' I be in mah undies he'… an' mah back's killin' me… dang-blasted, this day is floatin' down ta hell in a handbasket alreddy, and it ain't even nine in the dog-gone mornin'!"

Before Wynne could make it into the sleeping area to get dressed - stepping around Blackie and Goldie proved to be a painful clown show that even the famous Ringling Bros. would have been proud to have in their circus - Beatrice had walked around the trailer and was on the verge of knocking on the screen door.

Wynne beat her to it by opening the inner door first. "Howdy, Quick Draw. Much obliged fer y'all bein' he'. Y'all spoke to them folks… wotcha reckon?  'R they fer real or whut?"

"Good morning, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said with a smile. "The men appear to be on the level. It's a father-and-son combo. I don't think there's anything to worry about."

"Haw, that sure be fine, yes Ma'am."

"On a different and completely unrelated note, I read in the local newspaper that Mr. Bradberry's old trailer is for sale. Is that so?"

"Whah, it sure is."

"Good. Now that I'm here, I think I'll give it a little inspec-"

"Lemme get this straight, Quick Draw… them guys out there 'r those who be he' for mah truck, right?"

"Uhhh… that's right, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said, scratching her neck at Wynne's uncharacteristic behavior and appearance.

"Okeh. Stall 'em. I ain't exactly dressed he', catch mah drift?  Take them dawggies… they be great at creatin' a diver-shun. I be out in five… shoot, bettah make that ten minnits. Yuh?"

"Uh… okay. Sure thing, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said while sporting a highly confused expression.

Wynne's only reply was an ugly grimace - her back chose that exact moment to slice open her lumbar region with what could only be described as a dull machete. Her monster-like grimace persisted as she stepped aside to let Blackie and Goldie run out to the waiting deputy. The final point on her agenda was to close the inner door and shuffle into the bathroom to get a pick-me-up of the not-particularly-fun kind.

A packet of Baddee's Body Pain powder was soon tipped into the plastic tumbler she used to rinse her mouth after brushing her teeth. She read the small print on the box while she filled the tumbler with cool tap water and stirred it with her toothbrush. "Strawberry flavah mah eye. Tastes like whut brake fluid done smells like… but the durn thing works. Aw, shoot… he' goes."

Pretending the concoction was one of her favorite H.E. Fenwyck products - perhaps a 1910 Special Brew, a Centennial Brew or a Dark Lager - she gulped the pinkish-gray mixture down in nothing flat so she wouldn't have to spend too much time tasting it. There was little she could do about the chemical aftertaste save for brushing her teeth for a second time that morning, so that's exactly what she did.

---

"Dag-nabbit, I sure wish I had a cane or som'tin," Wynne mumbled as she hobbled around the corner of the trailer some twelve minutes later. She wore indoor loafers instead of her decorated cowboy boots, but that was a result of being unable to bend down to put on her socks rather than a fashion choice - and bare feet in cowboy boots would, with a 100% certainty, lead to bad blistering.

That she had managed to don most of her Last Original Cowpoke gear was near-miraculous in itself: the faded blue-jeans, the blue In GM We Trust sweatshirt, the wool-lined denim jacket and the dented cowboy hat. The red bandanna had been tucked into her left rear pocket, but she had left the high-quality sheepskin gloves on their regular shelf in the closet as they were far, far too dear to wear during any kind of potentially filthy operation. Instead, she wore a pair of sturdy work gloves that could take any kind of abuse without moaning.

"Haw… well, he' goes, anyhows. Lawrdie, this gonn' be a long, long, loooooong day…" she mumbled as she waved at the two gentlemen whose Blazer pulled a two-axled flatbed trailer fit for her old K10.

-*-*-*-

Meanwhile, eight miles further north in Goldsboro.

Mandy shook her head in frustration as she moved off Second Street and walked into Goldsboro's new neighborhood. That the dead-end street still hadn't received any kind of official name had already moved past the ridiculous stage and was well on its way to becoming grotesque.

While the legal dispute regarding the naming rights raged on between the Town Council and the overly wealthy entrepreneur who had financed the newest part of town, the residents had accepted a suggestion by Tabitha Hayward, the curator of the town museum, to cut through the nonsense and call it Josiah Street after the founder of Goldsboro - everyone's patience had run out when the US Mail had announced they could no longer provide a mail service as 'The alley off Second Street' was far too vague to work as an address.

The Sheriff moved along the sidewalk at a slightly slower tempo than her regular stride so she had time to digest the visual input and general impressions of her surroundings. She kept a close eye on the quality bungalows lining Josiah Street as she walked past them. Everything seemed peaceful enough at first glance, but she knew from bitter experience that first glances could, and often would, be deceiving.

A window, perhaps to a bedroom, stood open seemingly at random in one of the houses. It made her pause until she spotted a person appearing inside wearing an old-fashioned cleaning apron. The person soon leaned out of the window to shake a duster. They briefly locked eyes and exchanged a smile before it was time to resume patrolling the beat.

Curtains fluttered aside here and there when the residents peeked out at her, but that was just regular curiosity. She always responded by nodding and smiling at the people that she would most likely depend on in the coming elections.

The artist Nancy Tranh Nguyen sat on her porch bench working on a charcoal sketch of the street. To stay warm in the morning chill, the petite woman wore a huge, neon-green winter coat that seemed to be several sizes too large for her. When she looked up and spotted the Sheriff walking along Josiah Street, she offered her an enthusiastic wave and a "Good morning, Sheriff!"

"Good morning, Miss Nguyen," Mandy said and tipped her Mountie hat as she walked past.

Moving along, Mandy exchanged a few Good Mornings with several other residents before she reached the house of Eamonn and Esther O'Sullivan. The retired couple - who had provided valuable help to the Sheriff's Department in the frustrating case of the prank calls the previous summer - seemed to be preparing for a vacation as a row of suitcases had been lined up next to a newer Ford MPV that had its rear door standing wide open.

The door to the house stood open as well, so Mandy crossed the street to see if the O'Sullivans needed a hand. Once there, she nearly bumped into a man in his mid-thirties who came the other way carrying two further suitcases. "Good morning, Sir. I'm Sheriff Jalinski of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department. And you are?" she said while blocking the entrance so the mustachioed fellow couldn't leave.

The thirty-something man came to a halt at once and stared wide-eyed at the uniformed individual. "Uh… Patrick O'Sullivan, Sheriff. Is there a problem?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

Behind Patrick, the familiar face of Eamonn O'Sullivan appeared around the doorjamb to the kitchen. The 60-year-old disability pensioner - he had lost much of the use of his right leg in an industrial accident - grinned at the unexpected stand-off in his entrance. "He's one of the good guys, Sheriff. It's my nephew Patrick. We're staying with him and his wife up in Barton City for the rest of the week."

"I see," Mandy said and moved aside to let Patrick carry the suitcases out to join the others. "Do you need a hand packing the car?" she continued as Eamonn turned off the lights in the kitchen and came out into the entrance.

Eamonn wore a pair of soft jogging pants and a knitted cardigan over a loose sweatshirt that wouldn't be restrictive during the long drive north. His thinning hair appeared to have been trimmed recently, and he had even shaved for the special occasion. "No, Patrick's got it, Sheriff. Thanks. It's his kid's tenth birthday so the entire family's gonna be there. Plenty of food and… ah… things to drink." - The latter part of the sentence had been delivered in a stage-whisper.

When it appeared his wife Esther hadn't heard the comment, Eamonn continued at a regular volume: "Speaking of which… how's Wynne?  I haven't seen her over at Moira's for a couple of days."

"She's fine, thank you. Sore after carrying heavy furniture into the new second-hand store, though."

"Oh!  The owner of that store has just rented a house across the street!  Well, I say across the street, but it's really four houses down from where we're at now. It's the one with the red mail box. Weird, that… every other house has a blue one, but I guess the owners wanted to stand out. I think they should've added another flower bed instead. Their garden is kinda bare, but I guess they don't care for the hassle of gardening when their plan is to rent it out and not stay there on a permanent basis."

"Mmmm-yes-"

"What's his name… shoot, I forgot. Something with an F, I think…?  Or was it a T?" Eamonn rubbed his chin without getting to the desired result - the name wouldn't come to him, so he broke out in a shrug. "Anyway, he's a handsome black fella. I'm sure you've met-"

"Keshawn Williams."

"Keshawn, that's right," Eamonn said and nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah. I hope the store will be successful. Goldsboro really needs something like that. Do you know when it'll open for business?"

"Yes. It's this coming Saturday, Mr. O'Sullivan."

"Oh, dammit!  We're gonna miss all the great opening offers!" Eamonn said, baring his teeth in a disappointed grimace. The sound of a toilet flushing somewhere else in the bungalow soon reached their ears. "Well, it was nice talking to you, Sheriff, but I need to take a leak before we leave, so…"

Mandy grinned and tipped her Mountie hat. "Have a nice vacation, Mr. O'Sullivan. Please give your wife my regards."

"Will do, Sheriff!"

Mandy nodded a greeting at Patrick - who had stowed all the suitcases in the rear of the Ford MPV - as she went past him to carry on her foot patrol of Josiah Street.

---

She didn't need to seek out Keshawn Williams' residence to speak with him - Goldsboro's newest business owner came out to meet her just as she moved past the garden path that led to his front door.

A chuckle escaped her at the sight of the well-dressed fellow - black shoes, dark-gray pants and a black turtleneck sweater covered by a chargoal-gray down vest - pushing a wheelbarrow. Instead of soil, gravel or any of the other regular types of load for such a one-wheeled vehicle, it was filled by a cardboard box that was clearly too large and heavy to carry by hand.

"Good morning, Mr. Williams. Cleaning up your new garden shed?" Mandy said as she walked up the garden path.

" 'Morning, Sheriff. Not exactly, no… the shed's a mess, though. It could definitely use some TLC," Keshawn said and lowered the wheelbarrow to make it rest on its rear skids. "No, the wheelbarrow was the only thing I could find that was large and strong enough. The box is full of old paperbacks… they weigh next to nothing individually, but put enough together and they weigh a ton!  I tried to lift it, but it tore open, so… enter the wheelbarrow."

"I see. I've heard you're renting the house?"

Keshawn chewed on his cheek for a brief moment. "Huh. I can see it won't be easy to keep secrets in Goldsboro… not that it's a secret or anything. Well, yes. It was my plan to move into the small apartment above my store, but it's in a worse shape than I thought. It's just uninhabitable at the moment. It needs to be renovated from A to Z, but I don't have time for that right now."

"I can definitely imagine how it looks. It's been abandoned for quite a while," Mandy said before she was interrupted by her smartphone ringing.

When she noticed the caller-ID said HQ Barton City, she offered Keshawn a smile and an "Excuse me, please," before she strode back down the garden path and moved further along Josiah Street. "This is Sheriff Jalinski. Go ahead."

'Sheriff, this is Special Agent-in-Charge Hamilton Lydecker of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We're requesting the immediate assistance of the Goldsboro office of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department in a large-scale exercise simulating an interstate manhunt for a pair of dangerous fugitives who have escaped from a prison in Utah and are headed your way.'

Mandy stopped on a dime to stare at the heavens while screaming a silent Why now?  Why us?  Why?! - When nobody seemed to have any answers for her, she smacked a hand across her eyes and shook her head several times.

Lydecker couldn't see Mandy's sublimely frustrated reaction, so he carried on in a voice that was authoritative with an undertone of barely hidden excitement: 'The Goldsboro office has been chosen to form the command hub for the entire operation. You'll be working closely with the Bureau and units from the Nevada and Utah State Police as well as the Bureau's elite Airborne Assault Unit. They have their own command structure so they're no concern of yours. We expect to arrive and set up the command hub within the hour.'

"Within the hour?!"

'Yes, Sheriff, within the hour. The exercise needs to be as realistic as possible. Any prison breakout will always be dealt with expeditiously. The men we're tracking are to be considered armed and dangerous and it may therefore evolve into a hostage situation in your town. Simulated, of course.'

It didn't happen often that Mandy lost the ability to speak, but the situation had just occurred. Several veins throbbed on her forehead as she spun around and began to jog back along Josiah Street. Just as she zipped past a puzzled Keshawn Williams pushing the heavy wheelbarrow, her temper had eased off enough for her to say: "Very well, Agent Lydecker. We'll be ready for you."

'Good. We'll talk then. Goodbye, Sher-'

Mandy couldn't wait for the Special Agent-in-Charge to finish speaking, so she closed the connection and grabbed her portable radio instead. "Mobile Unit One to Base. Mobile Unit One to Base. Extremely urgent!  Deputy Simms, answer at once!  Over!"

While she spoke into the radio, her right-hand thumb had already begun scrolling through the registry of her telephone to call in all units regardless of where they were or what they were doing.

'Base receiving, Sheriff-' Barry said over the radio.

Mandy didn't have time to wait for the formal language, so she let rip with a: "Deputy, we've got massive problems coming our way. ETA less than one hour and counting. Has Deputy Reilly returned yet?"

'That's a negatory, Sheriff!'

"All right. I'll call her. Mobile Unit One out," Mandy said and hooked the radio onto her belt to concentrate on her telephone. She needed to slow down to a walk to hit the tiny entry in the registry, but it had soon been selected. Three failed rings later, it went to Beatrice's voicemail.

"Goddammit!" Mandy growled as she upped her tempo once more. Scrolling further down the list, her thumb ended at Rodolfo's personal number that she mashed her finger onto on the double.

'Hello, Sheriff,' a female voice purred at the other end of the line - it belonged to Dolores de la Vega, Rodolfo's girlfriend.

"I need to speak to the Senior Deputy right away!"

'Oh, he's… well, he's in the bathroom…'

"It can't wait. I'm sorry. I need to speak with him at once."

'Uh… okay. One moment.'

Mandy could hear Dolores knocking on a door that was presumably the one to her apartment's bathroom. A few Spanish phrases were uttered before the telephone changed hands.

'Sheriff, this is Rodol-'

"Senior Deputy," Mandy said and slowed down so she had enough air to speak, "I know it's your day off, but I need you here on the double. The large-scale exercise we spoke about has commenced. And get this, we're to be the command hub. Goldsboro will be flooded by law enforcement units within the hour."

The Mexican profanity that streamed through the telephone nearly made the display crack and the plastic case melt. Just when the torrent had fizzled out, a final one - of the juiciest kind - arrived as the caboose on the Cussing Train.

"My sentiments exactly," Mandy said and let out a bitter chuckle.

'I'll be there, Sheriff. I'll break the land speed record if I have to.'

"Good. Thank you, Senior Deputy. We'll talk then," Mandy said and closed the connection. While she jogged along, she tried Beatrice again with the same result - no connection.

She had only just turned the corner onto Second Street when Barry's voice was heard from the radio:

'Base to Mobile Unit One!  I've just found Deputy Reilly's telephone here in the office. It was charging and she obviously forgot to take it when she left for the trailer park-'

"Oh, Goddammit!" Mandy roared into the crisp, pre-noon air. She already had the sheriff's office in sight as she raced along Second Street, so her only comment on the radio was a brisk: "Ten-roger, Deputy. Unit One out."

After blasting across Main Street, she smashed open the sticking glass door with such force that everything rattled - including the glass panes in the door and the windows, the drooping felt tiles in the ceiling and even Barry Simms who bolted to his feet and dropped his half-smoked cigarette in sheer terror.

The deputy sheriff howled and ducked to the floor to retrieve the cigarette before it could burn a hole in either his uniform pants or the brown linoleum. A handful of pockmarks on the floor and three patches on the thighs of his pants proved it wasn't the first time that such a calamity had happened.

"I don't frickin' believe it," Mandy said as she found her telephone again and scrolled through the registry to find Wynne's number, "what the hell are those people thinking?  Didn't they hear a word of what I said?  Maybe they heard, but they sure as hell didn't understand a damn thing!  Crap!" - All that had come out while she stormed through the office to get to the crew room at the back.

Barry stared wide-eyed at the irate Sheriff from his spot at the watch desk. He knew better than to make a nuisance of himself at such a high-stress moment, so he sat down again and picked up his latest Sally Swackhamer, P.I. pulp novel - Volume 25, City Hall Shakedown - instead.

One-point-two seconds later, he bolted to his feet once more as the Sheriff came blasting out of the crew room carrying a surprising piece of equipment. Not their sparse riot gear, or the extra radios, or even their heavy artillery in the shape of their Mossberg pump-action shotguns, but their vacuum cleaner.

"Deputy Simms… please make the watch desk and the floor presentable," Mandy said in a voice that was remarkably civil. "We'll have Special Agents and SWAT commanders and God-knows-whoever else waltz through that damn door in… crap… less than fifty minutes."

Barry's jaw slipped further and further down towards his chest as he listened to the Sheriff. He managed to close it before the cigarette went bye-bye all over again, but it was close. Sighing, he took the vacuum cleaner and plugged it into the nearest wall socket to commence Operation Spick & Span.

Predictably, the incessant whine of the vacuum cleaner ruined all Mandy's chances to call Wynne on her telephone, so she stomped back onto the sidewalk before she selected the familiar number.

-*-*-*-

The two men who operated the winch that pulled Wynne's 1979 Chevrolet K-10 up onto the flatbed was a father-and-so team who had specialized in buying unfinished restoration projects. They would step in whenever the original owners had lost interest or had run out of time or money to finish what they had begun.

Neither was true in Wynne's case, but she had to admit that the thought of having something to fiddle with whenever the mood would hit her had been better than the actual thing. Too much had been wrong with the K-10 for it to be an enjoyable pastime - even though it held a certain sentimental value for her because it had been a duplicate of the one that had brought her from Texas to Goldsboro all those years ago.

As she watched it being pulled up onto the flatbed during its last few moments at the trailer park, it surprised her that she didn't even feel disappointed that she wouldn't get to cruise around in it when it was all done. The $4500 warming her left rear pocket obviously had a great deal to do with it, but she had a hunch that she wouldn't have felt more attached to it even if she had only been given $45 for its scrap value.

Shrugging, she moved away from the Chevrolet Blazer the men had arrived in. While the older of the two men tied the K-10 down with sturdy cords that would keep it in place on the flatbed, the younger opened the rear of the Blazer to deposit a few boxes of spares and various nuts and bolts that Wynne had found in their storage room.

She was about to address the men when her telephone rang down in her jacket pocket. She grinned when she read the caller-ID said Mandy. "Howdy, darlin'!  This he' be the one an' only-"

'Wynne, is Deputy Reilly still with you?  It's extremely urgent.'

"Haw?  Yuh, she be right he', Sheriff Mandy-"

'I need to speak with her on the double!  Please get her at once!'

"Yes, Ma'am, Sheriff Mandy, Ma'am!" Wynne said and whipped her head around to find the deputy sheriff. When she spotted her speaking to Brenda Travers across the lawn, she waved her dented cowboy hat high in the air. "De-per-ty Quick Draw!  I got da Sheriff on da horn an' she needs a wohhhhhh-rd witcha!"

'ASAP!' Mandy's voice said from the telephone that Wynne held in her other hand.

"Haw!  Onna dubbel, Quick Draw!  An' that means- okeh, Sheriff Mandy, he' she comes now… yuh?"

'Thank you. It's pandemonium up here. The exercise has started and we're about to be invaded-'

"Hold 'em hosses, pardnah!  I'mma-gonn' give Quick Draw mah phoah-ne!" Wynne said and handed the active telephone to Beatrice who put it to her ear at once.

Two seconds later, the deputy sheriff jumped to attention. She nodded several times in quick succession although the sheriff wouldn't be able to see it across the eight miles that separated them. "I'm on my way, Sheriff. ETA five to six minutes!"

Beatrice had barely handed Wynne her telephone back before she set off for the Dodge Durango. Jumping in, she turned on the emergency lights and reversed out of the grassy area that she had parked on since arriving earlier. Once she made it to the dirt road, she did a stone-rattling parking-brake turn and took off at full speed. Soon, the sound of the electronic siren echoed across the small trailer park from out on the State Route.

"Holy shittt… didya catch that?  Yuh, that be ol' Quick Draw awright," Wynne said into the telephone until she noticed the display was blank. "Haw… okeh… I reckon mah sweet, li'l Mandy be mo' than a li'l frazzled right 'bout now. Them buncha dang-blasted foo's who done sprung such a nasty surprise on 'em oughttah have their bee-hinds coated in moh-lasses an' roasted ovah an open fi'ah."

A moment later, Brenda came over to Wynne. The spirited lady wore tight jeans - though not the super-tight pair that even Wynne could not help but gawk at the previous month - and a cotton shirt. To fight off the chill, she had donned a winter windbreaker. "What on Earth was that all about, Wynne?  Has there been a bad accident out on the highway or something?"

"Naw, but one might happen up in Goldsborah befo' this he' thing be ovah," Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow. "Mandy done tole me 'bout it yestuhr'dy. It wus a supah-dupah top-secret thing so I coudden tell y'all 'bout nuttin'."

"Oh, don't worry about that, Wynne," Brenda said and reached out to put a hand on Wynne's denim-clad elbow. "I guess it's less of a secret now?"

"Yuh, I reckon. Seems them Eff-Bee-Eye agents an' some othah Star-packahs done sprung a gigantoh field exercise on them de-per-ties an' the Sheriff. She had been warned by somebodda up at HQ in Barton City, but shoot… nobodda had expected them foo's ta pull that there triggah so dog-gone soon!  I mean, whaddahell is all this brew-haw-haw good fer?  This he' ain't gonn' be nuttin' but bad shit fer all concern'd parties, yuh?  An' espe-shual-ly mah darlin' Mandy. Dag-nabbit!"

"An FBI exercise?  Here in Goldsboro?"

"Yuh."

"Today?"

"Yuh," Wynne said and stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets. "Bah the sound o' Mandy's voice, it alreddy done started. Hope the dog-gone thing won't make her sick or nuttin'. Hell, we only jus' got ovah mah dang illness in Decembah."

Brenda and Wynne fell silent while the father-and-son team waved at the previous owner of the white 1979 Chevrolet K-10 that had now been tied down to the flatbed.

Waving back, Wynne watched as they drove off with her weekend restoration project that hadn't been as much fun as she had hoped it would be. The only emotion she displayed was another shrug - she knew that something else would present itself to her once it was good and ready to do so.

Once the Blazer and the flatbed had left the trailer park, Wynne and Brenda turned around and strolled back to their respective homes. "I know it'll be very stressful for Mandy," Brenda said, "but honestly… I think an exercise sounds really exciting. I think I'll drive up there to take a look. If it's dull or there's nothing to see, I can always head up to the movie theater."

"Yuh, I s'pose… what 'r ol' Abe Rosenthal an' them folks playin' this he' week, anyhows?"

"Let me see," Brenda said and dug into her pants pocket to find her telephone. A handful of taps and swipes later, she said: "Rita Raccoon at three, The Backyard Bandits at five, Captain Victory versus Doctor Atomiko at seven and Forty Minutes Left To Live at nine-thirty."

"Ain't nevah heard o' none of 'em," Wynne said as she came to a halt near the trailer where Estelle Tooley and her daughter Renee lived.

Another handful of taps and swipes followed on Brenda's telephone. "Okay, according to the Barton City Times, Rita Raccoon is a G-rated animated feature. The Backyard Bandits is a family movie that was given four of five stars in their review. Captain Victory versus Doctor Atomiko is one of those superhero-"

"Ugh. Mah buhhh-tt ain't gonn' be fillin' them seats fer that one. No way, no how, no Ma'am."

Chuckling, Brenda returned to looking at the display for the details of the late-night showing. "And Forty Minutes Left To Live is an R-rated action drama about a government operative who goes undercover in a Colombian drug cartel. The Times gave that three out of five stars and called it 'too violent for its own good.' "

"Eh, I dunno. I ain't much fer them modern films, anyhows," Wynne said and broke out in yet another shrug. "Lawrdie, I 'membah when that there mooh-vie theatah jus' opened up, yuh?  Them folks done showed all them there wondahful ol' John Wayne mooh-vies an' a buncha othah Westurhns on them weekends. There wus a Bustah Crabbe an' Al St.John cavalcade one time. Yuh. Haw, I was up there fer eight dang hou'ahs one Sundy!  I hadda blast… but then there wus a change o' management an' now they sure can't be showin' none o' them there awesome, ol' mooh-vies now, nosirree. Ain't nuttin' but new stuff now."

Brenda grinned at the annoyed tone to her friend's voice. "Well, they do have something called the Cult Classics At Midnight or something to that effect… have you ever checked that out?"

"Yuh. It be kinda like a club where da membahs pool tagathah so they can rent or license… or whutevah… them there rights fer a-buncha ol' mooh-vies. I done thunk 'bout it, but De-per-ty Barry is a membah an' he offen goes ta them showin's an' he done tole me once they mostly be watchin' real cheapos like sci-fi an' horrah an' them things. Ain't mah style, no Ma'am. Eh. Anyhows, I reckon we be done he'. I need-a have anothah dose-a pain relief an' then I really need-a have mah whissel wetted. Care fer a brew or som'tin?"

"No thank you, Wynne. I think I'll head up to town and see what's shaking. Talk to you later," Brenda said and briefly put a hand on Wynne's elbow as a goodbye.

"Okeh. Wait… y'all be goin' up there now?"

"That's my plan, yes."

Wynne hemmed and hawed for several long moments before she threw her arms out wide in defeat. "Aw, whydahell not. I reckoned I wus gonn' watch one o' them there ol' Nascah-r races an' mebbe have some pork rinds an' a-cuppel-a beers, but… haw, there be plenty time fer that latah. Anyhows. Tell ya whut, Brendah. I be drivin'. Ain't no reason fer both offus ta burn gas ta get ta the same spot on da map, dontchaknow. Once I done swallowed that there pain relief gunk, I'mma-gonn' get mah dawggies an' I be reddy ta hit tha road."

"Sounds like a plan, Wynne!" Brenda said and jumped up on tip-toes to plant a quick smooch on Wynne's smooth cheek - the kiss was followed by an exaggerated wink before she spun around and hurried back to her own trailer.

Wynne chuckled and reached up to touch the spot on her cheek where her friendly neighbor had kissed her. "Lawwwwr-die… all them gor-guss wimmenfolk be throwin' 'emselves at mah feet… how come nobodda did that when I wus young an' unattached?  Dog-gone, this he' wohhhhh-rld jus' keep gettin' mo' an' mo' bizarroh fer each dang-blasted day… sure ain't no lie, nosirree," she mumbled as she shuffled back home to chug down another packet of Baddee's Body Pain powder and round up Blackie and Goldie.

*
*
CHAPTER 6

Vacuuming the floor in the sheriff's office had been a good idea, but the execution had been poor in spite of Barry Simms' best efforts. He and Mandy stood side by side staring at the sorry state of the brown linoleum after the industrial-strength vacuum cleaner had been over it. In the spots where it had merely been cracked before, it now resembled a deranged, 5000-piece jigsaw puzzle.

While Mandy scratched an eyebrow over and over in a severe outbreak of a nervous tic, Barry shrugged, rolled up the vacuum's power cord and stored the destructive element back in the broom cupboard in the crew room. At least the watch desk was squeaky clean and a highlight for all the right reasons.

An electronic siren approaching at high speed out on Main Street made Mandy snap out of her hypnotized state. Sighing, she stormed out of the office to greet Beatrice Reilly. The Dodge Durango had barely come to a screeching, dust-flying halt at the curb before Mandy tore open the front door and handed the deputy the telephone she had forgotten in the charger. "Here, Deputy. Please make sure you can be reached at all times. You know the portable radios only have a range of five miles."

"Yes, Sheriff. I'm terribly sorry. It won't happen again," Beatrice mumbled as she stuffed the telephone into her breast pocket. Blushing in embarrassment, she hopped out of the Durango and shut the door behind her. "So the large-scale exercise has started?"

"Yes. I'm surprised they aren't here yet," Mandy said and stared up toward the northern end of Main Street. She let out a bitter chuckle. "Maybe they couldn't find Goldsboro on the map and took a wrong turn somewhere."

"We can only hope…"

The roar of a powerful car approaching from the south made Mandy and Beatrice turn around to look for the source. A black Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedan with dark-tinted windows and chrome wheels blasted along the State Route kicking up a cloud of dust and sand in its wake. As the luxury vehicle reached the city limits sign, it slowed down and adhered to the speed limit until it reached the sheriff's office.

"Who the hell is this now?" Mandy growled as she strode out onto the street to have a word or two with the driver. "You can't park that thing here!  And we don't have time for-"

Instead of the rich business individual Mandy had expected to see, a fully uniformed Rodolfo bolted from the car and jumped to attention. "Senior Deputy Gonzalez reporting for duty, Sheriff Jalinski!  On his day off that he was gonna spend in bed with his girlfriend, I might add…"

Mandy's eyebrow was given another few scratches as she took in the sight of the black S-Class. "Where in the world did you get that car?"

"It's Dolores' personal ride."

Mandy shook her head as she walked back to the office. "How much does a livestock broker earn, anyway?  Never mind," she said in a mumble. Turning around, she continued at her regular volume: "Please, park it somewhere inconspicuous. Maybe up at the impound yard. It doesn't give the brass the right image of us."

"Will do, Sheriff," Rodolfo said and got behind the wheel of the luxury vehicle. The S-Class soon made a U-turn and roared south on Main Street to get to the alley next to Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports.

Beatrice Reilly had already gone inside to survey the damage to the linoleum floor when an idea struck Mandy. Finding her telephone, she soon located Sheriff G.W. Tenney's number in the registry.

A deep, authoritative 'Sheriff Tenney speaking,' soon came through the connection.

Just hearing the voice made a small smile break out on Mandy's lips. "Sheriff, this is Mandy Jalinski. Has Prince County been put on high alert due to the FBI field exercise?"

'No… that's the first I hear of it. An FBI field exercise?  Out here in the sticks?'

"Yes. My deputies and I are about to be assisted by the FBI, the AAU and units of the Utah and Nevada State Police."

'Assisted… heh,' G.W. said and broke out in a chuckle.

"The core of the exercise is that two convicts have escaped from a prison. They're being hounded this way but it may end in a hostage situation," Mandy said and mopped her damp brow on her sleeve. "A fairly standard exercise from what I know… but dammit, we aren't equipped to deal with such an event!  Can you spare a couple of deputies?  Please?"

'I'll do one better, Sheriff Jalinski. It's a dull day in Brandford Ridge, so I'll gather up three or four of my best people and race to Goldsboro. We'll help where we can and act as moral support against the talking suits. How does that sound?'

A smile borne of relief spread over Mandy's face. In the far distance, she spotted Rodolfo Gonzalez jogging back along the sidewalk after parking the Mercedes out of sight. "That sounds very good, G.W. We'll roll out the red carpet for you. Oh, and treat you all to a quality dinner at Moira's Bar and Grill tonight."

'Excellent!  All right. I'm afraid I can't give you an exact ETA. I need to set our contingency plans in motion before we can leave. Actually, it'll be a good test of those, too.'

"Ten-Roger, Sheriff Tenney. Sheriff Jalinski out," Mandy said with a grin as she closed the connection. Her state of relief, however, lasted all of one minute.

Rodolfo had barely made it back to the sheriff's office when they spotted a tidal wave rolling toward Goldsboro from the north. There was no mistaking the sea of emergency lights that lit up the desert landscape out on the State Route.

When the convoy entered Main Street at the northern city limits sign, it was revealed to consist of a handful of SUVs from the Nevada and Utah State Police, four black SUVs from the FBI and a behemoth of a command post vehicle that was in fact an entire eighteen-wheeler.

Mandy's eyebrow was given a fair scratching at the sight - Rodolfo just let out a sigh and dug into the side pocket of his uniform pants. The white handkerchief he found there was soon unfolded and waved high in the air. "We might as well surrender," he said with a shrug.

---

Ten minutes later, Main Street had been transformed into a parking lot for law enforcement materiel. While the units of the State Police remained at their vehicles to organize roadblocks and thus limit access to town during the operation, the technical crew responsible for the on-site operation of the FBI Mobile Command Center were hard at work getting everything set up.

The seventy-five-foot long, triple-axled trailer was pulled by a Mack Anthem tractor unit that also provided the pneumatic power needed to expand the trailer's sliding walls. The entire middle section of each of the trailer's flanks could be stretched to a combined width of no less than thirty feet - the extended sections needed to be supported by four prop stands each or else they would buckle under their own weight. When the pneumatic hoses were detached after use, the burst of excess air escaping the valves was strong enough to rattle a good number of window panes on that side of Main Street.

A large satellite dish mounted atop the Mobile Command Center on a swiveling base was already rotating to acquire a transmission signal from the FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C. Once the signal was found and locked, the computer operators would have direct, uninterrupted access to the numerous and comprehensive FBI databases on everything under the sun within the criminal and forensic worlds.

---

Standing behind her desk in the sheriff's office, Mandy wished she could chug down a mug of rocket-fuel coffee to get her through the drama, but there was no time for soul-soothing amenities like that.

The office had never been as jam-packed as it was at present: the typically brawny law enforcement people carrying the black outfits of the Federal Bureau Of Investigation, the pale-brown uniforms of the Utah State Police and the black uniforms of the Nevada State Police took up so much space that the third desk, where Beatrice usually sat, had needed to be carried into the crew room at the back to make room for them all.

Mandy's own appearance added to the colors on display. Not only did her black-and-dark-gray uniform sport ungainly damp patches under her arms, her blond mop and green eyes were accompanied by a crimson flush that had flooded all parts of her head from the tip of her nose to the back of her neck.

Soon, a distinguished man in his early-to-mid fifties pushed through the crowd and stuck out a hand. He wore the standard-issue Federal Agent suit although his was Navy-blue rather than black or gunmetal-gray that seemed to be the preferred colors among his fellow agents. A pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses featuring square lenses sat low on his hawkish nose - the golden tones added even more class to his presence, as did the graying temples and firm gaze. "Sheriff Jalinski, I'm Special Agent-in-Charge… or SAC if you will… Hamilton Lydecker with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. We spoke over the telephone."

"Mmmm," Mandy uttered as she shook the man's hand. She noted that the knot on Lydecker's tie was so tight it was a miracle he could even breathe.

"I'm sure you've been briefed but a recap can never hurt. Here's the plan we'll follow," Lydecker continued, reaching into his suit to get a folder that contained several brand-new maps, a detailed timeline of the fictitious event and finally the information sheets on the escapees that Mandy had already been sent by Walter Thompson, jr., her hush-hush contact up at HQ.

"I haven't been briefed worth a damn, Commander," Mandy said with a deceptively sweet and innocent smile playing on her lips.

At the far end of the office, behind the backs of nearly a dozen law enforcement officers from various agencies, Rodolfo and Beatrice tried hard to conceal snickers. Barry simply continued chewing on a wad of nicotine gum so he wouldn't add his own brand of toxic pollution to the oppressive environment.

"Oh…" Lydecker said, looking at Mandy above the rim of his reading glasses. "Well… I was under the impression you had been. Never mind. The recap will deal with the essential topics. And please, call me Agent Lydecker. Or SAC."

"Very well," Mandy said without the remotest hint of a smile anywhere near her lips or even her face in general.

It was unclear whether or not Lydecker noticed the transformation - the Special Agent-in-Charge certainly didn't make any kind of comment before he turned to the first of the maps, one that covered all of Nevada and parts of the neighboring states. Mashing an index finger onto a spot in Utah, he said: "This, Ladies and Gentlemen, is Operation Finesse And Fortitude. At four this morning, two convicts… Stephen Eugene Howard and Miguel Alfredo… made a successful escape from the Daggett-Murrow Federal Penitentiary in north-west Utah not too far from Strasburg and the border to Nevada."

Nodding, Mandy reached for a pencil and her notepad at once. Flipping the latter open to the latest page, she was able to verify that everything Walter 'Wally' Thompson, jr. had whispered in her ear had come true.

"Stephen Eugene Howard," the Special Agent-in-Charge continued, "is Caucasian, twenty-nine years of age and convicted of several counts of armed robbery. Miguel Alfredo is Hispanic, twenty-seven years of age and convicted of multiple assaults with a deadly weapon. Both are to be considered armed and dangerous."

"I see. Go on," Mandy said, pretending to be jotting down the information that she already had.

Now it was Hamilton Lydecker's time to nod. "The escaped convicts hitched a ride with an interstate truck driver for the first stretch from Salt Lake to the Nevada state line. Once they had made it across, they assaulted and robbed the driver for less than one hundred dollars. They left him severely beaten. Not fifteen minutes after the driver had been attacked, a charcoal-gray, late-model Acura sedan was reported stolen from a shopping mall parking lot a short mile from the other incident site."

Mandy let out an "Mmmm…" as she added a tiny bit to the page in the notepad so she wouldn't raise anyone's suspicions.

"We have every reason to believe that Howard and Alfredo are headed for Southern California as they both have relatives there. That is where you and your deputies come into the picture, Sheriff Jalinski."

A second "Mmmm…" escaped Mandy as she closed the notepad. She looked at the law enforcement personnel who all stared back at her with a wide range of emotions showing on their faces: some were bored, some excited and some were visibly annoyed that they had been forced into an exercise that took time and resources away from more pressing matters.

The senior agent stood up straight, looking at the rest of the uniformed personnel in the office as if he was following a well-rehearsed public-relations plan of including everyone in the conversation. "The fugitives must know they're being chased. It would only be natural to think they would go into hiding somewhere in the desert to await nightfall. Sheriff, this is where we need your local knowledge. Where could they be?"

Mandy chewed on her cheek for a moment. The office fell quiet while everyone waited for a nugget of gold. On the far side of the officers' broad backs, Beatrice let out a sigh.

"Agent Lydecker, they could be absolutely anywhere. There are thousands upon thousands of hiding places they could use," Mandy said as she made a sweeping gesture across the state map that was fifty-seven years newer than the copy pinned to the wall behind her. "But all right. Let's try to apply logic to the situation. The car they stole from the shopping mall was an Acura sedan, correct?"

"Yes."

"That vehicle obviously has a low ground clearance. Also, it's only two-wheel-drive. It cannot be used to enter the desert. A sedan would literally get beached a mere ten feet off the edge of the blacktop," Mandy said and put her hand flat on the map to illustrate her point.

"Oh… well-"

"Have the fugitives stopped at… or robbed… a convenience store anywhere along the way to get food and water?"

"Ah… no… I don't believe they have, Sheriff. Well, to be precise, I don't have that information." - The senior agent adjusted his expensive reading glasses while he spoke.

A mumbled murmur seemed to ebb and flow almost as if some of the uniformed personnel found it somewhat amusing - someone who did break out in an audible snicker was Barry Simms over at the watch desk. "Pardon me. I have a head cold," he said and pretended to cough into his hand when a few of the senior officers turned to stare at him.

Mandy let out a brief grunt before she slid a finger further south on the map. "All right. Let's move on. They have a car but perhaps little gas. Driving south, they'll obviously have bypassed Barton City-"

"Why obviously?" Lydecker said. "They'd be invisible in a major city."

"Yes, but they're not fools. They'll know the precincts will have been alerted. Maybe it's already made the news so citizens will be on the lookout for their car as well. On the State Route, they can go for hours without meeting a police vehicle, but there'll be cruisers on every corner in Barton City. The streets would be far too hot for their liking."

When nobody seemed to have any objections to that, Mandy continued: "They need gas. They'll have seen the road signs that list Parson Flats, Maynard Bluff, Leigh and finally Goldsboro. The State Route doesn't go through Maynard Bluff so that won't help them. The gas station in Parson Flats is closed due to a change of ownership, and the one in Leigh is only open on weekends and on special occasions. These men aren't locals so they wouldn't know where to look. They're armed and dangerous so chances are they'll carjack a new vehicle that has more gas."

Standing up straight, Mandy crossed her arms over her chest. She glared at Lydecker and the other officers as if she was saying Match that if you can!

"Ah… that's a very good theory, Sheriff Jalinski," Lydecker said before he adjusted his glasses again. He studied the top-level map for a moment until he rolled it up and replaced it with a more detailed one that showed all the major roads of MacLean County and the neighboring counties. "But, ah, I do believe we have no reports of further vehicle thefts. Therefore, we must presume the fugitives will continue south, toward Goldsboro, in their original vehicle."

Over at the back of the office, Barry pretended to cough all over again.

Mandy nodded and leaned down to study the new road map. "In that case, I'll say they'll run out of gas… here." - She tapped a fingernail against the map - "A handful of miles north of Goldsboro. Somewhere between Thunder Park Raceway and the Tobin residence. You must have seen it on your way here, Agent Lydecker. The Bug Bonanza. The Tobins have put up advertising billboards and colorful flags close to the State Route. Taking that train of thought a step further, the fugitives may see those flags and believe it to be a gas station."

"Sheriff… Special Agent Lydecker," Rodolfo said in a strong voice to be heard over the din that had erupted after Mandy had finished speaking, "the Tobins did in fact run a gas station a generation ago. Many of the buildings are still intact and are recognizable… the pump island, a three-bay service garage, the store, et cetera. Anyone who isn't local could be fooled into thinking it's an active gas station."

"Very good point, Senior Deputy Gonzalez," Mandy said with a wide grin. She cast a second match that! glance at Hamilton Lydecker before she leaned down to study the map once more. "My professional assessment is that Howard and Alfredo have made it as far as the Tobin residence. They've run dry and can't get any gas anywhere. Maybe there aren't other vehicles they can steal. That means they're stuck here. Anger will grow from that, I'm sure. Angry fugitives who are armed and dangerous will typically do rash and unpredictable things. Senior Deputy?"

"Yes, Sheriff?" Rodolfo said while he tried to edge his way through the throng.

"Please give us an approximate number of people who may be there at this time of the day."

"At the most four, Sheriff. The teenager Kenny Tobin for certain as he's the main tour guide. His mother Hayley runs their gift shop so it's likely she's there, although she may have driven to Parson Flats or Leigh to buy supplies. Also, Kenny's father Bert will be there as he's the general handyman and the caretaker of his elderly father Clifford who's bedridden."

"Thank you, Senior Deputy. Well, Special Agent Lydecker," Mandy said and pinned the Bureau man to the spot with an icy glare, "there you have it. If it escalates into a hostage situation, we're almost certain it'll go down there."

SAC Lydecker nodded several times while he mopped his brow. "Quite extraordinary, Sheriff. The logic is faultless. Is the… I'm sorry, what was the name of the family?"

"The Tobin family."

"Is their residence isolated?"

"There's nothing at all out there save for the Bug Bonanza. Nothing. Thunder Park Raceway is fifteen miles or so further north. And west, north-west through the desert… well, good luck surviving one-hundred-plus miles of burning sun, no water and plenty of venomous creatures," Mandy said and tapped her finger onto the road map again.

Lydecker took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "All right. You've convinced me. Your local knowledge demands that you take the point in the rescue operation. You'll have all available units as backup, including our AAU and the hostage negotiators."

Mandy let out a dark chuckle. "Well, Agent Lydecker… I have a feeling that if we arrive with that three-ring circus out there, Howard and Alfredo will have far too many great, big, fat targets to aim at. No. This is a mission for one or two operatives at the most. And luckily for you, I have one of them right here. Deputy Reilly!"

Beatrice's eyes popped wide open as she heard her name being called. "Ah… yes, Sheriff Jalinski?" she said as she moved over to be at the head of the line.

"You earned numerous badges and commendations in relevant classes at the Academy. If I recall correctly, you were top five in class in the Hostile Environment Survival course and top five in class in outdoors marksmanship. Oh, and top ten in class at the Pursuit Driving course."

A murmur of approval spread among the officers present - it made Beatrice stand just that little taller. "That's correct, Sheriff."

"You were also part of the search for the so-called Hellbeast out at Rattler Gulch last fall."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"In other words, you have extensive and recent desert training," Mandy said and folded up some of Lydecker's many maps so she could see her own desk again. "In your professional opinion, what's the best tactic in this situation?  The objective is to capture the fugitives without risking harm to the hostages."

"Well," Beatrice said in a croaky voice; stopping, she cleared her throat to give her voice more strength. "As we've already established, they're not locals. That means they'll do what's ingrained in them… watch the road and the sky. Not the desert. They might look at it from time to time, but nothing ever seems to happen so they'll soon grow tired of it. Therefore, the strike team needs to come from the desert," Beatrice said as she turned to Lydecker. "Special Agent, is your Airborne Assault Unit equipped for a desert operation?  And by that, I mean proper fatigues."

Senior agent Lydecker adjusted his reading glasses before he answered. "Well, no. Their regular uniforms are black. They do have access to an optional Urban Warfare camouflage set that can be attached on top of the black fatigues, but…"

Beatrice grunted and looked at Mandy. "Black uniforms or urban camouflage in the desert?  Won't work at all, Ma'am."

Down at the back, Barry chimed in with a quip: "They might as well wear Hawaiian shirts or pink tutus!"  The cheesy grin that spread over his features proved he found it extraordinarily humorous - but the grin only lasted until he had locked eyes with Mandy and Beatrice who both seemed to find the quip less humorous.

Beatrice turned back to face the sheriff's desk once more. "That's perhaps a slight exaggeration on Deputy Simms' part, but fact is they'll be spotted and challenged two hundred yards from the house. If the fugitives are armed and dangerous-"

"They are," Lydecker interjected.

"Armed, dangerous and desperate. That means they'll open fire against the AAU who'll stick out like sore thumbs with no chance of finding cover. That's a recipe for certain disaster."

Though the murmurs grew, Hamilton Lydecker fell silent as Beatrice slipped back to the spot at the far wall that she shared with Rodolfo and Barry. "Well… how about shooting tear gas through the windows, then?  I obviously mean from a safe distance," he said after a pregnant delay.

"Sir," Beatrice continued, "the maximum range of the canister launcher is less than sixty feet. And even from that distance, the marksman only has a one-in-three chance of actually hitting the windows. The canisters are unpredictable at the best of times."

Before Lydecker could open his mouth, Mandy added: "And you'll be shooting into a house where one of the hostages is a frail, elderly man who suffers from dementia… not to mention that he's bed-ridden. Oh, and I seem to recall that Clifford Tobin's a decorated war hero from Vietnam. Personally, I wouldn't want to risk the headlines we all know would follow."

By now, the senior agent's face had turned into a sour mask. It was obvious to all concerned that the grand exercise - that he had designed down to the tiniest of details - didn't exactly run to plan. "This is just… I cannot… Sheriff, there must be some way to achieve success!" he said as he dabbed his forehead on a handkerchief.

When nobody had anything to add, he thrust the handkerchief into his pocket and pulled back his sleeve. "Oh, look at the time. I'm expecting an update from headquarters. I need to be there when it arrives. Sheriff Jalinski, it's been an interesting session. I'll talk to you later."

"SAC Lydecker," Mandy said and offered the Special Agent-in-Charge a salute before he and his uniformed entourage left the sheriff's office. Once everyone save for her regular trio of deputies had cleared out, Mandy let out a sigh that came from the bottom of her soul.

Rodolfo and Beatrice both had reasons to be proud of their input, and they sported beaming smiles as they went around getting things back to normal inside the office. Mandy bumped into her swivel-chair at first but soon got to her feet once more to make a fresh pot of coffee that would hopefully remove the bitter taste in her mouth.

Over at the watch desk, Barry lit up at once. Soon, a foul-smelling column of smoke rose from the glowing tip of one of his notorious home-rolled stink bombs. The latest Sally Swackhamer, P.I. pulp novel, a small bag of tropical-flavored gumdrops and a magazine featuring Sudoku puzzles and other brain twisters were soon spread out on the desk top.

After Mandy had flipped the switch on the coffee machine to make it come alive, she took in the sight of her three hugely different deputies. "May I have your attention, please. I'm very proud of your efforts today. We showed them that we rural bumpkins have something to offer. This damned exercise isn't over yet, not by a long shot, but we gave as good as we got here in round one. Well done, everybody."

A chorus of "Thank you, Sheriff," rose from the three deputies - Barry began to cough a moment later, but he managed to curb it by sucking all the smoke out of his latest cigarette to soothe his throat.

-*-*-*-

At much the same time a few miles south of town, Lori Baker's classic number one hit Now It's My Turn played from the many speakers in Wynne's matte-black Silverado as it ate up the miles between the trailer park and Goldsboro.

The bouncy tune that told a story of a gal who went her own way instead of sticking to the plan her stern mother had laid out for her struck gold with the two women up front.

Wynne sang along to the lyrics that reminded her of her own youth, even if her problems had been of another nature. To her right, Brenda Travers could barely contain herself as she belted out the song's chorus. She jiggled, wiggled and giggled at her own behavior throughout the three minutes and forty-seven seconds the famous song lasted.

Once it faded out and was replaced by a different tune on the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack, Wynne reached over to the infotainment system to turn down the volume a notch or two. A thankful Wooooofff… and a happy Yap! from the back seat proved her doggy passengers appreciated the respite.

"Ohhhhh, I love that song!" Brenda said and sat up straight - all her jiggling and wiggling had caused her to slide forward on the seat. Though her previous set of clothes had been just fine, she had changed into something new and even smarter for the ride north: Brown ankle boots took care of the footwear while the tight pair of designer jeans continued to cover her lower half. Up top, she now wore her favorite down vest over a sunflower-yellow sweater.

"Yuh, I could tell," Wynne said with a grin. As always, The Last Original Cowpoke wore her beloved denim-combo that needed no further introduction.

"The first time I heard it was at a retro music festival down in Cavanaugh Creek… oh, it must have been ten-fifteen years ago now. I loved it from the very first minute."

Wynne furrowed her brow. Then she looked at Brenda. Then she looked at the infotainment system as if it would provide a clue even though the tune was long gone. Then she looked at Brenda again. "Haw, I ain't tryin' ta argue witcha or nuttin', there, Brendah… but som'tin gotta be wrong with that there recollec-shun o' yers. I be perdy dang sure Now It's Mah Turn wussen played at no retro music festival or nuttin' ten ye'ahs ago. Whah, it only be… whut… yuh, I reckon it be ten-twelve years ol' or som'tin. Ain't it?"

"Let's find out for sure," Brenda said and went online on her telephone. A few swipes later, she found the tune's entry at the Global Music Database. "It's from 'ninety-seven, Wynne."

"Say whut?!"

"It's closing in on being thirty years old," Brenda continued as she put her telephone back in her pocket. Leaning over, she patted Wynne's arm in a comforting fashion. "There, there… it's not so bad. Time flies for everyone."

Wynne shook her head slowly. "Ugggh… I be gettin' ol'. Dang-blasted, howindahell that done happened?  A wrinkled buhhhh-tt an' gray hairs an' shitty muscles an'… ugh."

"TMI, Wynne!  Just a little, but definitely too much information," Brenda said and broke out in another giggle.

In the back, Blackie and Goldie stuck their heads together to try to calculate how old they were. After much puzzled woofing and yapping, they gave up as there seemed to be something distinctly peculiar going on with the space/time-continuum - at least when it came to the woolly-brained equation of calculating human years versus dog years versus the general life expectancy for German Shepherds and Golden Retrievers.

---

As the Silverado came closer to Goldsboro, Wynne leaned forward to get a better look through the windshield at the unexpected light show up ahead. A moment later she slowed the truck down to a crawl. "Whaddinda-wohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-rld?  Whaddahell goin' on up he'?  Wus we invaded by them pesky aliens ag'in or som'tin?  Holy shittt, there be poh-leese ev'rywhere!  Is all this fer that there exuhrcise?  Lawrdie, mah sweet, li'l Mandy gotta be 'bout reddy ta exploah-de…"

"I think it's kinda exciting. Men in uniforms are sexy!" Brenda said, sitting up straight so she could look out.

Wynne's only reply was a dry "Aw-haw?"

The road into town was blocked by two SUVs from the Nevada State Police that had parked across the two-lane blacktop. Beyond the roadblock, Main Street was awash in law enforcement personnel of all uniform colors. The eighteen-wheeler pulling the FBI Mobile Command Center took up so much space that the remaining traffic had to inch past the trailer's extended wing.

When the Silverado approached the roadblock, two officers from the Nevada State Police stepped out onto the road to prevent it from going any further - one held up a sign that literally said Stop.

No-nonsense, square-jawed, hard-eyed and generally gruff-looking, the black-clad officers spread out and walked closer to Wynne's truck on either side of it so they had both angles covered in case of trouble.

Wynne rolled down the driver's side window and put her elbow on the windowsill. "Howdy, boys. Y'all sure be plentah bizzy up he', haw?  Is all this he' ac-shun connected ta that there exer- haw!"

A newsflash suddenly scrolled across the inside of her eyelids: Mandy had told her the night before that the fact she knew about the exercise ahead of time was all very, very hush-hush.

"-That there excitin' news we done read in that there newspapah, yuh?" she continued while a perfectly innocent smile played on her lips. "Ya know, that da President o' these he' Yooooo-nited States mebbe comin' ta town on his campaign trail an' all?"

Brenda let out a confused "Huh?" so Wynne reached over, out of sight of the officers at the windows, to put an I'll Tell You Later hand on her leg in the hope she would get the hint.

The first of the gruff officers shook his head. "We're not at liberty to say, Ma'am."

"That be Miss, son. Yuh, Miss Wynne Donnah-hew ta be exact. Formahly o' Shallah Pond, Texas an' presently o' li'l ol' Goldsborah… aw, an' that be this he' li'l town in case y'all wus wonderin' where y'all wus at, yuh?  Shoot, so we ain't gonn' see the Prez aftah all?  Gosh-darn'it, we wus hopin' so bad we could mebbe get his John Hancock or som'tin…"

Wynne's rambling seemed to be deflected by the police officer's cool exterior. Unfazed, he continued: "Do you have business in town, Miss?"

"Yuh. Well, I do got a bizzness in town, yuh. Whut, y'all wanna know mah star sign too, or som'tin?"

The officer took a step back and signaled his colleague in one of the SUVs. Soon, the large vehicle backed up so the road ahead was clear. "You may go on. Have a nice day."

"Whah, much obliged, off'ser. This he' day can only get bettah from he' on in. Yee-haw!" Wynne said and planted her boot onto the gas pedal. The Silverado took off in a roar that kicked up a small cloud of dust and desert sand that had been blown onto the road.

They had barely made it past the roadblock before Brenda said: "What was that wild story about the President, Wynne?"

"I hadda pull a li'l white lie 'cos I plum fergot that Sheriff Mandy done tole me that she didden… well, that she didden get that there warnin' mess-itch through them propah channels, yuh?  It wus kinda done whispah'd to her, catch mah drift?"

"Ohhhh… I see. That makes sense. I was getting a little worried about you for a moment there," Brenda said and stuck out her tongue in a juvenile but humorous fashion.

"Whah, I sure be thankin' y'all fer bein' concerned 'bout mah mental health an' all… whaddahell?  Now wouldya lookie there," Wynne said before smacked a hand onto the rim of the steering wheel.

The spot in the alley adjacent to Moira's Bar & Grill where she always parked had been taken by one of the black SUVs from the FBI. A Special Agent leaned against the vehicle while updating something on his phone.

Coming to a halt on Main Street, Wynne tapped her fingers on the steering wheel several times before she leaned out of the window to yell: "Y'all can't park that dang-blasted thing there, son!  That spot be resurhved fer li'l ol' me, Wynne Donnah-hew!  It done says so on that there sign on da wall right behindcha. An' Lawwwwr-die, if y'all ain't driving a dang-blasted Blue Oval vee-hickel too!  I mean, that jus' be blasphemous an' all!  Lemme tell y'all som'tin, son, only General Motahs vee-hickels be allowed ta park in that there spot there, yessirree!"

The Special Agent briefly looked up but made no move to vacate Wynne's personal parking space.

"I don't bah-lieve this… whaddindahell 'z goin' on up he'?" Wynne said to Brenda whose only response was a shrug. "We really wus invaded bah them pesky aliens!  An' them aliens be wearin' expensive suits an' Eff Bee Eye badges!"

In the back, Blackie let out a strong bark to prove she was more than ready to provide a little physical backup if it came to that - Goldie whimpered and dove into the footwell behind the front seats.

"Son!  Dontcha make me come ovah ta y'all!  Or mebbe y'all need persua-shun?  I be verrrrry familiah with that there Sheriff o' this he' town, an' trus' me, if y'all think it be irritatin' dealin' with me, haw, y'all bettah prepare fer an extra-spe-shul talkin' ta when Sheriff Mandy comes ovah!"

The Special Agent looked up once more, but soon returned to updating his telephone.

Wynne scrunched up her face to such an extent that it looked like a walnut. "I be mighty impressed them Eff Bee Eye folks done hired somebodda who obvi'sly be hard o' hearin'. That be divuhrsity fer y'all… or mebbe he jus' dumbah than an upside down barrel o' monkey nuts. Now whe'da'hell we gonn' park?"

"Wasn't there room over at Grant's?"

"Wus there?" Wynne said and craned her neck to look in the rear-view mirror. "Haw, there sure is. I done parked there a bazillion times, so… whah, it almost be as good as the othah spot. Yuh. Fa-bew-luss ideah, Brendah," she continued as she selected reverse and steered the Silverado over to the curb in front of Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports.

---

Five minutes later, the quartet split up temporarily with Wynne and Blackie heading for the sheriff's office, and Brenda and Goldie crossing the street to get a better look at the pandemonium in general and the huge FBI Mobile Command Center in particular.

To keep the Golden Retriever safe from the influx of people who didn't know her and didn't care about free-roaming canines, Wynne had attached a leash to Goldie's collar. Thus, Brenda moved away looking like a proper pet-owner out walking the dog - Blackie had flat out refused to wear any kind of constraint so she was as free as ever.

Reaching the sticking door at the sheriff's office, Wynne very nearly smacked her brow and flattened her nose against the wooden frame for the umpteenth time since the door began acting up. Although she avoided intimate contact of the uncool kind, her beloved cowboy hat did in fact go flying when she came to a hard stop.

A grumbled "Sombitch!" escaped her as she bent over to get it - a heartbeat later, another "Sombitch- auuggghh…" came hot on the heels of the first one as her aching back muscles chose that moment to create a landslide of pain that stretched from her neck to her waist.

The sticking door was given a hard shove that forced it open it with a pitiful Squeakkkkkk!  It was only when Wynne found herself being stared at by a roomful of suit-wearing Special Agents that she realized just how busy Mandy would probably be. "Howdy, y'all!  Wynne Donnah-hew he'. Yuh. Jus' keep on keepin' on, fellas. Aw, an' gals. Yuh?" she said while Blackie ran in and got settled on her blanket just inside the door.

Since it was obvious the denim-clad woman wasn't someone they needed to spend another second on, the suits all looked away.

"An' nobodda even said Howdy," Wynne said, scratching her neck. "Haw. Them folks be takin' this he' thing a li'l too seriously," she continued in a mumble as she slipped inside and shuffled over to the watch desk.

Barry Simms sat at the desk as always, wearing a grim expression while chewing so hard on his nicotine gum that his entire face moved. With the office full of the high-and-mighty once more, he couldn't read one of his Sally Swackhamer, P.I. novels nor could he fill out a Sudoku or a crossword puzzle, or even play Tic-Tac-Toe with himself like he normally would - and worst of all, he couldn't smoke.

"Howdy, De-per-ty Barry," Wynne said as she rested a buttock on the corner of the watch desk. "Wouldya lookie at dat circus y'all got in town, yuh?  An' y'all got a ringside seat."

"It was crazy in here earlier," Barry said out of the corner of his mouth to keep chewing the gum while he spoke.

Wynne waved at the collection of expensive suits who huddled around the sheriff's desk - the throng was so thick she could hardly see an inch of the piece of furniture they were standing at. "So y'all be tellin' me this is nuttin'?"

"This?  This is kindergarten stuff compared to the first operational meeting. We had the head honcho in here… Special Agent-in-Charge Hamilton Somebody. They call it Operation Finesse and Fortitude."

"Finesse an' Fohhh-rti-toode, haw?  Okeh. Haw. Shoot," Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow. She tried to eavesdrop on the conversation for a while, but soon lost interest when it dawned on her that every other word out of their mouths was an acronym of some kind. "Yuh. Whutevah. Say, De-per-ty Barry, y'all woudden happen ta know where I might run inta Sheriff Mandy, would ya?"

Barry looked up with a puzzled expression on his face - he even forgot to chew the gum. "The Sheriff is at her desk, Miss Donohue… right over there, behind the Special Agents."

"Y'all be shittin' me, son!" Wynne said and whipped her head around to look at the suit-clad backs. "I ain't be seein' a dang-blasted thing o' mah sweet, li'l Mandy!  Aw-hell, this ain't… naw, I'mma-gonn'… Mercy Sakes, them folks musta played a buncha football when they wus in coll-itch 'cos they sure got that there defensive blockin' down pat… mebbe I oughttah call her?"

Shrugging, Barry re-arranged a few things on the watch desk to have something to do with his hands now that he wasn't smoking. "It's worth a try," he said as he moved the empty ashtray around.

Wynne did in fact find her telephone to go ahead with her plan but paused before she could carry out the rest of it. "Naw… I bettah not. She obvis'ly be hella bizzy right now. Shoot. De-per-ty Barry, wouldya mind tellin' the Sheriff I wus he' an' is still around somewhe'?  Mebbe ovah at Moira's or mebbe up at da Bang 'n Beatin' or mebbe someplace else entirely… but deffa-nete-ly still around. Haw?"

"Will do," Barry said with a grin.

"Okey. Much obliged," Wynne said and moved over to Blackie who was in the middle of a doggy-nap to replenish her energy if or when she would be called into action.

Instead of disturbing the sleeping dog, Wynne yanked the sticking glass door open as quietly as she could before she tip-toed out of the sheriff's office.

Pandemonium still reigned supreme outside. The large FBI Mobile Command Center took up so much space on Main Street that it was a literal bottleneck in the flow of the regular traffic. Several farm tractors, delivery vans and private trucks needed to wait for Geoffrey Wilburr, Sr. to drive past hauling a load of hay bales.

Just as Wynne was ready to jog across Main Street to get to Moira's, a Thump!, a Jingle-Tinkle-Jangle!, a Scrrrrrreeeeech! and finally a long line of inventive cursing rolled down toward her from a bit further up the street.

A long scrape on the Command Center's paint job provided a clue that the gap had been too narrow for Geoffrey Senior's tractor - or rather, his own trailer. Two of the eight huge bales of hay that had been on it had been pushed off. The bales broke up upon impact with the blacktop and sent tens of thousands of straws all over Main Street.

"Dad-gummit… hate it when dat happens," Wynne said and threw her arms out in a wide shrug. "Hey, Seniah!  Y'all need a hand or som'tin?!" she yelled after putting her hands to her mouth to work as an amplifier.

A few seconds went by before Geoffrey Wilburr, Sr. shook his head and replied with a shouted: 'No thanks, Wynne!  I'll let the stormtroopers sweep it up!'

Grinning, Wynne flashed the farmer a big thumbs-up before she shuffled over to Moira's to wet her whistle, chew the fat with her friends and maybe shoot a round or two of pool - the big exercise and all the law enforcement personnel in town had already grossly outstayed their welcome for her.

*
*

CHAPTER 7

Wednesday, February 2nd - 5:07 PM

All Mandy wanted was peace, coffee and relief from her splitting headache. What she had was a constant state of crisis and high alert, an unidentifiable dark-brown sludge that had been cooking on the coffee machine's hot plate for the past several hours, and two headache pills without any means to wash them down.

Her desk resembled the factory floor of a paper mill. The number of communiqués and random notes from all and sundry involved in the grand exercise had grown so massive that they equaled the combined total of the two previous years - and it had all been put there over the course of the afternoon and early evening.

She leaned back on her swivel-chair to practice her thousand-mile stare. At least the suit-wearing swarms of locusts had left the office to go elsewhere, but the steady stream of underlings and orderlies who came by with oh-so-important orders, updates, notes and communiqués - on a fictitious event - that she needed to sign and process as if they were the real thing had taken a buzzsaw to her last nerve.

The only thing she could chalk up on the positive side of the scoresheet was the fact that Barry hadn't inflicted any harm on the environment with his foul-smelling, home-rolled cigarettes for most of the day.

She cast a glance at the deputy sheriff who continued to sit at the watch desk reading one of his beloved pulp novels - his entire head moved like a threshing machine as he chewed the nicotine gum.

The near-ancient Bakelite telephone had broken the relative peace with its shrill ringing a couple of times, but instead of more dramas or emergencies, every call had been from concerned Goldsborians wondering what on Earth was going on this time.

Just as Mandy was about to go into the bathroom to get a cup of water for the headache pills, one of the suit-wearing underlings stormed into the office and put yet another note on the overcrowded desk.

Down on the blanket just inside the door, Blackie sensed it would provide more grief for her overworked owner, so she let out a guttural growl that meant 'You have ten seconds to conduct your business here. If you're still here after that, I'll gnaw on your bacon!'

"Good news, Sheriff Jalinski!" the early-thirty-something FBI agent said in a voice that proved he found the whole thing most exciting. "The stolen vehicle used by the fugitives has been seen in a town north of here!  Here's an update summarizing the various witness reports in bullet points. If you would sign here, here and here-"

"What's the cause of the delay?" Mandy said in a stern voice - she made no move to lean forward and sign the newest piece of paper that would end up in the same trash bin with all the others before long.

The Special Agent stood up straight and assumed an angelic look. However, it soon withered under the sheriff's intense glare. "Ah… delay?  I'm sorry, Sheriff… I'm not sure what-"

"Don't yank my chain. And don't take me for a fool either. I can read the SAC's body language just fine, thank you."

"Oh, but I can assure-"

"This thing was supposed to be halfway over by now. There's been a screw-up somewhere. Operation Finesse and Fortitude, my eye. More like Operation Fumbles and Foul-Ups. I'm directly involved so I need to know what's going on."

"Ah, well… I wasn't aware of a… well, I mean… I'm not sure what's going on, Sheriff," the Agent said and broke out in an embarrassed shrug.

Down on the floor, Blackie let out a snort that could be interpreted as a 'Harrumph!'

Mandy glared at the suit-wearing fellow for a moment or two longer before she grunted and doodled a signature at the foot of the latest update. "Satisfied?" she said as she shoved the papers aside.

"Ah… yes, Sheriff. Thank you very much, Sheriff," the Special Agent said and hurried out of the office.

Grunting, Mandy looked at the name she had just signed: Donald Duck.  "Deputy Simms," she said as she took the plastic jar of headache pills and got up from her swivel-chair. "If someone asks for me while I'm in the bathroom, tell them to come back later… or get lost. I'll leave that up to you."

"Yes, Ma'am!" Barry said with a grin.

---

Two headache pills and ten minutes' worth of other business later, Mandy returned to the office in a better mood. Her hair had been slicked down after she had splashed cool water in her face, and she wiped her hands on a paper towel as she strode back to her desk.

"Nobody's been here, Ma'am," Barry said, using a finger as a bookmark in his latest Sally Swackhamer, P.I. novel - volume 18, A Lonely Place To Die.

"Very well."

Pausing in the middle of the linoleum floor, Mandy looked at the chaos that still reigned out on Main Street. It seemed the vast majority of law enforcement personnel had no idea what to do with themselves now that a snag had occurred somewhere in the plan. "Deputy, when did Deputy Reilly and the Senior Deputy last check in?"

"One moment," Barry said and ran a finger down the patrol report sheet. "It's been over an hour for both, Ma'am."

"Mmmm. They know better than that," Mandy said and strode over to the rack that held their portable radios. After making sure it had been set to the private frequency so they could maintain radio contact with each other amid the inevitable storm of chatter from everyone else, she keyed the transmit button. "Base to Mobile Unit Two. Base to Mobile Unit Two. Come in, Two. Over."

'Mobile Unit Two receiving, Sheriff. Over,' Rodolfo said at the other end of the connection.

"Report your status and whereabouts, over," Mandy said while she moved back to the heavily-laden desk.

'Deputy Reilly and I are both at Mr. Iverson's bar, Sheriff. There was a small-scale disturbance so we needed to calm a few tempers. An intoxicated gentleman thought the FBI agents were here for him so he responded with foul language and aggressive behavior. Nothing major and we have it under control. Over.'

While Rodolfo spoke, Blackie got up from the blanket and moved into the center of the office. She shook her back a couple of times to get the sleepies out and to show that she was ready for any kind of action.

"Very well, Mobile Unit Two. I have a special assignment for you. Once you've wrapped up matters at your current location, try to put your ear to the ground and discover the cause for this infuriating delay. Someone must know something, over."

'Will do, Sheriff. Over.'

"That'll be all for now, Mobile Unit Two. Base out," Mandy said before she put the portable radio on the only remaining free spot on her entire desk - with a touch of devastating irony, it happened to be the Out-Box.

Blackie let out a disappointed Woooofff… when it became obvious there wouldn't be any action or excitement in the foreseeable future. Shaking her head, she shuffled back to the blanket and made herself comfortable all over again.

Over at the watch desk, Barry stretched his back and let out a long yawn. Still chewing hard on the nicotine gum, he scratched himself here, there and elsewhere for a while until all itches had been taken care of. "Ma'am, I think I'll make us a fresh pot of coffee," he said and got up.

Mandy continued tapping the stacks of paper into order while she glanced at her deputy. "Thank you. I could definitely use some."

Barry made a horrified face as he caught a glimpse of the X-rated brown gunk that had been coffee once upon a time. He held the pot away from him as he went into the bathroom to rinse it and get some fresh, clean water.

While the deputy was busy, Mandy continued sorting the mess on her desk. The worst pile of notes and communiqués had soon been gathered up but had nowhere to go. She stared at the stack and then down at the trash bin. The sequence was repeated a couple of times before she sighed and dumped the wad of paperwork into one of the desk's drawers for later processing.

She leaned back and glanced at the vacant coffee machine. Working on autopilot, her fingers began tapping on the desk top. After a few seconds, she thumped a fist onto it instead. "Deputy!" she said loudly to be heard over the splashing of the faucet. "Forget the coffee. Let's order some of the good stuff from Moira's."

"Yes, Ma'am!" Barry said with a grin. Instead of pouring out the fresh water he had already drawn, he shuffled over to Blackie's bowl to fill it up - his reward was a long series of happy woofs.

---

A short fifteen minutes later, the unusually fleet-footed A.J. 'Slow' Lane's delivery of two thermoses of Moira's excellent coffee and a tray carrying an impressive amount of halved bagels - featuring various cheeses and cold cuts - had made a great impact on the quality of the day. Even the world surrounding the beleaguered sheriff's office suddenly seemed less bothersome as the hands of time moved toward early evening.

Blackie was just as content as her owner as 'Slow' Lane had brought her a stick of beef jerky that she chewed on with great relish. When she ate, her entire face moved just like Barry's proving they had more in common than the proud German Shepherd would like to admit.

Mandy warmed her hands on her favorite mug while she caught up with their own paperwork: a typewritten case file that had been logged and processed during her stay in San Cristobal. It was a simple matter of speeding through town that had been dealt with on the spot with a cash fine.

There weren't any typos in the report so it had obviously been written by Beatrice Reilly - the only member of MacLean County Sheriff's Department's local roster who could tame the beast known as their electronic typewriter.

A moment later, the portable radio crackled to life with a: 'Mobile Unit Two to Base. Mobile Unit Two to Base. Over.'

Mandy quickly swapped the mug for the radio. "Base receiving. Go ahead, Two. Over."

'I've been asking around. Nobody knows anything and I don't think they're laying down a smokescreen, Sheriff. Everyone's genuinely confused and annoyed. Over.'

"Ten-Roger, Two. Hmmm," Mandy said and swiveled around to look at Main Street through the large window panes. The activity outside could be considered disordered and certainly far less urgent than earlier in the day. Better still, nobody had been by with fake updates or communiqués since the young agent - perhaps he had become so embarrassed by the pointed questions that he had given up. "All right. We'll have to take it as it comes. Base out."

A few moments went by before Mandy pressed the transmit key again. "Base to Mobile Unit Four. Base to Mobile Unit Four. Come in, Four."

When nothing happened, she got to her feet and moved over to the window on the off-chance the radio transmission had better reception there. "Base to Mobile Unit Four. Base to Mobile Unit Four. Deputy Reilly, do you copy?" - Crackling static was all that could be heard over the airwaves.

"Deputy Simms," she said and turned toward Barry, "which radio did Deputy Reilly take?"

"Number four, Ma'am. Maybe the batteries are worn down?" Barry said, wiping his amber fingers on a napkin after eating a halved bagel that featured a slice of mortadella sausage with a line of mustard and a few juicy onion rings.

"Maybe. Base to Mobile Unit Two. Base to Mobile Unit Two. Do you copy?"

'Mobile Unit Two copies, Base. Over,' Rodolfo's voice said from the radio.

"Is Deputy Reilly still with you, over?"

'Negatory. The Deputy continued on her regular foot patrol after we had finished at Mr. Iverson's bar. Over.'

Mandy let out a grunt and checked the time on the wall-mounted clock. "She hasn't checked in for quite a while. Over."

'Everyone I meet is complaining about radio static, Ma'am. I'm guessing there are too many active frequencies in too small an area. Should I look for Deputy Reilly?  Over.'

Mandy let out another "Hmmm…" to herself while rubbing a temple - if Rodolfo took the reins for a while, she could allow herself a break to get some fresh air and perhaps some fresh information to go with it. On the other hand, it would be quicker if she just tried calling Beatrice over the telephone. "That's a negatory, Mobile Unit Two. I'll deal with it myself. Base out."

The portable radio was soon replaced by her personal telephone. Finding Beatrice's number didn't take long, nor was it a lengthy process to get in touch with her.

When Mandy heard the Deputy say 'Yes, Sheriff?' she had to let out a small sigh of relief. "Deputy, I've been trying to hail you over the radio. You probably need to come back and change the batteries. What's your status and whereabouts?"

'I don't think it's the batteries, Sheriff. I can't get anything but howls and whines from the radio along with non-stop static and chatter from all the other units. I'm at the used car lots up at the northern end of town. There's a lot less activity up here, but I've spoken to several concerned citizens who demanded to know what was going on.'

"Very well. You need to test another radio so I want you to return to base," Mandy said and glanced out of the windows. "It might simply be interference, but chances are the actual unit has become faulty."

'Ten-Roger, Ma'am. I'm on my way back to the office as we speak.'

"Good. We'll talk later," Mandy said and closed the connection. The array of halved bagels was too tempting to ignore, so she took one that sported a thick slice of cheese while she waited for Beatrice to return.

-*-*-*-

Ten minutes later, Mandy and Blackie moved out onto the sidewalk to observe the goings-on. The men operating the FBI Mobile Command Center worked on an improvised Band-Aid - i.e. a roll of white duct tape - to conceal the long, ungainly scratch caused by the collision with Geoffrey Wilburr, Sr.'s hay load.

A metal flight of stairs had been lowered to the ground at the trailer's rear to provide access to the inner sanctum. FBI Special Agents and members of the Nevada and Utah State Police units involved in the interdepartmental exercise came and went in a steady stream to pick up or drop off various orders or dispatches.

Mandy sighed. The whole deal was straight out of an undercranked silent-era movie where everyone seemed to sprint along because the difference in frame rate hadn't been taken into account. "Or maybe it's someone's idea of a diabolical amusement ride," she mumbled to herself as she observed two agents nearly colliding to be first up the stairs.

Moira's Bar & Grill called out to her like a Femme Fatale temptress straight out of classical Noir literature. Visiting everyone's favorite eatery hadn't been her original plan, but the call was simply too loud to ignore - her excuse was that she needed to thank Moira and A.J. for the swift delivery of the top-quality food and coffee.

As she and Blackie strode across Main Street, she spotted yet another law enforcement vehicle racing toward Goldsboro from the south. The full-sized crew bus had flashing emergency lightbars on the roof and several LEDs installed in the grille as wig-wag lights. It was still too far away to tell if it had its sirens on or not, but nobody would bet against it after all the nonsense the town had experienced during the day.

It wasn't her concern, yet, so she and Blackie continued toward the bar and grill. Inside, she kept standing near the entrance to get a feel for the people present and to see where Wynne might be hiding. Moira's was quite full so it wasn't the work of a moment like she had hoped it would be.

A Psshhhht! somewhere to her left, over by the pool table, was the first clue. A Clonk! and a 'Yeeee-hawww!  Nailed that li'l crittah… watch it run… an' run… an' pocket!  Yessirree!' was the second, and the happy yapping of a Golden Retriever was the third and final clue she needed.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Mandy strode through the noisy patrons and beer-guzzling barflies with Blackie in tow until they arrived at the pool table. While Blackie dove into the doggy-cave underneath the table to reunite with her canine companion, Mandy watched the active game between Wynne, Brenda Travers and the Goldsboro Pool Association's junior player Roscoe Finch for naught-point-two seconds before she interrupted the game by grabbing Wynne by the hand.

"Back room. Now," she said and dragged her partner through the restaurant's collection of patrons, barflies and regular guests - much to the squealing delight of Brenda.

"Whah, howdy, darlin'!  Lawwwr-die…" Wynne said, trying to hold onto her hat and her cue all at once.

Going past the row of stoves where A.J. 'Slow' Lane toiled under the industrial range hoods as always, they entered the narrow hallway that led to the eatery's fire escape. Moira's office was bypassed as well, but the door to the second room on the left - the dry goods storage - was soon opened.

Without speaking, Mandy grabbed two chairs. The first was jammed up against the door so nobody could bother them. The second was put in the middle of the storage room not too far from a large floor-to-ceiling system of shelves that held canned goods of all types.

Then she instructed Wynne to sit on the chair by pointing. Once the details were in place, she sat on Wynne's lap, wrapped her arms around the long torso and buried her face in the crook of Wynne's neck.

"Whoa… y'all be awright there, Sher-"

"Just hold me. Please."

Wynne furrowed her brow in concern at first, but soon reciprocated the hugging gesture by wrapping her long arms around Mandy's smaller but far more athletic frame - it wasn't a crushing bear hug, but simply uncomplicated, sincere physical contact that spelled L-O-V-E in every imaginable language.

They hugged each other in complete silence for nearly two minutes until Mandy let out a deep sigh and pulled back a few inches. The silence continued for another moment while they recharged each other's batteries by locking eyes and exchanging a steady stream of love bolts.

"Thank you. I needed that," Mandy said in a whisper.

"Haw, no two ways 'bout it, darlin'," Wynne replied at a matching volume. "Y'awright?  I reckon y'all be a li'l pale an' all."

"I'm just frustrated about all of this. I understand the importance of conducting exercises, but… I mean… how dare they?  You know?  Honestly, how dare they throw all this crap at us and just expect us to deal with it?  This was exactly what I warned about at the convention. I guess they only heard what they wanted to hear."

"Yuh…"

Mandy's entire demeanor gained an angry edge as she shook her head. Another few seconds went by in silence before she slid backwards off Wynne's lap. A handkerchief was soon located and used to wipe her red eyes that had begun to leak for some mysterious reason. "There's been some kind of screw-up somewhere. The big exercise is falling apart. Nobody knows what to do and nobody's communicating with anyone."

"Haw!  That there big-kahuna wotshisname… where he at?  Mebbe we could tawk ta him or som'tin?"

"Special Agent-in-Charge Hamilton Lydecker. No. Well… sure, we can talk to him until we're blue in the face, but he's not going to listen. Don't forget he's the architect behind the exercise."

"Haw… I didden know that. Or mebbe I did an' I jus' plum fergot, I ain't sure," Wynne said and scratched her neck.

"Well, he is. And if something's gone wrong somewhere, he'll feel threatened by anyone who even asks for clarification."

Wynne rolled her eyes as she got up and put the chair back where they had taken it: next to three large canisters of salt and pepper used to fill the shakers on the tables. "Shoot. Can this he' thing get any wohhhh-rse?"

When she realized what she had said, she hurried over to the nearest shelf and knocked three times on the wooden surface. "Dontcha be answerin' that there ques-chun, darlin'!"

Two seconds later, someone beat a hasty knock-knock-knock-knock! on the door. Wynne groaned, buried her face in her hands and shook her head so hard that her long hair whipped from side to side.

'Wynne?  Are you in there?  It's A.J.!'

"This bettah be good, son!" Wynne said in a strong voice.

'We have Sheriff Tenney out here and he sure won't take no for an answer!'

"Dubya?  Whaddahell he' be doin' he' in Goldsborah?"

Mandy let out a long chuckle at the improbability of the timing. "I called him to ask if he would mind coming over. I figured we could use at least one person on our side."

"Haw!  Good thinkin', darlin'. Okeh, les'see whut ol' Dubya done brought ta this he' weird party," Wynne said on her way over to the door to remove the chair that Mandy had jammed underneath the handle.

Before she could as much as reach for the chair, her telephone rang. "Snakes Alive, whaddinda-wohhhhhhhhhhhh-rld be goin' on all offa sudden?  Hell, ev'rybodda be wantin' ta tawk ta me!" she said as she dug into the buzzing pocket to retrieve the smartphone. "Haw, it be ol' Cletus. Wait, lemme… I jus' gotta… howdy, pardnah. Lissen, y'all need-a call me back in fo'ah or fih-ve minnits or som'tin. Yuh. I be way da'hell bizzy he'. Okeh?  Great. 'Preciate it. Bah-bah."

'Wynne?  It's getting kinda critical out here!' A.J. shouted from the other side of the door. 'I think the Sheriff's planning on busting in if you don't-'

"Aw, fer cryin' out loud, son!  We be girls in he' doin' girly things, catch mah drift?"

Laughing at the whole crazy mess that couldn't be more vintage Goldsboro if it tried, Mandy removed the blocking-chair and opened the door. A moment later, she found herself face to face with their friend Sheriff G.W. Tenney - or face to chest, to be exact, because of the difference in height between them. "Good afternoon, Sheriff," she said with a sly grin.

'Dubya' Tenney's eyes darted between Wynne and Mandy a couple of times before he pulled back his lips in an embarrassed grimace. "Ooops… did I interrupt something?"

"Naw!  Whaddahell done gave y'all that impres-shun?" Wynne said and smacked her hat against her thigh.

"Okay. Sorry. I'll see you guys out in the restaurant," G.W. said with a grin before he walked back through the narrow hallway.

A.J. 'Slow' Lane briefly stepped into view. "I gotta run, Sheriff… I got a full pan of bratwursts going, and you know how those stubborn things won't wait for anybody." - Then he took off as well.

Wynne slid the telephone back into her pocket before she took her expensive pool cue that had been leaning against one of the shelves. "I reckon we need-a go back out in that there big, ol' nasty wohhh-rld there. An' dad-gummit, we didden even get inta da kissin' zoah-ne or nuttin'!"

"We can't have that," Mandy said and slammed the door shut with her boot. Without further ado, she strode back to Wynne, grabbed hold of her arms, got up on tip-toes and entered the much-desired 'kissing zone' for nearly a full minute.

And then Wynne's telephone rang again.

"Aw-man, Cletus!" Wynne said after she had temporarily wrestled herself free from Mandy's enticing lips. "I done said fih-ve minnits!  That wussen fih-ve minnits… aw, who cares when da kissin' be goooood…"

---

Though Mandy had access to an inexhaustible supply of kisses, all good things had to come to an end. After the final kiss had been thoroughly enjoyed, they left the dry goods storage and returned to the main room. It only took them a second to spot the distinctive blue uniforms of G.W. Tenney's team.

"An' there he be!  Howdy, Dubya!  Been one helluva loooong while since we done clapped eyes on each othah, haw?" Wynne said as she thumped her old acquaintance on the back.

"Hiya, Wynne!  You look refreshed," G.W. said and broke out in an exaggerated wink. "What the hell did sleepy, old Goldsboro do to deserve this kind of dog and pony show?"

Grinning, Wynne reached out to slap the beefy man across the stomach. "Aw, dontcha be knockin' them dawggies, Dubya. Lawrdie, I ain't got no clue 'bout nuttin' no mo' when it comes to all y'all poh-leese folks. I reckon som'tin went crap-side-up fer 'em, tho'. Sheriff Mandy gonn' fill yer in a li'l latah."

Right in the middle of that, Wynne's telephone rang again. "Aw, I don't bah-lieve this he' stinky shittt… da whole dang-blasted wohhhh-rld wanna tawk- haw, it be Cletus ag'in!  I bettah, yuh?  'Scuse me, Dubya."

"You're excused," Sheriff Tenney said with a grin before he sat down at the table he shared with three of his lesser experienced deputies.

Mandy tracked Wynne for a moment as The Last Original Cowpoke moved over to the pool table to find a quiet spot for her conversation with Cletus Browne from the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop.

Remembering that she had promised to buy G.W. and his team a quality dinner whenever they arrived in town, Mandy moved to the end of the table so everyone had her in their field of view. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'm Sheriff Mandy Jalinski. Sheriff Tenney and I shared the roster here in Goldsboro before his accident. So, Dubya… what can I get you and your deputies?" she said, reaching into her breast pocket to find a pencil and her trusty notepad.

G.W. stared at the notepad for a moment before he leaned his head back and let out a loud laugh. "You gotta be the world's most over-qualified waitress, Sheriff!"

"It's temporary," Mandy said with a grin as she held the pencil ready. "Oh, and everything's on the house, of course."

"All right!  In that case, we'll have one of everything," G.W. said and thumped a meaty fist down onto the menu. "Nah, just kidding. Let's see what's cookin'," he continued as he took the sheets and began to look through them - clearly working off the same cue sheet, his three deputies did the same in perfect synchronicity.

---

Over by the pool table, Roscoe Finch tried to teach Brenda Travers the basics of the game: how to hold the cue, how to get into the correct position at the table, how to study the opponent's moves, what balls to aim for and not least in which sequence. The exasperated look upon his face proved he had a hard time getting through to the spirited lady - even if he was the star of the junior cadre of the Goldsboro Pool Association.

He tried locking eyes with Wynne to beg for help, but she was so busy trying to hear what Cletus Browne said over the telephone that she had no time for any kind of Roscoe-rescue.

"Haw?  Y'all need-a speak up, ol' buddy!" Wynne said into the telephone, yelling to hear herself over the din of the many guests. "I ain't hearin' nuttin' 'cos there be such a dang-blasted racket he'… haw?  Haw?  Whazzat?  Go outside?  Whah, y'all be he' or som'tin?  Aw, yuh, ta he'ah bettah. Good ideah, Cletus. I'mma-gonn' do that in a mo'… I jus' gotta get som'tin ta wet mah whissle first… yuh… lissen, I'mma-gonn' call ya back in a-cuppel-a minnits, yuh?  I got mah cue in one hand an' mah phoah-ne in da othah so I ain't got nowheah ta put them beers- haw?  Yuh, drink 'em… no kiddin', pal!  Naw, I be callin' ya in a mo'. Yuh. Okeh. Bah-bah."

"Wynne… please," Roscoe said, but Wynne shook her head and pointed at the refrigerators first. She had only just made it back with a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero non-alcoholic beers before she cracked the first open with a Psssshhht!  "Y'all wus sayin', son?"

The late-twenty-something Roscoe Finch - who wore cowboy boots, dark-blue jeans, a leather belt with an enormous buckle, a white shirt and finally a genuine Stetson cowboy hat - shot Wynne another exasperated look. "Please, Wynne… help me out here," he said in a semi-whisper so the busy-bee Brenda wouldn't hear him. "I mean, she's hot and all… for an older woman… but there's no one home. Get the picture?  She doesn't understand a word of what I'm telling her."

The can of Double-Zero stopped halfway up to Wynne's mouth. It just sort-of hovered there for a moment before it slid back down. "Y'all tryin' ta pull mah leg, son?  Ain't nobodda hoah-me?  Y'all do realih-ze Brendah be a computah scientist or whaddahell-evah her dog-gone degree done says?"

"Uh… no… I didn't know that. Okay, she may be a computer nerd, but she can't play pool worth a darn!" Roscoe said with a shrug. "Look, I only came here to shoot a few frames and get something to eat. I have a movie date at seven."

"Yuh?  Anybodda I know?" Wynne said and moved the can back up to her mouth.

"I can't see how. She's my age."

For the second time in one minute and nineteen seconds, the can of Double-Zero stopped its progress roughly halfway up to the waiting lips. "Careful, son. Y'all be walkin' a tight-rope he'. An' if y'all don't reckon that be too hard or nuttin', y'all ain't nevah done watched no rope-walkah fallin' off an' gettin' his nuts all roped-up. Yuh?" Wynne said in a growl before she finally took a long swig.

Roscoe opened his mouth to counter the argument but gave up before anything came out of it. He shook his head as he walked away, clearly wondering why the world had ganged up on him.

"Howdy, Brendah," Wynne said and put the half-empty can on the edge of the playing table. "Lissen, I sure am sorry an' all, but I reckon ol' Roscoe ain't gonn' be able ta play with ya no mo'. He got a date in a li'l while."

Brenda put down her cue and leaned against the pool table. "Oh… that's too bad. I was just getting the hang of it… I think. It's not as easy as it looks on TV."

"Naw, it sure ain't," Wynne said and emptied the first of the six cans. "Haw, I'mma-gonn' be even mo' of a drah stick now 'cos I need-a go outside an' call somebodda. I can't play with y'all, neithah. Didya see some o' that there ac-shun outside?"

Shrugging, Brenda walked over to the rack and put her rental cue back into the gap where she took it. "A little. I didn't expect it to be so boring… tell you what, Wynne. I think I'll head up to the movie theater and catch the same film that Roscoe and his date are going to. Captain Victory versus Doctor Atomiko at seven."

"Wussen that one o' them there noisy supah-hero flicks or som'tin?"

"Yes, but the guy playing Captain Victory is kinda cute and he's wearing tight spandex," Brenda said with a wink.

"Yuh, okeh… haw. Yuh, I can see how that might be an attrac-shun fer somebodda. Well, anyhows… catch ya latah, Brendah. Bah-bah," Wynne said and tipped her cowboy hat before she grabbed the next can of Double-Zero.

---

Thirty seconds later, Wynne stepped out onto Main Street with Blackie and Goldie in tow. The level of activity out there had grown less hectic than during the high-water-mark at noon, but there was still plenty of law enforcement personnel doing plenty of law enforcement-like things.

Grunting, The Last Original Cowpoke and her canine companions strolled across Main Street to get to the matte-black Silverado over at Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports. After she had stored the expensive pool cue into its lined protective case, she ushered the dogs onto the back seat and climbed behind the wheel. After finishing the beer and putting the empty can in a cup holder, she dug into a pocket to find her telephone - Cletus's number was soon selected.

"Howdy, ol' pardnah. This he' is da one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew, dontchaknow. Okeh, I sure be sorry it been so dang-blasted difficult ta get hold-a me, but this he' end o' Goldsborah jus' been insah-ne, I be tellin' ya… an' that sure ain't no lie, nosirree!"

Just to underscore her words, she watched two farm tractors trying to move past the FBI Mobile Command Center. They had so little room to maneuver that they were forced to put their left-hand wheels up on the sidewalk on the wrong side of the street just to make it past. Beatrice Reilly came out of the sheriff's office and slammed her hands onto her hips as she glared at the mess on the street.

'Hello again, Wynne. Yeah, I know how crazy Goldsboro is right now,' Cletus's dulcet tones said at the other end of the connection. 'Anyway… earlier today, I got my hands on a vehicle that might spark your interest. It was a trade-in so it's not in A-plus condition, but it's not too bad considering the vintage and mileage. It could use a low-key restoration. You know, a backyard fixer-upper.'

Over at the sheriff's office, Beatrice Reilly threw her arms in the air in frustration with the huge FBI Mobile Command Center. Her visible annoyance only grew stronger when she needed to take a big step back as the next farm tractor also had to drive up onto the sidewalk to get past the roadblock.

"Yuh?  A truck, or-"

'No, a sporty weekend cruiser from 'ninety-five.'

"Okeh?  Well, yuh… haw, it ain't one o' them there foreign vee-hickels, izzit?  I be sure them Nissah-ns an' Tah-yodas an' Mahhhhh-z'das an' whutnots be fine automoah-biles, but they sure ain't fer me, nosirree."

'No. It rolled off the assembly line right here in the U.S. of A.'

"Haw… which brand 'r y'all tawkin' 'bout he'?  Chevy, GMC, Pontiac, Buick, Oldsmoah-beele… whut?"

'That's a secret.'

"Izzat a fact?  Cletus, ol' buddy… so far, all I done heard from y'all wus da whisslin' o' hot air in mah ea'h!"

'Well, all right… it's a Dodge Neon.'

Wynne let out a groan and pulled her hat down to cover her eyes. "One, a dang Neon be a toy cah-r, yuh?  Two, y'all call that a sporty weekend cruisah?!  An' three, I ain't no Mopar gal. Dad-gummit, Cletus, how offen do I gotta tell ya?  General Motahs or nuttin'!  An' it sure does sound like that be all ya got… a big buncha nuttin'!"

Over by the FBI Mobile Command Center, one of Goldsboro's ultra-rare traffic jams had developed when the driver of one of the dark SUVs from the Nevada State Police had insisted on moving ahead while a farm tractor was going in the other direction. The tractor, that pulled no less than two trailers loaded with what appeared to be turnips, had extra-wide balloon tires which left zero room for SUVs regardless of what it said on the side of the vehicle - a cheesy grin spread across Wynne's face at the sight.

'Well, I don't have any GM products on my lots at present, but I do know someone who does. We trade cars now and then so I have a list of his inventory. How about a 'ninety-three Chevrolet Z-Twenty-Four, then?  That's definitely a sporty cruiser because it's a Convertible.'

"Naw. I alreddy got a money-pit Convuhrtible. And whaddahell's a Z-Twentah-Fo'ah?  I don't recall that-"

'It's a Cavalier, Wynne.'

Wynne rolled her eyes - then she did it again for good measure. "Awwww, fer Pete's sake, Cletus!  I sure ain't seein' mahself drivin' 'round in no shoebox!  I prolly hadda be lookin' ovah da top a'da windshield an' all jus' ta see da road ahead… ain't int'rested. Dontcha got no performance vee-hickels or nuttin'?"

'No, people don't want that anymore, Wynne. How about a 'ninety-three Pontiac GrandAm sedan?  It has a fuel-efficient four-cylinder-'

"Foah cylindahs be half of whut it done takes ta get me excited, Cletus. Naw, but y'all be gettin' there… if y'all keep tawkin', we might arrive at som'tin worthwhile fer both offus."

'Oldsmobile Aurora-'

"Dullsville."

'Buick Park Avenue-'

"Ain't lookin' fer luxury."

'Geo Tracker-'

The beloved cowboy hat was once more pulled down to cover Wynne's eyes. "Awwwwww, now I durn know y'all be shittin' me, son!  Dontcha be pullin' that kind of joah-ke on me, Cletus… a Geo Trackah, mah wrinkly bee-hind. Naw. We bettah stop he' or else I'mma-gonn' drive up ta y'all an' pestah ya fer da rest o' the day jus' fer a laff, yuh?"

'Uh, okay.'

"But lissen, on a dif'rent note, yuh?  I'd 'preciate it if y'all mebbe done put out a feelah fer feedback or som'tin 'bout ol' Joe-Bob's Caddy. Like I done said befo', that durn cahhh-r be a money pit. Whenevah me an' Fat-Buhh-tt get som'tin fixed an' we reckon we be on da hoah-me stretch, anothah dog-gone thing breaks an' we be right back ta square one. An' them Caddy parts be hella expensive, too!"

'Oh, I can certainly do that, Wynne. The market for mid-seventies' Cadillac Convertibles is very limited around here, though. It may garner more interest if I contact a few associates of mine over on the Pacific Coast, in Vegas and in Florida. You know, the glamour spots.'

"Yuh?  Haw, yuh, Goldsborah sure ain't no glammah spot… okeh. Sounds good ta me, pardnah. Once y'all done discovah what them things sorta-kinda-typically be goin' fer in dem places, get in touch an' we gonn' take it from there. Okeh?"

'All right, Wynne. It's a little too late today, but I'll get on it tomorrow morning.'

"That's a big ten-fo'ah, good buddy!  Sure be fine an' all, yessir!  Okeh, bah-bah, Cletus."

'Bye, Wynne.'

Closing the connection, Wynne leaned back in the seat and let out a deep sigh. "Haw. Well, that wus one o' them there bubble-burstin' moments, yuh?"

Woof?

"Yuh, 'xactly, Blackie. I reckoned ol' Cletus had som'tin for me, but naw. Okeh. Now what?" Unable to make up her mind by herself, Wynne twisted around in the driver's seat so she could look at the dogs. "Okeh, girls, we got a-cuppel-a them there op-shuns now. Yuh?  One, we can go back ta Moira's an' get suppah an' play a li'l mo' pool-"

Yap!  Yap-yap-yap?

"Naw, Goldie, ou'ah sweet, li'l Mandy be tawkin' ta Dubya an' them de-per-ties o' his so she ain't gonn' have no time fer li'l ol' me or all y'all. Naw."

Yap…

"Yuh. Okeh, op-shun two, we could… aw… uh…" - Wynne took off her cowboy hat to have room to scratch her scalp. The scratching didn't make any neurons hook up and produce good ideas, so the hat was soon back on her dark locks. "Well, we sure can't drive hoah-me 'cos then Brendah would be stranded he' an' that would be uncoo'. Ain't no way I'mma-gonn' watch no supah-hero mooh-vie, neithah… an' besides, ol' Abe an' his folks up dere don't allow no dawggies or nuttin'-"

Woof!

"Yuh. Haw, I reckon we be best suhrved if we done moseyed back ta good, ol' Moira's an' done helped ol' Slow Lane slap tagethah some chow. Yuh. An' mebbe get a beer or two. Whaddayasay, girls?"

Blackie let out plenty of enthusiastic woofing at the news, but Goldie's strained yaps and repeated tapping of her muzzle against the inside of the door proved she had a little problem that needed to be taken care of first - preferably at a nearby lamp post or up against a brick wall.

"Yuh, I sure do he'ah ya, Goldie. Whah, I reckon I need-a use that there restroom, too. Yuh. All y'all got yerselves a deal, there, mah friends!"

Grinning, Wynne climbed down from the Silverado and opened the rear door to literally let the dogs out.

-*-*-*-

One of the greatest differences between Wynne and Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane was Wynne's uncanny ability to control the pots, panels and pans at the industrial stoves while slurping beer, chewing on peanuts or pork rinds or pretzels, and yakking to the barflies sitting at the counter. Even if Slow Lane was offered the use of a magic wand, he would never be able to complete the tasks with as much ease and natural ability as Wynne.

The mid-twenty-something A.J., whose pasty hue and grease-riddled hair proved that the hours he pulled at Moira's were too long already, wore a unique combination of grease-stained cargo pants, a grease-stained apron and a grease-stained long-sleeved T-shirt. If his monthly expenditure on detergent was high, one thing he didn't need to buy was a deodorant - the characteristic scent of sausages, steaks, hamburgers and French fries clung to him 24-7 no matter how hard he tried to scrub it off.

At present, he marveled at how Wynne was able to flip the patties for the double-decker cheeseburger she was making for herself without losing even the tiniest shred of meat in the process. The range hoods above the stoves made so much racket that he couldn't hear the cries of the patrons whose food he was cooking, but the sight of a column of black smoke that rose from the frying pan made him hurry back to it. In luck for once, he only needed to throw away one charred bratwurst.

"Y'awright there, son?" Wynne said as she flipped the patty for the last time.

A.J. settled for nodding, far too busy adding more cooking margarine to the frying pan to have time to speak.

"Haw. Yuh, luv me some cheeseburgah an' frah's, yessirree," Wynne continued as she put the double-decker's three buns on the cooking panel while two slices of cheese melted on top of the patties. All three buns were soon ready and promptly transferred over to the breadboard next to the panels.

Humming one of her favorite truck driving songs while she worked, she added a fair dash of hot sauce to the upper and lower buns. A couple of lettuce leaves and slices of tomato and pickled cucumbers later, she added a spoonful of fresh sweet corn that added even more crunch to the dish. Spicy ketchup was liberally squirted all over the greenery before the first patty was mashed into the mix. The middle bun came at once, and then she repeated the entire procedure in reverse for the top patty.

The French fry basket let out a Ding! just as she mashed the top bun down onto the completed cheeseburger and put it onto a large-diameter burger plate. She grinned as she grabbed the basket, salted the fries and gave it a fair shimmy-shake to distribute the cooking salt. Once everything was done, she poured the fries onto the plate next to the burger, added some more cooking salt, a few spices and another squirt of hot sauce.

While all that had been going on, a wide-eyed A.J. 'Slow' Lane had been watching the Burger Master roll out her considerable skills as she composed the double-decker cheeseburger - in fact, he had watched her for so long that another bratwurst went the way of the Dodo in the meantime. Howling, he hurried back to the frying pan to send the lump of coal overboard so it wouldn't contaminate the remaining sausages.

Wynne literally had enough on her plate already so she had no time to come to A.J.'s assistance. Instead, she strolled through the bar and grill until she ended at the table adjacent to where Mandy, G.W. Tenney and the deputies sat - there was no room for her there, but she was nothing if not resourceful.

"Watch them legs o' yers," she said after she had put down the plate with the burger and the fries. When everyone complied, she pushed the table up against the other one so she made one large out of the two smaller ones.

She eyed the half-empty plates in front of the people at the table - it seemed most had sprung for pork chops with BBQ sauce, cooked vegetables and baked potatoes. "Howdy, y'all!  Lawrdie, I see all y'all done had da good stuff, yuh?  Hope y'all wus satisfied. Dubya, the next time y'all be in town, ya oughtta trah ou'ah creamy oxtail soup. It be awesome, lemme tell ya."

"I'll make a note of that, Wynne," G.W. said with a grin.

Wynne nodded and reached for the opened six-pack of Double-Zero that she had put on the table earlier to mark her reservation. She pretended to rub her eyes as she took in the sight of a row of identical cans of mineral water that had been lined up in front of the law enforcement officers. "Haw, all y'all sure had some deeeeeee-li-shuss mineral watahs, yuh?" she said before she had to stop to let out a snicker. "Whah, didden nobodda want an iced tea or nuttin'?  We got plentah o' sodas an' easy cidahs as well, ya know."

"You know what they say, Wynne…" Mandy said with a grin. "We County Sheriffs and Deputies just happen to be mineral water-people."

"A-yup, darlin'!  I still reckon one o' y'all oughttah trah ou'ah new flavah o' iced-tea befo' y'all leave. We always done had peach an' lemon, an' now them good folks at H.E. Fenwyck done made an eldah flowah one as well. Yuh?"

Although Wynne had brought a set of cutlery to the table, she decided to eat the burger the old-fashioned way and simply grabbed hold of it. Opening the proverbial barn door the widest it would go, she stuffed the home-made double-decker cheeseburger into her yap and champed on it with great relish.

A sly smile spread over Mandy's features as she watched her partner eat the burger and take frequent slurps of beer. Unfortunately, the smile didn't last long when she returned to the topic they had covered when Wynne had joined them. "G.W., quite frankly… I'm sure the Town Council in Brandford Ridge is just as stubborn, near-sighted and resistant to any kind of change as ours is-"

"To a certain extent, yes, but Goldsboro has always been a special case," G.W. said with a nod.

A "Haw!" that came from Wynne's side of the table made everyone look at her. Once she had washed down the bite with a healthy swig of Double-Zero, she continued: "Ain't dat da truth, Dubya!  Lawrdie, even havin' wimmenfolk hold all them impahrtant positions don't make 'em no smoothah or easiah ta deal with. An' y'all can take that ta da bank."

"Who's at the head of the Town Council now, Sheriff?" G.W. said.

While Wynne and G.W. Tenney had spoken, Mandy had scooped up the last of her cooked vegetables onto her fork. "Mary-Lou Skinner is the chairperson. Bonnie Saunders is the vice-chair and also holds the keys to the town coffers," she said before she was silenced by chewing on the vegetables.

"I remember Mary-Lou from the old days, but I'm unfamiliar with Saunders. So they're tough to deal with?"

Mandy let out a dark grunt. "They're impossible to deal with. I've said it time and time again… and I can't believe I'm actually saying it in the first place… but Artie Rains was dead-on when he told me that dealing with the politicians would be the worst part of being Sheriff here. That's the part where the effort we put into it simply isn't matched by the results that come out at the other end."

Wynne let out a brief "Haw…" before she stuffed a handful of fries into her mouth and washed them down with a long swig of Double-Zero.

Although G.W. had no French fries to play with, he let out a grunt that was similar to Wynne's. "We don't have it quite that bad over in Brandford Ridge. Maybe because most of the Town Council was replaced in last summer's elections. We have a lot of fresh faces now. Fresh faces with fresh ideas."

"It won't last," Mandy said grimly before she pushed her empty plate forward to have room to rest her elbows on the edge of the table. She and Wynne locked eyes for a moment - it was enough for Mandy to get a little boost to climb out of the quagmire of frustration and fatigue she found herself in after the aimless, pointless day.

Mandy sat with her back to the door and Wynne was busy eating, so it was G.W. who first noticed the gloomy presence of Special Agent-in-Charge Hamilton Lydecker who entered the bar and grill clearly looking for the Sheriff of Goldsboro.

"Don't look now, Sheriff," G.W. said under his breath, "but I think we may be about to have our evenings ruined."

Wynne looked up at once to see what G.W. meant, letting out a long groan that expressed her emotions quite well. If anyone at the table was still in doubt, the belch she let out at the sight of the suit-wearing fellow offered a good insight into her frame of mind.

Lydecker soon acquired his target and strode over to the table. "Sheriff Jalinski, I need a word. Urgently. Oh… good evening, Sheriff Tenney. Are you and your deputies still observing the exercise?"

"We are," G.W. said and leaned back on the chair, "but it's not like there's been much to observe lately… has there?"

At the adjoined table, Wynne let out a chuckle at the needling - that sort of thing had always been G.W. Tenney's specialty. She stuffed another handful of fries into her mouth before she shuffled around to gawk at the senior FBI agent with her bright-blue, and occasionally intense, eyes.

"I'm afraid there hasn't," Lydecker continued to G.W. before he leaned down toward Mandy. "Sheriff, this place is a little too public. I have something important to divulge to you, but it needs to be somewhere private."

"Of course, Sir," Mandy said and got up. "We can use one of the storage rooms. Follow me, please." On her way past Wynne's spot at the other table, she reached out and received the briefest of supportive touches.

"Haw, I wondah whaddahell that wus all 'bout?" Wynne said as she used her last French fry to mop up some of the hot sauce that had escaped her double-decker cheeseburger. "On da othah hand… I don't really give no stuffed turkey 'bout his trubbels. Not aftah seein' how stressed mah Mandy got. Anyhows. Dubya, how 'r things ovah yondah in Bradford Ridge?  Y'all keepin' da streets safe?"

---

Once the door leading to the narrow hallway had closed, Mandy folded her arms over her chest and assumed a neutral expression. She studied the distinguished Special Agent-in-Charge as he took off his jacket and searched for somewhere to hang it while they spoke. The sweaty patches at the armpits of his shirt proved that his day hadn't been all he had hoped it would be, either. She noted that he wore a shoulder-holster that carried a backup piece to the service firearm on his hip.

Finding no suitable spot to hang his jacket, SAC Lydecker put it over the backrest of the same chair Wynne and Mandy had shared earlier. "Sheriff," he said as he even loosened his tight necktie and undid the shirt's top button, "as you have undoubtedly noticed, the exercise has gone off the rails. One of those insignificant, tiny little screw-ups that no one could have foreseen has caused the entire timetable to become… well… messed up. Completely."

Mandy remained standing with her arms folded across her chest. "I see. May I ask what it was and what it means for my town?"

"It's almost embarrassing, Sheriff. We had arranged for a pair of Special Agents from our resident agency in Telworth, Idaho to assist us by portraying the escaped convicts. We chose people from such a remote office to make sure nobody knew them. Oh, and they were waiting up near the border to Utah."

Lydecker fell silent for a moment while he took off his golden reading glasses and polished the lenses on a handkerchief. Once they were back on his nose, he continued: "Well, it just so happens that I called them personally earlier today to ask if it would be possible they could get here a little faster. You had presented your fascinating idea of having the showdown take place at the… out at one of the ranches-"

"It's not a ranch, Agent Lydecker," Mandy said and finally lowered her arms. "It's just the Tobin family residence. An old, abandoned gas station that's been converted into a small museum and gallery for some of the desert's more scary inhabitants."

"All right. Well, I'm not from around here. In any case, the Special Agents ended up being involved in… of all things… a road accident."

"Oh. Nothing too serious, I hope?"

Sighing, the Special Agent-in-Charge threw his arms out wide. "Their vehicle flew off the road after being rear-ended by a pickup truck. They suffered no major injuries, thank God, but the driver ended up with a fractured forearm and the passenger developed a bad nosebleed from being hit by a piece of plastic trim as the airbag deployed."

Mandy had time to utter a "Well…" before she fell quiet to draw a clearer mental picture of what it would mean to her, her deputies and Goldsboro in general. The further her train of thought went toward the terminal station, the more she scrunched up her face - such a large-scale exercise couldn't be allowed to fizzle out into nothing, that was a given, and that would mean a second day of massive disruptions in and around the small, long-suffering desert town. "I presume this means you'll spend the night here and then carry out your plan come first light?  Or a dawn raid, at least."

"A noon raid will be more likely, Sheriff Jalinski. Everybody needs to be fully up-to-date on the change of plans. It's late in the day, so some of the information might not reach its intended target until tomorrow morning. In any case, the Airborne Assault Unit operates out of Las Vegas. They'll get here by helicopter so they'll have to file a rescheduled flight plan or get clearance from the FAA or God knows what they actually do. And when all is said and done on their part, it'll take them several hours to fly here."

Mandy crossed her arms over her chest all over again as a sour expression fell over her face. "All right. Another day of chaos and confusion in my town. It obviously can't be helped. Can you at least relocate that gigantic truck to the outskirts so we won't have further collisions over night?"

"I think that should be possible, Sheriff," Lydecker said as he buttoned his shirt, straightened his tie and reached for his jacket to signal the rapidly approaching conclusion to the impromptu command-level meeting. "By the way… we had expected to stay at the boarding house, but the overly stern owner flat-out refused to have unmarried male and female Special Agents under the same roof at the same time."

"Yes, Mrs. Peabody can be a handful. No doubt about that."

The Special Agent-in-Charge nodded - the jacket was soon back on and pulled down so it sat in accordance with the FBI dress code. "You wouldn't happen to know where we can find lodgings for ten-"

"I do, actually. It just so happens that my significant other owns the bed-and-breakfast next to the bar and grill," Mandy said and walked over to the door. "They have plenty of rooms available at this time of the year."

"Oh!  That's good news, Sheriff. Please introduce us to your husband so we can rent the rooms and move in before nightfall."

Mandy put her hand on the doorknob before she shot the senior FBI agent a dark look. "I didn't say husband. I'm married in all but name to Wynne Donohue, the woman in the all-denim outfit."

Lydecker seemed to lose half a step as he processed the - for him - unexpected news. "Oh… I… I see. Well. I see."

"Frankly, I don't think you see much of anything," Mandy said in a surly mumble as she opened the door to stride back into the restaurant to get things squared with Wynne - G.W. and his men would also need rooms, and she would insist they were given a higher priority. She had a hunch that Wynne wouldn't object to that notion.

Continued in part 3

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