🚀 go-pugleaf

             < continued from preceding post >

   Just then, the doorbell rang.
   "We'll finish this later," Richard promised, as he moved
to answer the door.  Outside stood Mary, her eyes bloodshot
and her cheeks strewn with tears.  She looked up at him only
briefly, then lowered her eyes.  Behind her was a policeman,
who gently urged her forward.  Mary entered the apartment
with great reluctance.
   "Mary!" Horace cried as he ran to console her.  She edged
away from the older man, unrecognizing.
   Lieutenant Harper wormed his way past them and scanned
the room.  After an apparent process of elimination, he
pointed a stubby finger at Richard.  "You Jackson?"
   "I am."
   "Sorry to trouble you, but do you have any ID?  I just
want to be sure who I'm talking to."  Richard nodded and
fished for his wallet.  "You're a popular man, Mr. Jackson.
A whole lotta people want to be you."  He glanced over at
Horace, who had managed to wrap a protective arm around
Mary. "There's this young fellow, tried to tell me people
said he looked old enough to be her grandfather." [#13]
   "They do," Horace confirmed absent-mindedly.
   "Don't worry, officer," Richard said, drawing Harper's
attention again, while casting a warning glare at Horace.
"You've got the right man this time.  He's just, uh,
visiting from a local religious order."
   Harper chuckled loudly.  "You must mean D.O.G.M.A.  Yes,
I know that.  The question is, does *he*?  Wouldn't surprise
me if the stiff we found here last week thought we was you
too.  Boy am I glad to be rid of *that* case."  He smiled
smugly at Agent Johnson.
   "Well, officer," Horace called.  "Thanks for bringing
Mary home.  She's had a bad day."  He patted her gently on
the shoulder; she nodded as if he had just communicated
something, and left the room.
   "That's for sure," Harper agreed.  "That was a hot tip
you gave me, Mr. Jackson.  I saw the kid accost your girl
with my own eyes."
   "Did you get him?" Horace asked eagerly.
   Harper sighed.  "No, he got away, but at least now we
have a description.  He may be wanted for a whole string of
burglaries.  Real hot tip."
   "Back up," Richard inserted.  "What tip?"
   "The one you phoned in about an hour ago."
   "I didn't ---"
   "I did," Horace asserted.  "I *knew* that kid was
trouble."
   Harper gaped at him.  "*You* called it in?"
   "Look, Lieutenant," Richard interrupted.  "Could we do
this later?  This man and I have a few things to sort out."
He cast a meaningful glare at Horace.
   Harper looked back and forth between them.  "Yeah, I can
see that.  Take whatever time you need; I'll be in touch."
He grinned viciously at Agent Johnson, saying "Good luck!"
and left.

   "What was that?" Horace roared nasally.  "You trying to
block his investigation?"
   "What was that about phoning in a tip using *my name*?"
   "He's a punk!  Can't you see that?"
   Johnson coughed.  "If you two are just going to argue,
then I'm going to catch a few winks before the flight."
   Horace and Richard both casually waved him away.
   Johnson addressed his underlings as he left.  "You two
might as well go too.  I'll be in contact."
   Three minutes later, only two were left in the room.
   "You're just determined to make my life difficult, aren't
you?" Richard resumed.
   "I'm just trying to keep the refuse off the streets."
   "I'm willing to give the kid another chance --"
   "Turning a little soft, are you?"
   "No.  I just shelled out three hundred bucks to fly him
back to Japan, and intend for him to pay me back.  He's not
going to do that in jail."
   "And what about Mary?"
   "What about her?"
   "She's your *daughter*, for Pete's sake!  Don't you
care about that?"
   "Until a couple weeks ago, she was just a kid next
door. [#2]  What am I supposed to feel?"

   Suddenly and without warning, the front door crashed
open, and Ichii stormed into the living room, straight
towards Horace.
   "I don't know who you are, Mister, but you set me up!"
   "You've got some nerve coming in here, kid!" Horace
retorted stiffly.
   "You're the one that set me up!"
   "Set up, my foot!  The cop saw everything himself!  I'll
give you ten seconds to get out of here."  Horace headed
towards the nearest telephone, but Richard stopped him
bodily.
   "Would you *please* stop running my life for me?"
Horace glared at him, that sat down angrily.  "Now, Ichii.
You probably heard everything we said, didn't you?"
   Ichii nodded.  "From when the cop brought Mary home,
yeah.  But it's not what you think!  I swear!"
   "Forget what I think.  Just tell me what happened."
   "Well, we were at the arcade, playing this game and she
just went nuts; I don't know why!  And since she wasn't
saying nothing, I got upset."
   "And then what did you do?" Horace challenged.
   "I didn't do nothing!  But the cops think that I hurt her
or something."
   "Didn't you?" Horace countered.

   "Shut up!" Richard shouted.  "It's okay, Ichii.  I know
it isn't your fault."
   "I can't believe I'm hearing this," Horace muttered.
   Richard ignored him.  "Mary's been really mixed up, and
for a couple weeks now."
   "It's because of *him*!"
   "No, it isn't.  I've seen where Mary's coming from.
Hell[tm], I've *been* there.  Everything's upside down."
The other two looked at him uncomprehendingly.  "It's where
I got that packet," he explained to Horace.  "The other guy
is coming from the same angle."
   Horace swore under his breath.
   "So, Ichii," Richard continued.  "How would you like to
get back at one of the people responsible for this?"
   "What?" Horace asked, flabbergasted.
   "We could use the help."
   "But he's a punk!"
   "He is an *asset*.  He has the all the abilities Mary got
from him, and would be much more effective, considering the
state she's in."
   "But you can't trust him!"
   "I think I can; he has a stake in this.  What about it?"
   Ichii hesitated.  "I dunno.  You're talking Mob here."
   "Oh, no.  This is bigger than the Mob; you'll definitely
be earning your stripes here.  And remember, the police are
already combing the streets for you."
   "If I help you, you won't turn me in?"
   "It's a promise," Richard said, casting a silencing glare
at Horace.
   "Deal.  And Mr. Jackson?  I promise to get your three
hundred bucks to you, somehow."
   "Good.  Now maybe we can get some rest before we go to
the airport."
                           *****

   The attack could have been fast and furious.  The target
was facing the opposite direction, and the path was without
obstruction.  It would have been over in seconds, if it had
not been for the one fact of which the predator was unaware:
the prey was a mutant.
   The 32-inch lake trout had not expected its flatworm meal
to be nearly as large as it was.  Nor had it expected it to
contain humanoid bones and mammalian flesh,  Still driven by
its olfactory instincts, it assailed the creature before it,
its small mouth unable to grab a satisfying morsel.
   The trout became increasingly agitated as it found itself
churning in a maelstrom of flesh and blood.  Then, just as
suddenly as the attack had begun, it was all over.

   "Hey!" Cantata 23 yelled shrilly.  "Did you have to hit
it so hard?"
   "It was either it or the Author," replied Nene 27.5.
   Cantata gently cradled the fish in the gauntlets of her
environmental suit, insofar as that was possible, which was
not very far.  "I think it's dead."
   "Hey!  Show a little concern here!  Our Author here was
attacked!"
   Cantata arched an eyebrow behind her faceplate.  "Is he
still alive?"
   "It's hard to tell with all this ick.  I think so."
   "Then he's all right; he'll regenerate.  After all, he
got shot in the head with no noticeable effect."
   "Prologue to Episode Twelve," Nene 27 added.
   Nene 27.5 pouted cutely.  "Thanks for your help."
   Nene 27 smiled.  "But I agree, we ought to worry.  If he
doesn't pull through, where will we get our chocolate?"
   Cantata nodded.  "I understand your deep, deep concern."
   Nene bristled cutely at the sarcasm.

   Cantata looked back down at the dead fish in her hands.
"Poor little dear.  I wonder where it came from.  There
aren't any others in this Pond."
   "Maybe one of the Authors brought it here as a prank,"
Nene 27 suggested.
   "Naah.  They're a predictable bunch.  They always look
for ways to increase the salt levels here."
   "He could have edited it up himself," Nene 27.5 noted.
The Musae looked at each other.  "Maybe not," she conceded.
   "Not with all the other problems he has," Cantata agreed.
   Nene 27 hesitated.  "He could have been Inspired."
   Cantata flashed.  "What is that supposed to mean?"
   "Someone might have been afraid of losing her status as
probational Muse.  I have to admit: this division of labor
combined with his usual slow pace does make this one of the
cushier positions."
   "What a dirty trick!" Nene 27.5 remarked.
   "Hey!  Are you saying *I* did it?" Cantata snarled.
   "You're the closest thing to a nature freak here."
   Cantata flared brightly.  "That doesn't mean I'd go about
summoning creatures to feed the Author to!"
   "Mm hmm?"
   "Besides, one of you could easily have pulled your data
from the net.  Your supposed to be Uberhackers, right?"
   "Hmm," Nene 27 hmmed, as she glanced at her sister.
   The argument resumed apace.
   Meanwhile, a horribly mangled arm found its way to the
keyboard, and tapped a few keys, as the Pond's toxicity
level increased.
                           *****

   Frankie began to reconsider the merit in coming to France
as he stood with Phoc on the collonaded portico of the
Palais de Justice in Lyon.  The further they had come from
Orly International Airport, the worse the language barrier
had become.  This was not a problem in the world he was
accustomed to, and he stood with increasing impatience as
Phoc conversed with a woman officer that had been summoned
to meet him.
   "[Many pardons, Monsieur .. Phoc?]" Vera duVrai pleaded.
"[But I wish to have official reason to admit you.]"
   "[Then admit not me, but my, er, friend,]" Phoc replied.
"[He is very much saddened by the loss of his friends.  It
is possible he is of help to you.]"
   Vera nodded and turned.  "Monsieur Jackson?"
   Frankie started at the sudden attention.  "Ma'am?"
   "I am told you knew Messieurs DeLong and O'Hara?"
   "Yes, I did."
   "What can you tell me about them?"
   "Andre DeLong, five foot nine, age fifty-six; retired to
Paris in 1986.  I'd describe him, but there is no point,
since you wouldn't remember his face anyway.  Dennis O'Hara,
six foot three, age fifty-two; went to live the good life
outside London, pursuing his hobby in Indochinese history.
How is that for starters?"
   "I am much impressed," Vera said, meaning it.  "Perhaps
you do have important information for us.  Please enter."
She signalled to the guard, speaking a few words.
   "What about him?" Frankie asked, indicating Phoc.
   "I will wait here," Phoc replied instead, "until you are
satisified.  After all, we expect some company."

   Phoc dallied a bit longer, then elected to wander.  As
disappointed as he was in not being able to satisfy his own
curiosity about the murders, there was nothing to be gained
by just standing around.  It was better to prepare for the
expected arrival of his enemy.  His childhood familiarity
with French, residual from its colonization of southeast
Asia would serve him well.
   Phoc trotted down the dozen steps before the Palais de
Justice and headed south, memorizing his surroundings.  At
the end of the block, he turned onto the Rue de la Bombarde,
when a man stepped out from behind a tree, a rotund Chinese
man, who greeted him in Mandarin.
   "[Good morning, friend.]"
   With considerable surprise, Phoc replied in kind.  "[Good
morning also.]"
   "[Ah, it is good you speak the tongue.  A moment of your
time, if you please.]"
   "[I am sorry, but I am a very busy man.]"
   "[Ah, yes, and such business it is!  I very much admire
your work.]"
   "[I fear you have me confused with someone else.  I am
but a simple wine merchant.]~
   The other man chuckled briefly.  "[And I am but a simple
policeman.  Please, I only wish a moment of your time.]"
Phoc noticed that the amiable man had drawn a pistol.

                           *****

   Frankie exited the Palais de Justice only two hours
later, as dissatisfied as when he arrived.  The inspectors
had grilled him extensively for what he knew, which was
limited to the nature of the victims.  He had to admit
ignorance on a wide range of questions regarding secret
plots and international conspiracies; such things did not
exist in the world he knew.
   The only positive item he learned was that there seemed
to be nothing linking Phoc to anything they had so far.
If the real Richard Jackson was coming here, he no doubt
would learn the same thing and be similarly disappointed.
There seemed to be nothing else to do here, and it rankled
him how he was forced to feel ignorant for not speaking the
local language.
   Frankie resolved to look for Phoc and insist on taking
the next flight back to the US.  If only he could figure out
where the man had gone -- the portico was vacant.  With an
annoyed shrug, Frankie sat down on the steps.

   Barely a few minutes later, a middle-aged figure in a
crisp olive-green uniform inched toward him, slightly
favoring his right leg.  In his right hand, he carried a
briefcase which was shackled to his wrist.  The orderly
stopped five feet away, and spoke with uncertainty.
   "Are you the American who came with Mr. Phoc Dhat?"
   "Who wants to know?"
   "Please, sir.  Is very important.  I must find him."
   "What for?"
   "There have been changes.  Do you know where he is?"
   "What sort of changes?"
   "You do not know?" the courier sighed miserably.
"Perhaps I have said too much!"
   Frankie arose decisively and approached the figure.
"Give the papers to me.  I'll be sure he sees them."
   The orderly shook his head vigorously.  "Oh, no!  I have
been instructed to give them to him personally!"
   "I will give them to him."
   "Oh, no!  I have been given strict instructions!"
   Frankie took another threatening step towards the man,
who attempted to stand his ground.  "Let me guess.  You're
supposed to die before you even think of giving up the key
to the briefcase?"  He watched the ever diminishing figure
nod meekly.  "That can be arranged."
   Less than a minute later, the orderly had fled, leaving
the briefcase behind.  Frankie pondered the envelope he
found inside, turning it over in his hands.  This was a
totally new development, suggesting that Phoc Dhat was up to
something he hadn't revealed.
   With some annoyance, Frankie opened the envelope and
withdrew its contents.
   A block away, the orderly watched the event, and smiled.

                           *****

   At approximately one AM, the Jackson apartment came back
to life.  There was very little in the way of preparations,
especially since few had much handy to prepare.  Promising
plenty of sleep on the trans-Atlantic flight, Richard handed
out the tickets that General Tripper had arranged.  He then
led the way out into the street.
   They were met by additional policemen, whose presence was
entirely unexpected.
   "Mr. Richard Jackson?  Nevada State Police."
   "Is this about that arson case again?" [#5]
   "Yes, sir.  It is."
   "I've already said everything I know.  I'm sorry to be so
short with you, but I'm in a bit of a rush."
   "I'm afraid you'll have to delay your trip.  I have a
warrant for your arrest."
   Richard stopped where he was, and looked squarely back at
the officer.  "On what grounds?"
   "Arson, and conspiracy to commit arson.  If you'll come
with me, sir."
   Richard looked at the group of travelers behind him.
They also had been caught by surprise, except for Horace,
who joined him down at the street level.  "If you'd please,
I'd like a word with my client."


   IS HORACE BEASLEY REALLY A LAWYER?
   IS RICHARD JACKSON REALLY UNDER ARREST?
   WHO WAS THAT MASKED ORDERLY?
   WILL THE AUTHOR EVER GET WITH THE PROGRAM?

Find out next time.  Only one   SUPERGUY