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CHAPTER 8

Thursday, February 3rd - just past 11 am.

A sinister-looking, matte-black Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition turned off the State Route and drove onto the dusty forecourt at the Tobin place.

Located a handful of miles north of Goldsboro, the nearest neighbor was the Old Boys' Haven trailer park a further four miles north, but those residents - who had a reputation of being a bunch of reactionary old cranks and curmudgeons - never interacted with anyone so nobody would know if the place suddenly disappeared off the face of the Earth.

The Tobin place sat all by itself in the middle of nowhere. The nearby two-lane blacktop running past it was the only clue that other human life did in fact exist amid the thousands of square miles of desert. The blue firmament above seemed gigantic; at night, it offered a perfect, unpolluted view of the other planets, stars, galaxies, and whatever else that happened to be out there.

Most of the buildings from the days it had been an independent gas station were still standing even if they weren't in the best of conditions: the square roof over the pump island had begun to sag in one corner, but it wasn't too bad yet. Most of the panes in the roll-front doors at the old service garage had grown opaque or were cracked, and the shed that had pulled double-duty as the attendant's office and a small-scale grocery store had lost its door.

The three new wooden barracks that had been put up when the Tobin family had taken the plunge to become self-employed contractors in the tourist industry - by creating the Bug Bonanza - were all in tip-top condition. Fresh coats of pale-gray paint had been added to the exteriors, save for the roofs that were held in white to combat the merciless rays of the desert sun.

Unlike the previous days that had been calm, a gentle breeze blew in from the desert. It brought some sand and dust with it, but nowhere near the amounts that would be deposited against the sides of the buildings on the days when the Wind Gods were upset.

Two vehicles were parked near the home: an old pickup truck owned and used by Kenny Tobin, and a gray sedan that belonged to his parents.

The driver jumped out of the sinister-looking, matte-black vehicle and promptly grew into something akin to the trail scouts of yore. The entire vista was given a thorough check for unwanted opposition in the shape of State Police units, Federal Agents, SWAT teams or indeed the dreaded Black Helicopters.

Wearing decorated boots, sheepskin gloves, denim from top to toe, and a battered, sweat-stained cowboy hat that was held in place by its leather chinstrap, the fierce bandit reached into a rear pocket to find a red bandanna that was soon wrapped around the face, thus obscuring the features.

The character performed a classic Bandit-gait as it walked around the front of the truck. The hands never left the hips almost as if the non-existent Colts were ready to be drawn at a moment's notice.

"Okeh, pardnah," the Bandit said in a proper Texan drawl once the passenger-side door had been reached, "it be haaaah time ta see how them good folks be who done call this he' spread their hoah-me an' all…"

Two seconds later, Wynne broke out in a loud laugh behind the red bandanna - the reason for the break in character was the simple fact that the cloth had crept up to cover the supposed Bandit's eyes. Once the bandanna was back in her left-hand rear pocket as Cowpoke fashion dictated, she opened the passenger door to let the chuckling Mandy out.

Unlike Wynne, Mandy had chosen to participate in the day's activities wearing her full uniform. Thus, the black boots were shiny, the high-waisted pants had a razor-sharp crease, the shirt was clean and pristine, the necktie had been tucked in between the third and fourth buttons, and the Mountie hat that crowned the ensemble was free of lint of any kind.

To stick to the exercise's original plans as closely as possible, she didn't wear her utility belt, her service firearm or even one of the portable radios. The Bug Bonanza was just on the verge of being out of range so the lack of the radio wasn't an issue, and she still had her smartphone that would be used whenever the FBI Hostage Negotiation team would show up. Furthermore, she intended to use it in a covert ploy to communicate with her deputies along the way.

"Ya know, darlin'," Wynne continued as she opened the rear door to let an excited Goldie out - Blackie had assumed her duties as a proper K9 officer and was temporarily assigned to protect Barry Simms back at the sheriff's office.

"Seein' them there looks on Mista Lahdeckah's face made mah day… hell, it done made mah week!  He wus surprised, P.O.'ed an' resigned all within a span o' three seconds or som'tin. Yuh. O' course, I woudda been P.O.'ed too if somebodda I hardly knew done tole me them plans I had spent all night drawin' up wussen good fer nuttin' in da real world an' all… anyhows, I be yakkin' he'."

"I'm just grateful the Tobin family agreed to take part in the exercise," Mandy said as she picked a spec of desert dust off her uniform shirt. "If we had to endure a third day of this nonsense, I would have run off screaming."

Wynne nodded as she attached a leather leash to Goldie's collar so the dog couldn't bolt and risk getting lost in the area that was all-new to her. "Yuh, deffa-nete-ly. Them folks desuhrve a big attaboy fer that… sure ain't no lie. I done spoke plentah ta K.T. but only a li'l ta his Pa. I ain't familiar with his Ma at all. It gonn' be int'restin' ta get ta know 'em a li'l bettah."

Mandy observed the vast desert surrounding the Tobin residence. Somehow, the rocky, sandy terrain looked even more hostile than down south at the trailer park. She let her eyes glide across the horizon trying to figure out where Beatrice and her civilian assistant would make their move.

She had to chuckle when she thought back to Hamilton Lydecker's response to her demand of including Diego Benitez in the operation. The standoff had lasted for several minutes until the Special Agent-in-Charge had conceded the point that a civilian who spent 90% of his free time hunting in the desert would be a better fellow to have on the strike team than a SWAT officer who had barely played on the beach as a kid.

"Well, me an' Goldie be reddy. How 'bout y'all, darlin'?"

"Mmmm," Mandy said and moved away from the magnificent vista.

The house where the Tobins lived was a two-story wooden structure that had been built a short decade before the gas station had closed its doors for good. Similar to the barracks that housed the Bug Bonanza, the walls were pale-gray and the roof and frames around the windows were white.

Nothing of any value could grow in the arid climate found north of Goldsboro, so the Tobin family had no vegetable patches, flower beds or much less a garden they could spend time in.

A flight of five steps made of desert rocks that had been crushed and encapsulated in concrete led up to the front door - a semi-enclosed windbreak shielded the house from the elements. The white door featured an old-fashioned, hand-crafted brass knocker shaped like the head of a rattlesnake.

"Haw, wouldya lookie at that there wild an' ca-razy thing!" Wynne said as she, Mandy and Goldie climbed the stairs. Once they were all lined up in reverse order of height, Wynne reached out and used the knocker.

A few seconds later, the door opened to reveal a bleary-eyed, wild-haired Kenny Tobin. As expected of any teenager when the clock hadn't even reached noon yet, his general appearance offered the impression that he had just been kicked out of bed and ordered to get the door. At least he wore regular comfy-clothes in the shape of a mismatched sweatsuit - the sweater was green while the baggy pants were red. Down below, he wore white tennis socks.

"Howdy, K.T.!  Whah, I do bah-lieve yer sweet, ol' folks be waitin' fer us dainnnnnn-geruss pistoleras ta swing bah. Yuh?  Wouldya mind callin' fer-"

"Mom!  It's Wynne and the Sheriff!" Kenny said over his shoulder before he left the visitors all by their lonesome to shuffle back upstairs.

Wynne and Mandy shared a brief look before they both let out a chuckle. "Haw, y'all reckon we wus like that when we wus teenagahs, Sheriff Mandy?"

"I don't know about you, but I was the definition of a cherub. Probably," Mandy deadpanned before she knocked on the doorjamb. "Mrs. Tobin?  It's Sheriff Jalinski and Wynne Donohue."

The left-hand side of the connecting hallway beyond the main entrance had two doors in addition to the staircase that went up to the upper floor. The right-hand side saw a further three doors. At the far end, the hallway opened up into a living room.

Everything was neat and tidy, and held in the same basic colors as the exterior: pale-gray walls, white panels and a white ceiling. A dark-gray runner protected the hallway's wooden floorboards all the way down to the living room where a regular, tan wall-to-wall carpet assumed the same duties.

'I'll be with you in a minute!' a female voice said from one of the three doors on the right-hand side of the hallway.

"Works fer me," Wynne said and followed the Sheriff inside with Goldie in tow. She had barely made it into the hallway before her nostrils picked up a delicious scent of warm food. "Haw!  Somebodda be cookin' saw-sitches!  Love me some saw-sitches… a ton o' mustard an' ketchup an' hawt sawce an' mebbe some deep-frah'd onion rings an' some golden toast an' I be in heaven, yes Ma'am!"

Goldie agreed with most of her owner's preferences regarding cooked sausages - though she could live without ever sampling mustard, ketchup and onion rings - and let her opinion be known through a series of happy yaps.

Chuckling at how two of the four females in their little family had limitless appetites while the other two could go for hours without as much as a cracker, Mandy took off her Mountie hat and made sure her hair was literally in good shape for meeting and interacting with the public. She nudged Wynne in the side to get her to do the same.

"Whah, cert'inly, darlin'," the dangerous Bandit said as she loosened the chinstrap and took off her cowboy hat. She had barely had time to stuff it under her arm when they were joined by Hayley Tobin who stuck her head around the doorjamb to the kitchen.

Hayley had turned forty-three in early January but didn't look a day older than forty-two. Her hair and eyes shared the same shade of pale-brown - the latter were highlighted by a subdued, classy eyeliner while the former had recently been given the full, curly treatment at Holly Lorenzen's hair and nails salon in Goldsboro.

Standing at five-foot-five in flats, she wore gray slacks and a flowery tunic that reached down to mid-thigh. The tunic was seemingly held in place by a pale-brown belt around her waist, but it was in fact only for show. The tunic's neckline was modest but still revealed a golden necklace with a two-inch crucifix as a pendant.

"Hello, Miss Donohue. Good morning, Sheriff," Hayley said while reaching up to make sure her curls were in perfect order. When she clapped eyes on Goldie, she let out an enthusiastic: "Oh, and hello, there!  Aren't you a cutie!"

Goldie replied with a Yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap! as she basked in the attention of the person making the sausages.

"Definitely a cutie," Hayley continued with a grin. "Welcome to our home. It's so nice to see you… well, perhaps I shouldn't say that considering that you're planning on taking us hostage."

"Howdy, Missus Tobin!  Yuh, this be a strange deal, sure ain't no lie."

"Yes, indeed. Oh, but why so formal?  None of us wear stuffy shirts. I'm Hayley. You're Wynne, aren't you?" Hayley said as she put out her hand for the greeting.

"Sure is!  Howdy, Hayley!  Wynne Donnah-hew 's mah name an' I done spoke quite a lot ta Kenny ovah them ye'ahs. An' this he' darlin', li'l doggy-gal be Goldie," Wynne said as she grabbed hold of Hayley's hand and pumped it up and down - the lady had a stronger grip than Wynne expected.

"Hello, Goldie!"

Yap-yap-yap… yap?  - Goldie's comment meant 'That's nice. Now where's the food?'

Mandy waited for Wynne to finish up before she shook hands with their hostess. "Good morning, Mrs. Tobin. I'm Sheriff Mandy Jalinski of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department. I prefer to remain formal if you don't mind. I'm on duty and this is official business."

"Oh, of course… no problem, Sheriff. Why don't you go into the living room and say hello to my husband Bert?"

Nodding at Hayley's words, Mandy moved past the kitchen on her way through the hallway. The strict order she noticed there made it plainly obvious that their hostess needed no assistance when it came to swinging the pots and pans.

Wynne kept standing in the hallway until Hayley moved back into the kitchen to carry on where she had left off. Grinning, she gave Goldie's leash a little tug to make her come along at a leisurely pace. "Haw, this sure smells mighty fine, yes Ma'am!  Y'all be cookin' saw-sitches?" she said, leaning against the doorjamb.

"That's right. And home-made potato salad, too!" Hayley said and showed Wynne a bowl that carried a heady mix of neutral yogurt, chives, chopped red onions and a home-developed blend of spices. On the stove behind her, the potatoes needed to complete the side dish were cooking in a large pot next to an even larger one that held the sausages.

"Lawwwwwwwwr-die!  Whah, Hayley, I sure hope y'all be makin' enuff 'cos home-made patahtah salad is one o' them things I can eat a ton of… haw!"

Hayley broke out in an exaggerated wink. "Believe me when I say that we won't be running out anytime soon."

"Sure does sound awesome, yes Ma'am!"

The experienced chef went back to mixing the seasoning sauce for a moment before she seemed to remember something. "Oh, by the way… Wynne, I hope you and the Sheriff don't mind, but beer and alcohol are strictly off-limits in this house."

"Don't bothah me none, Hayley. Soft drinks, iced tea, lemonade, milk, coah-ffee… I drink it all. Yuh, Kenny alreddy done tole me so I didden bring no beers or nuttin'," Wynne said with a smile that was responded to in kind.

'Wynne, come say hello to Mr. Tobin,' Mandy said from the living room.

"That's a big ten-fo'ah, good buddy!" Wynne replied before she excused herself and shuffled through the rest of the hallway.

The living room had the usual mix of stylish and basic found in most middle-class homes: the tan wall-to-wall carpet was made of dense fibers so it could easily be vacuumed whenever too much sand had been dragged onto it. The couch arrangement wasn't the newest in either design or amount of use, but it was harmonious and fit well with its surroundings. A trio of tall bookcases stood shoulder-to-shoulder along one wall while a large flatscreen television set, a soundbar, a satellite receiver and a BluRay player had been lined up on a low, sleek TV rack opposite the couch.

An old-fashioned propeller fan installed in the ceiling aided the air- conditioning system by stirring the air at regular intervals. The wall behind the couch saw a pair of very colorful reproduction posters that promised much family-friendly entertainment when The Feldmann Family Circus Comes To Barton City! in 1956 and 1968 respectively - the posters were the only decorations that graced the living room walls save for a four-foot long, home-sewn bell wire that had been put up between the bookcases and the TV rack.

The windowsills were home to a selection of potted plants of different types - among them two miniature cactuses and a gum tree. The flower pots were made of earthenware rather than plastic so they fit well with the earthy tones of the desert seen through the windows.

A pair of white sliding doors took up a great deal of space on the wall on the right-hand side of the living room. The sliding doors were closed at present, but the layout and design suggested the space behind it was a dining room.

Kenny's father Bertram got up from a LazyBoy armchair of an older design than the one back home in Wynne's trailer. He'd been reading the sports and betting section of the morning newspaper with his slippered feet up on a footstool, but the arrival of their guests prompted him to fold up the newspaper and put that and his reading glasses away.

"Hello, Sheriff. Miss Donohue. I'm Bert Tobin," he said as he put out his hand. Five years older, five inches taller and twenty-five pounds heavier than his wife, he was an average guy in most aspects though his bulbous nose always caught people's eye. His hair was an average shade of brown and his eyes an average shade of grayish-blue. Even his body had an average shape - albeit of the slightly round variety.

He hadn't bothered to shave or even comb his hair, but the semi-scruffy look went well with his lined slippers, comfortable cotton pants, checkered shirt and knitted cardigan.

"Howdy, Bert. Shoot, call me Wynne, yuh?  We alreddy done played pool up at Moira's so y'all know mah name," Wynne said and pumped the man's arm up and down like a yard well. "So… all y'all reddy fer this he' weird deal?"

"Yeah, I suppose we are," Bertram said with a shrug. "I don't really understand all the details, but… okay. There won't be a shootout or anything, will there?  I mean like at Waco or that other place up in Utah… Marion, wasn't it?  I'm telling you right now, Sheriff… if my father gets frightened, I'll sue the Town Council and the Feds all to hell."

Wynne and Mandy shared a brief sideways look. Down on the floor, Goldie let out a small whimper and hid behind her owner's denim-clad legs at the sudden and unexpected outbreak of negativity.

"No, Mr. Tobin, there will not be any kind of armed activity close to your home. Real, staged or even simulated. Everything will take place in the desert a good distance away from here," Mandy said in a firm voice. "I promise I'll bring you and your wife up to speed on everything I know, however I prefer to wait until we're all together to eliminate any misunderstandings."

Bertram fell silent for a moment before he broke out in a shrug. "All right, Sheriff. I trust you."

"Thank you, Mr. Tobin."

"Lawrdie," Wynne said once she had the opportunity to break in, "I ain't certi'n whut done happened at that there othah place y'all jus' men-shunned, but I sure 'membah watchin' that there awful, awful mess at Waco on teevee back hoah-me in Shallah Pond, Texas. I reckon them Eff Bee Eye folks done learned from it. This he' mebbe a weird deal, but it sure ain't nuttin' like that, Bert. This he' only be one o' them there exuhrcises. So, anyhows… how's ol' Clifford these days?"

Bertram shrugged again. "Poor and only getting worse, Wynne. The docs say he won't live out the year."

"Aw-sombitch. I sure am sorry ta heah that, Bert. Your ol' man's a fine fella."

"He used to be. But the dementia… it's killed his mind. He isn't the person we knew and loved."

"Yuh, y'all don't hafta tell me," Wynne said and reached out to pat Bertram on the shoulder. "I come from a large family an' several o' them there aunties an' uncles done got that crappy illness. They looked the same but they wussen the same folks inside no mo'. I coudden undahstand that at the time 'cos I done had mah own medical is-shoes an' all, but I sure do undahstand now."

The gloomy topics had made the mood go south, but Hayley came to everyone's rescue by shouting 'Kenny!  Lunch in five minutes!' up the staircase to get her son's attention - the reply was a mumbled mess that no one could understand more than a few syllables of.

A moment later, Hayley swept into the living room like a good-natured whirlwind to pull the sliding doors apart. The dining room continued the theme found in the living room in that it was functional rather than flashy, but the furniture and decorative elements were of a higher quality. The main dinner table seated six and was made of pale-brown beechwood which added touches of simplicity and lightness to it. The chairs that surrounded it were of a matching color and design creating a suite that pleased the eye.

A few more of the home-sewn bell wires graced the walls between large cupboards and above low sideboards - the creation dates that adorned the cross-stitch decorations proved that Hayley had either started making them at a very young age, or that some of the older ones had been made by her mother.

The dinner table had been set for five. It carried a white tablecloth, cork table mats and five sets of plates, cutlery and tumblers that had all been lined up with military precision. A brass bowl holding dried flowers had been put in the middle of the table to add some class.

Kenny Tobin soon came back down the stairs wearing the same clothes and with his hands stuffed deep, deep, deep down the pants pockets. Although he and Wynne had often interacted in town, he just stood there as still as a marble statue as if he was greatly embarrassed by the whole thing. It took a "Kenny…" and a pointed glare by his father before he took his hands out of his pockets.

'Would someone please give me a hand with the-' Hayley said from the kitchen, but she didn't even have time to finish the request before Wynne had spun around on her heel.

"Y'all got da one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew comin' thru'!  Hey, dat rhymes!  I shoulda been a poet!" she said as she moseyed into the kitchen to lend a hand where she could. "Haw! Them saw-sitches sure do look fihhhhhhh-ne, Hayley!  An' wouldya lookie there at that awesome patahtah salad… whah, I reckon I'mma-gonn' gain a buncha pounds while we he', dontchaknow."

---

A few minutes later, the party of five plus one Golden Retriever were ushered into the dining room. While Mandy tended to Goldie who had been given a very nice fluffy blanket to rest on, Hayley transferred the brass bowl with the dried flowers from the dinner table to one of the sideboards to have room for the extra pots and bowls - once that had been accomplished, she pulled over a serving cart that carried a wide variety of canned soft drinks.

"You have a very nice home, Mrs. Tobin," Mandy said after she had given Goldie a good fur-rubbing, a cold sausage from the kitchen and a stick of chicken jerky they had brought with them.

Smiling, Hayley wiped her hands on a paper tissue. "Thank you, Sheriff. I know you said you preferred to keep it formal, but please… call me Hayley. Okay?"

"Deal," Mandy said with a smile.

"So, let me see," Hayley said as she glanced at the various things on the table to gauge if anything was missing. "Salt and pepper shakers… Tabasco… napkins… the sausage tongs… a tablespoon for the potato salad. You know what?  I think we're ready. Sheriff, you and Wynne sit on the far side. Bert and I sit at the ends… and Kenny sits by himself nearest the doors so he has an escape route when the old fuddy-duddies get too boring. Right?"

A croaked, thick, semi-mumbled "Mom…" was accompanied by a strong blush and eyes that stared straight down at his socked feet.

"All right, let's get something to drink," Hayley continued as she moved over to the serving cart. "Wynne?"

"Any kind o' cola, if y'all got one. An' the same fer Sheriff Mandy 'cept it needs ta be one o' them there diet ones."

"Can do. We always buy the Summer Dreamz brand… I hope that's all right?" Hayley said, putting two cans of Classic Cola and one Diet Cola on the table - Kenny nabbed the other of the regulars for himself.

"Aw-haw!  Y'all bettah bah-lieve that be awright, Hayley!" Wynne said with a broad grin plastered all over her face. "Whah, Summer Dreamz be made by them fine folks at H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Comp'ny, yuh?  An' they jus' happen ta be mah numbah one favah-rite brewery in da wohhhhh-rld, yes Ma'am!"

Smiling at the cheerful reception, Hayley took two cans of South Pacific Tropical Fruits Squash - one for herself and one that she put next to Bertram's plate - as well as a Smooth Apricot that was to be their strategic reserve.

The pots containing the sausages and the bowls of the home-made potato salad were so tempting that Wynne pulled out her chair at once and grabbed the napkin that had been laid out for her.

It wasn't until she noticed that everyone else remained standing that it dawned on her she had made a false start. Had it happened at a stock-car track, it would have earned her a black flag and a penalty of some kind - most likely a drive-through or that she would need to go to the tail-end of the field for the next restart. "Haw, I reckon I did som'tin I shoudden ha'," she said and stood up once more.

"That's all right, Wynne… you couldn't know," Hayley said with a smile. "We always say Grace before our hot meals."

"Whah, I do beg yer pardon, there, Hayley… mah ideah o' fihhh-ne dihhh-nin' is when I pull da lid off them there cup noodles in da kitchen instead o' at mah coah-ffee table…"

Hayley folded her hands in front of her and bowed her head. "Dear Lord. We thank thee for the blessed gifts thou have provided and for the continued protection of our sacred home. Amen."

Wynne - never the greatest fan of religion of any kind - chose not to join the others when it came to the closing word, but Mandy did out of politeness.

"Let's enjoy the prizes of the table," Hayley said and sat down, prompting the others to do the same.

-*-*-*-

An hour later, most of the dinner party had gone back into the living room save for Wynne who had volunteered to do the dishes and Kenny who had offered to take Goldie for a walk - the teenager had even run upstairs to put on some outdoor shoes, and that didn't happen often.

The Golden Retriever was soon busy exploring all the little nooks and crannies of the strange new place that, fortunately, wasn't too scary. While she did that, Kenny got some relief from all the old folks by yakking on the phone with Ritchie Lee.

A few moments later, Bertram returned from the upstairs room that had been converted into a home ward for his elderly, ill father Clifford. Hayley had relocated to the couch in the meantime, and Bertram mussed her neck as he walked past.

"Sheriff, my wife and I are all ears," he said as he turned on the TV and the BluRay player and found a music CD that he put into the tray. "I'm going to ask you the same question I posed to the FBI liaison officer… or whatever his title was… who called us. His replies had the structural rigidity of a jellyfish. I sincerely hope you're a little more forthcoming. What is this strange deal we're suddenly involved in, exactly?"

Once the compilation of soft classical music, Relaxing Romantic Moods, started playing over the TV's advanced speaker system, he sat down in his LazyBoy and went through the TV's menu to reduce down the volume and select a colorful screen saver.

"Well, Mr. Tobin… Hayley… what this is, is a quick fix of a bad deal," Mandy said from her spot on the couch next to Hayley. "The FBI is conducting a large-scale field exercise that simulates a prison break by two dangerous criminals. The original plan had the men driving through Goldsboro on their way to California. The FBI would then intercept them in town. In turn, that would create a hostage situation that required the negotiating team and the SWAT team to be deployed-"

"Oh!  The Secret Weapons Assault Team?" Hayley said.

"Almost, but not quite," Mandy said with a smile. "Special Weapons and Tactics. Well, in any case, the plans fell through late yesterday. You may have noticed the chaos in town-"

"Did I ever!" Bertram said and let out a derogatory noise that was a cross between a mocking laugh and a surly grunt. "That gigantic truck took up so much space I could hardly get our tiny car past it!"

Mandy nodded as she thought back to the traffic jam involving all the farm tractors. "The original plans were scrapped when the two FBI Special Agents who were to portray the fugitives were caught up in a road accident some distance north of here. What you're involved in here is in fact plan B."

"Were the agents hurt?" Hayley asked.

"A fractured arm and a bloodied nose as far as I know."

A somber mask fell over Hayley's fair features. "I'll mention them in my evening prayers," she said in a sincere voice.

At the same time, Wynne moved back into the living room holding a dishtowel that she used to wipe down a tumbler. "I only heard some o' whut Sheriff Mandy done tole y'all, but yuh… I be a dainnnn-ge-russ Bandida taday. Six of them days this he' week, I be a big, ol' cuddly gal, but taday, I be a bad girl. Yuh?  I done took da Sheriff he' host-itch when she done trah'd ta pull me ovah. That bein' da covah story, anyhows."

The classical music accompanied four silent people for a short while before Bertram nodded and let out a sigh. "Thank you, Sheriff. That was a much better answer than the one I got over the telephone. Accidents happen. What I don't understand is why they didn't just postpone or cancel the exercise when such a central element was suddenly lost?"

"Pressure from further up the chain of command. And possibly more than a little pride as well," Mandy said with a shrug.

Hayley added her own two cents' worth with a sharp: "Typical."

"Yes," Bertram said, nodding at his wife's comment, "very typical of those people. Reminds me of some of the pigheadedness I experienced back in the National Guard. So… I have a bonus question." - He leaned forward on the LazyBoy to point an index finger at The Last Original Cowpoke - "Wynne, you're a dangerous fugitive holding everyone here hostage. What are your demands for letting us go unharmed?"

Wynne looked at their host with a comical expression on her face. She unraveled herself from the dishtowel to scratch her neck. "Haw… I ain't thunk o' that!  Whah, that be a good ques-chun, Bert. I ain't sure whut mah demands would be. I need-a think a li'l 'bout that. Sheriff Mandy, whadda them bad folks usually ask fer?"

"Oh, it varies," Mandy said. "I recall hearing about someone asking for twenty million in bearer bonds once… but that fellow was already certifiable so I wouldn't regard that as a template. Many ask for free passage to the state line or even something simple as a phone call from an ex."

"Well, them things don't do nuttin' fer me. Naw. Mebbe an airline ticket ta them Bahamas islands or som'tin?  On da othah hand, whaddinda-wohhhh-rld would I do in them Bahamas at this time o' da ye'ah?  I mean, with Daytoah-'n jus' 'round da cornah an' all… shoot, that woudden be nuttin' but silly, that. Lemme see…" - Wynne started rubbing her chin to find a good list of demands so she would be a proper Bandida like in all the cool movies.

"Tell you what," Hayley said and rose from the couch, "while you rack your brain to find something that might work, I'll put on some coffee. It might help speed up the thought processes."

Wynne broke out in a smile as their hostess walked past her. "Haw, I sure woudden object ta that, Hayley. I kinda need all da help I can get when it comes ta them thinkin' processes… 'spe-shually taday fer some reason. Ain't nuttin' up dere right now but a buncha sawdust. Or mebbe it be where all that awesome patahtah salad went- haw!  I bet it wus!"  A moment later, Wynne let out a loud guffaw that made Mandy and Bertram chuckle as well.

The scent of coffee soon wafted past everyone's nostrils pointing toward the next highlight of the day. At the same time, Goldie and Kenny came back from their long walk around the local area. None of the adults stood a chance of saying as much as Howdy before the moody teen had gone back upstairs taking two steps at a time.

-*-*-*-

A short while later in the bustling metropolis known as Goldsboro, Nevada.

Life had almost returned to normal in the sheriff's office on Main Street. The FBI Mobile Command Center vehicle had been hauled back onto the street from its overnight rest on the outskirts of town, but with a majority of the activity focusing on the Tobin place further north, far fewer agents and police officers took up space in town compared to the day before.

Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez stood by the large window observing the greatly reduced goings-on out on the street. Now and then, he took a piece of paper from the sheriff's desk and read it as if he couldn't quite believe what it said.

The message on the operational note - that had been issued by Mandy Jalinski and co-signed by FBI Special Agent-in-Charge Hamilton Lydecker - was brief but crystal clear: While Sheriff Jalinski was indisposed through her 'abduction' at the hands of the dangerous fugitive, he, Rodolfo Gonzalez, was appointed Acting Sheriff with all the responsibilities such a position would typically entail.

Gulping, Rodolfo put the operational note back on the corner of the sheriff's desk. A moment later, the gulp was accompanied by a grimace and a pair of pinched nostrils. "Dammit, Barry… do you have to smoke right now?"

"Yes I do, 'cos I smoked so little yesterday," Barry Simms said and took a very deep puff from one of his notorious home-rolled cigarettes just to underscore his statement.

A few hours had gone by after his shift had started, so his uniform - once clean and pristine - had devolved from regular dark-gray to ash-gray in places. Similarly, the volcanic cone of cigarette-related residue on top of the ashtray threatened to topple over each time someone walked past out on the sidewalk. To match the sorry state of the rest of him, his hair had gone from wet-combed and neat to dry and messy in world record time.

As he let out the smoke, it rose toward the drooping felt tiles in the ceiling as an ominous mushroom cloud that spelled toxic doom for anything it came into contact with. "You know how much gas I get from chewing that gum… well, I had a real bad tummyache this morning and I had to spend nearly fifteen minutes on the toi-"

"Don't wanna hear about it, Barry!  I don't wanna hear about your gas, I don't wanna hear about your tummyaches and I especially don't wanna hear about your crapper habits, full stop!  Thank you!"

"Well, aren't we testy today?" Barry mumbled before he returned to his Sally Swackhamer, P.I. pulp novel. He had reached the final few chapters of volume 18, A Lonely Place To Die, so the going was about to get good.

Thirty seconds later, and out of sight of the Senior Deputy, he snuck a hand into the watch desk's bottom drawer where he kept a secret stash of chocolates that his aunt Mildred Herzberg had given him before he had left for work.

A faint doggy-snore came from the spot on the blanket just inside the sticking glass door. Blackie was engaged in a fifteen-minute shut-eye-session that saw her utter various grunts and guttural growls as if she was chasing critters, zombie cannibals, undead vampyre ghouls, goblins, 50-foot desert dwellers or any of the other opponents she and her Human owners had been up against in their years in Goldsboro.

Blackie's slumber was ruined when Rodolfo's private telephone rang. When the caller-ID said SHMJ, he mentioned it and shared a quick, conspiratorial glance with Barry. Down on the floor, the German Shepherd yawned and let out a quiet Woof?

Accepting the call, Rodolfo held the telephone to his ear. "Hello, Mary-Jane. Robin Good and Baron Stinky-Pew here. So nice to hear from you."

"Oh, ha flippin' ha!" Barry said and threw a crumpled-up ball of paper at the acting sheriff - as expected, he missed by a country mile.

'Hello, Robin Good,' Mandy said at the other end of the connection - they had decided on speaking in code in case the FBI employed some kind of electronic collector that could sweep up and monitor all mobile phone frequencies in the area. 'Things are calm here. What's the town like?'

"Still somewhat hectic but better than yesterday."

'All right. Do you have any info regarding the exercise's progress reports?"

"Yes, and I quote from memory," Rodolfo said as he walked back to the windows overlooking Main Street. "It appears a patrol unit has spotted a vehicle matching the description of the one last used by the fugitive. It's parked at a residence a few miles north of town. There may be a hostage situation brewing. Unquote."

'Brewing?' Mandy said and let out a chuckle. 'Somehow I doubt that was the word used.'

"No, it was all written in FBI-officialese," Rodolfo said and matched the chuckle with one of his own. "In any case, Special Agent-in-Charge Lydecker has activated the makeshift desert strike team. Bianca and Dynamo have already gone out there."

'Good. We'll keep an eye out for them.'

"Okay. You know, Mary-Jane, I have to admit that, uh… Bianca has really grown into this role. She's always been intense and focused, but she was almost a different person when she came in today. She's definitely ready for her final exams and evaluations."

'I agree. Let's see what the Town Council says, though. She'll move up a pay grade and they'll have to find room for that on the budget.'

"Yeah. If they can't… or won't… and she's lured away by someone waving a bigger pay check, we'll have to look for a replacement P-D-Q."

'I certainly hope we can persuade her to stay. I get heartburn just thinking about needing to go through a recruitment process.'

Another ball of scrap paper came flying through the air from the watch desk. When Rodolfo spun around to give Barry a piece of his mind, he noticed at once that the smoking deputy pointed a sideways thumb at the front door - a moment later, the door was shoved open by one of the Special Agents.

"You guys really ought to get that door fixed," the Agent said as he put a note on the sheriff's desk.

"It's on our to-do list," Rodolfo said while he covered the telephone with his hand.

Instead of leaving after his task had been completed, the Special Agent remained in the office like an interested tourist - or the world's most conspicuous spy. After giving everything a quick glance, he went over to study the outdated map on the wall. He leaned in to take a closer look at its date of issue that had been printed in the bottom-right corner. "Nineteen-sixty-three… this map is thirty years older than I am!  Why in the world don't you
change it?"

"That's also on our to-do list," Rodolfo continued before he put the telephone back to his ear. He and Barry shared a quick look before he said: "Look, lady, this is the sheriff's office and we're very busy right now. You can't call us again and again just because there's a mouse in your kitchen. Why don't you just buy a cat?"

At the other end of the connection, Mandy let out a knowing chuckle. 'I get the picture. I'll call later.'

"All right. Thank you," Rodolfo said and pressed the Terminate Call bar.

It seemed the Special Agent insisted on hanging around, so Barry came to the rescue by lighting a new cigarette with the dying embers of the old one. A few seconds after inhaling, he exhaled a huge cloud of toxic fumes through his mouth and nostrils that sent the Special Agent running to safety.

Rodolfo shook his head and let out a long sigh. "Gee, thanks, Barry… a little pollution was all we needed," he said, fanning his nose so the smoke wouldn't reach it.

"It worked, didn't it?  Deputy Simms to the rescue," Barry said, causing even more foul-smelling smoke to escape his mouth. The subsequent chuckle nearly turned into one of his trademark rattling coughing fits, but he managed to un-clot the mucus by thumping his fist on his chest before anything bad could happen.

-*-*-*-

At much the same time a few miles further north, the desert breeze caused two lumps of sand to shift. A moment later, the lumps shifted again even without the help of the constant wind that swept across the vast, open landscape.

The pattern was repeated several times before a gloved hand poked out from one of the lumps of sand to point at a house in the middle distance. The other lump seemed to vibrate - the shielded tip of a powerful telescope soon came into view. 'Range… two-niner-zero yards', a male voice said from somewhere out of sight.

A female voice replied: 'Roger that. Is the vehicle still present?'

The telescope moved a slight distance to the right. 'Affirmative.'

'Roger that. There's a hollow fifty yards ahead at zero aim, one degree left. Let's proceed.'

Without further communication, the two lumps of sand shifted across the desert floor until they arrived at their next stop. One of the lumps was soon revealed to be a camouflaged tarp as Beatrice Reilly poked her head out from underneath the cover.

Not only did she wear a sand-colored uniform to blend in perfectly with the monochrome background, her face had been painted in a multi-layered desert camouflage pattern. Her blonde locks were held in place by a hairnet and a floppy desert hat that she had borrowed from the fellow underneath the other lump of shifting desert sand - Diego Benitez.

She was about to ask for another range reading when the FBI-issue communication device she wore as a headset crackled to life with a 'Command Center to Forward Team. Command Center to Forward Team. Do you copy?' - The person speaking at the other end was Special Agent-in-Charge Hamilton Lydecker.

The leading edge of the tarp was soon pulled forward to encapsulate her fully. Looking down, she found and pressed the small button on the transceiver tucked into one of her outfit's numerous pockets. "Forward Team leader receiving. Over," she replied at a low volume.

'What's the status?'

"The primary target has come within scope range. The getaway vehicle is still present though there has been no positive identification of the fugitive-"

A grunt from the lump next to her made Beatrice let out a "Stand by, Command." She pulled up a corner of the tarp to see what had caused Diego to let out the noise. The house was still too far away for the naked eye, but the shielded telescope remained trained on it. "Any developments?"

'One of the windows on the upper floor was just opened,' Diego said while still buried under his own camouflaged tarp, 'but it wasn't possible to get a clear identification of the individual doing it.'

"Is anyone trying to escape?"

'Not at present.'

Beatrice let out a "Mmmm," before she pressed the communication device's transmit key once more. "Forward Team leader to Command Center. Forward Team leader to Command Center."

'We read you. Over.'

"A window has been opened on the upper floor of the primary target, but no one is using it as an escape route. We are presently two-four-zero yards-"

'Two-three-eight yards,' Diego said as he performed a double-check of the scope's digital readout.

Another grunt escaped Beatrice before she resumed speaking into the microphone: "Correction, we're two-three-eight yards from the primary target."

'Very well. Proceed toward the target. Monitor the open window. If any of the hostages escape, report it immediately. Do not, repeat, do not venture closer than one-five-zero yards to the primary target before the negotiating team has established contact. Their ETA is twenty-four minutes and closing. Over.'

"Message received and understood, Command Center. Monitoring the window. Safety range to primary target set at one-five-zero yards. Forward Team out."

Once the transceiver had been switched to Reception Only, Beatrice lifted a corner of the tarp to get a feel for their close surroundings. Apart from the breeze that sent small puffs of sand and dust across the desert at irregular intervals, everything was quiet. The skeletal remains of a mule, donkey or small horse lay in a pile twenty yards to their left. To their right, a buzzard hovered in mid air while searching for a noon-time snack. Tracks made by coarse off-road tires ran across the uneven terrain a short distance ahead of them.

The flat desert rocks that had been knocked over by the off-road vehicle's progress had created another hollow that would suit their needs. "Let's move ahead," she said to the camouflaged lump next to her. "The rocks thirty yards ahead at zero aim, three degrees right."  Once Diego had grunted an affirmative answer, she reached up to grab hold of the tarp so it would move with her.

Soon, the two lumps of sand shifted once more as they crept closer to the Tobin home and the highly dangerous fugitive who continued to hold the family and Sheriff Jalinski hostage at gunpoint.

-*-*-*-

The armed and highly dangerous fugitive glared daggers at the last remaining playing card she held in her hand. She bared her teeth in a wolf-like sneer as her typical rotten luck caught up with her for the fourth time in five games.

"Wynne's the Old Maid!" Hayley said and broke out in a cheer. Reaching across the round gaming table they had set up in their living room, she slapped high-fives with her husband and even Kenny who had been bribed to join the old-fashioned family game by being promised a free ticket for the movie theater.

"Yuh… yuh, I reckon I be an' Ol' Maid an' all," Wynne mumbled as she thumped the card that everyone wanted to avoid like the plague onto on the green felt. She took a long sip of a cup of coffee while she mumble-mumble-grumble-grumbled a little more under her breath about life's little peculiarities and the unfairness of it all.

As the last notes of the Relaxing Romantic Moods music CD ran out, Bertram got up to change their musical accompaniment. Staying in the classical genre, he found a disc containing a collection of Tchaikovsky's most famous themes and overtures. Soon, the majestic opening to the 1st Piano Concert could be heard from the advanced sound system.

Goldie and Mandy both became aware of Wynne's uncharacteristic silence. While the Golden Retriever did her doggy best to get her owner in a better mood by rubbing her golden fur against the denim-clad legs, Mandy scooped up the special set of playing cards and tapped them into order. "I think we should give Wynne a break from Old Maid now. Do you perhaps have another card game we could try?"

The Tobins looked at each other for a short while before Kenny said: "How about the Treasure Hunters board game, mom?  We haven't played that in a while."

"That's a great idea," Hayley said and got up.

Wynne scratched her neck at the news. "Yuh… okeh… a board game. I kinda like some o' them there board games… whah, I done saw a stock-cah-r board game jus' tha othah day when I wus lookin' online fer an ol' race broadcast… but I sure hope them rules ain't too dif'cult or nuttin'…"

"Oh, they're not, Wynne. Well, we don't think they are, at least," Hayley said over her shoulder as she moved over to the sideboard that carried the TV and the rest of the electronic equipment. Kneeling next to it, she opened one of the small doors and rummaged through the various boxes and other things that always end up inside such a piece of furniture. The correct cardboard box was soon found and brought back to the gaming table.

"In any case, here it is," Hayley continued as she took off the colorful lid and began transferring all the little items that made up the game: the dice, a special piece meant to resemble an ancient spellcasting stone - for when the players would land on the Let Fortune Decide fields - a leaflet containing the rules, the plastic figurines the players were to move around, and finally the game board itself.

The lid and the game board had been painted in a lively comic-book style and depicted all the classic terrains that typically made up a treasure hunt: the snaking game path went through a jungle, a desert, a mountain range and around the rim of a lake until it ended in a city of gold.

"We could play as three teams," Kenny offered. "The Sheriff and Wynne, me and Goldie and then you guys."

"I wouldn't object to that," Hayley said and looked at her husband who nodded and shrugged.

The game board and all the little pieces were soon set up for three teams. The players had shuffled around so they sat next to their team partner - thus, Wynne and Mandy sat side by side opposite their hosts.

Wynne studied the supposedly easy rules that were described in extensive detail in a sixteen-page leaflet. Now and then, she took one of the plastic figurines or the spellcasting stone and compared it to the picture in the documentation.

A long sigh escaped her before she leaned in toward her teammate: "Shoot, this ain't gonn' work, darlin'," she said for Mandy's ears only. "I kinda get the no-shun o' da whole thing, but I ain't nevah gonn' 'membah all them rules an' exceptions an' figgah out when ta throw them dice an' pick up that there fortune stone… naw. I jus' be too dang dumb fer these he' things."

"Dumb is the only thing you're not, hon," Mandy said at a similar volume.

"Much obliged, but-"

"But nothing. I'll deal with the rules. You can move our pieces. Perfect teamwork."

A smile broke out on Wynne's face - a moment later, she leaned over to place a wet kiss on Mandy's cheek. "Okeh. I be reddy, yes Ma'am!  Les'go on a li'l treasure huntin'."

---

Although the game went well for all three teams, grim reality - or rather, the exercise - caught up with the dangerous, armed fugitive a mere twenty minutes later.

" 'Scuse tha stuffin' outta me," Wynne said, reaching into her pants pocket as her telephone rang. Looking at the caller-ID that said Unknown Caller, she was about to reject the call when Mandy said:

"Take it. It might be the negotiator."

"Haw, that sure be good thinkin', darlin'. Yes Ma'am," Wynne said and pulled away from the gaming table. "I jus' be pressin' this he' li'l button he' an'… Howdy, pardnah. Y'all got da one an' only Wy- haw?  Yuh… that sure be me, awright. Naw. Yuh. Yuh, I be a dainnnnn-geruss pistolera, awright. Whazzat?  Aw, that be a Spanish word meanin' feeeh-male gunslingah, yessirree. Aw-haw. Aw-haw. Okeh."

While she spoke, she pointed at the telephone and nodded at Mandy in an exaggerated fashion - it prompted the sheriff to lean in to get a few details of what was said at the other end.

The Tobins seemed to think that it was all rather exciting - Bertram even muted the classical CD to hear better.

"Yuh," Wynne continued into the telephone. "Aw-haw. Naw-aw. Yuh, y'all bettah bah-lieve I be armed an' dainnnnnge-russ an' all. Whah, jus' the othah day, I done crushed a pretzel between mah teeth!  Yessirree, sure ain't no lie. That li'l devil done fell ta pieces, lemme tell ya. Haw?  Whazzat?  Lissen, son, y'all need-a speak up 'cos I reckon we got a bad connec-shun or som'tin. Haw?"

Wynne fell silent while the Special Agent spoke into her ear. The scrunched-up face and the deep furrows across her brow proved she had a hard time with a certain aspect of the conversation. "I jus' gotta li'l ques-chun fer y'all… naw, I done said ques-chun, I didden say nuttin' 'bout no threats or nuttin'… ques-chun. Dontcha undahstan' Texan, son?  Lemme trah ag'in. Ques… Chun. Fer cryin' out loud!  Y'all be hailin' from Greatah Palookaville or whut?  Naw, I ain't gettin' personal or nuttin'. Anyhows, y'all know mah name, yuh?  I be guessin' y'all got a name too. Haw?  How'd'ya spell that, son?  S-E-P-A-N-C-H-E-K?  Aw, like Nemechek. Haw?  No, them Nemecheks be a fam'ly o' Nascah-r drivahs an' all. Joe started racin' in them early- haw?  Y'all ain't got no clue whut I be tawkin' 'bout?  Snakes Alive, whaddindahell iz this he' wohhhhh-rld comin' ta…"

Mandy shook her head while letting out a muted chuckle. She held up her hand and waved her fingers to show Wynne she better take over before the Special Agent at the other end would hang up. Once she was given the telephone, she cleared her throat to prepare for her big damsel-in-distress act: "Hello?  Hello?!  Please!  Please help us!" she said in a voice that she made as panicky as possible without sounding like a parody. "The criminal has a gun!  Yes!  How should I know which one?!  It's big and ugly and can kill me!"

Wynne's eyebrows went up, then down, then up all over again at not only Mandy's description of the supposed gun, but at the extraordinary tones that were a world away from her usual calm and measured approach.

Hayley, Bertram and Kenny all mirrored Wynne's reaction before they shot each other wide-eyed, confused looks.

"No, we're not all right!" Mandy continued at the same fever pitch. "We're cold, we're frightened and we haven't had anything to eat or drink the entire day!  No!  Every time we think we'll be released, the criminal gets an ugly, ugly, hard, violent look in her eyes and we're all deathly afraid she's gonna kill us!"

"Haw," Wynne mumbled under her breath, "this is mo' excitin' than any o' them there crihhhh-me shows on teevee, I be tellin' ya…" - Hayley and Kenny both nodded at the comments.

Mandy narrowed her eyes as she listened to the Special Agent. She shook her head again, clearly not impressed by what she heard. After selecting the Mute feature on Wynne's smartphone to stop her voice from being heard at the other end, she said: "We need to light a fire under their behinds. A little crying and yelling will go a long way. Okay?"

The three Tobins all looked at each other again before they broke out in identical grins.

Mandy nodded and pressed the Mute button to re-establish voice contact. Taking a deep breath, she howled into the telephone: "Oh no!  The criminal's out of control!  Please, please, please save us!"

With the charade now in full effect, Mandy pointed at the others around the gaming table to provide their cue. A chorus of cries, shouts and unintelligible roars strong enough to stir even the deadest of the undead soon blasted across the table and into the telephone. Mandy terminated the call right in the middle of the furious fit of frantic fright.

"Mercy Sakes, if that ain't gonn' light their fi'ah, ain't nuttin' will!" Wynne said and slapped her thighs in glee.

"Let's hope so," Mandy said and put the smartphone back on the gaming table.

Everyone was too excited to carry on with the board game, so Hayley pushed her chair back. "Well, since we haven't had anything to eat or drink all day, I better make us another pot of coffee. And maybe a few afternoon treats?"

"A li'l sweet thang sure sounds mighty fine ta me!" Wynne said before she drained her cup of the last half-swig of lukewarm coffee. "Y'all need-a hand in that there kitchen, Hayley?"

Hayley poked her head back into the living room. "I could, yes… now you mention it."

"You betcha!  I be right out an' all," Wynne said and pushed her chair back.

Kenny soon left as well since the fun and games were literally over. Taking Goldie's leash, he led the the Golden Retriever - shell-shocked from all the frantic howling - outside for another little exploration of the area.

Bertram observed Mandy closely as she got up from the gaming table and moved over to the window that offered a view of a wide stretch of the desert landscape. "That performance was fascinating to listen to, Sheriff. May I ask where you have learned do to that?"

Turning around, Mandy leaned her rear against the windowsill so she could maintain eye-contact with their host. "A great deal came from the Hostage Negotiation classes that were compulsory back at the Police Academy. The cadets alternated between playing criminals, negotiators and hostages so we could experience all aspects of such a case. Some I picked up on the mean streets of San Cristobal when I pounded the beat in the early part of my career."

"I see… what do you think is going to happen now?"

"Well," Mandy said and briefly looked out of the window once more before she moved back to the gaming table. "If they follow their standard procedures… and they will, I guarantee it… we'll hear from the negotiators again in a little while. Their sole job is to keep the criminal occupied so the strike team can move in unhindered."

"Oh… so there is a strike team?"

"Yes, they're out in the desert getting ready as we speak. They've probably been there for several hours already."

Bertram fell silent and seemed to ponder something important. "Sheriff, it won't come to one of those large-scale house raids, will it?  I'm going to be very angry if it does… I'll never be able to calm my father down afterwards."

"It won't, Mr. Tobin. You have my word," Mandy said and leaned forward on her chair. "Wynne and I won't be here for much longer. We're following our own plan. After we've had the coffee, I want you to call the FBI hotline in Goldsboro and tell them the criminal has escaped into the desert and that I'm still being held hostage."

"I see… I think. Can you just improvise in the middle of an exercise?"

"It'll certainly make it more realistic," Mandy said with a sly grin playing on her lips. "We have a trick or two up our sleeves. It'll be interesting to see how it all pans out. Not to mention how they'll react. Yes. It'll be very, very interesting…"

*
*
CHAPTER 9 - ENDGAME

Hamilton Lydecker's voice made the tiny speaker in Beatrice Reilly's headset come to life with a: 'Command Center to Forward Team, Command Center to Forward Team. Come in, Forward Team. Urgent.'

Grunting, Beatrice pulled the camouflaged tarp back over her head so she could operate the transceiver unit without causing too much movement in the middle of the tranquil desert. "Forward Team leader receiving," she said before she let go of the transmit button.

'The hostage negotiator has been in contact with the fugitive. Though the communication was… ah… a little unorthodox, it seems no demands were made at this time. It makes bargaining for the hostages' safety a difficult task. We also heard from the sheriff who seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown.'

Hearing the surprising news made Beatrice furrow her brow. She lifted the edge of the camouflaged tarp to have a look-see at their immediate surroundings and the primary target. Unable to see anything untoward, the tarp was soon lowered once more.

'In any case, we need to be able to act swiftly to resolve this in an efficient manner. Report in all activity you see at the primary target. Over.'

"Ten-Roger, Command Center."

'What's your present position?'

"We're one-five-zero yards from the primary target. We are monitoring the front door and the fugitive's vehicle. Do you wish us to move further ahead, over?"

'That's a negatory, Forward Team. Remain at your present location until further notice. Command Center out.'

Grunting, Beatrice switched the transceiver to Reception Only. "Did you hear that, Diego?" she said in a voice that was still measured but that had gained a certain undertone of mounting adrenaline.

'Loud and clear,' the other lump of sand said. The lower hem of the camouflaged tarp moved up to allow room for the shielded telescope. It made a few sweeping passes of the Tobin residence before it was withdrawn once more. 'No activity at or near the primary target. The window on the upper floor is still open.'

"Ten-Roger," Beatrice said and pulled up her own tarp to get an eyeball's impression of the area ahead of them. When she couldn't see much beyond the obvious, she lowered the tarp and settled down once more.

-*-*-*-

150 yards away from the Forward Team's position, the mood in the living room of the Tobin family couldn't be merrier now the hostage situation was about to be resolved. Kenny and Goldie had returned from their little walk, and the occasionally surly teenager seemed genuinely happy for a change as he knelt next to the Golden Retriever and dished out some much-appreciated fur-rubbing love.

Wynne and Hayley had relocated to the couch while Mandy and Bertram stood by the window - the sheriff had borrowed a pair of binoculars that she used to sweep the section of the desert that she could see from that vantage point.

"Haw!" Wynne said around a mouthful of black coffee and a large bite of a marzipan treat. Once she had swallowed the delightful combination, she wiped her lips on a napkin and broke out in a wide grin. "This sure is some dog-gone fine coah-ffee, Hayley!  An' these he' li'l wotcha-ma-call'ems sure is fine as well."

"Petit fours."

"Whah, bless ya."

Hayley grinned and reached over to put a hand on Wynne's elbow. "Thank you. No, that's their name. Petit fours. They're like profiteroles or eclairs except they're made of marzipan."

"Aw… okeh. I done knew a Claire back hoah-me in Shallah Pond but I ain't too sure whut she gotta do with this he' deal… an' I sure ain't got no clue what them profittah-rollahs is, neithah. I deffa-nete-ly take yer word for it 'cos they sure be yummy, yes Ma'am," Wynne said and quickly reached for the next treat - seven of which were lined up on a colorful melamine tray on the table.

Over by the window, Mandy let out a grunt and halted the continuous movement of the binoculars. Swinging a little to the left, she zoomed in on two lumps of sand that seemed to be of a slightly different color compared to the dunes, sparse vegetation and piles of rocks closest to them. She eyed the lumps for a few seconds before she grunted again. "Yes… I see them. They're not moving yet, but I'll bet it won't be long before they'll get the order to proceed. Mr. Tobin, it's time to call the FBI hotline."

"They?  Who's 'they'?" Bertram said as he tried to look into the desert unassisted.

"Our very own two-person desert strike team," Mandy continued as she handed back the binoculars.

Bertram put them to his eyes at once to see for himself, but he was still unable to pick up anything out of the ordinary. "Well… there's nothing out there that I can see. Are you still improvising, Sheriff?"

"No, they're there. Roughly one-hundred and fifty yards out. Two lumps of sand that appear a little darker than their surroundings. That'll be Deputy Beatrice Reilly and our neighbor Diego Benitez."

"Diego?" Bertram said without lowering the binoculars. "I know Diego… I know he's a hunter, but he's a big fellow. No way he can hide like that without- whoa!  Whoa, I got 'em!  I got 'em… goodness gracious!  Hayley, come quick, you need to see this-"

Mandy shook her head at once. "I'm afraid you need to call the FBI first, Mr. Tobin. Timing is everything now."

"Okay… I understand," Bertram said and put the binoculars on the windowsill before he hurried over to their DECT handset. He picked up the note Mandy had made for him with the telephone number and the brief message he needed to deliver.

Wynne gulped down the last of her fine coffee and shot up from the couch. She quickly threw her arms down the sleeves of her lined winter jacket and plonked her beloved cowboy hat onto her dark locks. "It sure has been an a-may-zin' day, Hayley. Wondahful food an' fa-bew-luss comp'ny. Me an' Sheriff Mandy sure do thank all y'all fer yer hospah-tality an' ev'rythin'. I reckon we gotta go out an' do a li'l runnin' from da law now."

"You're welcome, Wynne," Hayley said with a smile. "Why don't you take a petit fours for the road?"

"Haw, much obliged!" Wynne said and promptly reached for the next marzipan treat - she picked one that had a whole hazelnut pressed into it. "Bah-bah, K.T. See ya up at Moira's some day, yuh?  Okeh, Goldie, les'go!"

Mandy nodded at Bertram who punched in the telephone number at once. It only took a few seconds before the connection was made. Once it was his turn to speak, he followed the script that Mandy had prepared for him: "Hello!  Hello, this is Bert Tobin!  We're free!  The criminal has escaped into the desert- yes!  Yes, I've freed my family, yes… no, none of us are injured. The sheriff is still held hostage- that's right. Maybe three minutes ago… they took off in the criminal's truck. They went west, into the desert." - As he spoke, he glanced at Mandy who gave him a thumbs-up in return.

"We need to move quickly, Wynne," Mandy said and put a hand on the small of her partner's back to usher her out to the main entrance.

"Yeee-hawww!  I reckon we need-a pull them belts tight one mo' time!" Wynne said as Kenny handed her Goldie's leash. "Boogity-boogity-boogity, we be racin'!  Foot ta da flo'ah, ain't no turnin' back now!  We be goin', goin', gohhh-ne… an' bah-bah, y'all!"

-*-*-*-

Out in the desert, the shielded telescope poked out from underneath the second of the lumps of camouflaged tarp. 'Positive ID on the fugitive. Positive ID on hostage number one. It's Sheriff Jalinski. No further hostages sighted… well, except for Goldie and I'm not too sure about her status!' Diego said and broke out in a chuckle.

Beatrice held open her own tarp to look at the scene with the naked eye. Although she was able to recognize movement up ahead, it was a bit too far out to be more than stick figures. "I think we'll forget her for the moment," she said with a smile.

She was already reaching for the switch on the transceiver to inform Command Center about the latest developments when Lydecker beat her to it:

'Command Center to Forward Team. Command Center to Forward Team. Urgent!'

"Forward Team leader receiving, over."

'The fugitive has left the house. The hostages have been freed except for the Sheriff. The fugitive will most likely use her as a bargaining chip or a human shield-'

Underneath the other tarp, Diego let out a chuckle. 'Definitely a human shield… yeah, I'm pretty sure there'll be plenty of spooning goin' on tonight!'

"Diego!  Please show some respect," Beatrice said while Lydecker continued speaking over the radio in the background.

' 'Scuse me?  I know Wynne and the Sheriff better than you do, Bea. We always talk openly about everything. Oh, never mind that now. They're in the truck and on the move… they'll come by here before long. Ask the Feds what we should do.'

Beatrice let out a few grumbles before she pressed the transmit key. "Command Center, this is the Forward Team leader. Urgent. We confirm the fugitive and the remaining hostage have entered the getaway vehicle. They are moving toward us at low speed. How should we proceed, over?"

'Forward Team, you are to undertake no further action. Do you copy?  You are hereby ordered to stand down. The primary target is now the getaway vehicle. The Airborne Assault Unit will assume operational duties. Remain in position as a tactical reserve in case the fugitive attempts an escape back to the house. Command Center out.'

A disbelieving thousand-mile stare shone in Beatrice's eyes for a long moment before she thumped a fist into the sand and let out a "Dammit!  I can't believe it. After all that work, their team gets the credit. And the Sheriff and Miss Donohue will literally drive straight past us!"

Since the forward reconnaissance team was no longer needed in the overall scheme of things, Diego swept the camouflaged tarp aside so he could get some fresh air for the first time in hours. He wore his regular sandy hunting fatigues and a floppy sun hat that was even larger than the one worn by the Deputy Sheriff next to him. The expensive digital scope that was usually installed atop his thirty-aught-six hunting rifle was soon inserted into a foam-lined cylinder and swung over his shoulder next to his ex-US Marine Corps backpack.

Diagonal stripes had been painted onto his face to obscure his features, but his medium-brown, rural Mexican complexion required a different set of shading to the lily-white Beatrice. Regardless of his coloring, every square inch of exposed skin glistened with sweat. "Yeah, well… it was bound to happen," he said as he reached for a water canteen that had been wrapped in sandy cloth to stop it from glinting in the sun. "Anyway. It's been kinda fun, actually. Good practice. I think I'll come up here again sometime."

Beatrice swept her own tarp aside as well. Moving up to sit on her thighs, she shielded her eyes with her hands so she could keep track of the matte-black Silverado that crept across the uneven terrain. It drove at modest speed so the ride wouldn't be a rough one for the passengers as it dipped into the natural hollows and drove over the piles of rocks.

Unlike Diego and the sheriff who were both unarmed, she had brought her service firearm that sat in a special holster around her waist. She studied the black truck as it came ever closer to their position - the intense look in her eyes proved that something was about to happen. "Mr. Benitez," she said as she jumped to her feet, "our solemn duty is to stop crime and criminals whenever and wherever we face them. I'll apprehend the fugitive myself."

"Be my guest," Diego said and let out a laugh. He remained exactly where he was, already looking forward to the T-bone steak, Ranchero sauce and baked potatoes that Wynne had promised him for joining the operation.

Beatrice drew her firearm and stormed ahead. She kept the pistol in the proper stance for running until she was within fifteen feet of the getaway vehicle.

"Halt!  Step out of the vehicle!  Hands where I can see 'em!" she roared at the top of her lungs. When the dangerous fugitive behind the wheel didn't comply with any of the requests, Beatrice turned away and fired two rounds into the air to demonstrate that she meant business.

---

"Holy shittt!" Wynne cried as she peeked through the steering wheel after ducking her head in an almighty hurry. "I reckon ol' Quick Draw is insistin' that we pull ovah, Sheriff!  Mercy Sakes, I bettah do whut she done says or she gonn' blast mah tires next!"

Coming to a halt, she turned off the engine and simply stared out at the Deputy Sheriff who still brandished her firearm.

In the back, Goldie let out the longest-lasting doggy-whimper ever recorded. To protect her from the inevitable jolting, she wore a canine safety harness that had been clicked into the regular buckles for the seat belts. She had been just fine over the rough terrain, but now that the Humans had finally gone mad, all she wanted and needed was to dive down in the footwell and curl herself up into a golden furball.

To Wynne's right, the semi-amused look on Mandy's face offered a hint that Beatrice's actions hadn't come as a bolt from the blue for her. "We better do what she says. Oh, and Wynne?" she said as she reached for the lever that would open the passenger-side door.

"Yuh, darlin'?"

"Don't be surprised by anything I say or do. All right?"

"Haw… yuh, okeh. I reckon. Lawwwwwwwwr-die, this he' is gettin' ta be one o' them there weird, weird Goldsborah deals all offa sudden," Wynne said as she opened the door and hopped onto the desert floor - her hands remained pointing skyward as instructed.

"Up against the truck. Hands behind your head. Spread your legs," Beatrice said as she moved behind Wynne. Once the 'fugitive' leaned against the front fender, she was given a thorough, and ultimately fruitless, pat-down to search for weapons of any kind. "All right. Right arm behind your back. Left arm behind your back," Beatrice continued as she reached into a pouch on her belt that contained her regular handcuffs.

Once the cuffs were in place and clicked shut around Wynne's wrists - though at the loosest setting possible - Beatrice took a step back to concentrate on the hostage who had remained on the far side of the truck. "Miss?  Miss, are you all right?"

"Yes… thank you!  Thank you so much!  You- you saved my life!" Mandy said, employing the same panicky tone of voice she had used during the telephone conversation earlier. It soon became obvious she couldn't contain her emotions now she was 'free,' so she ran around the rear of the black truck with the clear intent of sweeping Beatrice into a hug.

The moment Beatrice understood what was about to happen, she took a hasty step to the left. "Miss… Miss, I need you to remain at a safe dist- Miss, please do what I tell you-"

The words had no effect on the sobbing, liberated hostage who continued to run with her arms stretched out ahead of her. When they were a mere three feet apart, the look of teary-eyed relief disappeared from Mandy's face in an instant. In its stead, a cold, hard-edged mask fell over her features. Reaching behind her, she pretended to draw a concealed firearm that she promptly held to Beatrice's throat - that the supposed weapon was in fact a pair of slender and well-manicured fingers did not lessen the look of shock that swept over the deputy's features like a tidal wave.

"Whaddinda-wohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-rld y'all be doin', darlin'?!" Wynne cried.

"She tried to take you away from me!  But no!  I won't let anyone take you away from me!  You promised we're gonna start a new life together on the Pacific coast where we can live wild and free!" Mandy said in a screechy voice that came straight from the kind of movies that would usually play at 1 AM on the much-maligned Shlock Channel.

She turned back to the mortified Beatrice and stared at her with near-deranged eyes. "I'll kill you if you don't release the cuffs!  Don't test me!  Get in the back next to our killer hound!  You're our new hostage!" As she spoke, she took the service firearm from Beatrice's holster and threw it a few yards into the desert.

Beatrice was far too stunned to speak - all she could do was to stare at Mandy with eyes that were as wide as saucers and cheeks that were redder than canned tomato soup. Breathing hard, she fumbled with the small key but eventually managed to unlock the handcuffs.

Once Wynne had been liberated, she spun around, rubbed her wrists and stared at the other women present as if she had a teeny-tiny problem comprehending what was going on. "Lawrdie, this ain't jus' weird, this is bizarroh world, I be tellin' y'all… upside-down an' inside-out. Dag-nabbit, I need a beer," she mumbled under her breath.

With the dangerous fugitive once more free to pursue her escape while holding a brand new hostage, the simulation had run its course. "Deputy Reilly," Mandy said as she went over to retrieve the firearm she had thrown away earlier, "if I may offer you a small suggestion… never assume anything about the hostages until you have absolute insight into their psyche. Their allegiance may have shifted and they may not be what they appear to be."

Beatrice nodded as she inserted the pistol in its holster. "The Stockholm Syndrome."

"Exactly."

Wynne's eyes darted from Mandy to Beatrice and back again several times while she gave her scalp an extra-extra-extra thorough rub-and-scratch. Once that had been accomplished, she shrugged and shunted all the bizarre goings-on she had just witnessed onto a sidetrack somewhere at the back of her mind. "Darlin', I almost done needed a clean pair o' undahshorts there… holy smokes, that wus jus' un-bah-lievable."

"Thank you," Mandy said and wrapped an arm around Wynne's denim-clad waist.

Everything about Beatrice's body language told a tale of a mortally wounded ego. She leaned against the Silverado's fender with a distant, somber look in her eyes and her arms crossed over her chest. Her pinched lips appeared as narrow reefs in a sea of scarlet that, in spite of the camouflage paint, covered her face from her ears to the tip of her nose.

"Deputy Reilly," Mandy continued, "were you told to intercept the fugitive?"

"No, Ma'am. I was told to stand down and await the FBI Airborne Assault Unit," Beatrice said in a strangled voice.

"And yet you chose to ignore the orders from the Command Center. You chose to charge ahead on your own, thereby falling into a trap that could have proven fatal."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Mandy nodded. "Deputy, I'll give you the day off tomorrow to work through this. I presume you'll need to have a word with SAC Lydecker as well. After that, I want a detailed report on my desk with everything you and Mr. Benitez accomplished leading up to the potentially fatal decision. All right?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Haw," Wynne said, "speakin' o' ou'ah buddy… wheredahell ol' Diego at?  Wussen he saposed ta be wi'cha, Quick Draw?"

When a male voice said "Oh, I'm right here," not twenty feet from Wynne's spot near the Silverado, she let out a squeal and literally threw herself up onto the matte-black hood.

"Hooooooooly shittt!" she cried as she stared wide-eyed at the stretch of desert that seemed to come alive before her eyes. "Whaddinda-wohhhhhhhhh-rld?!  Where y'all come from?!"

"I've been here the whole time, Wynne," Diego said and cast off the camouflaged tarp once he was on his feet. Chuckling, he rolled it up neatly and strapped it onto the side of his backpack. "Hiya, Sheriff. That was a very convincing act you pulled there. I'm impressed."

"Thank you, Mr. Benitez," Mandy said with a grin. "Do you need a ride back to your truck?"

"Nah. It's only a mile and a half that-away," Diego said and waved his hand in the general direction of south. "I'll probably be home before you guys are. Bea, working with you was definitely interesting. Wynne… a T-bone and baked potatoes, remember?  And don't forget the Ranchero sauce. I'm holding you to it!"

Wynne let out a sigh of relief and pushed herself off the Silverado's hood. "Yuh… yuh, I ain't fergettin' nuttin'. Y'all don't hafta worry none, friend. I'mma-gonn' make 'em mahself," she said, checking the paint job for self-inflicted scratches through the rivets on her jeans.

"Good. See ya," Diego said before he set off on the cross-desert hike to get back to his truck.

The mini-speaker in Beatrice's ear suddenly let out a squawk and a whistle. Only a few seconds went by before Special Agent-In-Charge Hamilton Lydecker's voice could be heard saying: 'Command Center to Forward Team. Command Center to Forward Team. Why haven't you reported in lately?  Is there a problem?'

Beatrice reached for the switch on the transceiver but stopped the motion before she could make any kind of reply. "I don't know what to say to him… much less how to say it," she said and broke out in a one-shouldered shrug.

'Command Center to Forward Team. Command Center to Forward Team. Do you copy?'

Mandy let out a grunt before she moved over to the Deputy Sheriff to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Just ignore him for now. He'll know soon enough. Wynne, let's move out. I'm guessing it won't be long before we'll have visitors drop in on us."

"Yes Ma'am, Sheriff Mandy, Ma'am!  We sure know a thing or seven'een 'bout visitahs droppin' in on us," Wynne said and jogged around to the driver's side door. "De-per-ty Quick Draw, we got some coo' watah he' in da truck fer y'all if ya need any."

"Thank you, Miss Donohue. I think I need to drown my disappointment," Beatrice said in a depressed monotone as she walked over to the truck and climbed up into the crew cab. After making herself comfortable next to a thoroughly confused Goldie - a.k.a. 'The Killer Hound' - she removed the headset and the earpiece. She shot the electronic equipment a long, dejected look before she reached for the bottle of water that Mandy had put in the central cup holder.

"All y'all reddy back there?  Yuh?  Whah, I reckon we be goin', then," Wynne said and took off in the four-wheel drive mode to be able to clear the various obstacles and challenges presented to them by the unforgiving desert.

-*-*-*-

Wynne tapped her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel as she glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard - it and her telephone both read ten past two. "Shoot, if we gonn' be drivin' round in circles fer much longah, we gonn' be wearin' a hole in this he' desuhrt… we been doin' this fer, haw, twentah minnits now!  Okeh, eighteen, but close enuff. Whaddahell's keepin' 'em?"

The matte-black truck never went faster than eight to ten miles per hour so the uneven terrain wouldn't mess up anyone's sensitive stomach and create surges of the unwanted kind. The odd bump-and-jerk was inevitable considering the nature of the desert, but Wynne had the vehicle under full control at all times. It helped that she stayed away from the worst hollows and piles of rocks as the truck was only fitted with regular street tires rather than proper off-road equipment.

Beatrice hadn't said more than four words - a "Yes, Ma'am," and a "No, Ma'am," - since they had driven away from the spot where she had been tricked, but at least she had lost most of the deep scarlet that had tainted her face.

Goldie had done her best to ease the mortified Beatrice's mood by poking a paw through the safety harness and placing it on the moribund woman's leg. Her actions had worked for the most part, and a few happy yaps hadn't hurt, either.

Wynne's fingers were put through even more tapping on the steering wheel. "I mean, this he' be a black truck ag'inst that there sandy desuhrt, yuh?  Them folks up in that there Space Sta-shun can spot us jus' peekin' down at the right time. Lawrdie, it sure be gettin' a li'l borin' an' all. Y'all see anythin' on that there map o' yers, darlin'?"

A recent map of the desert had been spread out over Mandy's lap so she could see where they needed to go. Now and then, she held up a compass to make sure they were still heading south toward Goldsboro and not veering off course toward the deep ravines out at Oswald Creek further west. "Yes," she said and stored the compass in a pocket. She let the tension build for a few seconds before she went for the punch line: "Desert. And plenty of it."

"Ya don't say!  Good flip almighty… whah, that be ah-may-zin'!"

Mandy looked at the map and the compass once more. "We're just wasting time here. Head straight south, Wynne. Make a slow turn right. I'll let you know when to steer straight."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

"Keep going… keep going… keep going… okay. Straight ahead now. We're driving due south."

"Hawt-diggity-dang, darlin'!  We sure be havin' fuhhhh-n taday, ain't we?" Wynne said and broke out in a cheesy laugh.

---

The musical accompaniment was in the safe hands of Jamie 'Rex' Maguire with his easy-going Country hit Headin' For The Horizon from the early 2000s. Wynne hummed along to it, but her humming was interrupted by the speaker in Beatrice's earpiece coming to life again.

Soon, Lydecker's voice could be heard repeating the same call he had tried three times already: 'Command Center to Forward Team. Command Center to Forward Team. Do you copy?'

Mandy twisted around in the seat and put out her hand. "Give me the headset, Deputy. There's no need to cause any concern among our colleagues. That might be why they haven't deployed the AAU team yet."

"Here you go, Ma'am," Beatrice said as she took the transceiver and its battery pack out of her pocket and handed the whole set to the sheriff.

"Thank you. How do I operate it?"

"By flipping the switch from Reception Only to Reception And Transmission, Ma'am. Then press the button when you're ready to speak."

Wynne couldn't help herself and chimed in with a: "Lawwwwr-die… can it get any mo' dif'cult?  Shoot… now y'all need a coll-itch degree ta speak inta a dag-nabbin' ray-dee-ohh…"

Holding out the headset so Beatrice could listen in on the conversation, Mandy briefly furrowed her brow as she went through a couple of different scenarios - ultimately, she decided against continuing the charade that had started when she had first spoken to the hostage negotiator. "Command Center, this is Forward Team. We copy. This is Sheriff Jalinski speaking for Deputy Reilly. Over."

'Has anything happened to the Deputy, over?'

"That's a negatory, Command Center. She's here with me. Or with us, to be exact. The final person here is Wynne Donohue who, while in character as the armed and dangerous fugitive, employed a cunning plan to capture the Deputy and hold her hostage. Over."

Several seconds went by before Lydecker said: 'She what?!'

"I'm quite sure you heard me the first time, SAC. And one more thing. We're driving through the desert in the truck that was previously designated the primary target, i.e. the fugitive's supposed, and now actual, getaway vehicle. May I ask why we haven't seen a glimpse of the Airborne Assault Unit yet?  Over."

Another long delay made Mandy look at the transceiver unit to check if the frequency had wandered. There were no knobs or dials to adjust anywhere, so she gave up trying and simply waited for Lydecker to reply.

'You haven't seen it because the helicopter hasn't taken off yet. When we lost contact with the Forward Team, we lost our eyes in the field-'

Beatrice thumped a fist onto the back seat - it spooked Goldie who promptly let out a whimper. Mandy had only just time to flick the switch to Reception Only before the irate Deputy said: "We were ordered to stand down because the AAU would take over the operation!  That's why I went for that hopeless plan in the first place!"

"Haw!  Izzat a fact?" Wynne said. "Yuh, I sure woudden put it past them suits ta say one thing while doin' the exact, dang-blasted opposite. Whah, that sure does remind me of a weird thing a buncha years ago out at Thundah Park fer tha Summer runnin' o' the… shoot, I plum fergot who done sponsah'd that event… but anyhows, the eighteen cah-r done som'tin naughty on da track so it got the black flag, yuh?  But the po'ah fella on the flagstand kinda held the board upside down so it done looked like it wus the eighty-one cah-r that done got slapped with that there penalty, yuh?  An' the wrong, dang cah-r went into da pits as the result. Lawwwwr-die, that wus a mess, that. Haw, they hadda throw the yella fer, like, ten laps while them oh-fi-shuals trah'd sortin' out da mess."

"That's not at all comparable to the present situation, Miss Donohue," Beatrice said in a surly tone.

"It ain't?  Okeh, I done mistook som'tin, then."

Mandy reached over to put a hand on Wynne's shoulder that told The Last Original Cowpoke to be quiet without actually saying the words out loud.

"SAC," she said into the radio after flicking the switch back to Reception And Transmission, "Deputy Reilly says the timing of the events wasn't quite what you have just described. In any case, I declare this exercise over for our part. We are proceeding south toward Goldsboro. If your airborne unit wishes to practice their interception skills, may I suggest you take off within the next few minutes?  Or else we'll miss each other. Sheriff Jalinski out."

'Sheriff, I protest!  You cannot simply declare this exercise over!  There are multiple units from the FBI and State Police involved in it, not to mention months of meticulous planning!  Therefore, I must insist that you pull over at once and await the deployment of the airborne unit so that part of the exercise can be completed. Over!'

"Ten-Roger, Command Center. It seems I need to remind you that life never, ever follows the plans that have been laid out, regardless of how meticulous they are. An experienced FBI SAC ought to know that. We'll adhere to your request, even if I didn't hear a 'please' anywhere in that statement. Sheriff Jalinski out."

A huge guffaw burst out of Wynne as Mandy removed the batteries to make sure SAC Lydecker couldn't contact them again. "Here, Deputy," she said as she handed back the headset and the transceiver.

"And I thought I was the only one in hot water," Beatrice said in a mumble. She stared at the electronic equipment for a moment before she stuffed it all into her jacket pocket for later.

---

A short ten minutes and two further tunes into the afternoon - Chas Radcliffe's Blood On The Floor and Dangerous Curves by the legendary Earl 'Mack' Driscoll - Wynne caught the first glimpse of a large, black thing approaching the Silverado from the south at an altitude of no more than two-hundred feet. "Haw! Wouldya lookie there… a big, ol' choppah approachin' from da south. Haw… that is one o' them there choppahs, ain't it?  Or… naw. Izza choppah, awright. One o' them there new ones that done look like that there good, ol' Airwolf from that there awesome 'eighties teevee show."

"It took them long enough. We've almost reached Goldsboro," Mandy said as she leaned across Wynne's lap to see the black dot in the middle distance.

In the back Goldie let out a series of whimpers and began to struggle against her safety harness. The whimpers grew so loud that Mandy turned around in the seat to say: "Deputy, please unbuckle her harness. There's no danger now. Keeping her in it would be cruel."

"Yes, Ma'am," Beatrice said and reached down onto the seat to find the central buckle that would release the contraption. The split second Goldie had been liberated, she jumped free of her restraints - but instead of diving into the footwell like she usually would, she hurried across the seat and into the arms of the deputy next to her.

Beatrice let out an "Oooof!" as she was suddenly overwhelmed by a yapping tornado. Her floppy sun hat was knocked off by the flurry of golden fur, paws and a flailing tail that went everywhere, but she didn't seem to mind. A few moments of one-sided doggy-loving later, laughter bubbled up from the glum deputy and she was soon busy reciprocating the affections.

"Awwwww!" Wynne said, watching in the rear-view mirror at the events unfolding behind her. "Lawrdie, Quick Draw… I reckon y'all got a new friend, there!"

Outside, the black helicopter had finally acquired its target. Hovering at an altitude of sixty feet or so, the rotors kicked up such an enormous storm of dust and sand that everyone's view was severely limited at best and in some cases even fully obscured.

Eight rappelling ropes were lowered from the helicopter, quickly followed by the members of the FBI Airborne Assault Unit whose black combat uniforms, Kevlar vests and helmets, face-covering balaclavas, bubble-goggles and Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns posed an impressive and frightening sight. The eight men soon fanned out into a shell-like pattern before they moved toward their primary target.

That Wynne had taken full advantage of the dust storm to back up thirty yards led to much confusion among the AAU and a great deal of chuckling inside the Silverado.

Regrouping at once, the FBI unit soon surrounded their primary target and instructed everyone to surrender and vacate the vehicle. The black helicopter touched down a short distance away while the front-line operation was still taking place.

Once the worst danger had been defused and the worst of the dust storm had settled, Special Agent-in-Charge Hamilton Lydecker climbed down from the cockpit and hurried over to the scene. He wore a pale-gray business suit and a dark-gray coat that both looked weirdly out of place next to his men's combat fatigues - not to mention the two MacLean County Sheriff's Department uniforms and the acres of rugged denim that covered all of The Last Original Cowpoke.

A mere six paces into his journey, the failure of his dainty indoor shoes to meet the demands of the rough, unyielding terrain nearly caused him to take a nosedive into the sand. He was spared the ignominy of a full-on belly flop, but despite flailing his arms, he went down on his hands and knees.

"Whoooooopsie!  Y'awright there, Mista Eff Bee Eye?" Wynne said and hurried over to the Special Agent who fumbled a little while restoring his equilibrium.

"I'm fine. I just need a hand," Lydecker said through a clenched jaw.

Nodding and letting out a "Ya betcha, Mista," Wynne stuck her hands under Lydecker's arms and pulled him upright with only the tiniest of stings shooting up from the tired muscles in her back. "Haw, I done dropped on mah buhhh-tt or mah noh-se plentah o' times, yessirree!  Yuh, an' it ain't nevah funny or nuttin', 'spe-shually not when y'all got an audience like them folks ovah yondah… I reckon y'all shoudda worn some boots or som'tin, Mista."

"I didn't have any boots," Lydecker said as he dusted off his pants and adjusted his coat that had been knocked askew in the fall. "Have you surrendered yet or am I now your hostage?" he continued in a surly tone.

"Naw, I sure did surrendah an' all. Yessirree!" Wynne said with a beaming grin. "I be reddy ta face da music an' get mah just punishment. Whah, I sure hope there be plentah o' beer an' chow in that there Federal Peniten-shuary o' yers."

The sublimely annoyed look on Hamilton Lydecker's face said more than a thousand words could. After a few seconds of stony silence, he spun around on his heel and stomped away from the armed and dangerous fugitive.

"Lawrdie… that fella sure be miffed at me fer some weird reason," Wynne said and scratched her neck. "Wus it som'tin I done said?  Nah. He prolly jus' didden like mah deodorant."

A moment later, she found herself all alone save for Goldie who ran around the back of the Silverado to get to her. The FBI Airborne Assault Unit formed up and shuffled back to the black helicopter after the successful completion of their mission - all seven minutes of it - and Special Agent-in-Charge Lydecker strode over to Mandy and Beatrice for a debriefing that turned heated and loud almost at once.

"Haw, mah sweet, li'l Goldie," Wynne said as she knelt on the sand to hold the Golden Retriever close and dish out plenty of fur-rubbing. "I bet ol' Blackie gonn' be envious o' y'all!"

Yap?

"Yuh, 'cos taday, y'all wus da one who got ta experience all this he' excitement!  Yuh?"

Yap… yap-yap-yap…

"Sure ain't no lie, girl!" Wynne said and stood up. She glanced over at Mandy and the others. The Sheriff kept a cool, unfazed exterior. Beatrice Reilly appeared even more flustered than before, and Hamilton Lydecker was on the brink of exploding into a thousand chunks.

"Haw, that kinda facial colah sure can't be healthy or nuttin'. C'mon, girl, once Mista Eff Bee Eye ovah yondah be done tawkin' ta Sheriff Mandy an' de-per-ty Quick Draw, we be headin' back ta town. Meet Blackie an' then we be goin' ovah ta Moira's tanight fer suppah an' mebbe a beer or two… an' plentah o' yakkin' with them friends o' ou'ahs. Yuh?"

Wynne and Goldie observed the spit-flying furious senior agent for a moment longer before both had had enough of him. "Okeh, les'get back ta da truck," she said before she whistled, patted her thigh and pointed at the Silverado to make Goldie understand where she needed to go.

-*-*-*-

The hands of time had moved around to just past five-thirty. Due to two lengthy debriefings and a sheer endless lecture by SAC Lydecker on proper procedure in the field, nearly three hours had gone by after their desert-bound adventure had marked the end of Operation Finesse & Fortitude.

Mandy and Beatrice were still being debriefed, but Wynne and the dogs had finally been allowed to leave Lydecker's office in the FBI Mobile Command Center - as always, the best way for anyone to celebrate their newfound freedom was to grab a can of beer, and the best way to do that was to visit Moira's.

Everybody Comes To Moira's. The old saying had rarely been more accurate as Wynne was nearly pushed back out onto the sidewalk by the loud cheer that greeted her when she stepped inside everyone's favorite eatery.

Barflies, patrons and her extended family of friends and acquaintances all cheered, whistled, waved and raised their mugs of ale in toasting her and her brief, but certainly flashy, career as an armed and dangerous fugitive.

"Snakes Alive!  Whaddinda-wohhhhhh-rld be goin' on he'?  Howdy, all y'all fihhhh-ne an' ca-razy folks o' Goldsborah!" Wynne cried and waved her cowboy hat high in the air. "Yuh, I reckon them suits an' poh-leese purr-sonnel done learned a lesson yestuhrdy an' taday, haw?  Goldsborah ain't no town fer nobodda ta mess with 'cos we gonn' be messin' right back!"

'Come on, Wynne… how about one on the house?' someone said from the crowd of barflies up at the counter.

"How 'bout one on da chin, son?  Ya reckon I be a millionaire or som'tin?" Wynne replied as she made a beeline for the refrigerators. A few seconds later, she grabbed a can of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero that was opened at once with the familiar Pssshhhht!

After taking a healthy swig of the first can, she moved past the video poker and video keno machines, the pool table and the square tables on her way up to the stoves. "Naw, but if all y'all ask real nice an' all, I may considah givin' away some free pork rinds."

Laughter rippled through the eatery from most of the patrons, but it seemed the more hardcore among the barflies weren't too impressed by the offer as they all turned their back on Wynne to concentrate on their latest glasses of beer.

"Hoah-me, sweet hoah-me," Wynne said as she slipped behind the bar counter and began to gather up the spices, the sour cream and all the other items she needed to make the feast she had promised Diego Benitez.

---

"Okeh," Wynne said into her telephone twenty minutes later, "so y'all be on yer way an' all?  Fifteen minnits, okeh. I'mma-gonn' slap that there Tee-bone onta that there fryin' pan. Yuh. Haw, lissen… y'all want them baked patahtahs nuked or on da fryin' pan?  Tha difference?  They be drah-baked in da nuke an' swimmin' in cooking marga-reehne on da fryin' pan. Yuh, whut I done reckoned, buddy. Fryin' pan."

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the front door opening and then closing. Her sixth sense told her to take a closer look - it turned out to be Mandy and Beatrice which made Wynne swing the spatula high in the air to catch their attention. The Deputy had changed back into her regular uniform now the drama was over.

Mandy spotted the swinging spatula and waved at her partner before she and Beatrice moved over to one of the vacant tables.

In the middle of all that, A.J. 'Slow' Lane returned from the storage room carrying a bowl that contained three large potatoes. "Do you want me to take care of the steak or the spuds, Wynne?" he said as he rinsed his hands under the hot faucet.

"Them patahtahs, if y'all don't mind. Diegoh wants 'em swimmin' in spices an' cooking marga-reehne on da pan. Don't ferget ta slice 'em open so we can put that there garlic buttah an' pickled halla-peños in 'em."

"Will do," A.J. said and went to work at once.

Once the T-bone steak was going well on the other frying pan, Wynne rinsed and wiped her hands before she shuffled down to the table where Mandy and Beatrice sat - she had to say a few Howdys along the way to various people so it took her longer to get there than expected.

"Haw, dontcha be wearin' no frown, there, Quick Draw," she said when she arrived. "Y'all thunk ya wus doin' tha right thing. An' y'all wus!  Only trubbel wus tha right thing turned out ta be tha wrong thing. Yuh?  Been dere, done dat. Mo' than once. Mo' than twice!  Hell, it coudda been much, much woh-rse, yuh?  This bein' Goldsborah an' all. It can always get woh-rse…"

Beatrice shrugged. "Thank you for trying to cheer me up, Miss Donohue. It's just that… dammit, I stuffed up so badly. I didn't stop to think my actions through before I committed to them."

"Yuh, well… it wussen so bad from mah van-titch point. Anyhows. Whut can I get all y'all?"

A panicky cry of 'Wynne!  The steak!' from up at the stoves transformed The Last Original Cowpoke into an Olympian Track & Field athlete. Racing through the restaurant, she reached the frying pan just in time to turn the T-bone over with the spatula. "Hooooooly shittt… that coudda been nasty, that!  Much obliged, A.J. Dag-nabbit, Wynne Donnah-hew… less tawkin' an' mo' suppah makin'… haw!"

The barflies who sat on the row of red stools on the other side of the counter all made comments in their own inimitable fashion. Some were good-natured, some less so, and some were even on the wrong side of rude.

Once the steak had been salvaged, Wynne turned around to glare at those among the barflies who jeered the loudest. The drunken grinning proved they thought it was oh-so-funny, but the grins and laughter came to a choking end when Wynne strolled over to the draft tap and locked it so none of the golden nectar could be poured into the glasses.

Stepping back, she crossed her arms over her chest and let her eyes play a symphony in G-minor of nothing but steely and icy notes. Glaring at the barflies in turn, she issued a silent challenge to anyone to crack wise one more time - the threat worked as even the most vocal among them piped down in a hurry.

-*-*-*-

A blessed peace had finally fallen over Moira's Bar & Grill forty minutes later as the typical mad rush where everyone wanted to order at the same time had passed. Some of the customers had already left while others continued to enjoy their meals or beverages.

All the familiar faces from around town had either been there or were still present: the artist Nancy Tranh Nguyen and her weekend-boyfriend, the tow-truck driver Tucker Garfield, Donnie Cummins from Thunder Park Raceway, the veterinarian Dr. Byron Gibbs, the tenderfooted Grant 'The Grant-Master' Lafferty, Trent Lowe from the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor, the newish residents Matthew Jensen and his wife Carole - parents of the computer wizard Torsten - Brenda and Vaughn Travers, the poultry farmer Morton Fredericksen who had been in town on other business but couldn't say no to Moira's, and finally the expert mechanic Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson who chowed down no less than twelve Swedish meatballs and white potatoes.

Most of them had come by the table Wynne shared with the members of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department to slap everyone's backs or share their own tales regarding the disruptive elements who had been the latest invasion force to sweep over Goldsboro.

Mandy had the telephone to her ear thanking G.W. Tenney and his men for their work in keeping the town safe from all the disruptive elements while the operation had taken place at the Tobin residence - Brandford Ridge couldn't go on for too much longer without their own Sheriff so he and his team had had to leave, but because of the grotesquely long debriefing, Mandy had been unable to thank her old friend in person. "In any case, G.W., we all appreciate you coming over to help," she said and leaned forward. "If there's anything we can do, anything at all, just get in touch and we'll be there. All right?  Okay. Goodbye, Sheriff Tenney."

Smiling, she put the telephone on the table and reached for the menu instead even though she had just finished wolfing down a ham-and-cheese sandwich. She had a can of mineral water within easy reach, taking a sip of that while she read about all the tempting dishes Moira's Bar & Grill had to offer.

The spicy stew Wynne had made for herself - onions, beef mincemeat, a can of chopped tomatoes, sweet corn, green peas, slices of carrot and finally a handful of cooked potatoes cut into squares - had grown lukewarm by the time she had been visited by all the well-wishers, but the ample addition of chili to the tomato sauce offset the loss of temperature. The two six-packs of H.E. Fenwyck's award-winning 1910 Special Brew beer she had been given by Grant Lafferty didn't hurt, either.

"Yuh, okeh, lemme see if I done got this straight," Wynne said, waving her spoon at Beatrice. "Y'all be int'rested in buyin' or rentin' Ernie's ol' trailah, yuh?"

"That's right," Beatrice said as she pushed her salad around on the plate - her appetite still hadn't been restored after being dropkicked into a bottomless pit of despair out in the desert. "To tell you the truth, I'm growing tired of having Mrs. Peabody constantly looking over my shoulder… or asking where I've been… or why I'm home late one night compared to the night before-"

Though Wynne had scooped up a large spoonful of stew, she paused long enough to add a laconic: "Missus Bizzybodda."

"Yes… well, I'm just tired of it. But there aren't other places in town that rent out rooms. Well, that's not true. There are, but they won't allow single women to stay there. I mean… I thought we'd moved out of the nineteen-fifties!  I don't know what they're afraid of. They all know who I am and what I do, but I guess that's not enough."

"Many o' them folks he' got small-town minds. I know 'em well from back hoah-me in Shallah Pond," Wynne said before she silenced herself by stuffing the spoon into her mouth.

Beatrice nodded. "I suppose. So… when Mr. Bradberry's trailer went on the market, I felt it might be the right thing for me. Unless you're also worried about having a single woman living there?"

The beef stew kept Wynne too occupied to reply, so Mandy took over with a rare humorous comment: "No, I think we'll be all right on that account, Deputy."

"Good," Beatrice said with a smile. "By the way, isn't there a second vacant trailer as well?"

Wynne held up her hand to show that everyone needed to press the pause button until she had finished chewing - it happening sooner rather than later. "The trailah's there, awright, but it sure ain't fit fer nuttin' or nobodda," she said as she wiped some tomato sauce off her chin with a napkin. "That wus ol' man Petrusco's. He wussen able ta do nuttin' to it fer the last years he done lived there. It be in such a shitty condi-shun it gonn' hafta be removed ta be scrapped… or mebbe even torn down on site. Who knows. Well, I guess somebodda will, but it sure ain't me, no Ma'am."

"Oh… that's too bad. I'll bet that was cheaper."

Nodding, Wynne took one of the cans of 1910 out of the six-pack. It was soon opened with the traditional Psshhht! but not yet sampled. "Yuh, ain't no doubt 'bout that, but las'time I hadda look-see, that there roof there wus leakin' like a sieve right onto them there floorboards that done looked like a wacky rollahcoastah or som'tin. Up an' down an' warped he' an' warped there. Catch mah drift?  Y'all woudden bah-lieve how shitty they be. Naw. Y'all needa ferget that one."

"Okay…"

As Wynne took a long slurping swig of the beer and resumed chowing down the spicy stew, Mandy chimed in: "There's one thing you need to remember, Deputy. Much as we'd love to pave the way for you so we know a good person would move in, the trailer park isn't a collective or a commune."

"Y'all need-a lissen ta Mandy on this one, De-per-ty," Wynne said, once more using her spoon as a waving pointer - once the waving was over, it was back in the stew and scooping up another large load.

"And what I mean by that," Mandy continued, "is that the residents own the trailer they live in and that's it. Neither of us have any final say when it comes to approving or rejecting a new resident. Mr. Bradberry's trailer will be sold to the highest bidder as per the usual rules. If you're really interested-"

"I am," Beatrice said, nodding.

"Good. Then you need to contact the realtor down in Cavanaugh Creek ASAP. She'll send you the portfolio and arrange a tour of the trailer and all those typical things."

Beatrice leaned back on the chair and began tapping her fingers on the table's checkered cloth. "Do you think it's too late to do that today?  My gut tells me I need to move fast… but this time, I promise I'll give it plenty of thought first!"

"Naw," Wynne said around a mouthful of stew. She chewed extra-hard to get it down just to make sure that everyone would understand her - she needed to help it along through a swig of the 1910 Special Brew. "It ain't too late taday. Ol' Ernie done tole me that there realtah him an' the darlin' Rev'rend Berna-deene done chose don't close until nine or ten in da evenin'. Lawrdie, I sure coudden imagine workin' that late…"

Mandy and Beatrice shot each other a quick look - their shifts didn't end until 2 AM most days.

A telephone ringing deep down in someone's pocket made Wynne break out in a long groan. "Aw-shoot… that ain't mah phoah-ne. Which done means it be one o' all y'all's phoah-nes… which done means som'tin or somebodda done som'tin sh-toopid an' now y'all gonn' hafta come ovah an' sweep 'em up an' there goes ou'ah quiet night on da couch with a lotta huggin' an' even mo' kissin'!"

"It's mine," Mandy said and reached into the side pocket where she kept it - the statement earning her an even longer groan by Wynne. "It's the Senior Deputy," she continued before she accepted the call.

"What I tell ya?  Haw?  What I done tell ya?" Wynne mumbled, thrusting the spoon into the juicy, spicy stew to compensate for the unfortunate development.

Mandy assumed her game face as she dug into a breast pocket to find a pencil and her indispensable notepad. "I see," she said as she began to take notes - it only took a second before she got up and signaled Beatrice that dinner was over. "Mile marker two-six-eight. A delivery truck and an SUV. Roger that. When was this?  Very well. The Air MedEvac in Barton City needs to be- excellent. Deputy Reilly and I will leave at once. Join us once Deputy Simms has returned from his Aunt's. Oh, and tell him he can't sign off until we get back. Yes. Very well. We'll see you there."

The telephone was soon back in Mandy's pocket. She offered her partner an apologetic look and a quick kiss on the lips as compensation. "We need to go, Wynne. I'm sorry. There's been a road accident close to Thunder Park. Don't wait up for me."

"Aw, I reckon I will."

"Hon, you know how tired you get when you're not in bed by-"

"I ain't gonn' sleep worth a dog-gone when y'all not next ta me, anyhows," Wynne said and made sure to give Mandy's hands a little squeeze before she left. "Aw, no worries, darlin'. Tamorrah gonn' be anothah fihhh-ne day fit fer huggin' an' kissin'. Y'all watch yer bee-hind out dere, yuh?  You too, Quick Draw."

Donning her expensive Mountie hat, the easy-going but dedicated Mandy Jalinski was transformed into the no-nonsense, hard-edged Sheriff of Goldsboro. She and the equally hard-edged Deputy Sheriff Beatrice Reilly soon strode out of the restaurant and across the street to get to two of the gold-and-white Dodge Durangos belonging to the MacLean County Sheriff's Department - only a few seconds went by before they took off with their emergency lights flashing and the electronic sirens blaring.

Wynne let out a sigh as she leaned back on the chair. The last of her lukewarm stew was quickly taken care of before she got up and shuffled back to the counter with the empty plate.

Returning to the table, the six-pack of 1910 Special Brew beckoned. The second can was soon liberated from its plastic wrapping, and the familiar Pssshhht! heralded the arrival of liquid entertainment.

Laughter and friendly banter from the general area of the pool table made her crane her neck to see what was going on. The unlikely and thoroughly inexperienced trio of Nancy Nguyen, Goldsboro's newest business entrepreneur Keshawn Williams and the ever-bouncy Brenda Travers tried to outdo each other in the classic disciplines known as Awkward Approaches, Fumbled Shots and Undesired Results.

Vaughn Travers sat at the next table trying to make sense of the mess by assembling a statistical overview of how well - or not - the three players performed. Diego had relocated to the video poker machine adjacent to the pool table after finishing his T-bone feast, but spent more time watching the non-stop fumbling than the electronic game in front of him.

Chuckling, Wynne put on her lined jacket and her hat and got up to shuffle over to her friends and acquaintances. "Howdy, y'all!  Lissen, if all y'all need-a see how that there game really be played, lemme know, yuh?"

Blackie and Goldie had been resting down in the doggy-cave underneath the pool table, but they came out when they heard their owner's voice. A few happy yaps and a collection of easy woofing soon followed.

Wynne immediately put the six-pack and the opened can away so she could crouch down and pull the girls into a fur-rubbing double-hug.

Nancy, Keshawn and Brenda looked at each other before the latter reached into her purse. "Ten bucks says you can't beat us all, Wynne!  Are you up for the challenge of a three-on-one?" she said as she slammed a ten-spot onto the green felt. The other rookie contenders put their own money on top of their friend's bill.

"Y'all bettah bah-lieve I am, Brendah!" Wynne said with a beaming grin. Her battered, sweat-stained cowboy hat and the lined jacket were soon off and hung over the backrest of a chair - the removal of the jacket revealed a multi-colored commemorative sweatshirt celebrating the 25th anniversary of the legendary 1998 Daytona 500.

Once she had her hands free, she grabbed the opened 1910 Special Brew and took a long swig of it. Another long swig followed before the beer was gone. An "Ahhh," escaped her as she put the empty can next to the four full ones.

Diego let out a long chuckle at the expectant looks on the faces of the three inexperienced players. "I wouldn't look so smug if I were you guys… Wynne can beat you with one hand tied behind her back and the other holding a beer." When all he got out of his friendly warning was a chorus of boos and jeers, he chuckled again and concentrated on the next round of video poker.

A quality rental cue had soon been found, tested and chalked. The balls had been framed in the meantime and Wynne had the honor of making the opening shot. She eyed the playing table, how the balls had been lined up and even the looks on her competitors' faces. Controlling her breath, she thrust the cue ahead and listened to how the cue ball struck the others with a clean Crack! that sent them scattering - the game was on.

As Wynne took a step back to allow Nancy Nguyen room to play, she broke out in a cheesy grin and a "Haw, this jus' be whut li'l ol' me needed aftah that there whole buncha nuttin' these past cuppel-a days. Bea'hs, mebbe a salty snack or two an' plentah o' fuhhhh-n with mah darlin' dawggies an' mah friends. An' mebbe a li'l huggin' an' kissin' with mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandy when she-"

"It's your turn, Wynne," Brenda said after she, Nancy and Keshawn had all missed their shots.

"Haw?!  Alreddy?  Whah, much obliged, Brendah. Yuh. Okeh, lemme see whut I can do he'. She shoots…" - Crack! - "Annnnnnn'… she scores!"

Wynne grinned from ear to ear as she watched the ball scoot across the felt and drop into the pocket. "Dad-gummit, I reckon this gonn' be a mighty fihhhh-ne evenin' aftah all!  Yessirree!"

Grinning from ear to ear, Wynne lined up for her next shot - much to the vocal consternation of her opponents who suddenly realized they were about to be cleaned out by a master of the game…

*
*
THE END.

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