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MARCH: FLYING HIGH

March 23rd, at a quarter to one in the afternoon.

The relative peace and quiet of the semi-deserted Main Street in Goldsboro was soon broken by a matte-black Chevrolet Silverado that came to a screeching halt close to Moira's Bar & Grill. The only other traffic in town was a nondescript RAM truck that drove away from the curb at the exact same time, and one of the Wilburr family's field tractors pulling a load of hay up at the far end of the street near the movie theater.

After reversing into the parking space reserved for her in the alley adjacent to the Bar & Grill, Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue reached into her jeans pocket to look at her telephone for the third time in the past ten minutes.

She continued to let out a string of snickers as she looked at the pictures and the short video clip she had taken. "Haw!  If I didden have these he' pic-chures, nobodda wus gonn' bah-lieve a word o' whut I be sayin'!  Dontcha reckon, Goldie?"

The Golden Retriever needed to unfurl herself from her favorite spot down in the footwell before she could utter a Yap… yap, yap. She hadn't regained full confidence in the cruel world yet after the unsettling encounter in the desert they had just experienced, so she didn't dare go any further than resting her head on the seat on the passenger side of the black truck.

"Lawrdie," Wynne continued, "tho' it be haaah time fer lunch an' all, I ain't gonn' be able ta rest fer a second befo' I done showed these pic-chures ta mah darlin' Mandy an' them othah folks. Git along, li'l dawggie… we be goin' ovah ta that there sheriff's office dontchaknow. Blackie gonn' be there too!"

A quick Yapppp! escaped Goldie before she climbed up on the passenger side seat to show that she was ready to brave the world to meet her doggy companion.

"Yuh, I reckoned that would grab yer atten-shun an' all," Wynne said, chuckling as she opened the door and hopped out onto the alley's uneven surface. The scaredy-dog Goldie needed an elevator service in order to get down, but that was soon taken care of. A moment later, they left the alley, went across Main Street and headed for the glass door to the sheriff's office.

"Howdy, all y'all fine folks an' de-per-ties!" Wynne cried after she had thumped the sticking front door into submission. A quick glance at the office proved nothing had changed: the brown linoleum was still cracked, the watch desk was still a mess due to Barry Simms's negative influence, the maps on the walls were still 60 years out of date, and the inner door to the jail house was still rusted shut.

Wynne's surprise entry startled a slumbering Barry Simms into an entire sequence of events that began with a little oopsie but soon snowballed into a major disaster: Caught in the middle of a slight snore, he jerked upright at the sound of Wynne's cheery voice and Goldie's subsequent yap.

This caused the cigarette dangling in the corner of his mouth to drop out and fall onto his pants. Within a split second, the glowing tip burned a hole in the fabric. Once the path was clear to his skin, the embers continued to do their job by scorching his thigh.

By now, Barry yelped louder than rarely before. Jumping up from the chair, he knocked his left knee against the underside of the heavy watch desk making him crosseyed with pain. The hard knock caused choppy seas in the mug of semi-cold coffee he had forgotten all about; however, even cold coffee could create a terrible mess if let off the leash, and that's exactly what happened.

Instead of flooding the important incident report sheet, the magazine of sudoku puzzles or the Sally Swackhamer pulp paperback, the coffee mug danced in the opposite direction until it made an ungentle impact with the overfilled ashtray.

The brown liquid splashing over the rim of the mug was soon introduced to the cone of ash and spent matches in the ashtray. The marriage seemed to be one of inconvenience as the two items initiated an immediate divorce: the ash-coffee mix flooded the entire far side of the watch desk while the coffee mug continued on its own merry way and ended up falling over the edge of the desk itself.

Down below, Goldie yelped even louder than Barry did before she took off like a true scaredy-dog. Racing down to the door to the crew room at the back of the office, she thumped it open with her shoulder before she disappeared into the safe room.

"Holy shittt!" Wynne cried as she took a hasty step back to get away from the falling mug in case of further splashing. There was in fact a small amount of coffee left in it when it struck the brown linoleum, but the colors were so evenly matched it almost turned invisible. Unfortunately, the shards of the earthenware mug didn't. Two zipped one way, another two rattled along the floor, and the final one - the entire lower half - bounced once before it came down with a bang.

Barry wasn't around to see any of it as he had raced into the bathroom at the far end of the office to pour plenty of cold water onto his scorched skin.

Standing alone amid the messy - and thorough - scene of destruction, Wynne sucked on her teeth for a few moments before she shrugged and walked into the crew room to calm Goldie down and to get a few rags, a broom and a dustpan. "Say, ol' Barry… where da Sheriff at, anyhows?" she said loudly once she returned with the items.

'On patrol…' Barry replied from behind the closed door to the bathroom.

"Aw-haw… okeh. Durn. Blackie with her?"

'Yes…'

"When ya reckon they gonn' be back an' all?"

'No idea…'

"Okeh. Dubbel durn."

Shrugging, Wynne went to work cleaning up some of the mess at the watch desk. The sight of the horrible gunk in the ashtray made her grimace, and she decided on the spot that Barry needed to do his part, too. The rags she had found were laid out as flood barriers, but that was the extent of her efforts there.

It wasn't long before the civilian assistant returned to his post. He had worn a semi-nice combo of dark corduroy pants and a checkered shirt, but the towel he had wrapped around his thigh upset the look.

The constant line of moans and groans he let out grew in volume as he hobbled back to the watch desk and sat down on the hard chair. The groans soon turned to annoyed mumbling when he looked down at the errant cigarette that he had accidentally crushed with the heel of his shoe when he had evacuated his post.

Wynne smirked a great deal, but mostly kept it to herself. Once Barry was seated comfortably, she whipped out her telephone to flaunt the picture she had taken on her way to town. "Haw, Barry, y'all gotta see this he' crittah!  Y'all ain't gonn' bah-lieve yer eyes or nuttin'… when me an' Goldie wus drivin' ta Goldsborah a li'l while ago, I done saw som'tin weird in tha desuhrt. I said uh-oh out loud an' pulled ovah ta see whaddahell it might be, yuh?  'Cos ya nevah know 'round these parts, yuh?  Ya ain't nevah gonn' guess whut it wus. Check this-"

Before Barry could reach for the telephone, he broke out in a violent coughing fit that necessitated slamming his clenched fists against his chest to release the clot of mucus at the root of the problem. Before long, his complexion changed from pasty white to blood red as the coughing, hacking and spluttering increased to inhuman levels of grossness.

Wynne's smirk turned into wincing as she took several steps back so she could avoid being pelted with spittle. She still held the telephone in her hand, but she stuffed it back into her pocket now that the golden opportunity to share her excitement had been lost.

A few barks made her grin again as Blackie soon appeared at the glass door. The fierce black German Shepherd was joined by the dusty-blonde, but no less fierce, Sheriff Mandy Jalinski before long. The buff shoulder of the compact, athletic woman took care of the sticking door in no time.

"Howdy, darlin'!" Wynne cried, waving her cowboy hat in the air. "Aw, it been too long… I reckon it be a good time ta ask fer one o' them there kisses, woudden ya say?"

Once a nice smooch and a few caresses had been exchanged, Mandy cast a sideways glance at the spluttering Barry. The sideways glance continued onto the mess on the watch desk as she took off her Mountie hat and her uniform jacket. "How long has that been going on?" she said as she pulled out her swivelchair and sat down.

"Whut, Barry bein' Barry?  Aw, I reckon 'bout thirty-two years or so!" Wynne said, sporting a cheeky grin that reached from ear to ear. After chuckling several times at her own joke, she continued: "Aw, a-cuppel-a minnits. Anyhows, y'all gotta check this out. Me an' Goldie done saw som'tin weird in da middle o' tha desuhrt comin' ta town earliah!  Yuh, we sure did… so I done pulled ovah ta take a pic-chure an' some videoh. Yuh?  Lookie he', darlin'. Ain't it som'tin?"

Before Mandy could reach for Wynne's telephone, a purple-clad delivery guy from Allied Parcel thumped open the sticking door and entered the sheriff's office holding a large cardboard box that didn't appear as heavy as its dimensions suggested. "Hiya," he said as he put the box on the floor with great care. "Sheriff Jalinski?"

"Speaking," Mandy said, getting up from the chair.

"I need your signature," the driver said, holding out a handheld device and a stylus.

Grunting, Mandy cast a brief look at the large box. The company logo stencilled onto the side of the box made her puzzled grunt turn into one of understanding, and it didn't take long for her to doodle her signature on the electronic device.

Wynne had shown remarkable restraint and patience by keeping silent throughout the exchange, but as soon as the delivery guy had left the office, she thrust out her telephone again. "Yuh, okeh, like I wus sayin'… it wus tha darndest thing I evah done saw. Goldie wus beside herself, but I thunk it wus kinda coo' once I done recognized it an' all. Yuh. Okeh, clap yer eyes on this-"

And then Mandy's personal telephone rang. "Hon, it's the Senior Deputy. I need to answer it."

Wynne blinked several times before a mask of gloom fell over her face. "Yuh. Okeh. I reckon. Okeh. It prolly be im-pahr-tant an' all. Me an' mah phoah-ne can wait. Yuh."

Mandy soon accepted the call and put the telephone to her ear. She nodded a few times as Rodolfo Gonzalez updated her on the results of his speed trap session three miles north of Goldsboro. "Very well, Senior Deputy. Issuing fines to four speeders is a good day's work. By the way, the AdvanTech 600 has arrived- yes, I had a feeling you'd be interested in that. Yes. All right. Thank you for the update."

"The Advan-whut?" Wynne said, eyeing the large box.

After grabbing a box cutter from one of the big desk's drawers, Mandy got up to take care of business. "The AdvanTech 600. It's an advanced air surveillance drone," she said as she sliced open the packing tape with a vicious cut. "We and several other rural counties were chosen by HQ to conduct field tests of the equipment. They'll base their decision on whether or not to buy it off our evaluation."

"Haw… okeh. I can hear 'em now. Betcha ten bucks they done said 'Les'send that there impossible thing there ta them sleepyheads out yondah in da boonies. They ain't got nuttin' ta do with their tihhhh-me, anyhows…" Wynne said in a surly tone. To underscore her slight annoyance with all the interruptions, she stuffed her hands into her jacket's pockets.

"It's not quite that bad, hon," Mandy said as she liberated the Model 600 from the box and the myriad of star-shaped, impact-absorbing pieces of Styrofoam.

The black drone was made of plastic and lightweight metal, and was just shy of 30 inches across. Shaped like a big X, each of the four arms had a 4-inch rotor at the far end that could send it up to an altitude of nearly 1000 feet. While the upper part of the fuselage saw no less than four positioning lights, the underside was equipped with two sets of strong clamps that could hold a gyroscopic camera or other, similar types of accessories. The drone's electronic brain was encapsuled in several layers of foam and high-impact crash protection to ensure it could survive head-on accidents with solid objects at speeds up to 50 miles per hour.

"Haw, wouldya lookie at that there wild an' crazy thing," Wynne said as she scratched her neck. The electronic marvel couldn't hold her interest for long, and she soon had her telephone in her hand once more. "Okeh, when me an' Goldie wus drivin' ta town, we done saw som'tin so weird out in da desuhrt I didden know whaddahell I wus lookin' at… yuh?  But I got sev'ral pic-chures o' the darn thing-"

A moment later, the glass door was thumped open with such force the panes were nearly sent crashing onto the cracked linoleum. The newest guest in the sheriff's office was obviously Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez whose dark brown eyes immediately lit up at the sight of the Model 600. "Ooooooh!  Look at that!" he cried, hurrying over to the sheriff's desk to gawk at the big toy for big boys.

Wynne fell into a dangerous silence. Her face scrunched up into half its regular size. Chewing on her lips, tongue and cheeks, she eventually turned off the telephone altogether and shoved it as far as it would go into her rear pocket. Her baby blues seemed to cast lightning bolts as she looked at the still-hacking Barry Simms, at the fawning, gushing Rodolfo and finally at the AdvanTech 600 that had been at the core of at least two of the interruptions.

The fact that Wynne had fallen silent wasn't lost on Mandy, so she moved around the desk to wrap an arm around her partner's waist. "Hon, I promise you'll have my full attention tonight. My shift ends early. How about we look at the pictures while we prepare supper?  Okay?"

A few seconds went by before Wynne's features softened. "Mmmm-okeh," she said, pulling Mandy even closer. "It ain't much, I jus' done thunk it wus-"

"This is too cool!" Rodolfo suddenly said, doing his best to act as Mister Interruptus. "Let's go out and test it!"

Even Barry noticed Rodolfo's complete lack of social skills. Unfortunately, his resulting snickers brought about another coughing fit that made everyone else take a hurried step back.

Wynne stared wide-eyed at the suave Senior Deputy and the spluttering Barry for a few moments before she shook her head slowly. "This he' gotta be one o' them there Shit On Wynne days… it jus' gotta be. Ain't no way it ain't one o' them there Shit On Wynne days…" she mumbled as she crabbed sideways to get away from the fallout zone of spittle that spewed out of Barry like a fountain.

---

Out on Main Street's wide yet completely empty sidewalk, Rodolfo put down the large cardboard box before he pulled out the AdvanTech 600 drone once more. The inch-thick instruction manual was in a separate plastic bag inside the box, so he took that as well and began to thumb through it. He seemed to lose interest in the 250-page manual very quickly as it was soon back in the box.

Barry could only look on from the other side of the large pane of glass as he was still in the middle of another uncontrollable coughing fit, but Blackie and Goldie ran out onto the sidewalk to see what the Humans were doing and to get away from the gross hacking and spluttering that were murder on their sensitive ears.

At much the same time, one of the department's white and gold Dodge Durangos joined the others that were already parked at the curb. Deputy Sheriff Beatrice Reilly - whose increasingly buff shape revealed she had started exercising to gain stamina on the lengthy patrols and even lengthier speed trap assignments - soon came up to stand next to Wynne, Mandy and Rodolfo. She looked at the drone before she broke out in a shrug. "That's for the boys," she said to Wynne and Mandy before she went inside to get herself some coffee.

Wynne found herself agreeing with the deputy sheriff, and she proved it by nodding. "Yuh, sure ain't no lie. Whaddahell so excitin' 'bout a camera drone, anyhows?  I mean, them things be ev'rywhere nowadays. Ain't dat right?"

"Well, yes," Mandy said as she reached for the instruction manual, "but with the right add-ons attached to it… and the right officers operating it… it can be a helpful tool for locating missing persons, be it fugitives or perhaps someone with dementia who's wandered off from home."

"Haw… yuh, okeh. I didden think o' that," Wynne said, pushing her hat back from her brow. "Smugglahs, drug runnahs, mebbe them there anti-ev'rythin' activists we done heard so much 'bout. An' mebbe rabid wabbits, haw?  Haw?"

Mandy chuckled and reached out to slap Wynne's arm. "Not sure about the rabid-"

"Stand clear 'cos here we go!" Rodolfo suddenly said. Holding the special remote, he pressed a big, red button labeled Activate AT600/A.  The button had barely been depressed before the drone came alive with a steady hum. The positioning lights were turned on and all four rotors began spinning, but that was as far as the action went.

Wynne let out a dark chuckle. "Haw, that sure wus impressive, that. Yuh, ain't nevah seen nuttin' like it, nosirree… they gonn' give y'all tha Nobel Prize fer Aerophysics fer sure, Rodolfoh."

The Senior Deputy opened his mouth to add a counter-quip, but Mandy chimed in before the banter could get out of hand: "The instruction manual says it has a demonstration program. If you turn knob number two four clicks to the right, it should say Demo Mode on the small display at the center of the remote."

Rodolfo soon moved the appropriate knob four clicks to the right. Once it was in the correct position and the words Demo Mode! were displayed in bright green, the drone rose three feet or so off the sidewalk. It hovered there for a moment before entering the official demonstration program by gaining altitude and performing several acrobatic spins and maneuvers.

"Well, whoop-di-do… y'all made it waltz, Rodolfoh. Tell me, can it do a Texas Two-Step as well?" Wynne said under her breath in a tone that proved she wasn't the world's most enthused Cowpoke.

Down below, Blackie and Goldie shot each other a long, puzzled look. Several Woofs and Yaps were exchanged that meant 'Those weird, weird Humans and the weird, weird things they do…'

Upstairs, the drone continued running through its demonstration program. It first went into a semi-quiet hover, then began to rotate clockwise. It stopped its movements after a while to gain a little more altitude. A robotic voice could suddenly be heard from its internal speaker: 'This is the Sheriff's Department!  Halt!  Your position has been reported!'

Wynne had to do a double take at the tinny voice. It was so artificial that she had no choice but to lean her head back and let out one of the loudest, and certainly most scathing, belly laughs she had ever produced. The sound ended up scaring Goldie who dove for cover into the nearest safe spot - underneath Blackie's tummy.

Even Mandy had to chuckle at the horrible RoboCop impersonation. "All right, that wasn't too impressive," she said, scratching an eyebrow.

"No, that was kind of sucky, Sheriff," Rodolfo said, "but the rest is awesome. I'll never find time to read that mammoth manual, so I better find some how-to videos on YouTube-"

Mandy cocked her head. "Perhaps you think this is your personal plaything, Senior Deputy?"

"Ah… ah… of course not, Ma'am. I just meant-"

Before a blushing Rodolfo could explain exactly what he was trying to convey to the tongue-in-cheek Sheriff, the AdvanTech 600 gained a mind of its own and took off like a frightened cat. It shot skyward to an altitude of several hundred feet before it wobbled twice, made a full 360-degree spin on its axis and finally took off at great speed in a heading that would take it over to Josiah Street.

"Hoooooooooooooooly shittt!  Whaddahell y'all be doin', Rodolfoh?!  Y'all done made that there dro'ah-ne there go all haywi'ah an' shit!" Wynne cried, smacking her brow with such a Slappp! that it scared Goldie even further. "An' will ev'rybodda please notice I didden ha' jack squat ta do with it!  Thank'ya muchly!"

"What exactly did you do, Senior Deputy?" Mandy said, shielding her eyes to see where the drone had gone. No matter how hard she tried to scan the airspace above Goldsboro, she could only see a big, fat nothing.

Rodolfo mirrored his superior before he threw his arms out wide in disgust. "I didn't do anything, Sheriff!  Honest!  It was still in the demonstration mode… maybe this is some kind of… of… of… how the hell should I know what it's doing?"

An uneasy silence and much neck-scratching soon spread among the group of flabbergasted spectators. Down below, Blackie and Goldie had had enough of the Humans' weird behavior and ran back into the sheriff's office for some cool water and sticks of jerky.

Wynne looked at the remote that Rodolfo continued to clutch almost as if it was a comforter or his favorite soft toy from when he was five years old. "Say, pardnah… mebbe that thing there got a Come Hoah'me Ta Momma mode or som'tin… trah fiddlin' with them there knobs an' shit-"

Wide-eyed and struck speechless for once, Rodolfo began studying the multitude of knobs and dials, but he was stopped by a firm hand on his arm.

"No," Mandy said emphatically, "I don't think you should, Senior Deputy. Who knows, it might have a self-destruct. It's worth eight grand. Do you want to call HQ and tell them we've blown up their drone?"

"Lawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwr-die!  Eight grand?!  I done bought trucks that didden cost that much… holy shittt… haw, dat jus' be ree-dee-kah-luss…"

Before Mandy could answer, her telephone rang down in her pants pocket. A grunt escaped her when the caller-ID said Keshawn Williams. "This better not be bad news," she mumbled before she accepted the call. "Hello, Mr. Williams. This is Sheriff Jalinski. How can we help you?"

Hearing the identity of the caller, Wynne glanced in the direction where they had last seen the AdvanTech drone. She let out a few "Hmmm… hmmm… hmmm," sounds that proved that her brain was hard at work trying to calculate the correct heading. The hemming was eventually replaced by a nod and a smirk.

'Well, Sheriff,' Keshawn Williams said at the other end of the connection, 'you could start by explaining how it's possible that an enormous drone can crash land into my wife's prized greenhouse?  And how that drone carries a sticker that says property of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department?'

Mandy had held out the telephone so they could all hear what the owner of Goldsboro's popular second-hand store said. Everyone's reaction was different: Rodolfo's pale brown cheeks grew shades of crimson and scarlet, Mandy made an echoing facepalm and Wynne shook her head over and over while smirking even broader than before.

"We apologize profoundly, Mr. Williams," Mandy said into the telephone in a monotone. "We'll be by in five minutes' time to retrieve the drone. Was the greenhouse damag-"

'Three sections of glass were smashed. Worse, two of my wife's tomato plants were cut down by flying shards. I'm sorry, Sheriff, but this is a matter for our insurance companies. My wife is calling ours as I speak to you.'

Wynne let out a comical though deadly serious whistle through her teeth at Keshawn's calm description of the damages.

"Of course, Mr. Williams, of course," Mandy continued into the telephone. "We're already on our way over to you. Thank you for calling. Goodbye Mr. Williams."  Moving on autopilot, she put her telephone away while practicing her thousand-mile stare.

"Ya know whut I reckon, Rodolfoh?" Wynne said, slapping a hand onto the mortified Senior Deputy's shoulder to show her support and to give him a little nudgey for rushing ahead without getting the details right. "I reckon y'all oughttah ha' read that there instruc-shun manual befo' y'all done played with that big-ass thing there. Yuh?"

A few mumbled comments and Spanish cursing escaped Rodolfo's lips, but none of them were intended for anyone but his own blushing self.

Mandy just sighed.

"Well, mah friends," Wynne continued with a grin, "while all y'all gonn' do a li'l sweet-tawkin'… haw, make that a-lotta sweet-tawkin'… ta get Mizz Laurelle back on ou'ah side, I reckon I be goin' ovah ta Moira's fer some pool, a-cuppel-a beers an' mebbe some spare ribs an' Slow Lane's awesome pah-tah-tah salad. Yuh?"

"I can't tempt you to come along?" Mandy said, sporting an expression of hope. "You and Mr. Williams have a good rapport-"

"Yuh, we sure do, but I be tellin' y'all that Mizz Laurelle be a fiery lady, awright. I reckon she gonn' be doin' plentah o' yellin'. Naw, I'mma-gonn' sit this one out, darlin'. Yuh?  Okeh, catch y'all latah. This he' be the one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off… me an' Goldie be goah-ne, bah-bah!"

Wynne had already made a beeline for the sheriff's office to get Goldie when Mandy caught up with her and put a gentle hand on her denim jacket. "Hon… ah… what was on those pictures you were trying to show me?"

Grinning, Wynne shook her head. "Naw. That be fer me ta know an' fer y'all ta find out tanight when we be makin' suppah." - Snicker, snicker! - "Yuh. But it wussen nuttin' scary or spooky or disgustin' or nuttin'. It wus jus' a weird, weird thing that me an' Goldie done saw. A funny-lookin' animal. Okeh?"

Mandy had no option but to break out in a grin and a shrug. Wynne took full advantage of that by diving down and stealing a big, ol' smooch right on the sheriff's kisser.

"Yuh. An' now I really be off!" The Last Original Kissin'-Stealin' Cowpoke said with a grin.

*
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THE END of FLYING HIGH

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APRIL: RING-A-DING-DONG

There was something in the air. Everyone felt it. Some residents of the much-beleaguered town of Goldsboro, Nevada took to studying the skies to search for unidentified flying objects while others checked the alleys off Main Street to make sure there weren't any ghouls, ghosts or goblins hiding there. Others again simply looked at their calendar or telephone to find the real cause for the odd tension that seemed to permeate everything. It was April 1st.

All the usual unfunny pranks had been carried out for the umpteenth time: not only had all the cars and trucks parked along Main Street had their window wipers turned up, the Yarn Spinners's sandwich sign inviting everyone to a knitting bee the following weekend had been put in front of the Spartan Wings sports goods store.

Two of the removable Stars & Stripes flags that had been on the front of 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun store were now hanging back-to-front behind the popcorn vending machine at the movie theater, and someone had thought it very, very funny to schlep a 90 lbs. brass cauldron - complete with a flower arrangement - from the main entrance of the Bed & Breakfast and up to Doctor Byron Gibbs's animal clinic.

At least the weather played along. There had been years where the traditions of April 1st had been ruined by high winds or even a regular dust storm, but the clear blue sky, the ambient temperatures that hovered around 75 degrees and the gentle, caressing breeze that provided support created the perfect framework for some good, old fashioned April Fools action.

The hands of time had barely moved around to half past nine in the morning when the first larger incident took place over on Josiah Street. The homes lining the newest street in Goldsboro had all been built by the same contractor, so although their exteriors weren't identical to ensure the neighborhood would not look mass produced, they were in fact mass produced as they were pretty much all the same under the outer skin.

It was therefore not a surprise that someone decided to pull the old 'Ring the doorbell and run away' prank that had been part of April 1st since the time of cast-iron doorknockers and probably before then as well. It had even been done before on Josiah Street, but the main difference this year was that every single electronic doorbell all the way up and down both sides of the street rang at the exact same time.

Before long, 21 front doors opened to reveal the puzzled faces of 21 home owners. Friends and neighbors shot each other suspicious looks before they scanned the quiet street in the hope of seeing someone hiding somewhere. Nothing seemed amiss so everyone went back inside to continue what they had been doing when the doorbells had interrupted them.

Not sixty seconds later, everyone's doorbell rang again. It happened at the exact same time all over again, and the results were the same as well. Save for a small handful of residents who had sat down with a cup of coffee, or had gone to the bathroom, or who simply couldn't be bothered when it was clearly an April Fools prank, most everyone opened their front doors to complain about the grossly unfunny business.

Josiah Street was as empty as a cooler box belonging to Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue. Nobody was out walking their pet, no kids were out riding their bicycles or using their skateboards or inline roller skates, no cars or trucks were driving to or fro, and nobody was hiding in the bushes while engaged in a world-class snicker-fit at the expressions on the faces of the people standing on their doorstep trying to figure out what on Earth was going on.

Over at number 17, Gwendoline 'Gwen' Gilmore scratched her neck as she looked up and down the empty street. The mid-fifty-something bespectacled lady, who had moved to Goldsboro with her wife Audrey and their Cocker Spaniel Little Evie the previous summer, wore casual chic from top to toe; tennis socks in bath slippers, baggy black sweatpants and a royal purple football jersey promoting a college team from Utah.

'What's going on out there?' a female voice said from somewhere behind Gwen's shoulder. The voice was barely audible over the frantic yapping of a smallish dog that clearly didn't like the doorbell ringing the whole time.

With nothing or nobody at all in sight, Gwen shrugged and closed the front door. "Somebody's pranking us. Well, pranking everybody 'cos it's happening all the way up and down the street. I can't see anyone anywhere. Weird," she said while she worked the two locks and moved the safety chain back in place.

She had already begun to move away from the door when she reconsidered and shuffled over to the electronic doorbell instead. Working with a steady hand, she took off the user access panel and removed the two batteries to make sure nothing would disturb her wife Audrey while she watched her run of daily soap operas.

---

Across the street, Esther O'Sullivan stood in her kitchen doing the dishes from the late breakfast she had shared with her husband, the disability pensioner Eamonn. The early-sixty-something retiree listened to a talk radio station on a small unit designed to resemble a transistor radio from the 1950s, woodgrain panels and all. She wore indoor slippers, knee-high stockings, a modest skirt in beige, and a knitted, gray cardigan over a white blouse.

While the radio show's host and his current guest waxed lyrically about the other's accomplishments, Esther kept an eye on their garden path and the sidewalk beyond it. Her eyes never moved an inch from the gray flagstones, so when the doorbell rang for the third time in less than ten minutes, she slammed a fist onto the kitchen counter and hurried into the hallway. As expected, the garden path and everything else out there was empty. A hissed "This is intolerable!" was heard loud and clear as she closed the door behind her.

---

Next door to the O'Sullivan's, the sudden noise from the doorbell made Nancy Tranh Nguyen jerk her hand away from the charcoal drawing she was working on so she wouldn't mess it up.

As always when the twenty-something Vietnamese-American used the dark-gray drawing tool, her fingers, hands and forearms were coated in coal dust that gave them an almost sickly appearance. She knew from experience that the dust would also find its way onto her clothes no matter how careful she was, so she wore an old apron over an even older black sweatsuit that could catch all the airborne particles without being ruined.

A mumbled curse escaped her as she glared out into the hallway that connected the room she was in with the rest of her home.

Goldsboro's resident sketch artist had converted the spare bedroom into a studio where she could apply her special set of skills whenever she felt inspiration knocking, be it day, night or anywhere in between. The room was dominated by a large drawing table featuring several sets of measuring sliders, rulers, magnifying glasses and other types of aids designed to assist her sketching. She preferred to stand while working, so the table could be moved up and down to always provide her with the best working posture.

The doorbell continued its infernal ringing at unabated pace and loudness, so after putting the piece of charcoal into the slot designed for it, she stomped through the hallway to get to the door.

Opening it with a swoosh, she had time to let out a barked "All right!  This isn't funny any more!" before she realized that the street was still devoid of life. A huge question mark developed over her dark locks as she looked up and down Josiah Street several times without seeing anything untoward.

Nancy nodded a new Hello to Esther O'Sullivan next door before she moved back inside. Pausing in her hallway, she studied the plastic box for the electronic doorbell to see if something had come loose, but it seemed in perfect order. "Wow, is it Halloween already?  This is getting a little spooky…" she mumbled under her breath as she went back into her studio to continue working on the charcoal sketch of a new logo that had been commissioned by a well-known regional company.

-*-*-*-

In the sheriff's office over on Main Street, life went on as normal. The civilian assistant Barry Simms sat at the watch desk smoking like a runaway industrial chimney. The fellow known as Mister Sixty Cigs for his habit of smoking sixty home-rolled cigarettes each and every day was busy filling out a crossword puzzle designed for kids and absolute beginners. He had needed to ask the sheriff for clues and suggestions a couple of times, but that was par for the course.

The thirty-two-year-old former Deputy Sheriff presented a neat and tidy figure with wet-combed hair and clean clothes - loafers, brown pants, a tan shirt and a brown pullover - but that was due to the time of the day. Once the hands of time moved around to noon, his hair would stick out in all directions and his clothes would be speckled by ash and the occasional coffee or pastry stain. It was a law of nature so nobody could do anything about it, not even Barry himself and certainly not the sheriff.

Whenever he lost interest in the regular crosswords, he could go for a sudoku puzzle magazine, or one of his beloved Sally Swackhamer, P.I. pulp detective novels, or perhaps even update the incident report sheet.

An empty coffee mug and a saucer filled with cookie crumbs littered the watch desk, but even those items paled in comparison with the horrible mess formerly known as 'an ashtray.' The two-inch cone of ash that rose from it proved just how hard Barry enjoyed his smoking.

The black German Shepherd Blackie rested on a blanket just inside the glass door as always. She had a bowl of cool water and a stick of beef jerky at her disposal, but she had chosen to get some shuteye in her favorite doggy basket instead to recharge her batteries after the day's first foot patrol that had taken her and the sheriff from one end of Goldsboro to the other.

Sheriff Mandy Jalinski sat at the big desk updating case files and other types of paperwork. The furrows on her brow proved the documents she was looking at were of a tough and uncompromising nature. In short, they were the accident damage forms that the sheriff's department's insurance company had sent her in the aftermath of the surprise drone attack on Laurelle Williams's greenhouse the previous month.

She and her deputies had changed back into their summer uniforms which meant she wore shiny, black boots, dark-gray pants that featured black stripes along the outside of the legs, a black shirt with dark-gray pockets and epaulets, and finally a dark-gray necktie that had been tucked in between the third and fourth shirt button as the uniform code dictated. A golden star sewn onto the left front of the shirt proved she was the sheriff of Goldsboro.

A quick glance at the wall-mounted clock behind her proved it was five to ten which was far too early to call Moira's Bar & Grill and ask the short-order cook A.J. 'Slow' Lane to wheel over a cart with a few pastries and plenty of the good coffee. Instead, she got up and made a beeline for their own coffee machine though it was nowhere near as good. Before she could make it all the way there, the old Bakelite telephone on the watch desk began ringing.

The shrill tones stirred Blackie awake, and the fierce K9 officer jumped to her paws and assumed her trademark offensive stance just to make sure she had the moves down pat. Satisfied with her efforts, she relaxed and let her tongue hang out in anticipation of a little excitement. A happy Woof! showed she was ready to go.

"Good morning," Barry said into the receiver, holding a ball point pen ready at the incident report sheet to jot down the date, the time, the type of the incident and the initials of the law enforcement officer responding to the call. "You've reached the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, the office in Goldsboro. How may we help you?  Yes, the sheriff is present, Mrs. Jensen. One moment, please."

Mandy strode over to the watch desk before Barry could ask her to come over. Picking up the receiver, she grimaced at the sight of the mouthpiece being contaminated by several specs of ash. Barry was treated to a dark glare before she used her sleeve to clean the lower part of the receiver. "Good morning, Mrs. Jensen. This is Sheriff Jalinski," Mandy said, readying her indispensable notepad with her free hand.

She furrowed her brow as she jotted down a few lines of information. "I see. So nobody's there at all?  All right. And how many times has it happ- eight times within the past twenty minutes?  All right, that's certainly- yes, indeed. Yes, Mrs. Jensen, I understand your concern. There's a strong possibility that your son will be suspected of being behind it. Yes. Yes. I'll be over at once. ETA five minutes. Yes. Goodbye, Mrs. Jensen."

A Woof!  Woof-woof-woof!  Woof! burst out of Blackie before she shook her back and ran over to the other side of the office to be ready at the glass door.

"Hmmm," Mandy said as she put down the old receiver. "Seems like someone's pulling a pretty big April Fools prank over on Josiah Street. The person is manipulating all the doorbells to ring at the same time, except nobody's there."

Barry needed a deep puff of his latest cigarette before he could answer: "My money's on Tor Jensen. Nobody else has his tech skills," he said in a husky croak that hinted at a coughing fit in his immediate future.

"I would have agreed with you if Carole Jensen hadn't just told me that she had home-tutored Torsten all morning to get him ready for an important paper," Mandy said as she put on her uniform jacket and Mountie hat. "Still. He's a computer wizard. He could easily have programmed it to run autonomously. Let's see. Keep me posted on any further calls."

"Will… do… Sheriff," Barry croaked. A moment later, the explosive coughing fit arrived in all its rattling, hacking, spluttering glory which caused Blackie and Mandy to make hasty exits.

-*-*-*-

When the duo turned onto Josiah Street, they were met by a small mob of severely annoyed residents. Esther and Eamonn O'Sullivan, Nancy Nguyen, Keshawn Williams and his wife Laurelle, Candice Herschel from number 5, Enrique and Rosa Guzmán who lived in number 11, Brett Aitken from number 21, and finally Gwen and Audrey Gilmore were lined up in a group shaped like a semi-circle so everyone would have a good vantage point.

The latter two hadn't been affected by the incidents after Gwen had removed the batteries of their electronic doorbell, but the angry murmuring out on the street had been too loud for them to ignore. Little Evie needing some fresh air had been a good excuse to discover what all the hubbub was about.

Carole Jensen stood in the middle of the small mob with her arms around her son Torsten. Never the strongest on an emotional level, the nervous breakdown she had suffered after their oldest son Lukas had been responsible for providing the narcotics that nearly killed Torsten the previous year had left her even more fragile and vulnerable. The grayness and deep lines on her face proved she felt anything but easy about the situation. Her lips were merely narrow lines as she took in the annoyed and frustrated faces of her neighbors.

The teenager Torsten wore his usual loud clothes: white sneakers with neon-green laces, golden hip-hop pants, a fluorescent-red T-shirt that featured a rap artist nobody over the age of 20 had ever heard of, and finally a grungy baseball cap that looked as if someone had been sick all over it. The loudness of his clothes didn't help as it seemed to confirm all the pre-conceived negative notions that the other residents had of him.

"All right, settle down. Settle down, please," Mandy said, putting her arms in the air once she got close enough to get a full dose of the annoyance among the group. "Let's get one thing crystal clear first. Torsten, are you responsible for this prank?"

Carole gasped loudly; Torsten clenched his fists and took a half-step ahead before his mother's arms pulled him back to her. "No!  No, sheriff!  I'm not!  Mom and me spent all morning cramming for my half-term paper!"

"Good. Which means that's off the table," Mandy said in a stern voice while she looked all the other residents in the eye. The rest of the people there tried to maintain their accusatory stance, but found it to crumble under the sheriff's no-nonsense glare.

Keshawn Williams spoke up: "But someone's got to be responsible, Sheriff. This sort of thing doesn't just happen by itself. And definitely not on April 1st." As always, the late-twenty-something African-American owner of Goldsboro's popular thrift store wore elegant clothing. Today, it was black, creased pants and a pale-brown blazer jacket over a black turtleneck. He and Laurelle even wore matching jewelry in the shape of gold necklaces that each carried a simple crucifix and a more elaborate heart-shaped pendant.

"Very true, Mr. Williams," Mandy continued in a softer voice.

Keshawn nodded. "And furthermore, it needs to stop at once. It's scaring my kids!  My youngest thinks the Bad Ones are out to get him." When his comment garnered plenty of puzzled stares, he explained: "It's from a kids' cartoon show of some kind. I can't make heads or tails of it, but my five-year-old can. In any case-"

The words had barely left Keshawn's lips when the sound of everyone's doorbell ringing again filtered out onto the street.

"Told you!" Torsten Jensen said strongly. "I told you I didn't have anything to do with it!  Our doorbell is ringing too!"

Blackie jumped up and began to bark, but she calmed down at once since nobody shady, nefarious or plain evil was around. All the residents looked everywhere without finding anyone or anything who could be responsible for the frustrating racket.

"And there those damn things go again!" Eamonn O'Sullivan said. "How many times is that now?  Twelve?" The mid-sixty-something disability pensioner, whose bad leg had recently forced him into using a crutch in order to get around, looked at his fellow residents with a sour expression upon his face.

"It's thirteen!" Nancy Nguyen said in a growl that was most unlike the friendly artist. "And if we reach fifteen, I'm going to lose my temper!"

Mandy needed to not only shake her head but roll her eyes at the improbability of it all. "Only in Goldsboro," she mumbled before she cleared her throat and stood up even straighter. "Have any of you noticed anything unusual prior to today?"

A murmur of 'No' rippled through the group.

"Have there been strange cars or trucks here recently?"

Another murmur of 'No' was the only reply. Two seconds later, the fourteenth ringing of everyone's doorbell rang out across the street causing plenty of head-shaking, deep sighs and an "Aaaaargh!" from Nancy.

Mandy let the artist's complaint die out before she continued: "Have any of you had any electrical or electronic work done in your homes within the past few days or so?"

Yet another rippling murmur of 'No' was the only reply, except from Laurelle and Keshawn Williams who shared a look of sudden insight. "Well," Keshawn said, "we had an advanced burglar alarm installed two days ago on the door to my garden shed-"

This time, the murmur rippling through the group consisted of snickers. Gwen Gilmore was the one who said what everyone thought: "Okay, is your lawn mower really worth that much, Keshawn?"

"No, but my racing bike is," Keshawn continued, rubbing his chin. He shared another look with his wife before he turned to the sheriff. "We better check."

Mandy let out a grunt. "Sounds like a good idea, Mr. Williams," she said as she strode across the street to get to the Williams residence with Blackie running alongside her. The duo acted like an unstoppable spearhead that made everyone else follow in their tracks.

---

The entire group of upset residents couldn't fit in the enclosure surrounding Keshawn's garden shed and outdoor grill, so the O'Sullivans, the Guzmáns and Candice Herschel went home to tend to their own affairs. Nancy, the Jensens and the Gilmores as well as Brett Aitken, Mandy and Blackie all filed into the relatively small space between the wooden garden shed and the sturdier house.

The floor was a concrete deck that could withstand most everything, including the high temperatures radiating from the Williams family's massive outdoor grill. Large earthenware flower pots and sacks of enriched humus had been moved outside the shed to make room for the expensive bicycle. Vines grew on the shed's door and parts of the front to give it an almost Renaissance look.

Keshawn made a beeline for an electronic panel that was horribly out of place next to all the rustic charm. After he had punched in the 16-digit access code and had pressed OK, he moved his hand over to the handle to open the door. Before he could make contact, the panel lit up like a fireworks display at a Fourth of July celebration. One second later, they could hear the familiar sounds of the doorbells ringing all the way up and down Josiah Street.

"That's number fifteen," Nancy roared, "and I'm about to blow my frickin' lid!  Keshawn!  Do something!  Kill it!"

"God, this is embarrassing… we're the bad guys behind it!" Keshawn croaked as he stared at the electronic panel that continued to blink. He opened the door so Mandy could look inside.

All the typical gardening items were hanging on nails hammered onto the outer walls. The center of the shed was occupied by Keshawn's super-lightweight racing bike that rested in a special rack since it had no prop stands. The carbon fiber frame, the graphite wheels, the narrow saddle and the ergonomic handlebars were all held in an unpainted dull gray to save weight.

Gwen Gilmore chuckled as she reached out to pat Keshawn's shoulder. "Oh, that's just fine, buddy. We'll still sniff around for goodies up at your store. But a word of advice… throw that damn alarm away, yeah?  Can't you keep the bike in your house instead?"

Keshawn shrugged as he closed the door. "The insurance company insists that the bike's protected by an alarm system…" he said in a despondent tone. "But this can't go on. All right, I'll disable the alarm."

Everyone broke out in a round of applause as the lights in the electronic panel flickered once before they went out for good.

A pleasant silence soon spread over the entire Josiah Street neighborhood. Nobody's doorbell disturbed the peace by ringing, so no dogs, kids, adults or elderly were frightened or frustrated by the terrible noisemakers.

"I'll search for the instruction guide online to make sure," Mandy said after taking a few photos of the panel in general and the company name and model number that were printed on its lower-right corner, "but I suspect it may be sending out some kind of sweeping radio pulse that interferes with other types of radio-based electronic equipment. Mr. Williams, when did you say you had it installed?"

Keshawn still wore an embarrassed look upon his face as he turned to the sheriff. "Oh, the box itself was installed and activated a few weeks ago, actually, but it was only the day before yesterday that a technician was here to calibrate its central processing unit. Why it didn't malfunction before then, I have no idea… maybe the cabinet has a crack so it's ingested some desert dust over night?"

"A few weeks ago?  I see. There's a chance it did malfunction before today," Mandy said with a rare grin. "Remember when our AdvanTech drone crash-landed in your wife's greenhouse last mon-"

"Yes!  That was the day after the box was installed!" Keshawn cried, throwing his arms in the air. Once they came back down, he buried his face in his hands. "This is going from bad to worse… whatever next?"

Before anyone could answer, Keshawn's wife Laurelle opened one of the windows overlooking the enclosure. She looked at the shed, her husband and the group of neighbors before she said: "Are you people fiddling with something out there?  I can't get the microwave to turn on…"

Keshawn let out a deep sigh.

Laurelle continued: "Anyway, the kids have finally calmed down. I wanted to ask if anyone would be interested in coffee and homemade pastries?"

The suggestion caused a collection of "Sure!" "Thanks!" and "I could certainly have a pastry or two," to roll through the assembled Goldsborians who all swarmed out of the enclosure to get back to the front door out at the garden path. Mandy, Blackie and Keshawn waited for everyone to leave before they came along.

"Blackie and I need to return to the office, Mr. Williams," Mandy said as she put out her hand for the traditional shaking. "I hope you'll get everything fixed."

"Thank you, Sheriff. Yes, well… this was an experience I didn't need to have," Keshawn said, looking forlornly at the failed electronic burglar alarm. "Perhaps I should store my bike inside like Gwen suggested. But the tires are almost always filthy when I return… and a majority of our carpets are tan or off-white."

"That's not a good combination, Mr. Williams. In any case, I wish you the best of luck," Mandy said before she and Blackie left the small backyard at the garden shed.

---

On their way back, Mandy's telephone rang. When the caller-ID said Home, she broke out in a grin and accepted the call at once. "Hi, hon!  Anything wrong?"

'Howdy, darlin'!  Naw, ain't nuttin' wrong he'. I jus' be fishin' fer a kiss. Ol' Barry done tole me y'all be out on an assignment. Where y'all at, anyhows?'

"We're over on Josiah returning to the office."

'Okeh. I be at Moira's-'

"Don't go anywhere. We'll be there in three minutes."

'Haw, sure like tha sound o' that, yes Ma'am!  Whah, I bettah grease them lips o' mine so they ain't gonn' be chafin' y'all when ya get he' ' - Psssshhht! - 'Tawk ta y'all in a li'l while, darlin'!'

Chuckling, Mandy closed the connection and put away the telephone. The thought of seeing Wynne made her smile and up her tempo even more. Down below, Blackie let out a series of happy Woofs before she ran ahead to Moira's Bar & Grill and her other owner.

*
*
THE END of RING-A-DING-DONG

-*-*-*-
-*-*-*-
-*-*-*-

*
*
MAY: SEISMIC FREQUENCIES

The early afternoon of Saturday, May 17th.

The latest foot patrol carried out by Sheriff Mandy Jalinski and the black German Shepherd Blackie had been uneventful - at least for the most part. The initial call had come from Abraham Rosenthal at the movie theater: someone had tried to sneak into the early matinee showing of the Disney classic Bambi without buying a ticket.

The matter had quickly been dealt with upon the arrival of the sheriff and the fierce K9 officer, but why an adult man wanted to watch Bambi in the first place remained unclear. Mandy knew better than to question the powerful draw of nostalgia, however, so she never made any kind of inquiry or even a comment. The man's acute embarrassment was punishment enough so he had been let off with a stern warning.

After the brief incident that really wasn't, Mandy and Blackie went onto a regular foot patrol that saw them, among other things, study the inspection stickers on the fire extinguishers at the gas pumps at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop. Cletus Browne's used car lots was given a quick tour, and the backyard of Keshawn Williams's Second-Hand Treasures thrift shop was surveyed for vandalism or any signs of looting. The rear door to the Goldsboro Town Museum was given a close inspection as was the lawn at Dr. Byron Gibbs's animal clinic just in case one of the patients had left a calling card of the uncool kind in the grass.

The latter job was a perfect match for Blackie's field of expertise. She went over every blade of grass with her expert nose, but she found no suspicious items or scents anywhere. When she was all done, she sat down and let out a disappointed Woof… that meant 'No bad dogs anywhere.'

Chuckling, Mandy crouched down to apply plenty of doggy loving of the fur-rubbing kind. "All right. Let's go over to Josiah Street. Maybe the Gilmores are home so you can play with Little Evie. You seem to like her."

Woof!

"Okay, Blackie… let's go," Mandy said and got up. She and the fierce K9 had barely made it three paces south on Goldsboro when her telephone came alive. She let out a grunt when the caller-ID said Office. Accepting the call, she put the telephone to her ear. "This is the sheriff. Did someone call, Mr. Simms?"

'Yes, Sheriff,' Barry Simms's familiar voice said at the other end of the line. It was just as raw and husky as always due to the sixty home-rolled cigarettes he smoked every single day. From a rattling undertone to his breath, it seemed that one of his legendary apocalyptic coughing fits couldn't be far off. 'A Mr. Thaddeus… somebody… from the Nevada branch of the United States Geological Service- no, not service… Institute. Yes.'

"A Mr. Thaddeus Somebody?  Really, Mr. Simms. That's not good enough."

Downstairs, Blackie let out a puzzled Woof?  Woof-woof-woof… at the sound of the odd name. She slowed down her tempo in the hope of receiving news of an urgent operation that would involve plenty of action and gnawing on bad people.

'I did write down his last name, Sheriff!  Honest I did, I just can't read it 'cos it was a weird foreign name and he had such a deep voice I couldn't really understand him but I didn't want to ask for a third time 'cos that would make me seem like an idiot-'

"All right, all right, Mr. Simms, I get the picture," Mandy said, rolling her eyes, "but what did he actually want?"

'No idea. He only wanted to talk to you, Sheriff. I explained the situation and then he asked for your personal telephone number. I told him it was against the regulations… and then he said he'd try again later. Uh, and hung up.'

Rubbing her brow, Mandy shared a long look of frustration with Blackie whose doggy face proved she understood better than anyone would expect. "Very well, Mr. Simms," Mandy said as she and Blackie resumed walking along Main Street's sidewalk. "We'll continue the foot patrol. Call me at once if the mysterious Mr. Somebody does in fact try again. All right?"

'Oh, sure!  Yes, Ma'am!'  A split second on from Barry's enthusiastic parting comment, the long-awaited coughing fit broke out rendering him unable to do anything but hack, cough, rattle and splutter.

Sighing, Mandy closed the connection and slid the telephone into the side pocket of her uniform pants.

-*-*-*-

Mandy and Blackie returned to the sheriff's office forty minutes later. Their patrol of Josiah Street had proven to be just as uneventful as the rest of the time they had spent around Goldsboro, so they both made beelines for their respective spots of foraging.

A quick glance at the wall-mounted clock confirmed it was far too early to expect the short-order cook A.J. 'Slow' Lane to come over from Moira's Bar & Grill with their regular afternoon order of The Good Stuff, so Mandy would have to settle for a few store-bought cookies as well as some regular coffee made on their own machine.

While Blackie got comfortable in her basket with a stick of turkey jerky and a bowl of fresh water at her disposal, Mandy poured herself a mugful of The Less Good But Still Adequate Stuff. She had barely sat down at her desk when the ancient Bakelite telephone rang over on the watch desk.

Sitting at the important watch desk, their civilian assistant Barry Simms picked up the receiver to answer the call. He adhered to the dress code for non-uniformed personnel by wearing a surprisingly classy outfit that consisted of dark blue jeans and a maroon shirt. That he had chosen to close the ensemble with a spring-green pullover detracted from the image, but two out of three wasn't bad. Since it was past mid-day, his wet-combed hair had dried and had thus lost a great deal of its appeal, but it had yet to stick out in all directions - that wouldn't come until four pm or so.

No positive phrases could be used to describe his general look: A sickly skin tone, yellowish eyes and amber fingers, a raspy voice and a persistent rattle whenever he breathed. To match the theme, he didn't even take his latest cigarette out of his mouth when he spoke into the receiver: "You've reached the MacLean County- oh, hello again Mister… Mister- uh… Laboo-drow, Yes, the sheriff is present."

Mandy needed to scratch an eyebrow a couple of times at the way Barry mangled the unknown gentleman's last name, but she managed to stay professional and refrain from rolling her eyes. Instead, she got up from the sheriff's desk and strode over to her assistant.

"This is Sheriff Jalinski, Sir. How may we help you?" she said into the old-fashioned receiver while eyeing the horrendous mess on the watch desk. The important incident report sheet was buried under a pile of items that really had no business there. Among other things, Mandy eyed a sudoku magazine, a point-to-point drawing book, a well-worn bookmark ready for the next Sally Swackhamer, P.I. pulp paperback, an empty pack of Cream Dream cookies, a saucer filled with enough cookie crumbs to create at least two new ones, and finally the old classic - the ashtray that was so overfilled it would never pass a Health & Safety inspection.

'Good morning, Sheriff,' a bassy male voice said at the other end of the connection. 'This is Professor Thaddeus Laboudreaux from the Nevada Geological Institute. Our seismographs have picked up an ongoing pattern of small-scale tremors approximately seven to ten miles south of Goldsboro. The tremors have caused some concern among the analysts because of their number and rhythmic nature.'

While the professor spoke, Mandy reached for a ball point pen and her indispensable notepad. She flipped the latter open to the first clean page and readied the pen. "Oh?  Go on, Professor."

'The tremors are clearly man-made and match patterns we've logged previously in some of the rural counties. They're consistent with someone exploiting the remoteness of the location to test homemade explosives-'

"Mmmm!"

'Indeed, Sheriff. In addition to calling the local authorities, i.e. the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, we've also contacted the bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms as such a transgression falls under their jurisdiction. I'm sure they'll get in touch with you before long.'

Mandy nodded. Her face gained another shade of somberness at the thought of the extra paperwork, not to mention dealing with one of the large, inflexible agencies. "Very well, Professor. Thank you for alerting us. It just so happens I have an honorary Deputy Sheriff near the site in question. We'll get to the bottom of it in no time. Thank you for calling."

'You're welcome, Sheriff,' the professor said before he hung up.

After putting down the heavy receiver, Mandy studied the lines of text she had written in her notepad. She needed to read them a few times before she dug into a pocket to get her own telephone.

Several attempts of calling Wynne yielded nothing but The Last Original Cowpoke's voicemail service, so Mandy strode over to the large windows overlooking Main Street to see if the black Silverado should happen to be parked in the spot reserved for it over in the alley next to the Bar & Grill. It wasn't.

"Mr. Simms, someone may be playing with pipe bombs in the desert south of here. I'll investigate it myself. Please call Deputy Reilly back from speed trap duty. She's down at Haddersfield Pass, correct?"

"Yes, Sheriff," Barry said, reaching for the official smartphone at once.

"Good," Mandy said, spinning around on her heel to get back to her own desk. Once she had donned her uniform jacket and the Mountie hat, she glanced at the time and subsequently slammed her hands on her hips. "And where the hell is the Senior Deputy?  Call him as well. Ask him politely to come back to work from his lunch break. And I mean politely, Mr. Simms."

Grinning, Barry reached for the Bakelite receiver as well. "Will do, Sheriff!"

---

Mandy soon drove south on the State Route in one of the department's Dodge Durangos. The white and gold SUV moved along at fair speed though without breaking any speed records. Behind the wheel, Mandy kept a close eye on the two-lane blacktop ahead as well as the endless desert that lined the arrow-straight road.

She hadn't yet been able to spot any telltale clouds of dust or smoke rising from a potential detonation point, but she knew that a highly regarded organization such as the Geological Institute wasn't about to misread their data or come to the wrong conclusion. In short, it couldn't be too long before she would come across whatever it was that had triggered their sensitive seismographs.

---

Flashing lights in the far distance proved to be one of the other Dodge Durangos. The two SUVs soon met just inside the area the Institute had marked as the hot spot for the potential illegal activity.

Mandy rolled down the driver's side window and waved her arm at her fellow law enforcement officer to ask her to pull over. Once the vehicles had come to a rest on opposite sides of the State Route, Mandy jumped out and strode across the road. "Deputy Reilly, we've been informed by the Nevada Geological Institute they've picked up strange seismic readings in this local area. Their data suggests it could be someone experimenting with home-made explosives."

"Whoa," the buff, blonde, mid-thirty-something Beatrice Reilly said. The Deputy Sheriff's recent assignment near the summit of Haddersfield Pass had caused her to shed her uniform jacket and roll up her shirtsleeves to combat the effects of the sun's relentless rays - it was a running joke among the deputies of Goldsboro that it was possible to cook a T-bone steak and baked potatoes on the rock formations that formed the upper part of the Pass.

When Beatrice noticed she had forgotten to roll down her sleeves, she rectified the situation in a hurry so she wouldn't break the uniform code. "Well, I haven't noticed anything unusual, Ma'am. I had the windows closed and the A-C on, so…"

Nodding, Mandy leaned against the side of the Durango. "Very well. I was about to ask. The reason I called you back to the office is that Senior Deputy Gonzalez hasn't come back from his lunch break yet. We can't leave Mr. Simms alone for too long…"

"We sure can't, Sheriff," Beatrice said with a grin.

Mandy nodded again as she stepped away from the official vehicle. "All right. I'll have a thorough look-see here, then I'll return to the office. Call me at once if anything else happens."

"Yes, Ma'am."

---

While Beatrice Reilly continued northbound on the State Route, Mandy took advantage of the desert's natural near-silence to listen for nearby detonations of any kind. Everything seemed quiet, but she still opened the Durango's rear doors to get the set of powerful binoculars that were stored there in a padded box.

Using the steps installed on the rear of the vehicle, she climbed up onto the roof and stepped onto the aluminum gangway that had been fitted to all their SUVs. Her thorough scan of the horizon began due west, then moved north, east and finally south.

An "Mmmm…" escaped her when there were no clouds of dust or any other kind of Earth based material anywhere in sight. She broke out in a grimace before she climbed down from the roof, put the binoculars back in their protective box and moved behind the steering wheel.

Before she could drive on, her telephone rang. The caller-ID said Office so she accepted the call at once. "This is Sheriff Jalinski. Mr. Simms?"

'I just talked to the Senior Deputy. He claimed he fell asleep on the couch after working his way through a large-scale Mexican lunch made by Miss de la Vega's mother… he promised he'd get here as soon as possible.' As Barry continued, a string of snickers filtered through loud and clear: 'I believe him… have you seen the mother?  How Dolores can be so slender and hot-hot-hot when her mother's dresses look like circus big tops-'

"Mr. Simms, do not make fun of other people," Mandy said in a voice that left no room for misinterpretation.

'Understood, Ma'am…'

"Good. We'll talk later."

'Uh… yes, Ma'am,' Barry continued before he closed the connection.

Shaking her head, Mandy stuffed the telephone back into its pocket before she twisted the ignition key to carry on southbound.

---

A mile and a half further south, her keen ears picked up a distant sound through the open driver's side window. She pulled over at once and turned off the engine so she wouldn't miss a repeat of the report that had in fact shared a certain resemblance to a detonation. The sound in question was repeated a scant ten seconds later, but it was difficult to categorize.

When a third blast came another few seconds on after the second report, Mandy let out a mumbled "Wait a minute… wait a damned minute…" before she reached into her pocket to find her telephone again. It was still impossible to get in touch with Wynne, so Mandy started the Durango to explore the hunch that had developed at the back of her mind.

---

The noises that greeted her ears as she drove off the State Route and onto the dirt trail leading to the trailer park that she and Wynne called home all but confirmed that hunch. The ground-pounding blasts were created by someone fiddling with something, all right, but it turned out to be unrestricted open pipes rather than illegal pipe bombs.

Chuckling, Mandy relaxed as she drove the last stretch onto the lawn between the trailers. She knew exactly what was coming, and her eyes soon picked up the sight she had been expecting.

Wynne Donohue - who wore her complete Last Original Cowpoke denim outfit - sat behind the wheel of her fire-engine red 1989 Pontiac Firebird TransAm blipping the throttle while the expert mechanic Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson worked under the open hood adjusting something. Both wore professional-grade ear protection which would explain why Wynne didn't have her telephone turned on.

After climbing out of the Dodge Durango, Mandy put her hands on her hips as she took in the scene. Each time Wynne applied the sole of her decorated cowboy boot onto the throttle, the 350 cubic inch fuel-injected V8 let out such an apocalyptic roar through the straight, unmuffled pipes that it flattened the grass, kicked up dust and made the ground tremble.

Since the sheriff didn't have access to ear protection beyond her index fingers - and they weren't going to be enough - she had to press the palms of her hands against her ears until she had caught Wynne's attention.

By the time the gals had established eye contact, Wynne switched off the engine at once which left the entire trailer park bathed in a blissful silence.

"Howdy, darlin'!" she said, extricating her long legs and the rest of herself from the low-slung sports car. "Ain't it coo'?  There wus som'tin off with tha timin', but Ol' Fat-buhh-tt an' me got that there sweet motah purrin' like a kitten!  An' them open pipes… Lawwwwwwwwwwwwwr-die, ain't they som'tin?"

"They certainly are. Hello, Mr. Swenson," Mandy said as she approached the TransAm.

The expert mechanic took off his ear protectors and put them over his left shoulder. As always, the large-framed fellow - 265 lbs. at last count - sported a shaved head and a neatly-groomed full beard. He wore safety boots, thick gloves, a red T-shirt and his beloved denim bib dungarees that seemed to be able to fit three regular-sized mechanics. "Hello, Sheriff. Is something the matter?" Bengt said in his trademark sing-song Swedish accent.

"Not anymore," Mandy said before she put a gentle hand on Wynne's cheek. Clawing the smooth skin, she broke out in a rare grin. "But you had a few people concerned about homemade explosives, hon."

"Haw?  Somebodda done threw pipe bombs or some such?" Wynne said, pushing her cowboy hat back from her brow. "Me an' ol' Fat-buhh-tt didden he'ah nuttin'. Okeh, we coudden he'ah nuttin', but anyhows. Ya reckon somebodda done played the ol' game Light Mah Fi'ah or som'tin, darlin'?"

"No, more that you… or rather the exhaust pipes… fooled the seismographs and the data analysts at the Nevada branch of the US Geological Institute. They called us to say they had picked up unusual seismic activity. I guess they did, only it was an '89 TransAm and not a militia cell."

"Haw… yuh… okeh…"

Chuckling, Mandy got up on tip-toes to place a quick kiss on Wynne's lips. "Anyway, I need to get back to the office. The ATF needs to know it was a false alarm."

"Tha whut?"

"The bureau for Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. They were automatically alerted by the Institute. Chances are they'll show up with a strike team if they're not told to stand down-"

"Hawwwww-shittt!" Wynne cried, jumping away from the TransAm's door that she had been using as a leaning post. "Y'all bettah call 'em right away!  Y'all wanna use mah phoah-ne?"

"No, I have my own, thank you. And besides, I don't know the number. Mr. Simms needs to look it up for me first," Mandy said with a grin.

"Yuh… okeh. Good luck with dat, haw?"

Chuckling a little more, Mandy repeated the action of getting up on tip-toes to place a quick kiss on Wynne's lips. Though they rarely kissed in front of an audience, and never in front of a male audience, Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson and Wynne were good buddies to such an extent that he had almost become a member of the extended family. "Thank you. I'll need it," Mandy said with a grin. "See you in town later, hon?"

"Ya betcha, darlin'!  I be fillin' in fer Slow Lane at them stoves an' all tanight. He be goin' ta them evenin' classes o' his. Nevah did figgah out whaddahell he be studyin', tho… but anyhows. Bah-bah, darlin'!  It sure wus nice ta see y'all jus' as a surprise an' all."

"Yes it was, actually. Goodbye, Mr. Swenson," Mandy said before she strode back to the Durango to return to the dreary world away from thunderous, unrestricted open pipes.

*
*
THE END of SEISMIC FREQUENCIES

-*-*-*-
-*-*-*-
-*-*-*-

*
*
JUNE: THE PURPLE PERIL

Wednesday, June 18th - Late in the afternoon.

The old saying goes that Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned. It could easily be modified into Hell Hath No Fury Like A Cowpoke Being Fed B.S.

As everyone in and around Goldsboro, Nevada, and the small trailer park eight miles south of the desert hamlet knew, it took quite some effort to get Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue spit-flying, seething, hopping mad. Upset, grumpy, annoyed or even angry, sure, that happened every other weekend during the NASCAR Cup season whenever a Chevrolet driver was beaten to a victory by someone behind the wheel of a Ford or a Toyota, but never 'spit-flying, seething, hopping mad.'

Unfortunately, that was exactly what Wynne Donohue was at the present moment in time. Her lips had been reduced to narrow lines in her face, her cheeks sported red blotches and her eyes shot fire at nothing in particular. Tapping a foot repeatedly while sitting at the leading edge of her battered, old couch in her trailer, she had her telephone glued to her ear listening to an endless list of poor excuses that someone spewed in her general direction.

An entire six-pack's worth of crushed cans had been scattered all over the top of her old coffee table. She would ordinarily make sure the empty cans weren't dented so the aluminum recycling machine would accept them, but no mercy had been shown to the examples within her reach. The sorry remains of a pencil that had been snapped in half by accident had been thrown onto the table next to the dead cans.

"Okeh, son, y'all bettah lissen ta me, yuh?" she said in a dangerous, steely monotone that was effective in cutting off the flow of words that came from the person at the other end. "I be tellin' y'all I wus hoah-me all day. Yuh?  All morn', all day an' all aftahnoon. So that there thing there tha drivah done tole y'all 'bout nobodda bein' he' is B.S. Yuh?  A B an' an S. I presume y'all know whut dat be short fer?  A-yup."

She leaned back to listen to another burst of poor excuses for another minute or so. After nodding three times, shaking her head twice and slapping her forehead once, she leaned forward all over again. "Yuh, yuh, I reckon y'all should trah sendin' them there pack-itches ag'in tamorrah. I done bought birth'dy gifts fer a very spe-shul lady, yuh?  So they bettah be there in time fer tha birth'dy, yuh?  Or there gonn' be hell ta pay fer somebodda that sure as stink on shoot ain't gonn' be me. Yuh. Yuh. Okeh. 'S right. Yuh. Yuh, somebodda gonn' be he' ta receive tha pack-itches an' sign fer tha delivery. Yuh. Namely li'l ol' me, Wynne Donnah-hew. Yuh. Sure ain't no lie. Okeh. Goodbah!"

Once she had closed the connection, she added a "An' good riddance, ya good fer nuttin' pencil pushah," under her breath. A quick glance at the clock proved the time had moved around to a quarter past four in the afternoon. Too late for afternoon coffee and too early for supper. The situation called for something to eat and drink, however, so she settled for calling it 'an extra round of afternoon snacks' before she got up from the couch to take care of business out in her kitchenette.

-*-*-*-

The following day: Thursday, June 19th, at half past nine in the morning.

Wynne's grumpiness had persisted up to and including getting out of bed at seven to eat breakfast with Mandy. The mere sight of the love of her life, not to mention sharing the first kiss since the previous morning due to an exhausting day at the sheriff's office for Mandy, had kicked the Grump out of the door with strict orders not to return any time soon.

Their usual chit-chat at the breakfast table had been a little one-sided because Wynne didn't want to tell white lies about what she had planned to do with her day, but she couldn't tell Mandy the truth, either, as it would give away the big surprise. In short, she had feigned a crimp in her neck.

Yap?

"Haw?  Whazzat?"

Yap!

Wynne let out a sigh as the yapping of her Golden Retriever, Goldie, made her leave the scene at the breakfast table to return to the present. That present was the driver's seat of her Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition that had been parked at the far end of the dirt trail that led to the trailer park.

The two-lane blacktop State Route was directly ahead of her. The arrow-straight road stretched out for miles and miles to either side of the truck, but only a few vehicles actually used it at any one time. "Yuh, Goldie, I reckon this gotta be among the top-twentah weirdest things I evah done took part in."

Yap!

"Sure ain't no lie. I mean, I'mma-gonn'-"

Yapppp!  Yap-yap-yap-yappety…

"Whah, pardon me, girl!  Yuh, we gonn' be sittin' he' all day waitin' fer that there purple Allied Parcel truck ta show up. Holy shittt, I got a-buncha othah things I could be doin', yuh?  But naw!  I gotta be sittin' he' doin' nuttin' 'cos that there parcel delivery gaaah yestuhr'dy done screwed me ovah."

Yap…

The sound of hissing originating from the A/C unit underneath the dashboard proved the interior conditions weren't too bad. Outside, the chilly morning - due to the desert winds sweeping over the trailer park during the night - had been replaced by climbing ambient temperatures, but it had yet to reach the level generally known as Murderous.

A glance to the left proved the road was empty. A glance to the right proved the road was empty in that direction as well. Another glance to the left proved the road was still empty. Wynne was about to turn her head to the right all over when it dawned on her it would be a waste of her neck muscles.

Sighing, she reached for her telephone to play a little Rubbin' Fenders.

A mere seven minutes - but no less than three wrecks - later, she rolled her eyes, closed the game app and shoved the telephone back into her pants pocket. Reconsidering the action at once, she whipped up the telephone and loaded Rubbin' Fenders all over again.

Another seven minutes and another three wrecks later, she put the telephone away for good with a severe grumble about her timing being "Way da hell off…"

Something had to happen for her not to go stir crazy sitting there, so she turned on the Silverado's infotainment system instead. The radio was tuned to the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack as always, and the station that broadcast out of Lansingburg further south soon delivered plenty of fine, old-fashioned Country & Western from the golden age of the legendary Nashville Sound, i.e. the 1970s.

"Haw, mah kind o' Country, yessirree," Wynne said, turning up the volume as I Should Have Seen It Coming by Dwayne Yealey filled the cab. The opulent strings, the weeping steel guitars and the silky-smooth vocals all pointed to the song first being released in the fall of 1976. Wynne soon crooned along to the sob-story's lyrics telling a tale of newfound fame and the loss of a lover.

Movement off to her left made her whip her head around to make sure she didn't miss the vehicle in case it was from Allied Parcel. Although it was a delivery truck, the colors proved it was a different company.

Sighing, she returned to listening to the Nashville Hour on the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack.

---

An hour later, Wynne leaned against the truck's bed while Goldie was busy visiting the really large restroom. The Golden Retriever soon returned in a lighter, happier state. Wynne had propped her head up on her arm which in turn leaned on the upper edge of the Silverado's bed.

"Lawwwwwwwwr-die, this is ass-borin'. Naw, it ain't jus' ass-borin', it be dubbel-ass-borin'. I ain't sure how it can get any mo' ass-borin' than this!  Don't nobodda answah that…"

Yap!

"An' that includes y'all, Goldie!"

Yap…

Something finally happened when the sound of a powerful V8 reached her ears. It made her perk up at once and hurry back to the driver's door. Opening it, she climbed up on the doorsill to add another few feet to her already great vantage point.

The sound came from the south, but the car it was connected to had yet to emerge from the small dip the State Route took a couple of miles south of the trailer park. Soon, a silver-gray 2-door 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air came into sight. Ever the GM fanatic, Wynne whipped off her cowboy hat to wave it high in the air at the Bel Air. The other driver responded by honking his horn a couple of times which caused a wide grin to spread over Wynne's face.

"Aw-yuh, I knew it wus a Gee Emm motah. Deffa-nete-ly wussen no weak-chested two-sixty-fihhh-ve, tho'. Wussen no modern motah, neithah. Naw, I reckon it musta been a period three-ninety-six or mebbe even a fo'ah-twentah-seven. Izza li'l hard ta tell 'cos it done had RoarMastah mufflahs as well. Wotcha reckon, girl?"

Yap…

"Y'all reckon it be tha three-ninety-six, haw?  Yuh, could be…"

Yap?  Yap-yap-yap-yapperty-yap-yap…

"Now that sure ain't no lie. Dang, I shoudda brought some snacks an' some soda pops an' stuff," Wynne said, rubbing her empty stomach. "Nevah done figgah'd it would take this dang-blasted long!  Okeh, if tha purple peril ain't he' in fihhh-ve minnits, we be racin' hoah-me fer some pork rinds an' jerky, yuh?"

Yap!  Yap-yap-yap-yap!

"An' mebbe some Dubbel-Zerahs as well, haw?  Yuh, deffa-nete-ly…"

---

Another hour and three empty cans of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer later, the last ounces of Wynne's good mood had vanished. She just sat there staring daggers at the mostly empty road and the occasional vehicle that drove past: Three Fords, two Dodges, two Toyotas and three Chevrolets as well as a lone Nissan had filed past her parking spot at the two-lane blacktop. She knew that exactly because she had drawn little lines on a scrap piece of paper she had found deep down in the recesses of the center console.

With one car or truck passing by every five and a half minutes, it was clearly rush hour on the State Route, but it mattered little when none of them was the large, purple van from Allied Parcel.

Wynne rubbed her forehead. Then she scratched her nose. Then she rubbed her throat. Then she scratched her ears. Then she rubbed her chin. Then she cleaned her fingernails. Then she smacked a fist onto the rim of the steering wheel spooking Goldie into rolling herself up into a ball of golden fur down in the footwell.

The Down-Home Ol' Country Shack was soon tuned in once more. She caught it in the middle of an infomercial, but even that was better than the boredom she had experienced all morning. Thus, she learned all about Professor Redlington's new and improved remedy against athlete's foot and other podiatric ailments like ingrown toenails and bunions.

After the five-minute infomercial, the Ol' Country Shack continued with a regular 6-spot commercial break: Smithson & Burke IT Consulting, Quint Corporation Oils & Lubricants, EverFresh Antiperspirants & Deodorants, Osterman's Self-Storage Depots, Donnie Ringo's Off-Road Tours and finally Cazamore Pet Foods who advertised their Quality Dog Food brand.

While Goldie snorted loudly at the familiar jingle of the Cazamore commercial - she hated that brand with a passion - Wynne grinned at the one from Quint Oils & Lubricants because it used racing sounds as its background instead of music.

Once the commercial break had ended, the disc jockey read a few promotional pieces like the Jarrod City Coyotes Triple-A team inviting all its fans to a fun summer camp where some of the players would make personal appearances. The final promotional piece was a reminder to the listeners to take part in the phone-in competition for free tickets to the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack's traditional Folk, Bluegrass and Country music festival over the Fourth of July weekend.

Although The Backwoods Crew did their best to kick everyone into high gear with their lively rendition of the Bluegrass traditional Old Brother Callum's Weddin' Day, a wide yawn spread over Wynne's face as a lead curtain of boredom and sleepiness fell over her.

She glanced at the litter in the center console to see if she had missed just one bag of pork rinds, but there was nothing but empty wrappers. The sight of the six empty cans of Double-Zero made her shift in the seat, tap her foot even faster to the stirring Bluegrass beat, move her fingers around the rim of the steering wheel, bare her teeth in a concerned grimace and several other involuntary actions that were typically associated with the tide being high.

---

Five minutes later, Goldie had moved behind the Silverado's steering wheel to take over watch duties while Wynne frequented the really large restroom somewhere out of sight.

Just as Wynne returned to the matte-black truck, her ears picked up the sound of a hard-working, large-displacement Detroit Diesel engine coming toward her position. "Haw… must a perdy dog-gone large semi fer it ta make such a racket," she mumbled to herself as she opened the passenger door to put the pack of wet wipes back in the glove box.

Soon, a US Air Force convoy consisting of a road-sweeping Scorpio all-terrain Follow Me vehicle, a command Hummer and a super-heavy-duty truck pulling a low-riding, multi-axled trailer that carried a very large, vaguely cigar-shaped something-or-other hidden under camouflaged tarpaulins. Behind the large trailer, a smaller personnel truck and finally two further Hummers brought up the rear.

"Holy shittt," Wynne said as she watched the heavy-duty truck drive past her at no more than 20 miles per hour. "I wondah whut them flaaah-boys be up ta now?  Yuh… prolly som'tin supah-secret an' mi'ty dain-ge-russ. Well, they can have it. Lawwwwww-rdie, whe'dahell that there Allied Parcel truck be at, anyhows?!"

---

After a brief conversation with a puzzled Diego Benitez who returned after a trip to North Greenville, sleepiness snuck up on Wynne once more. Her eyelids soon struck a nefarious deal with the rest of her system: if the breathing evened out and the head slumped forward, the eyelids would take care of the rest by slipping shut.

She sat like that for a minute or two, but a Yap? soon brought her back to the harsh, boring realities of life. "Haw?  Haw… haw?  Who dat dere yappin'?  Awwww-shittt, I musta dozed off," she mumbled, pulling herself upright once more. After rubbing her eyes and everywhere else around her face, she glanced out onto the deserted State Route "Okeh. No dozin' off. Nope. No dozin' off. No… dozin'… offfffff…"

ZZZZZzzzzz…

Another few minutes went by before she woke herself up by letting out a huge snore. "Whu'?  Awwwww-shittt… I done dozed off ag'in!  Goldie, whah diddencha say nuttin'?"

Goldie, who had been far better at rationing her sticks of jerky than her owner had been with her pork rinds and beers, looked up from gnawing on the latest one to deliver a Yap?  Yap-yap-yap-yapper-yapper-yap that meant 'Well, really… I'm eating now. Isn't that more important?'

"Dang-blasted," Wynne mumbled as she scrambled from the matte-black truck to get some fresh desert air. She had barely set her cowboy boots on the ground before a purple delivery truck from Allied Parcel roared northbound on the State Route. In fact, it raced past at such a speed it couldn't have made the turn onto the dirt road even if the driver had tried.

"Whaddinda-holy-hell?!" Wynne cried at the top of her lungs. When that didn't help, she sprinted out to the edge of the State Route, whipped off her hat and waved that and her arms all over the place. "That ain't right… that jus' ain't right!  Hell's bells, that ain't… dat be… awwwwww-sombitch!  Come back he', ya dumb-ass chickenshit!"

All her efforts were wasted on the delivery driver who kept the pedal to the metal as he or she roared off into the distance. As the purple peril raced along, it created clouds of desert dust that lingered for a while after the truck itself had become a dot on the horizon.

Wynne just stood there with her boots planted on the northbound lane of the blacktop. Although her lips moved, no recognizable words were formed. A grim mask soon fell over her face; it would have spelled certain and instant death for anyone close enough to see it. She seemed to be all alone in the world - save for a Golden Retriever whose main focus was still gnawing on a stick of jerky - so all she could do was to shuffle back to the Silverado to pout.

She had barely reached the matte-black truck when a new cloud of desert dust seemed to form on the northern horizon. Scratching her neck, Wynne remained by the driver's side door for a moment or two before she decided she needed to check out the mysterious phenomenon.

Just as she had expected, the new cloud of dust was kicked up by the same purple Allied Parcel delivery truck she had seen before. The driver still had his or her boot stuck to the floorboards as the speed continued to be far too high to have any hope of making the turn onto the dirt road.

Wynne took off her cowboy hat in the hope of making a pre-emptive strike, but although she waved it at the delivery truck when it was close enough, she soon needed her hat to protect her face from the billowing desert dust that followed in the truck's wake.

Spinning around to avoid getting her front pelted with the inevitable pebbles that were always blown onto the blacktop, she let out an impressive, four-minute long, continuous blue streak that would undoubtedly have set a world record had anyone been there to verify it.

The dust finally settled, but the mask of pure anger that tainted Wynne's face remained. It had turned so grim, dark and dangerous that she didn't even look like herself. That fact was confirmed by Goldie diving head-first into the footwell at the merest glimpse of her owner.

---

Another handful of minutes later - that had been spent in a seething silence - the purple peril reappeared on Wynne's left. For the first time, it was driving slowly enough to make the turn, so she got out of the Silverado to greet it.

She could do nothing about her expression, but she took off her hat and waved it to appear at least a little human. A split second later, a croaking "Awwww, ya rotten sooooooohm'bitch!" burst from her throat when the driver steered clear of her and took off down the dirt road like the devil was on his tail.

"Ain't gonn' happen!  Ain't gonn' happen!  Naw, it ain't gonn' happen!" Wynne cried as she jumped behind the wheel of the Silverado. In one fluid motion, she kicked the engine to life, spun the steering wheel around and planted her boot on the gas pedal which made the V8 roar like a farsighted grizzly bear that had mistaken a briar patch for its regular resting spot.

The howl let out by Goldie down in the footwell was certainly impressive in its own right, but it was drowned out by Wynne holding down the horn to let the delivery driver know he or she better not screw over The Last Original Cowpoke for the umpteenth time.

Her own cloud of dust and pebbles only caught up with her when she had come to a full stop behind the purple delivery truck. Part of the lawn between the trailers had been torn up as a result of the four-wheel skid required to box in the vehicle from Allied Parcel, but she would have to take care of that later.

"Buddy?  Mista?  Yoo-hoo?  Pardnah?  Whe'dahell y'all at, anyhows?!" Wynne cried after she had spotted the empty driver's seat. When the only response she got to her line of inquiry was one of Freddie's trademark bassy WOOFs! over on the far side of Diego's trailer, she took off in a semi-sprint to catch up with the delivery driver.

Racing around the corner of her trailer, she nearly thumped into the purple-clad delivery person going in the opposite direction carrying a large cardboard box. The disaster was averted at the very last second as the combined efforts of their reflexes prevented a painful head-on collision, but it had been a matter of a half-inch.

"Snakes Alive, son!" Wynne cried as she wrestled with her cowboy hat to make sure it stayed on her locks. "Whah'dahell y'all be goin' so fas' fer?  Slow down, will ya?  Fer cryin' out loud!"

The face of the purple-clad driver, who turned out to be a woman in her mid-twenties, held plenty of worry-lines and a harried, stressed skin tone that proved that her bosses demanded that she kept up the frantic pace throughout her shift. Grunting, she had already moved away from Wynne to get back to the Allied Parcel truck.

"Halt!  Dontcha be goin' nowhe'ah!" Wynne said, grabbing hold of a purple sleeve at the last moment. "I be Wynne dang-blasted Donnah-hew an' that there box y'all be carryin' iz one I done bought an' paid fer!  So gimme that there stylus pen shit an' lemme doodle mah John Hancock, yuh?  Then y'all can vamoose or skedaddle or whaddahell-evah y'all like. Yuh?!"

Once the cardboard box had been handed over and Wynne had signed her name on the electronic device, her boiling temper made her stomp back to the Silverado that needed to be moved in order for the parcel truck to get out.

---

A short ten minutes including a detour to the restroom later, Wynne sat down at the coffee table in her trailer's living area with a box cutter, a fresh bag of extra-salty pork rinds and a six-pack of Double-Zeros.

The cardboard soon yielded to the sharp blade to reveal the treasure trove inside. An "Ooooooh-yuh… wouldya lookie there," escaped her as she waded through roughly 700 little pieces of protective Styrofoam to get to the gifts.

She put them on the table one by one to admire their awesomeness. Though Mandy's birthday was still a few months away, getting a head start had never hurt anyone - especially not someone with Wynne's typically rotten luck.

The first gift was a pair of retro sunglasses presented in a silk-lined box made of cherrywood. The square, pitch-black lenses were set in a golden frame which gave the shades an appearance of having been designed for and used by the fearless test pilots of the early 1950s. It wasn't something Wynne would have thought of on her own, but Mandy had dropped a little hint here and a little hint there that she found them awesome and that they would really boost her authority.

The next gift was a set of perfume bottles that carried a brand name that Wynne couldn't pronounce, but it didn't matter as she knew how much Mandy loved that exclusive fragrance. Similar to the sunglasses, they came in a gift box that left no room for mistaking them for anything but being of the highest quality.

The third item was a BluRay of a movie they had wanted to see in the theater but could never find the time for. Having learned her lesson on other movies, Wynne read the cover's rear side thoroughly to make sure it was the correct release. The website where she had bought it had left her somewhat confused, but the listing of the special features confirmed it was the extended cut Special Edition.

The fourth item was a $250 gift certificate for a clothes boutique down south in Cavanaugh Creek. Although Mandy wasn't the world's most feminine gal, she did like to wear something a little more civilized and elegant whenever she was out of uniform. A gift card was the best compromise as it meant she could pick it out herself.

The fifth and final item was an unabridged, two-volume hardback book of the memoirs of the first female police chief in California. The set came with a small note listing the author's website where the books could be signed for an additional $15 and even given a personal dedication for $30. "Hummm… yuh, I need-a think 'bout that fer a while," Wynne mumbled to herself before she stored the gifts back in the cardboard box and scooped up all the protective pieces of Styrofoam.

Grinning all over as she took in the splendor of the birthday gifts, she grabbed the bag of extra-salty pork rinds and the first can of beer. Nodding in victory, she leaned back on the couch. "Yuh. Lawrdie, I ain't sure I bah-lieve whut I be seein' he'!  Som'tin good finally came outtah tha day. Now all I gotta do is ta call Diegoh an' ask if he still got room fer that there box there until tha big day. Yuh."

Falling silent, she spent the next short minute tearing open the bag of pork rinds. Even that was a success as none of them tried to make a run for it, and that was unusual in itself. She grabbed a big, fat one but didn't yet throw it into her mouth. "Lawrdie, I sure be lookin' forward ta tha smile on mah darlin' Mandy's face when she unwraps them there gifts on her birth'dy. Aw, that gonn' be so gooooood… ain't dat right, Goldie?"

Yap-yap-yap-yapperty-yap-yap!

"Yuh, sure is. An' now… it be tihhh-me ta eat, drink an' be merry!"

Pssshhht!  Glug-glug-glug, crunch-crunch'a-crunch-crunch, glug-glug-glug!

Yappp!

*
*
THE END of THE PURPLE PERIL

Last in Series: Part 3

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