|
The yellow oak leaf fluttered from a branch ten meters over the ground. It landed in a capillary nest, then a sudden gust
of wind whisked the leaf off the hairy bed.
Mark Maclure did not feel the intruder drop on his tousled hair. He remained intent upon entering the motel. The clear night
in October was windy, but not yet cold, although crisp fall jumped out of the air.
Ignoring the frigid froth, Mark entered my workplace. I recognized him immediately, and we hugged. His cerulean eyes reveled
the seriousness of the situation.
"Okay, What's up?" I broached.
"I need you once again in Pittsburgh."
"Are you in trouble again?" I asked lugubriously. "Don't tell me you're accused of murder."
"Actually, you're half right," Mark smirked. "We've had a rash of murders at Cantaloop Bank -- all victims have been assistants
to the president of the main branch."
I swallowed hard as Mark unraveled the details. Twice the assistant to the president had died under mysterious circumstances.
One died in an apparent car accident, but then another later lay strangled in his apartment. The second one galvanized the
police into a frenzy, with no progress. In pure desperation, the president, Leon Trum, had asked Mark personally to solicit
my assistance.
Mark called Trum from my place after I'd left work. I still had to go once more before my substitute took over. Mark decided
to stay until Sunday so we could malebond* that Saturday evening. Taking both cars, we left State College Sunday afternoon.
The day was typical in October. Scarlet and saffron leaves contrasted an azure sky. Mark called the president as soon as we
had arrived at his apartment. Soon we were at the house of the president. We got down to business immediately.
"What makes you suspicious about these deaths?"
"The car accident was strange by itself, but the police ruled it as falling asleep in a car. The strangulation has changed
their minds about both deaths."
"Is there any other nexus?"
"No. Only they were both my assistants."
"I heard of a radical group who opposed Cantaloop and others a few years ago for spreading unemployment in Pittsburgh. Did
the police check that angle?"
"Leon thought of that immediately," Mark replied. "So did the police."
"May I see the sheets on these two?"
"Mark, show George your comp."
Mark took me to his office. I spent the next several hours trying every other possibility besides the obvious. There was no
other nexus!
Then I asked about the previous assistant. Lesley Lee had worked his way for twenty years up to the position. Then he suddenly
dropped out of sight. Revenge seemed silly in this situation.
My intuition suggested that both Lesley Lee and something else had something to do with the deaths. It remained with me on
Monday morning, 20 October. Drizzle persisted while I rode with Mark to work.
"Do you think it has to do with the position of assistant to the president?" Mark asked on the way.
"What bothers me is that we have only two points of reference. I would be more comfortable with more clues."
"Perhaps our current assistant, Dave Breck, will help us out."
"How long has Breck been in the position?"
"Merely four weeks. There's an automatic promotion in case of death, retirement, or resignation."
"Hmm, who's next in line for assistant to the president?"
"You know, George. Everything's been going so fast that I don't know. Now, there's an angle for you!"
I smiled at Mark. "You're a good buddy for clues," I added while patting his shoulders.
*originally "buddying around"
By this time, Mark had pulled into the Cantaloop parking lot. Soon we were outside the door of the assistant to the president.
As I was about to knock, Trum came out of his office.
"Any ideas since yesterday?"
"Actually, yes. Could you tell me who is next in succession for assistant to the president?"
"Just a minute, George. I'll find out for you."
I turned to Mark. "Now we're getting productive."
I knocked on the door. "Shouldn't Breck be here by nine o'clock?"
Mark looked puzzled. "Yes, definitely by nine."
After my perfunctory knocks evoked no response, I stole an aperçu into the office. My eyes met an inert being slumped over
the desk. I could see a bloody white shirt. I slipped into the room and found no pulse.
My fingers found a telephone outside the room to dial the police. Mark looked frightened when he saw me dial. I gave him a
glance, then a nod. Mark turned wan and sat down at the nearest chair.
When I finished talking, I spoke to Mark. "We'd better get that door locked and guarded until the police come. Did you find
out who's next in line to be assistant to the president?"
"Yes," Mark whispered hoarsely. "I am."
"You are?" I exclaimed incredulously. A wan flash nauseated my mind at the thought of another murder charge. Then I realized
that the situation was not even that simple. Some crafty lunatic could be lining up Mark as his next victim! I stared at
Mark's grey suit, white shirt, and red tie, and I saw him in a casket!
Such morbid thoughts exploded me back into reality. I must be prepared for the challenge of such high stakes.
"Mark, who'd be here on a Sunday?"
"Why, no one!"
"I'd guess someone was here to murder Breck, probably on Sunday morning."
"When we were having a good time in State College," Mark added lugubriously.
I broke out a smile. "Keep your humor; you'll probably need it!"
"Okay, what's the scoop?"
"I stole a good look at the corpse. I'd say someone placed it in that position."
"Why's that?"
"After death, the blood settles to the bottom of the body. I saw no ruddiness on the side of the head lying on the desk.
Furthermore, someone shot him in the heart, yet there is very little blood on the shirt. I'd guess Breck died supinely."
Soon the police arrived, and I offered my observations to no avail. However, I did get a second look at the room. Later I
quizzed Mark on any similarities between the previous murder and this one. Mark couldn't help, but Leon Trum conceded me a
good look through his copies of the police reports. Mark, of course, wanted to help, but I assured him that he should do
his own work to make everything seem as normal as possible.
I took a legal pad and wrote down all the articles in the crash. I knew that something significant could have been lost there,
but I intended to use the first incident -- when the police were not so careful -- as a check on the other one.
It was afternoon when I inquired about the last report. Trum could not obtain a copy until the next day. Disappointed, I
rode home with Mark in abject silence. Mark knew the mood well, so he complied in the quiet. There were some fifty similarities
between the incidents!
On Tuesday, I realized that I needed some automated help. I turned on Trum's comp and began the matchup. Once I had it in
the memory bank, I expected to add the last report for a quick scan.
My intestines announced that I hadn't eaten since breakfast, so I had a collation at noon. I had become impatient for the
report on the last murder.
It was Wednesday the Twentysecond when the lack of a police report finally got to me. I told Mark that I would have to start
circumventing official boundaries. For some subterfuge, I needed some help. I called my mother in Wilkes-Barré to get the
team together. Keith Cahill and Joe Tunk volunteered to take the five-hour trip.
Keith and Joe arrived Friday night. I had used an inside contact to get the police report.
"Here's when we go to work," I announced as they arrived at Mark's apartment. "This is the last murder report. I want you
to read off my list of articles found on and around the body, and I'll compare them to the police report on the last murder."
Keith read the first article audibly, then Joe on the second report, and I looked for the article on the last. We wasted Friday
night trying to find a nexus.
I was quite irritable on Saturday morning when I met Mark at the breakfast table. His eyes apologized.
"As much as I'd like to help you, buddy, I can't seem to add to the investigation in progress," I confessed.
"Perhaps I can apprise you better today," Mark replied softly. "At least I have the day off."
"It still doesn't help me after I've culled through every angle and come up with nothing."
"Nonsense, George. Have a croissant."
"A croissant? Oh, yeah, there was an empty bag near Breck, as I recall it was a croissant bag."
"That's strange, George. Breck didn't like croissants!"
"Did it occur to you that the murder transpired Saturday night instead of Sunday morning?"
"Wait a minute. What does THAT have to do with croissants?"
"Simple, Mark. Why else would someone forget a croissant bag? Where does you company get them?"
"Ultimately from a bakery in the suburbs called Vide France, which makes French bread and croissants."
"By any chance, are they open today?"
"Yes, but not to the public. Vide France sells to retail. The bakery just opened in Pittsburgh this year to relieve the
pressure from the Philadelphia division," Mark informed.
"I suggest we four pay a visit to this bakery tonight when supposedly no one is around."
"I guess so. It's all we have to go on, and my hide depends upon it."
"I knew you'd say that," I concluded with a backslap.
On Tuesday, I realized that I needed some automated help. I turned on Trum's comp and began the matchup. Once I had it in
the memory bank, I expected to add the last report for a quick scan.
My intestines announced that I hadn't eaten since breakfast, so I had a collation at noon. I had become impatient for the
report on the last murder.
It was Wednesday the Twentysecond when the lack of a police report finally got to me. I told Mark that I would have to start
circumventing official boundaries. For some subterfuge, I needed some help. I called my mother in Wilkes-Barré to get the
team together. Keith Cahill and Joe Tunk volunteered to take the five-hour trip.
Keith and Joe arrived Friday night. I had used an inside contact to get the police report.
"Here's when we go to work," I announced as they arrived at Mark's apartment. "This is the last murder report. I want you
to read off my list of articles found on and around the body, and I'll compare them to the police report on the last murder."
Keith read the first article audibly, then Joe on the second report, and I looked for the article on the last. We wasted Friday
night trying to find a nexus.
I was quite irritable on Saturday morning when I met Mark at the breakfast table. His eyes apologized.
"As much as I'd like to help you, buddy, I can't seem to add to the investigation in progress," I confessed.
"Perhaps I can apprise you better today," Mark replied softly. "At least I have the day off."
"It still doesn't help me after I've culled through every angle and come up with nothing."
"Nonsense, George. Have a croissant."
"A croissant? Oh, yeah, there was an empty bag near Breck, as I recall it was a croissant bag."
"That's strange, George. Breck didn't like croissants!"
"Did it occur to you that the murder transpired Saturday night instead of Sunday morning?"
"Wait a minute. What does THAT have to do with croissants?"
"Simple, Mark. Why else would someone forget a croissant bag? Where does you company get them?"
"Ultimately from a bakery in the suburbs called Vide France, which makes French bread and croissants."
"By any chance, are they open today?"
"Yes, but not to the public. Vide France sells to retail. The bakery just opened in Pittsburgh this year to relieve the
pressure from the Philadelphia division," Mark informed.
"I suggest we four pay a visit to this bakery tonight when supposedly no one is around."
"I guess so. It's all we have to go on, and my hide depends upon it."
"I knew you'd say that, "I concluded with a backslap.
A closer look at those same bedroom windows
The gloaming atmosphere greeted us. We changed to standard time that evening, so darkness came earlier than usual. Soon I
could detect no lights in the bakery. We slipped up to the garage door, and, with a little luck, unlatched the door.
"Keep the flashlights near the floor," I commanded. The balmy scent of the bakery alerted me. We were at the receiving dock.
Pallets of boxes flanked us on either side -- some brown, some white, some had their size marked. A swinging door led me to
the main room of the bakery, probably a packing area. Large freezers occupied one side, open containers of boxes on the shelves
of movable tables fronted tens of bread racks. There was even an unused conveyor belt in the corner. Other swinging doors
led to the other rooms. Each one led to three different areas, so my three companions followed each way while I charged forward
into a lunchroom and a locked door!
"Obviously, these must be the offices," I thought. Then a deafening crash proclaimed on of my pals in trouble. I scurried
back into the packing room and silhouetted a figure sallying into the receiving dock. By the time I ran the twentyfive-meter
dash into the dock, such a canter became bootless; I saw no one athwart me.
Halfway along the dock aroused a forklift. Before I'd finished gathering my wits, steel prongs assailed me at two meters a
second. They were half a meter from me when I leapt away from the stack behind me.
A grinding noise preceded the rattle of the entire rack behind me. The driverless forklift tried to push the rack aside and
managed to tilt it. Instinctively I ran for cover. An overheated motor became odiferous as the rack fell atop the forklift.
I felt the displaced air push against my face and hair.
To avoid a conflagration, I turned off the motor. My adversary had long gone, so I followed my flashlight back into the packing
area.
"Come on, guys. It's best we get out of here fast," I ordered. I noticed Mark and Joe were comforting Keith just outside the
door leading toward the ovens. I pushed open the door, and hot molasses had just missed Keith. I saw that a precarious perch
atop a step ladder had held the boiling mixture ready for the first person to push open the swinging door. I retreated from
the mess and went to mollify Keith's understandable behavior.
My hand settled on his shoulder. Wordlessly I sympathized with my little buddy. We hied out the receiving dock and into Mark's
car. I suspected that the croissant bag had been a false clue. With Mark at the wheel, I settled into cerebration.
Monday morning brought crisp autumnal weather. Mark took over his newly acquired position as assistant to the president while
I searched for lunatics locally. A group, called the Pittsburgh Employment Coalition, protested the outflow of jobs by leaving
gory presents on the doorsteps of the major institutions, the perceived offenders. I had doubts about this lead because no
other firm had had any such trouble. I hoped to find out why they had singled out Cantaloop Bank.
On Wednesday I received the inside financial reports, to no avail. There was just no nexus. I began to think that we'd surprised
some thieves at the Vide France bakery and nothing more. I found that theory strange because the newspapers reported nothing
about it. I couldn't find the telephone number of the bakery in the book.
Finally, on Thursday, I took some action and called the Vide France bakery in Philadelphia. I talked with the manager who
assured me that no such bakery existed in Pittsburgh. I mentioned the cookie bags and found out they were shams!
I called Mark later that afternoon at his office. He wasn't in, but he soon returned my call.
"I'm glad you called, George. I found some funny things happening to the books."
"Let me guess -- peculation."
"How did you know?"
"The Vide France bakery is as phony as a three-dollar bill. They have no bakery in Pittsburgh."
"I'll meet you there in an hour. I want to be there when we get this whole thing settled," Mark perorated.
Keith, Joe and I had waited in Mark's apartment some three hours before I panicked. When I fruitlessly called him three times,
we three took a bus to downtown Pittsburgh. My worst fears awaited us in Mark's office. Signs of a struggle ran a path from
the desk to the door. A Vide France cookie bag mocked us as it lay alongside the desk. The poltroons had kidnapped Mark!
Also, near the desk lay Mark's carkeys. I knew our next move; His car could take us back to the bakery.
In the benighted hills overlooking the bakery, we scanned for signs of life. There was a distinct smell of bread. Light
beams coruscated through the cracks in the warehouse. I could not validate my theory that the bakery was a sham. I needed
more proof for the authorities to believe me.
Friday morning, I combed through the books. I had to discover what Mark was going to tell me. By the afternoon, I had
uncovered several shipments of bread and croissants to people who did not use them. Was the bakery a front for some illegality?
Then I noticed everything had begun right before Lesley Lee left one year ago. I had found the probable provenance!
Once again, I dug into Lee's background. Interestingly he had listed religion as an avocation and that he had spent five
years in a bakery before he came to Cantaloop. Trum confirmed my suspicion, and a glance at the calendar told me that we had
to move that night!
We took my Renault and returned to the bakery. Joe, Keith and I approached it cautiously. We sneaked into the same garage
door, and it opened rather easily. Chanting diffused throughout the bakery. I sent Joe to call for help while I thought of
a ruse.
"First, we have to see just what is going on here," I whispered as we peered through the double doors leading
to the packing area. Keith and I gasped at the scene. A cult of females had gathered into a circle facing the wall on our
side. Fearing discovery, Keith and I looked for a way around the room. A second swinging set led to the same room, but we
found a third next to a refrigerator.
Candlelight revealed ovens and more packing space. We ducked into another room on the other side of the main room. As
I peered through the window of the swinging doors, I saw the only male in the cult, standing next to us, just beyond the door
leading to the cultroom. We went farther back to get around him. Air conditioning greeted us in the croissant room. We groped
to the next set of doors, which led to the mixing room.
Looking out of the portholes, we had a better position of the center of the circle. A gigantic white sheet covered what
appeared to be a box about two meters by one meter. Then we saw the male join the women in a chant. From the words of the
chants, I guessed this was a fertility cult, celebrating the harvest. What would fertility have to do with the assassinations
of the assistants?
Such an opprobrious scene left us aghast. I suggested that Keith leave to greet the authorities instead of watching what
I anticipated to be a gang rape.
There are two points of reference to Matthew Wayne Shepard on this story and sketch. The little guy was nine at the time
I drew it. One is that I drew Keith (1.70 m) so small that he is approximately Matt's height at adulthood (1.58 m). Two,
we're about to witness a gang rape. It is heterosexual; I never gave thought to gay characters at the time. Nonetheless,
the irony is chilling!
If I were to choose this picture for the cover of the story, I'd have to colorize it. Is Ted Turner available?
As the sudorific odor stenched in my nostrils, we discovered the reason for the chant -- Mark hung bound to a bed. Such an
opprobrious scene left us aghast. I suggested that Keith leave to greet the authorities instead of watching what I anticipated
to be a gang rape.
Mark hung unconsciously as they soothed his bound wrists and ankles. Using a vial of ammonia, they revived him rather roughly.
Mark winced as they were about to lower his body. Two women pulled Keith into the room.
"Another virgin," the sole male of the cult announced. One of the women examined Keith.
"We have a young virgin with a defiant look. Perhaps if we plucked out those hazel eyes and the recalcitrant tongue, we'll
have more cooperation."
I knew a surprise attack was useless. They were probably looking for someone else in the bakery. I spun around for a hiding
place. Outside light suggested the maintenance room, so I slipped into the shadows in the eerie light from the outside. I
groped to the way out, but the door would not budge, so I looked for a closet. A few turns put me in a pantry, then a light
followed me into the room.
"Put that light out!" commanded one woman. "Do you want someone outside to see us?"
I had thought I was safe until I heard their locking the door of the room! Diehard that I am, I knew I was trapped.
I tiptoed up to the door in time to hear one voice say, "Come on, we just captured another one for Sunday night!"
My mind outraced my gut action of despair. First, I looked for a telephone in the maintenance room, but the grey light revealed
none. Standing between escape and me, the glass door had one lock. I decided that to break out would be easier than to break
in. A pair of pliers broke the latch, but as I escaped, I heard a booming, "There's another one!"
Self-preservation took over when I sprinted from the four pursuers. Some two hundred meters away lay woods, which meant that
the next minute and a half would drag. Fortunately, I did not have time to contemplate whether Joe had called the police
before the cult had caught him. The thought of arrant rogues' raping my friends while I watched drove me ruthlessly toward
cover. Low brush forced me to jump into the woods, yet my action helped me dodge a whizzing object.
Once under cover, I began a complex backtrack, which led me into the industrial park behind the buildings which faced the
front of the bakery. My mind drifted back to the bakery and what was happening there.
As I copying this scene from my original script, I was tempted to change it considering cellphones. My character would NOT
be carrying one in 1986, so I kept that scene.
Then the police arrived. I scrambled to the police car in front of the bakery.
"Officers! The cult is in the back of the bakery."
Apparently, they didn't quite understand. I ducked through the shattered door whence I had come only minutes earlier. I passed
the ovens and returned to the packing room when I found Joe, lying dazed but unhurt, in front of the swinging door. "Where's
Mark?" I asked.
I helped Joe up, and we soon saw Mark in a cataleptic state. I found the vial with some ammonia still in it. Mark's nose reddened
as I waved the scent. He opened his eyes and asked weakly, "Where am I?"
I grabbed an amice to cover his bottom, and I put my denim jacket on him. I took my pocketknife and released Mark from the
bed.
Joe had found Mark's clothes. "It's amazing," he remarked. "They even had his suit on a hanger!"
"They wanted his corpse to look nice," I replied acrimoniously.
By this time, Mark was dishabilled in his underwear. Some officers had been observing our antics. I turned to them asked
if they had caught all the cult, particularly the ringleader. Lesley Lee and his cohorts had ingeniously fled in too many
different directions for the police to capture all the leaders.
"Great", I said disgustedly. "They're still at large. At lease they won't be raping anyone tonight."
"Maybe they will," Joe interrupted. "Keith's gone with them.!"
A wan flash accompanied my gulp. I swallowed hard again as I realized that indeed Keith was missing. I turned to Joe.
"Tell me what happened after you called the police."
"George, I didn't call them!"
"Then how?"
The leader of the patrol stepped forward. "A burglar alarm alerted us."
I slapped my head. "You mean my breaking out of the maintenance room set off a burglar alarm?"
"I'm afraid so, George," Joe confirmed. "I heard it go off right after they'd nabbed me. They struck me, and I fell near those
swinging doors. I heard them abduct Keith."
I became ambivalent about my actions. By setting off the burglar alarm, I saved us enough to extricate Joe and Mark from this
mess at the possible cost of Keith's life.
Crestfallen, I stared at the concrete floor. Litter stared back, but a book of matches caught my eye. Azure letters on white
read "Lee's Steakhouse". I picked the book up and turned to Mark.
"Where is this steakhouse?"
"On Danzig Road, about five kilometers from here", Mark replied, now fully dressed.
"By any wild guess, did Lee leave Cantaloop Bank to go into business for himself?"
"You're right! I remember that from the rumors around the office. He opened a store around August last year!"
"Is it still open?"
"It went out of business a month ago. It's for sale."
"Did the steakhouse close right after the first death?" I surmised.
Mark's eyes lit up. "Yes, and it went up for sale two weeks ago, after the second death!"
"Then I suggest we follow my conjecture to Lee's Steakhouse!"
My Renault pulled up to a clearing near the steakhouse. Mark looked incongruous in his suit, compared to our "suits" of denim
jackets and jeans. Mark had to sit in the back because he was the smallest, so hamstering in and out wrinkled the crispness
of his clothes.
The autumnal atmosphere had its own crispness. Brown weeds lined the foreground of a scene of denuded trees. Multicolored
foliage hid the covered ground. The darkness of the moonless night honed our hearing to the howling wind. The weakened sun
had shone in a clear sky only a few hours ago.
The police had reluctantly followed us. I had suggested they stay behind five minutes until I could test my deduction. It
had taken both Mark and me to convince them that we could find the rest of the cult. The arid leaves crinkled under our feet
as we tried to creep to the abandoned building furtively. I could not see any vehicles, but Lee could have hidden them in
the back.
Flickering light confirmed my surmise. I could see twenty meters away that four shiftless scoundrels shadowed the darkness.
Did they come there to finish their ritual?
I signaled my support to move in. My first concern was to rescue Keith. I slipped to the locked back door.
I took a skeleton key and turned it, hoping not to set off another burglar alarm. The latch slide back, and Joe and I slipped
inside.
It was warmer in the dining room than outside, but it was still fresh, maybe 10º. We were at the counter when we heard them
speak.
"If we should kill him, the others would still know what we were doing!"
"No, that's not what I said," Lee protested, still wearing his wizard's outfit. "I said we should mutilate him. Then we should
escape."
"Why do you want to mutilate him?"
"That's easy," Lee snickered. "It's a fate worse than death!"
"I still say a knife in the heart would be much easier. It takes time to pluck out eyes and a tongue."
By this time, I had found my way to the drive-in side of the steakhouse. Keith lay in a wretched mass under a silver metal
table. I found a butcher knife, put my left hand on the nape of his neck, and whispered, "Hi, buddy. I'll have you loose in
a minute."
Keith had heard my approach and had tensed considerably. My sentence assuaged his fear, and his body relaxed. I unblindfolded
him, and his hazel eyes thanked me. I ungagged him, cut his body bonds, and sat him up. Joe whispered from his position, "They're
coming back!" as I unbounded Keith's wrists. I gave Keith the knife to unbind his ankles while I contemplated an impromptu
diversion.
Alas, I had forgotten to delay the police, for at that moment they were at the front door! Joe hadn't time to get to the
door when Lee spied the cops.
"Quickly, out the back!" boomed the command. I was in the backroom in a flash, but Mark and I were a few seconds too late.
My heart sank because I knew my Renault couldn't race after them. Fortunately, I heard Lee's car refuse to start. Mark stood
by me at the backdoor as we located the whirr. He was still grinning while he wiped his hands in a handkerchief.
"I hope you didn't soil your suit," I remarked with a backslap. Keith joined us, and we loped toward the disabled car. By
the time we three had reached the vehicle, Lee and his cohorts were gone.
"Look," Keith shouted, "There goes Lee!"
We turned toward Keith's indication just in time to see Lee run into a warehouse. After a ten-second sprint, I was there
first. Lee had not time to lock the door, so I slipped inside cautiously. My wariness served me well, for a few columns
of crates crashed down on the floor five meters ahead of my position.
"Are you all right, George?" a concerned voice called out behind me.
"I'm okay, buddy."
A mechanical noise aborted my next sentence. Some fifty meters ahead, rollers squeaked as metal met metal. Outside light began
streaming into the warehouse, making it easier for me to approach the source.
Overriding the din, a horse powered engine started in the warehouse. I saw Lee take off on a Honda all-terrain vehicle. Exhaust
greeted me at the spot by the time I had reached it. There was enough dim light for me to see other Hondas. I hopped on the
closest one and started it. Accompanying revs testified that my friends were following my lead. It was a good move, for the
doors began to close soon after we had blasted off.
I ducked my head unnecessarily as I sped out, but Keith and Mark had to do so to avoid decapitation. I spied Lee some fifty
meters ahead when I heard the doors hit the concrete floor.
My buddies were almost caught up to me, but even at a hundred kilometers an hour, Lee was leaving us behind. Then sixty meters
ahead, Lee disappeared briefly until I saw him enter a glade. I accelerated to one hundred twenty, keeping pace with Lee and
trying to follow his path in the shadows. It was easier for Keith and Mark to follow in my path, because they were within
twenty meters, enough to copy the three-wheeled tracks.
By this time, I had entered the glade. I pushed to one hundred forty because I could see the branches I had to duck more clearly.
Lee curved off the path into the glade, so I veered after him. The fall weather made the chase easier, because the underbrush
gave little resistance. Furthermore, Keith and Mark flanked my Honda, forcing Lee to keep going straight. We sped uphill
on a gain, because Lee had not accelerated before he ran up the hill. I approached within thirty meters when I saw the top
of the hill. Self-preservation forced me to decelerate when I could not see the other side of the hill.
All three of us slackened as we saw Lee become airborne. Apparently, he did not know we were running up a cliff, a lethal
error. We sidled enough to halt at the edge of the scree while Lee plummeted toward a grove. It was too dark to see the impact,
but the collision engendered a fireball. A half-second later, we heard the explosion some two hundred meters away. So much
for mutilation and death!
We sped back to get the forest service to keep the fire from spreading. The dry leaves made it a difficult task, but a cloudburst
turned the tide an hour later.
EPILOGUE
"How did you figure out what Lee was doing?" Mark asked me as we sat at his kitchen table."
"I knew that Lee must have been embezzling funds to get a business started and left. What bothered me was why he stopped
last year. The danger -- that someone else would discover it -- surfaced soon afterwards. I began to suspect that Lee had
to be behind the murders, but far enough behind to be well hidden. It was a case why three murders happened, what was the
nexus. I had to be careful before I was sure that they were related."
"Okay, but what role did the cookie bag play in the theory?" Mark asked.
"Actually, it was a lucky break. We ran off on a wild goose chase, and it proved fruitful. I'd guess that the bag just happened
to be there at the scene of the third murder. It surely wasn't there at the previous two. A cookie bag played a critical
role to solve this mystery. Lee used the Vide France ruse to keep tabs on his successors, and it was ingenious. However, Lee
failed to understand the significance of the bag to an outsider. Thus, Leon Trum gets the credit for bringing me in to interpret
the clues. Who knows how far this cult would have gone before an egregious error betrayed it?"
"I know what you mean," Mark gulped. "I was to be the fourth victim."
"I'm glad to save you; you're worth it," I replied warmly.
"Well, guys," Keith added. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready to go back to Wilkes-Barré."
"Same here," Joe added.
"Well," I concluded. "We are leaving Pittsburgh tomorrow. I must get back to State College before someone steals my desk
job."
We all laughed at that remark. We soon retired because it was 1 A.M. A new month, November, had begun, the case was closed,
and a new adventure awaited me in State College.
(Note: The Case of the Deluded Delinquents")
|
