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  Kenneth Lawson
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Carrie's Revenge

7/26/2022

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A warm summer breeze blew through the street as Benny stood on yet another corner waiting to meet a contact. In mid-August, the temperatures were running as high as the tension in the country. Something had to give. 
In the months following Carrie’s death and finding the note in her treasure box, he had been working with the underground taking up where Carrie had left off. At first, it had been a burning rage that had driven him, but the rage subsided, leaving a deep and powerful need for justice with a hint of revenge for good measure.
Benny had long ago burned the note Carrie left him inside the treasure box, which now sat on his mantle. A daily reminder of why he was risking his life to help bring down the totalitarian government that had slowly steadily taken over the country for several decades. Freedoms, once casually bantered about, were no longer theirs—now only spoken of in secret. It was past time that the government was held accountable by the people.
Benny knew it was easy to say the government was evil, but it wasn’t the government that was evil. The prominent players in office who were running things were the problem. He was under no illusions that getting rid of them would instantly fix anything, but it would go a long way toward it. There had considerable pushback in the early days, but now only a few souls refused to do as ordered. They learned to keep their resistance secret. 
As far as they could tell, State Security had chosen to ignore Benny publicly after Carrie’s death. While there appeared to be no surveillance on him, tail, phone, or email tap, they suspected he was watched and took appropriate precautions.
Benny leaned against the brick wall of a storefront near a bus stop, pretending to read a newspaper while he waited for his contact, and hoped she wouldn’t be late. 
Laura was a short redhead, an attitude that managed to get her into the top government offices. She was intelligent, pretty, and flirty enough to get their attention but not make them suspicious. Her current position in the IT department gave her access to many top-secret documents but getting them out of the secure file server room had been impossible until recently.
They had introduced a door access code that bypassed normal security protocols and gave her access to any file on the server regardless of security clearance. It also wiped any trace of her snooping and copying behind her. She was fully aware that even with those precautions, it would be possible, with the right tools, to figure out someone had been there. But it should eliminate how or who. At least, she prayed it did.
Getting the information out of the building was challenging as getting into the secure rooms. She had become friends with one of the guards, and he often let her pass without looking too closely. Thus, she could slip past with a tiny USB drive hidden in plain sight. Laura had started wearing computer-themed jewelry—cutesy jewelry designed to look like cartoony thumb drives. She would slip the real thumb drives inside, and the guards didn’t notice that she smuggled a working drive out.
Benny spotted Laura’s red mane bouncing half a block from where he stood. As she approached, he dropped the newspaper just in time for it to land in front of Laura as she reached him. Laura helped him pick up the scattered paper, and they made polite conversations, with him thanking her for helping pick it up. She went on her way down the block and around the corner while Benny spent a few minutes refolding the newspaper before he headed off in the opposite direction. The drop was made.
Benny took his time. He stopped at a coffee shop for a cup of java to see if he had picked up a tail. As he sipped his coffee and nibbled on a couple of donuts, he slipped the USB drive from the folded newspaper and placed it in his pocket. He detested sports but pretended to read the sports section while he finished his last donut and downed his coffee. Paying his bill, he collected the newspaper and headed to the sidewalk.
Turning right, he thought he caught a glimpse of a figure standing across the street and down the block a bit. His blood ran cold. They would kill him instantly if they found the USB drive on him. No questions asked, and Laura would be next.
Spotting a bus stop with several people waiting, he slipped inside the group. Within a minute, the city bus pulled up, and the doors hissed as they opened. He resisted the urge to be first in the line up the steps into the bus. When the bus pulled away, he started to breathe again. That was close—too close. 
***
Benny slouched down as low as he could in the seat to avoid anyone seeing him. He assumed they had seen Laura stop to help him with the dropped newspaper and worried that they suspected her or that they would now. 
Benny got off at the next stop, a large box store, leaving the newspaper on the seat. He followed a group heading into the store and broke off to find a restroom. Once inside, he grabbed a handful of paper towels and headed into a stall, where he took the USB drive from his pocket and slipped it into a hidden slit in the back of his leather belt. He took the usual precautions, wiping the door and anything he’d touched to remove his fingerprints, then left the restroom. He felt calmer, but the kicked-in-the-gut scared feeling never left him. The outline of the thumb drive pressed against his back was a constant reminder to keep on guard.
He returned to his apartment and busied himself with housework. His regular job had left him little time to keep up with everyday chores, and now that he was doing covert jobs for the resistance on the side, he had less time. As he cleaned, Benny would stare at the treasure box on the mantle and let his mind replay that horrible moment when Carrie had been murdered right before him. Swearing to himself, he vowed that someday they would regret that killing. He didn’t know how yet.
It was dusk when Benny ventured out again. Over the last few months, taking an evening walk had become his practice. The route took him along a street with several deserted houses and tall lawns filled with debris. Benny had wrapped the USB drive in a candy wrapper, placed it into a plastic grocery bag, and as he passed the first house, he dropped the wrapper in the grass near the well-worn sidewalk. Returning home, he casually checked his mail, lifted the red flag on his mailbox, and went inside.
The following day Benny found the flag on his mailbox down. His indication that the drop was successful. 
                                               ***
Benny met with Laura again the following week. This time was no less stressful, but the stakes were even higher. The files she had stolen from the secure server room proved invaluable in formulating a plan to bring down the current regime.
For that to happen, certain people had to die simultaneously. The list was specific. The top name on the list was Maxx Barker, head of the State Security Department and known to be responsible for the disappearances of a large number of members of the resistance underground. Laura had also found the paperwork ordering the killing of Carrie. Benny trembled with rage as he read the documents. The moment all those months ago came rushing back to him. Replaying the scene one more time in his mind, he almost crumpled the paper, but Laura gently took it away from him.
“We need this.” She spoke calmly.
Benny sighed and let go. He knew they needed all the paperwork to prove what they would announce in a few days.
On Friday, July Fourth, Benny found himself waiting on a back street near the headquarters of the security department. While the Fourth of July was still an official holiday, the government discouraged an active celebration and chose to mark the day with a ceremony and speeches broadcast over the media, with as little fanfare as possible.
As expected, Maxx Barker emerged from the rear of the building into an alley where his car was waiting. With two security guards in tow, Barker approached the Mercedes,
Benny whispered into a concealed mic, “Got Barker,” stepped out of the shadows, and fired two quick rounds, dropping the guards where they stood. Barked stopped in his tracks, a glint of fear in his eye.
“Maxx, Maxx Barker?”   Bennie aimed his rifle at the center of Maxx Barker’s chest. “You remember Carrie Anderson? You ordered her murdered in the street like a dog.”
Maxx swallowed but seemed to gain his composure. “Yes, I remember her. She was a remarkable young woman. Pity, she had to die so soon.”
Benny felt an iciness in his voice as he replied. “Yes. She was remarkable and believed in standing up for what’s right and true.”
“Like you are now?” Maxx sneered, seemingly unafraid of Benny or his shotgun. By now, Benny could see the scars and wrinkles on Maxx’s face and smell his alcohol-induced bravado. Benny chuckled. The bastard seriously didn’t think he would shoot him.
The knuckles on Benny’s hand turned white as he gripped the shotgun. His right hand firmly wrapped around the grip and his finger in the trigger guard gently touched the trigger. His left hand extends to the stock and holds the wooden slide under the barrel, keeping the gun level with Maxx.
“Yes, I am.”
Maxx reached out to take the gun from Benny, “You might have shot a couple of thugs like my guards, but you know who I am and what I am capable of doing. You don’t have the balls to shoot me.” He showed a toothy grin.
“I grew them the day you killed Carrie.”

Benny’s earpiece crackled, and a voice yelled into his ear. “NOW!!!!”
 Benny fired the shotgun three times, dropping Maxx Barker onto the street like the mangy creature he was.
The revolution began with revenge for Carrie.
 

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The Treasure Box

6/29/2022

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Benny sat on his bed, head in hands as a thought kept floating around in his head, like a line from a song playing on auto-repeat. What if Carrie hadn’t died?

But she had, and he knew why and how. But what if she hadn’t? The what if’s nagged at him until he decided he had to find out one way or the other.

Benny knew the truth. She died because she stood up for what was right. They killed her over the truth.
 
He slammed his hands into the mattress so violently he could feel the sharp springs. His anger grew as he replayed her death scene in his mind. 

He’d been powerless to stop them from killing her in the street, in broad daylight. There was nothing he could do. No one blinked at what happened. They were all brainwashed with the party line, and anyone who didn’t toe the official line was a target. She had not toed the line privately or publicly, and her efforts were getting results—results they didn’t like. She became more than a minor annoyance but a serious problem. Serious problems tended to disappear by design, and she was “disappeared,” but not before they made an example out of her.

Benny knew who had given the order to have her eliminated publicly, who ordered the State Guards to kill her and display her body as a trophy. As much as he wanted to kill the man responsible, that action would only cause more deaths, including his, so another solution had to be found.

Carrie’s last words to him before hell broke loose and they murdered her echoed in his mind. She said she would always remember her past, safely tucked inside her treasure box, the old wooden box of trinkets and keepsakes from a past life to which neither of them wished to return.

 
Benny had seen most of the bits and bobs in the box before—birthday cards, various pieces of jewelry, and several love letters he had written to her in another place and time. He couldn’t bear to look at them, but he knew he had to look through the items. He had to know what Carrie meant by her past was safe.
Carefully he took everything from the box, laying the mementos of her life onto the bed one item at a time. He stared at the items. Nothing looked out of place or suspicious. Absently, he picked up the box and noticed something was off. The interior wasn’t as deep as it should be from the outside depth.


It looked as he remembered, scratched, its finish worn. He had teased her because she carried the box wherever she went. She would tuck it in an oversized purse or a backpack when they went camping. It was never far from her side, even in the house. Now it was all he had left of her, but something was wrong.

Suspecting a false compartment, Benny ran his fingertip along the sides of the bottom surface until he felt a barely perceptible difference in the edge. He pressed down, felt the surface spring pop loose, and gently pried open the false bottom. 

Inside was a single slip of paper—a note in Carrie’s small, neat handwriting dated years before.
 

Benny,

If you’re reading this, I am dead, likely murdered. I always knew it was possible but hoped you would never have to suffer through my death. 

You never knew the truth or scope of my work—now you must. The phone number I have included will put you in touch with someone who will explain everything. But you must not be overheard, so ensure you are alone.

Think carefully. If you call this number, your life will change, and you will be in grave danger. I understand if you choose to walk away. If you decide not to make the call, burn this letter and never think of it again.

Love always, Carrie.


Benny replaced the items, except for the note, back into the box exactly as he found them. For hours he sat on the edge of the bed, his mind reeling. 

Near midnight, under cover of darkness, Benny stood on a deserted street and made the call.


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Off-Book

4/29/2022

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Off-Book
​“A project or mission that is not officially sanctioned or has an official record.”


 
Officially I’m in the South of France, sunning myself on the Riviera, and at least a dozen witnesses will swear they saw me. A document trail shows that I flew over on Air France, and I hired a Jaguar for the week. After flying in, I made a few casual acquaintances and told them I was going on a driving trip across France for several days, being very vague about where I was going and when I’d be back.
However, that was only a cover. I drove into the night until I reached a small clearing in the middle of nowhere and hurried aboard a small plane that took me back to where I had just left. My double would continue my trip, making sure to stay away from people and only be seen from a distance.
Part of me wished I still were driving through France, but there are certain jobs only I could do. I “borrowed” a car from a local car dealer, but I would return it before anyone missed it. I was parked next to the pier, waiting for them to arrive.
The lights from Artie’s Bar and Grill reflected off the water. I considered going back in, but the stench of beer and whatever they were smoking was enough to give me a migraine and drove me out the first time. I waited in the car.
About one a.m., a small light appeared on the horizon and blinked for barely a second—my signal. A few minutes later, a small watercraft eased out of the shadows and bumped against the sandy beach near the pier’s pylons. I shifted my pistol in my hands and waited for them to climb out of the boat.
The last thing I wanted was gunplay because a gunshot would echo for miles. I didn’t want to be discovered or deal with unexpected dead bodies—too many problems.
Officially we had nothing to do with the escape of a war prisoner and his return to his homeland, but wheels had been set in motion several weeks ago that guaranteed that he would be returning. The only problem was that no one currently in the company knew what he looked like now. It had been years since he’d gone under deep cover, and intel revealed he’d changed his appearance voluntarily several times since then. Upon capture, his captors tortured and disfigured him even more.
I was the only one left from the original training crew who knew him well and would know things only he’d know. It was my job to vet him or kill him.
Two figures emerged from the shadows of the pier. Silhouetted against the moon and water, they were easy targets if one had a mind to take them out. At this point, I hoped that I could avoid having to kill who I hoped was my closest friend.
Leaning against the car’s front fender, I had my gun in the shadow but ready. 
One man spoke as he approached me. “Nice night for a swim, eh?”
“Yes. If you enjoy freezing your ass off,” I countered with the response to the passphrase.
A cool breeze blew in off the water as he spoke. “You have the necessary papers?” 
He pulled a plastic pouch from inside his jacket, handing it to me. I read enough of the enclosed documents in the full moonlight to tell they were real.
The second figure hung back just behind the man I was talking to, and I spoke. “Lenny?”
He stepped forward, taking off his cap. “Roger, it’s good to see you again.” He pulled me into a hug. I let him wrap his arms around my shoulders and tried to remember what I could of our days.
“You know I have to vet you, make sure you’re Lenny Storm?”
He nodded. “Yes, ask me anything you like.”
We got into the car. I had him slide into the back seat while I got behind the wheel. Turning around in the seat, I asked him, “Remember Betty Summers?”
“Yeah, let me think, the name sounds familiar.”
“Should remember, you dated her for almost a year. “
”Yeah, that was before she got into the Mensa program, and I wasn’t good enough for her.”
I had been studying all the old records from back in training to remember as much as I could. I had to pull out something more obscure. If he were a trained agent, he could bullshit me all day, and I’d probably never realize it. There had to be a tell to show me he was the real Lenny. We made small talk on the drive back into town and to the motel where I had a room. He seemed to know all the old gossip and who had been doing what with whom. 
Once in the room, I could see the damage they’d done to him. His face had healed, but he looked like a stranger to me, not my oldest best friend. I could tell by how he got out of the car and moved that he was in pain, but he never said a word. I tossed him a big bottle of painkillers, and he grinned and thanked me. While he took a handful of pills, I considered what to do next.
“Lenny. It’s time for the hard questions.”
Easing himself down on the bed across from me, he eyed the pistol still in my hand. “You going to put that away?”
“I’d like to, but…”
“You’re still not sure who I am.” I nodded yes, and he continued. “I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either.”
We sat and talked for the next several hours. Topics included old instructors and the missions we worked together right out of training. He seemed to know everything he should. But something still wasn’t quite right. There was a lingering doubt in my mind that he was the real Lenny. Something he’d said or hadn’t said didn’t ring true, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Finally, I sat up straight and aimed my pistol at his head. “You’re not the real Lenny Stone. You’re a very good copy. You studied everything, did your research well, and even found out stuff no one else knew. You almost had me fooled.”
His face suddenly turned hard, and he sat upright and tensed up.
“You went through hell for nothing. Getting your face mangled to pass as Lenny, but you’re not him.”
I picked up my phone and hit a button. “Control, this is Zero-One Twenty-Three on the rescue mission. It’s a NO GO.”
“Terminate,” was the response, and the line went dead.
I tossed the phone to one side and screwed a suppressor on the end of the barrel. Leveling the pistol at “Lenny,” I asked if he had any last words.
“What gave it away?”
“The real Lenny wouldn’t have hugged me in a million years.”
Thud times two, and “Lenny Storm” lay dead on the bed. I made another phone call, and within an hour, no trace remained to show that we’d ever been here. Another hour later, I was on my way to the South of France. Sun on the beach and maybe fishing from that beach.
Sometimes this job sucked big time.

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Ghost Story

10/29/2021

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All that Jason saw were the trees and the narrow road that ran between them. The gnarly trees covered the road so thoroughly that the sky wasn’t visible beyond them. Fog covered everything, making the trees even darker. A cool breeze made him shiver, adding to his sense of dread.
Two turns ago, he had been on the main road. Having followed directions, he found himself looking at a road that seemed to go nowhere. He took a deep breath and thought about how he had arrived there.
Jason had run across her several times. Each time she seemed distant as if she were in her world. To a certain extent, we all live in our own world, but she carried it further than most. Everyone called her the Crazy Lady because she was always talking to herself, and that was the least of it from what he had been told. The consensus was something had happened years ago to push her into her own head.
Jason took what she told him with several large grains of salt, making appropriate comments and nodding as needed. He usually ignored her ramblings.
She told him she knew how his Laura had died. That got his attention.
She had died mysteriously several years ago, and the authorities never discovered what killed her. The sheriff found her body on this road, frozen with a look of fear on her face.
Rumors had filled the small town ever since then, including the most popular one that Jason had killed her. The police cleared him when witnesses and the GPS confirmed his alibi that he was across town.
One rumor was that Laura had been seeing someone, but he tended to doubt it. The most popular rumor was that something unnatural had scared her to death. That was impossible to prove either way, but it hung around the longest—either way, he needed to know who and why she died. When the town’s Crazy Lady told him she knew what happened, he listened.
Crazy Lady told him to meet her outside of town on the old County Road 695 at dusk that night, and all would be revealed. The road wasn’t on his GPS, and it took several maps before he found it. The road was abandoned and no longer maintained. However, using her directions, he found it.
Jason edged his car down into the depths of trees and shadows slowly, stopping every few feet to look around some, but all he saw were trees, leaves, and shadows. He shivered. The road looked like it was out of a scene from a horror movie. No wonder they stopped using this road. It was enough to scare even a horror fan.
Several hundred feet deep in the woods, he thought he saw movement. Stopping the car, Jason turned off the engine.
Jason looked around the old road, lined with gnarly trees, orange light drifting through the branches. He was drawn to the spot where the police found Laura’s body. The forest was eerie, but nothing had changed since he arrived, other than the presence of something or someone nearby.
He heard the rustling of leaves and the movement of air behind him. He spun around to find the Crazy Lady standing not far from him. He felt blood drain from his face as he realized Laura was standing beside her, alive.
“Laura…?”
His Laura spoke. “I’m no longer the Laura you knew, but her ghost. You killed her when you told the ghost to haunt her.”
“I did no such thing. I never talked to any ghost.”
Crazy Lady cackled, “Who did you think you were talking to at the bar that night?”
“Some old bum that was bombed out of his mind and is probably dead by now.”
Laura shook her head. “That bum was a ghost, trolling for someone to haunt. You told him how you wanted me to die so you could inherit my family’s money and business.”
“I was joking and making conversation. Just killing time and dreaming about how I’d handle the business if it were mine. I didn’t mean a word of it.”
“Then why say it to a stranger?”
“It was a bad joke.” The winds blew harder and the air got colder as the trees appeared to bend closer to the ground. Jason shivered as if he were in a freezer.
“You’re telling me that he believed me and killed you because I asked him to do it?”
Laura’s ghost approached him.
“Yes, he did. And now it’s time for you to pay for your transgressions.”
The last thing he remembered was a wave of frigid air hitting him and Laura floating above him and hearing the Crazy Lady’s frenzied laughter.
Hikers found Jason’s body frozen with a look of fear on his face. Just like Laura’s body had been.

​


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Leon's Bread

2/10/2021

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The gentle breeze brought the smell of fresh coffee, cigars, and pipes to my table. There was something about that particular mixture of sensations that made me not want to move. So I didn’t.

Finishing my fifth cappuccino, I set the fine porcelain cup on the small little saucer that came with it. Around me, people were enjoying coffee and pastries, one table enjoying a perfectly baked loaf of French bread. As they cut thin slices, steam rose and brought back rather unpleasant memories. I ordered a bottle of beer to forget. It didn’t help. 

I finished the beer, laid money on the table, and headed down the cobblestone street. A combination of cappuccino and beer was starting to affect me, but I tried to brush it off. 
 
I had rented a room on the third floor of a flophouse near the cafe and l barely made it to the room before my stomach revolted. I knew better than to drink beer with coffee because it always played hell with my gut. It played hell again. I spent the next several hours in the bathroom and on the bed. The room either spun or floated, depending on what my stomach was doing.

When lights from the plaza found their way into the room, I realized it was getting dark—time to go to work.

At least I felt alive. Not great, but I could move without feeling like I was going to crash into the floor, which was good because I had work to do tonight.

I took a shower, put on a decent suit, and ventured down the stairs to the shabby lobby. I must have still looked queasy because the girl at the desk gave me a worried stare. I looked her up and down slightly longer than I should have, but there was a lot to see, all of it good. Nodding and smiling, I headed out into the night.

If not accustomed to Paris’s lights, the glow was dizzying, and I admit the lights were overwhelming. It had been years since I’d been to Paris, but I still knew my way around. Some things never changed. The old baker across the square ran books out of the backroom between baking loaves of bread when I knew him. He had been old then, and now years after the war, I doubted he was still there. If he was, and I was right and had spotted my target by chance once again near the bakery, I might get lucky.

Knocking on the door, I was surprised to see him open it. The years had him crippled and bent him over, but he still moved—only slower and more deliberate. His face lit up when he saw me and swung open the heavy glass-paneled door.

“Monsieur, it’s good to see you again.”

“You almost didn’t.” I shook his hand and closed the door behind me. Our conversation floated between French and English, with French popping in every time he became excited.

He told me that he’d stopped running numbers years ago and was semi-retired, only baking for shop patrons, no longer wholesale. He started to make coffee, but his hands were shaking. I took the hand grinder from him and ground some beans for our coffee. While the water seeped over the coffee in the French press, I got down to business.

“Leon, I need to find a man—not just any man. This man is extremely dangerous. He kills people just for fun as well as profit, and I need to stop him.” 

Leon’s face soured. “No, no—not that—that I can’t do again.”

“I’m not asking you to become involved. I only need to find him. I’ll stop him.”

The coffee was ready, and he fiddled with the press, then poured two cups of coffee. We drank in silence.

During the war, I’d let him get away with a lot of black-market stuff, and he supplied me with information about troop movements and officers. Many of them disappeared after they met me. Years after the war, I was still a soldier, but a different kind of soldier.

I worked for Interpol, and I was after an elusive hitman who had killed all over the world. Once for a minute, I saw his reflection in a window just before he killed a minister of defense in England, but he escaped. I was the only one who had even gotten a glimpse of him. I had managed to trail him from hit to hit, unfortunately never catching him, and now he was in Paris. 

This would be his last stop—or mine.

As we drank our coffee, I very selectively told him what I was doing and then asked about his family. His wife had died a few years ago, and his children lived all over Europe. One was in America, and he was proud that he had an American grandchild. As he showed me the pictures, his grin returned to its youthful glory. He was indeed a proud grandpa. I didn’t blame him. Perhaps, I felt a bit of remorse and jealousy at his joy. 

Reluctantly, I brought him back to my problem.

“Leon, have you seen this man. I think he might be hiding in this area.” I handed him a sketch based on the man I saw. 

He studied it, putting his glasses back on and off a couple of times. His brow knotted. 

“Yes, I remember those round glasses and that straggly hair. He bought bread from me last week. I had closed the shop, but he knocked on the door and wanted to buy some fresh bread. I told him I didn’t have any, but he spotted the last loaf that I kept for myself. I couldn’t refuse, so I sold it to him.” He paused. “I kept thinking there was something familiar about him.”

I told him it was okay. He’d done the right thing.

“You don’t think he’ll come back?” 

“I doubt it. But he might, your bread is worth coming back for more. I’d come back.” 

Leon responded absently, “Yes, it was a nice loaf of bread.”

He got up and started to head for the kitchen. “I’ll make you a loaf to take with you.”

“No, Leon, not now. It’s late. You need to go to bed. I’ve kept you up too long as it is now, no baking in the middle of the night. Those days are past. You go to bed. I’ll be around in the morning, but you won’t see me.” He looked confused. 

“Leon, I’m going to watch for him.” I pointed to the picture on the table. 

He nodded. “Like the old days?”

“Yes, like the old days.” 

I kissed him on both cheeks as was the French custom and shooed him up to his flat above the bakery. Carefully checking the entire downstairs, I locked the doors and windows and slipped out the back door. I didn’t go far.

The smell of bread hung in the air around the bakery. The aroma ingrained into bricks and mortar as decades of baking and cooking had soaked into the building’s fabric.
 
I walked around the block a couple of times to get the feel of the place again, as it had been years since I did a stakeout in Paris. The cafe was across the square, now closed, chairs neatly stacked on the tables. I picked out a table that was an ideal spot to watch for my target, then returned to the hotel.
 
The girl who took my keys was gone, replaced by her mother. She handed me my keys with a glare that said, leave my daughter alone. I ignored it. 

Once in my room, I stripped, took a bath, and sank onto the bed for a much-needed nap. Waking at four in the morning, I dressed and headed down to greet the early morning sun.

Paris was already waking up at this hour, as shopkeepers and workers headed for their daily chores. I scouted the neighborhood as I returned to Leon’s place, spying a rental place where I could get a scooter in a hurry if I needed it.

I waited half a block away, out of sight, until the cafe across from Leon’s opened up. Once they were, I took the seat I had chosen, tucked in a corner behind a pole but with a clear view of Leon’s bakery.

I ordered a latte and a croissant and settled down. I nibbled on the croissant. I was hungry, but I thought I might as well take my time. I might be there for a while.

Sipping on the latte and munching the pastry, I watched as Leon turned on the lights and unlocked the door, opening his shop. Soon the smell of fresh baking bread wafted across the street, intermixed with the smell of coffee. It was intoxicating. 

Customers entered Leon’s shop and came out laden with paper bags of fresh bread. I smiled. For someone who had cut back on the baking, Leon was baking a lot of it. The morning customers thinned as the morning wore on. Leon sat behind his counter, reading the newspaper.

My hope was my target would crave more of Leon’s bread soon. If he were still in town, and I thought he was, he’d be back. So I would wait.

Leon closed the shop in late afternoon. I was considering it was time to leave. I had lost count of how many lattes and cappuccinos I’d had along with pastries, none of which tasted as good as Leon’s bread. I knew I’d worn out my welcome at the cafe a long time ago. The lone server still there was giving me the evil eye. I threw a wad of money on the table, more than enough to pay my tab, and decided to call it quits. 

He appeared out of nowhere and was standing in front of Leon’s shop door. I saw his reflection in the glass. I had only a glimpse of him before, but there was no doubt it was him. I’d been chasing him all over the world—now I had him.

Leon opened the door. A few minutes later, the man left carrying a big bag of bread. 
 
***
As most citizens of Paris walked within their neighborhoods, it was easy to follow my quarry’s path. I walked along the square, and the sights and sounds brought back pleasant memories. The street players’ music reminded me of days spent effortlessly moving about the pubs and cafes of the day. Certain smells from a perfumery we passed reminded me of a young woman from my youth. 

The trail ended at a three-story walk-up—a sign on the building advertised rooms rented by the day or week. The place looked familiar, but all rooming houses looked the same to me. I climbed the stairs, somehow I knew where to go.

I stood in front of the room door, nervous as I opened it. I had him.

There he was, staring at me. He pulled a gun from behind his back. 

I shrugged. “Put the gun down. If you were going to kill me, I’d be dead.” 

He lowered the gun to his side but did not place it in its holster. 

I took a deep breath. “When did you spot me?” 

“At Leon’s.” He indicated the paper bag of bread on the table nearby.

“You could never resist his baking.”

“No one can.” 

I nodded in agreement. “You know I’m here to arrest you?” My tone as a matter of fact, as someone discussing the weather.

“But suppose I don’t want to be arrested?” He raised his eyebrows at the thought.

“Then I’m to neutralize you as I see fit.”

“I see. Do you have a name on your warrant?”

“Don’t need one. It specifically says I’m to bring back the person or persons I saw kill the defense minister on January 23rd two years ago. I’ve identified you as the person I saw. You match the description I gave at the time. You’re him.”

“I see. But am I? No one else has seen me.”

He took off his glasses and reached up, pulling off the scraggy blond wig he was wearing, revealing his face to me. We looked alike, remarkably alike—almost twins.

He smiled. “Now you know the truth. You’ve been lying to yourself all this time, but you knew.”

I choked back a no, and he brought his weapon up, pointing at me. “It’s over.”
The sound of a gunshot and shattering mirror rang in my ears. Then another gunshot and blood oozed from my chest. I looked down to see a loaf of bread in one hand and a gun in another. 

The gun slipped from my hand as I sank to the floor as everything became clear. I had been chasing myself. Too many years of being undercover and I lost who I was. As blackness descended and I took my last breath, I realized the truth. 

I killed all of those people. 

My quarry was me. 

​

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One More Time

10/6/2020

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The old house looked like a place out of a fairy tale. 
In some ways, it had been, but it was real. It had been decades since he’d been back, abandoned after he'd suddenly left. The centuries had not been kind to it.
Pushing his way through the grass, he got to the front door. Once painted green, the door was now worn to bare wood by the years and weather and hung by a couple of screws from rusted hinges. He dared not touch it for fear of it falling off in his hands, but to enter, he must, so he gave the door the slightest of pushes, and it wobbled open, the screws barely hanging in the rotted frame. 
The air inside escaped into the afternoon breeze carrying the smell of mildew and rain, rot, and decay. As it crossed his nose, he turned his head to avoid smelling any more than necessary, waiting for fresh air to enter the musty house. He took a series of deep breaths and stepped inside.
The rooms were small, as were most rooms in cottages of this type. Sunlight from the open doorway flooded into the space allowing him to see that time had not been kind to the old cottage. Windows with broken glass, a chandelier hanging haphazardly, cobwebs covering the walls, and faded furniture. 
However, he wasn’t interested in the state of the cottage. Its location and history were what brought him to the ruins. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her. 
“Hello, Martha.” He heard his words echo in the small, nearly empty room.
He half expected to hear her answer him, but the room remained quiet—only the rustle of leaves on a tree branch outside the front door reached his ears. 
After a few moments, he heard a voice that seemed to come out of the woodwork. 
“Did you do it?”
“Yes. He’s dead. I have him out in the car.” 
“Well, bring him in.”
“You’ll have to help me.” He managed to protest. 
“Your time is almost up.”
He again plowed his way to the car. The tall overgrown grass made it almost impossible to move with any speed. 
Opening the trunk, he managed to drag the body out of it. It landed with a muffled thump in the tall grass. He was panting heavily, out of breath, as he managed to move the body around the side of the car, then took a break. He leaned against the fender and closed his eyes, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs that were fast forming in his mind. He took several deep breaths before he began the trek back to the cabin, this time dragging the body. Usually, he’d been able to move the body without too much trouble, but he was past his prime by about a hundred years. The heavy overgrowth around the cottage contributed to hampering his efforts, making what should have been relatively easy work into a workout he didn’t need.
He made it to the front door. Turning around, he could easily see the path of bent and broken grass from his car to the door. He’d have to deal with that later. A regrowth spell would bring back the grass flattened by the body. With one grunt of an effort, he pulled the body past the threshold. He leaned against the doorframe to catch his breath and get his breathing back under control before he spoke.
“OK, Martha, you wanted him. He’s here.” He spoke to the empty room.
Martha’s voice seemed to come from no particular spot in the room, but he knew. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine life without her. He couldn’t. If he told the truth to himself, he didn’t want to have a life without her.
But here he was in the old cottage doing her bidding, even after she’d been dead for decades. Decades? Hell, doing some basic math in his head, he figured it had been at least a century since she’d died. He knew he was at least that old. 
While he waited for Martha to speak again, he left the body where he'd dropped it and walked through the rooms. The living room was small, the fireplace on the far outside wall was stone and in need of repainting, and probably needed rebuilding before a fire could burn in it again. The wood floor rotted out in most places, especially in the areas under the windows and right by the front door. In the kitchen, the second fireplace was in worse shape as chimney stones had fallen into the center of the hearth. He ignored the obvious damage to the old cottage. He remembered when Martha was in the kitchen cooking and the smell of fresh bread and cakes filled his nose. A cool breeze came in the window near him and instantly brought him back to reality.
He shook his head violently at the memories and shoved them back into the attic of his mind where they belonged. He managed to climb the half-collapsed stairs that led to the second floor. Standing in the small area that served as a foyer of sorts where a couple of the bedroom doors met, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes again. He barely heard the sound of plaster cracking under the weight of his shoulder as his mind traveled back over the centuries. But his memories refused to stay where he’d put them. 
 
The door to the bedroom that had been theirs was hanging by a couple of nails. He lightly touched it, and it came loose and fell back against the wall behind it, but he never noticed. All he could see was their first night together and Martha in her dressing gown and the smile on her face as he came to her. The rest of the night had been a blur, a pleasant blur. Smiling at the memory, he grinned to himself.
Those had been good days. He didn’t have anything, and she had less. But they had managed to make a good life out of the small farm. The sound of Martha’s voice calling him wiped the grin from his face. He turned back to the stairs.
It took him several minutes to get back to the first floor without falling through the remains of the stairs. After what seemed like ages, he stood in the living room. The body still lay in the open door where he left it.
Martha was now standing in the middle of the room.
“What were you doing?” The look on her face said, “There had better be a good reason for your going up there.” 
He thought for a moment. “I was curious to see how the place looked.” He didn't want to tell the real reason he’d gone up there. To try to remember a better time and when they were in love.
He stood still, looking at her. He remembered the lust, even love, that he’d had for her, then he remembered the look, the rage, and the hatred. He remembered killing her a century ago and burying her in the cottage. The whys and how and wherefore all came back instantly when she gave him that look again.
After burying her, he left, but it wasn’t long after that that she came back. At first, she had been in a dream. Then he saw her when he was awake. Soon she was talking to him. The voices seemed to come from inside his mind. Like he remembered them.
Now she was walking and talking just like she had before. She still looked as beautiful as she had on their wedding day, but she held power over him. He couldn’t die because of the power she held over him. In the last few decades, he’d done things for her he never wanted to do, but he couldn’t resist. Killing this man who somehow wronged her in some little way had become the last straw. He couldn’t do it anymore.
 It was in that instant he made up his mind. He’d have to kill her again.
This time she would stay dead.

​

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Final Story

8/27/2020

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Forty years of chasing demons and saints had finally caught up with him.
He was tired. But it was a good tired. He had spent most of his life as a reporter and later a freelance investigative reporter—always in search of the truth.
Most of the time, the truth lay somewhere in the gray area between right and wrong, but he’d never stopped looking. Now his time was almost up. He was about to succumb to the ravages of time. While the decades of travel had taken him all over the world. It hadn’t been kind to his body. Cancer had started eating him alive several years ago. So, he stopped traveling. He had been working only from home. Eventually, even that stopped. Now he barely did more than write and sleep. 
Mostly he slept. He wanted to drift back into the ever-inviting world of sleep. As he did, he saw the table near him where his old friends lay—the camera, magnifying glass, and reading glasses. 
Those items had been around the world with him. On a shelf across the room were the notebooks he’d filled in his decades of work—notes on good guys, bad guys, and everyone in between. A shelf on the other wall held his awards.
His reporting had brought him the notoriety he only dreamed of when he was a kid watching Redford and Hoffman play the reporters he eventually became. The center of the shelf held his most prized award, the Pulitzer Prize, which sat in a place of honor in the middle. He had earned that in his middle years as a reporter.
The tales told. The awards received. His work complete.
That was over now. He was old and sick. Too old and sick to go traipsing around the world looking for trouble. Trouble? Do you say? Oh, he found trouble, usually at the point of a gun, or in a jail cell.
But it had been worth it.
Over the years as an investigative reporter, he had broken many stories, but the days of asking the tough questions to people who didn’t want to answer them were over.
Closing his eyes, he slipped off to sleep. As the darkness of sleep engulfed him, he remembered his inspiration. It was a movie of all things.
As a child, he had watched many movies with his father, an avid movie fan. 
But one movie stuck with him over the years. It was the inspiration for his career as a reporter and a journalist. “All the President's Men.” 
Years later, he had the privilege to interview the stars of that movie. He had met Woodward and Bernstein at a news function a few years before, and they had become good friends. That connection allowed him access to Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman, and their interviews had become legend.
In the last few years, cancer had made it increasingly difficult for him to work the way he wanted, but he had one final story to tell.
The only story he hadn’t told—his. 
No one knew the truth behind the stories he had written, the effort, the danger he faced as he did his investigative work and told other people’s stories. Stories he received accolades for, but he never revealed the truth or found the time to tell his story.
Now he had the time, but he didn’t. He was nearing the end of his beat, and he desperately wanted to get one last story written. He forced himself to stay awake, pushing off the bliss of a long dark sleep, for it was only then that his body was at peace from the pain and memories.
He refused to give in, and he sat at the table one more time and dragged the old typewriter to him. Sliding another sheet of paper in the roller, he wound it down and started typing his last story.

​

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The Last Flight ​​ To Freedom

3/5/2020

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​The sound of an airplane woke him up from his reprieve. 
The low rumble of the machine above him seemed to echo off the sides of the tall buildings he was hiding in between. He knew he couldn’t stay hidden forever, but he had been putting off moving until the sound of the engines reminded him of the urgency of his mission. Ducking under cover of an awning, he hoped he avoided being seen by sensors he knew they were using as the plane made another pass.
A few minutes later the plane changed its flight path, searching closer to his location. Time to move. He shifted his equipment and found a door and slid into the abandoned building. The marble floors and halls echoed of another time and place. The sound of his boots stepping on the stone floor echoed in the large lobby. It took a second for him to realize he was hearing his own footsteps and calm down enough to relax for a few minutes.
By the time he reached the stairs, his breathing was normal, but he knew the climb to the roof was going to be long and hard. He needed a tall building to make his stand, and this one was as good as any structure in the city. A stand to save what’s left of the country.
The long climb up many levels of stairs gave him ample time to review how the city and maybe the country had gotten to a situation such as this.
The truth of the matter was he wasn’t sure exactly what had happened.
Somewhere along the line, good intentions became personal intentions, and what was right for the world became what was right for the few, a very specific few. People charged with cleaning up the pollution and preserving what little resources the world had left became power-hungry. They embarked on a personal mission to acquire as much as they could with no regard for the people or countries they destroyed.
He had become an “outlaw” because he spoke out and tried to warn people about what was happening long before it became apparent. Now he was fighting to save them all.
His mission, at first, was to publish classified reports with disregard for their authority and flagrantly make them look bad in spite of their propaganda and the tales they sold to the peoples of the world. He had become a minor annoyance at first, then a thorn in their sides.
When the apocalypse came as he had predicted that it would, he was deemed people’s hero. He organized the resistance and found ways to get much-needed supplies and equipment to places where it was needed. No one had money but it didn’t matter, there was nothing to buy. They reverted to the barter system, and over several years they worked it out among themselves, learning to survive. However, not without bloodshed and death but eventually, the divisions were healed and they came together to fight a common enemy. 
Meanwhile, the climate systems began to completely degrade and now the air was barely breathable most days, and through the polluted haze, the sun baked everything in its path. 
As the resistance grew, what passed as a government insulated themselves in their own little world within domes in sections of the county that they didn’t destroy and kept all the resources remaining to themselves. They kept a full-fledged rebellion in check with bombing runs on resistance strongholds. 
But the government’s resources were dwindling, they had the ability to farm but they were running out of refined fuel and were scurrying to bring the refineries in their territory online. The aircraft and fuel tanks were not protected by domes and the latest resistance raids successfully destroyed the aircraft and blew up the fuel tanks. Resistance spies later learned there was one plane left but had yet to learn of its location. 
This was the last plane they could fly and harrassed the resistance members. 
It was time.
It was past time.
The plane had to go.
The problem was he didn’t have a weapon to take down a plane in mid-air. Until now.
A search team looking for resources found it in a hangar on an old military base, still in its crate. Its ammo stored nearby, they now had a shoulder-launched, anti-aircraft, surface-to-air missile. No one had seen or used one for many years and they looked to him, their leader, to figure out how to operate it. A movie buff in his young years, he remembered an old war movie that used such a weapon. Hoping he had a clue how to use it, the resistance put a plan in place. 
He had to be the target. So with communication equipment that they managed to get operational, he sent message after message to the government taunting them. Telling them he would take out their last plane. His last words were Come and get me. I’ll be in old New York City waiting for you.
So it was on this day word came that a plane was headed for the city. 
He reached the roof of the abandoned skyscraper and uncrated the missile launcher.
Everything hinged on him.
He had one shot.
He didn’t have long to wait. He heard the low roar of an airplane. An old commercial jet if he remembered correctly. It was on a direct path toward him.
He stood braced against the strong winds and doubled checked the controls. Aiming to take the wind into consideration, he took a deep breath and held it as the plane rapidly approached. He caught movement, a hatch underneath the plane opening. They were prepared to fire on him. A calmness settled over him. He was not going to let that happen.
He fired.
A loud noise erupted as the missile streaked from the weapon, louder than he imagined it would sound. He watched as the missile arced toward the plane. On impact, the plane exploded, the red-orange glow blinding in the hazy sunlight. 
The remnants of the plane fell from the sky, crashing into the ground in the city canyons. The building he stood on swayed slightly as the echos of the crash reached him.
And the rebellion began.

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The Vault

2/7/2016

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                 The vault was old. But solid. The old bank was falling down around it. But there in the middle of the rubble standing like a icon from days gone by, was the old walk-in vault.
He stood looking around the remains of the old bank. Pieces of the main lobby were littered around the ground like so much scrap wood. The counters and  money trays were crumbed into piles of debri. Most of the material was marble. Slabs of marble leaned against each other, In some cases crushing the counters and desks they landed against.  The art deco ceiling lamps that had once hung majesty from the high vaulted ceiling now lay in ruins on top of marble and wood.
Grasping a piece of marble he grunted as he pushed it aside. Such was the way he slowly picked through the remains of the old bank.  Each piece he moved, or climbed over brought him closer to the prize.  After a couple of hours of picking his way through the debris he reached the door to the vault.   
    Looking over the door he could tell it hadn’t been opened in a long time. In fact it was showing signs of having been exposed to the weather it was taking its toll on the steel. Rust starting to form around the edges, and the large combination knob in the middle didn’t seem to want to turn. The numbers were getting hard to read. They were small to begin with, and being exposed to wind and rain hadn’t done them any good.
    Looking around again he noticed how the day slipped by him.  Spurned on by the oncoming darkens, and thus cold temperatures, He took one last look around, Made some notes, on the old pocket notebook, he had shoved into his old coat pocket. He pen barely worked, but he managed to draw a picture of the front of the vault, noting the size and location and size of the handles and combination knob, and hinges. Half rusted and buried under  debris he found gold. The small plate listing the manufacture date it was made, model number of the old vault.  He copied all the information to his notebook.  By now it was almost too dark to see clearly. So he picked his way back out of the remains of the old bank.
  Once back in his hotel room, the wrote out all the information he had on the old bank
The bank was in the middle of New York City. The city looked like the bank did. In complete shambles.  The latest war had devastated the city. Millions of people had fled. before the attacks had started .    The hotel was run down and falling apart. Light was provided by a single bulb hanging from a antique ceramic light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. As much of a run down dump the hotel was; it was a giant step up from where he had been until recently.
    The war had taken its toll on the world.  Things had started out as small local issues and had been left to escalate into regional, and eventually they had become national and international issues and what once had been a small local squabble had become the catalyst for a major world war.  The war had quickly knocked out all the 21 century infrastructure .Within a few months the world was living in the 1940’s.  As such there was no television, internet, computers, and anything with a microprocessor in it was basicly useless junk.   The leaders of the world had to learn how to lead again.   
This had been many years ago The world was still living in what many would call the dark ages.
    By the aminic light of the hanging bulb he wrote out his notes on a old spiral notebook, he’d found in a school.   Eventually he managed to sleep. It was not a good sleep.   He woke up the next morning at daybreak. After a quick cup of warm coffee, and a day old donut he headed back to the remains of the bank.  The sun was coming as he approached the bank. Retracing his path he slowly made his way back to the vault.  The streets surrounding the remains of the bank were in the same shape as the bank. reduced to stubble, of wood and brick and cement.  The silence was he picked his way to the vault was deafening.  Occasionally a bird would fly over , its shadow marking its path across the sky on the ground.   Other than the occasional bird, looking for food he was alone. Totally alone.   In the midday light he was able to examine the door of the vault better.   It occurred to him the ideal way to get the vault open was the combination. with that in mind he started going through all the desk buried in the ruins.  Someone somewhere had broken the rules and written down the combination to the  vault. He was sure of it. But finding it would be a challenge. There on one of the few remaining wall were  several pictures of the inside of the bank. It wasn’t much. They were in horrible shape. But he managed to piece together basically what had been the layout of the bank from them.  From that he figured where the manager’s office would have been.   Once located he begun to dig in earnest. Finding the desk, and file cabinets he went through every scrap of wood, steel and furniture he found.   After moving  what seemed like tons of debris,and broken furniture he found it On a tiny scrap of paper, taped to the inside of a file cabinet drawer was the combination to the vault.

    Shaking with excitement rhe made his way back to the vault door.   He cleared the area around the door.  Then he carefully began to spin the dial. It tuned not easily at first. But after a few minutes of being turned back and forth it begun to loosen up.  When he felt it was worked loose enough to work he started working the numbers, first right left right,  He tried turning the big lever to open the door. It didn’t budge.  Then left right left.  The big lever still didn’t move.  So he spun the dial some more and tired again both directions.    After several more time both direction it finally worked. When he tried the big lever one more time it moved. Not far but it moved.  after working it back and forth a bit he finally got it to move all the way.
    The big steel door slowly swung open. The hinges creaked and moaned as they moved.  By now the sun was behind him. It shown into the dark vault.   The shelves were lined with papers. some loose papers here and there. Boxes filled with papers, money was on a number of shelves.
He walked into the old steel room.   The smell of lack of oxygen and fresh air was enough to almost make him sick But he managed to get past it.   He spent the next hour going through the papers and boxes in the vault. to his surprise none of them were locked. That got him to thinking.  It was obvious no one had opened the vault in decades.  But whoever was in there last had a master key to the safe deposit boxes, and had gone through them. That left two questions did they find what they were looking for? and  who were they?  He wasn’t sure they were, but he had a pretty good idea,  who they were.  As for did they find what they were looking for? That he could try to find out. He spent the rest of the afternoon well into the evening systematically going through every safe deposit box  , Looking at every scrap of paper.  he counted the money. Several million dollars, but it was useless now. The jewelry was only slightly more valuable.    


     In the old Rockefeller bank  in New York  City he found the lost copy of the Constitution It was definitely worse for the wear. But it was real. The paper was over 300 years old. So now he had the proof that there had been another copy made,That  it had been stolen centuries ago.   He carefully replaced it in the safe deposit box it had been in. How they had missed it when it was searched he would never know. At this point he didn't care.
He carefully made his way out of the vault. Closing the huge steel door behind him, he spun the knob, locking it again.   He debated for a minute what to  do with the scrap of paper with the combination scrawled on it.  he shoved it in his pocket, and carried the metal box carefully as he made his way out from the ruins of the once majestic bank.
 As it got darker it was harder to pick his way through the battered city street.  It was dark by the time he made his way back to his hotel room.
Once there he retreated to his room, carefully keeping the steel box hidden from prying eyes.   He had been carrying a revolver with him for the last several months. So far he'd been lucky, he hadn't needed it.  But he knew the chances of running into a band of thieves, or looters was increasing by the day. If they saw the box, they would want it. so he had to figure out a way to carry it without it being seen.  Pulling the cords from the remains of the blinds that were on the window, he fashioned a sling of sorts to hold the box under his old worn topcoat. Looking at himself in the mirror, which he could barely even see himself, he tried several ways of carrying the box under his coat, finely finding one that didn't show from a distance.  He knew looters would want the box if they saw it, and once they found what was in it, they'd probably kill him because it wasn't anything they could use.  All of theses things lay heavy on his mind as he drifted off to sleep that night.

   The next morning new questions plagued his mind.  The biggest was how to keep it safe, and who should he get it to.he decided his order of business was to get out of New York city, and hole up somewhere safer. Two hours later he was still picking his way through the streets of New York.  At least twice he had to duck into ruins and hide from people. Not that he was anti-social, but he was carefull.  It took several days to get out of New York City.
Once he was out in the country he begin to relax a bit. He still stayed off main roads.  Occasionally a car would go by. But no one stopped to offer him a ride. A week later he found abandoned farmhouse, and decided to stop for the night. At least he'd have some shelter. rom the cold and rain.   Once settled in and feeling reasonably safe to took the metal box out and examined it again.   He removed the old constitution, and in the process he felt something in the bottom end of the box.   Reaching deep in the long box he felt something in the bottom. He was barely able to get hold of it with his fingers. After a fashion he got it out. It was a legal sized set of papers folded long wise. and tucked into the bottom of the box.   Opening the stack of papers he had to read them several time before he begun to understand what they were. He recognized all of the names listed. and many of the places mentioned. They all were high ranking heads of business, and government.  There were dates scattered through the papers. The most importent dates were at the beginning. They were the dates that they last world war had started. it was clear that this had been written before the beginning of the wars. Ashe reread t the papers it sunk in.
The entire war had been planned and instigated by a few people here in the states, along with the heads of several foreign governments. It had been a plan to overthrow the governments of the world.  It was all handwritten,and had various signatures, and notes in different handwriting on it in a number of places.  All of the handwriting could easily be verified. The fact that this was with a original copy of the Constitution was enormous. This put a whole new light on his situation. he hadn't told anyone he was looking for the lost copy of the Constitution. So in that regard he figured he was relatively safe. He was sure he had been declared missing or dead long ago. So he doubted anyone was looking for him.  But now he had a whole new set of problems on his hands.

    The rest of night was spent trying to figure out what to do with his newfound information.  He  figured he had two options, hide the papers away and say nothing.  Definitely tempting. But he  reserved his decision for the next morning.  

    The early morning sun lit up his room that morning. Showing him just how dingey and run down the old farmhouse really was. It had been dark when he taken up residence there the night before, barely getting the into  house and finding a place to to sleep in the moonlight, and by his small flashlight. The flashlight he used sparingly , as to conserve batteries. By morning he was even hungrier than he was last night.   As soon as he took care of necessary business, the went out in search of food.  The old farmhouse had been abandoned long ago. But they had left some canned goods. Which was fine by him.    He was able to get a can of soup open, although not neatly, Using a rusted old can opener was not ideal, but he managed to make it work.  Outside he found a stream with reasonably clean looking water, where he collected some, and brought in, added to the soup and heated them up over the fire he’d built in the fireplace.  While waiting for the soup to warm up and become something resembling edible, he reviewed the folded papers he’d found again.  The second and third reading did little to calm him down.  The more he read, the more he was sure he needed to do something. But he was at a loss to to figure out what or how to do anything.   The soup was passable. In that his filled him up for a while.  It had been a long time since he’d had a really decent meal.  
    He had been traveling alone now for several years. When the wars had become geopolitical, and natural disaster, he along with millions of people were displaced from their lives, and sent into what was left of the world to make their way as best as they could. Millions of people had died at the initial attacks, many more died in the weeks and months later. As modern technology ceased to work, even more were lost as the technology they depended on stopped working, and thus killed them in one way or another.  That left the government such as it was to deal with a massive death toll.  Among many other problems. many people fearing for their lives, and safety had either formed groups and become nomads. finding whatever work, and supplies they could, wherever they could.   He had become one of them.  Somewhere he had remembered reading in his American History, about a stolen copy of the Constitution. As the original one, along with the other original founding father papers had been destroyed during one of the many attacks on the eastern seaboard, Primary Washington DC, and New York City.  he had managed to get into records and archives, he’d never been able to before because of the chaos. There he found the notes telling about the copy disappearing. it had been thought be have been stolen just before the turn of the 1900’s. It Was believed that an extremely rich and powerful industrialist had wanted them for his private collection. As most of the people of the day with the power and connections to get something like that lived in New York at the time. So  he started his search there.  Throughout the course of the war, he had managed to keep out of sight. In doing so it had allowed him to go unnoticed into places  that he would never have been allowed to normally.
He managed to see the people who didn’t want to be seen, or see him.  
This had become his mission in life.  Now he had the prize.  But now there was no one to give it to.

    “This is one possible future.” The voice said.
Startled he looked around. it had been weeks since he’d heard another voice. At least talking to him.  There in the corner of the living room, sitting in the ancient rocking chair, was a being.
The light in the corner was dark and dusty. it was hard to tell what or who was there in the room with him.  
   “You have a choice to make.” By now he had located the source of the voice. He turned to face it. His hand close to the revolver on his hip.
    “You can let the world continue as it is now,”he paused
    “Or You go back in time with me and undo the events of the last five years.”
    “The decision is entirely up to you. But be warned. if you go back. You may not survive.”
The words slowly begin to sink in.  
    “You’re telling me history can be changed?” He quarried in disbelief.
    “In your case yes. On most worlds, Once something has happened it can’t be undone.”
    “But here, you and change history?” He approached the form in the rocking chair. As he got closer he could start to make out the shape of the form.  Thousands of question raced through his mind. Instead he said.
Finely standing directly in front of the creature in the chair. He looked down and asked;
    “What do I have to do?”
    “That my friend , is up to you. How far back do you want to go?” Came the reply.
     “1895. New York City.”  he answered. “ If the copy of the constitution is never stolen, the small incident that sparked the chain reaction that caused the war would have been resolved, quickly because they still had the original copy to show the new government how to set up a  democracy”. He reasoned all of this out in a matter of seconds.
    “You know that by going back that far, you will not only change that timeline, but every timeline in the last 150 years.?”
    “But what choice do I have?” He couldn’t just suddenly appear with a lost document out of thin air. But he could “Find” it at the right time. thus preventing the events that were unfolding, from occurring as they did. and hopefully stop  a chain reaction of event, that lead to World War III.  All of theses thoughts and conclusions ran through his mind in the blink of eye.  The enormity of the situation had put asides any thoughts of questioning who or what was sitting in the in the old  rocking chair. At least for now.   

    “I could go back and find the lost document. Just before the start of the local war. And hopefully prevent the starting of the  events that lead to World War III”  He articulated what had crossed his mind.  
    “Yes. Yes, That might work. Or least change the immediate outcome.  There’s no way to tell what else will happen eventually.”
The creature responded after a brief pause.
     “So, how do we do it?” he inquired quickly.
     “I have to caution you, this is a one shot deal.  You only get this one change to change history for the better. It's entirely possible you might make things worst. And they’ll be no way to undo what we do now.”
This fact sobered him up some.  But he knew he couldn’t do nothing.  As he saw it. The world had pretty much all but destroyed itself already.  It was just waiting for the final blow to completely wipe it out of time and space forever. Like it had never existed.  This as a one remote chance to fix it before it before it killed itself.  Bigger question lingered in his mind. But he chose to ignore them for now.   He’d made his decision.   As he saw it, he had no choice but to at least try to undo the damage that was about to before the world.
    “Ok, how do we do this?” he asked
    The creature got up from his chair. Standing he could see it was short, and skinny. But there seemed to be a presence about it. a air of authority, if you will.  
     “Get the documents.” The creature  requested. He got the documents from the safe deposit box.  he carefully rolled them up and tucked them inside his well worn white shirt.
    “Ok come stand here in front of me.” he complied.  “Close your eyes. And stand very still clear your mind. Don’t think about me or where you are now. Think only of being still.  So still you can hear the blood pumping in your heart. “  He followed the instruction. So he felt very light and dizzy.

    He seemed to sleep for a very short time.  When he opened his  eyes. The old farmhouse was gone. Replaced instead but a modern city. He looked around. No one seemed to notice him. He looked closer to see if he could tell where he was.   After  minute he found street signs, and building signs. He couldn't read any of them.   After walking a around a bit, he figured out what many of the stores and businesses were by the pictures and diagrams, and even types of people who went in and out.  He knew he was in the country that had started the  fall into World War III. He  had to quickly figure how to get the papers he had with him found.  The more he walked around the city streets the more he realized he was invisible to them.   They didn’t see him.  Somehow he had to get his papers in a place where the right people would find them.  He saw it. the American Embassy.  Going over what he knew of the history of the situation. He remembered that the ambassador from the United States, was distantly related to JP Morgan,  and a history buff. So it would stand to reason If he had the missing copy of the Constitution, that had been stolen by his family decades ago he would want to keep it close at hand and safe.  
While not ideal, keeping it in the embassy safe, along with the many other documents that were under lock and key made sense. he certainly wouldn’t keep something like that where it could easily  be found.   He remembered more details about the incident.  The ambassador had bragged he had a copy of the constitution, and was to show it to a few friends. But it wasn’t there. That had started off the tiff. As they didn’t believe he’d ever had it.   He himself wondered how it had came to be in the safe in New York city.  But that was a question for another time.
   It was ridiculously easy to slip into the embassy. He found his way to the main safe.  Waited until the clerks were out of the rooms. Slipped in and looked around. He found the safe deposit boxes marked for the Ambassador.   Moving quickly he opened them, inventoried the contents.   hd found them to be interesting.  Among many national security papers, he found a stash of  pictures.  He figured to find various woman he had been playing with. But no, This was much more valuable  Pictures of military weapons, and installations, all which were rated as top secret, Along with list of agents for a number of governments. where they were located, who their handlers were, and many other personal details about the agents.  More than enough to get the ambassador tried and convicted for treason by any number of countries.   In any of the countries he would get at minimum life in prison,  some would just take him out and shoot him.  
He knew he had to make some fast decisions.  It occurred to him, that he could divert that attention from the lost federal papers to much more important issues, such as spying.   So he rearranged the files. So the next person who went into the box, found the papers.  He had been careful not to leave any fingerprints, on anything, especially the papers he found.  He was pretty sure , being invisible he wouldn’t leave fingerprints, but he didn’t chance it.
    With the trap set. He slid back out of the way and waited.   Sure enough a aide had been sent to retrieve a file or other information from the main safe.  He opened the Ambassador's safe deposit box. There was a strange package right there on top. The aid picked it up and looked at it.
Once the aide realized it was something that was important,  He went back to his boss. ithin minutes the who office was on the site.  They quickly went over every inch of the Ambassadors files.   
    Some time later the news was out. The Ambassador had been recalled back to Washington.  Charges of treason, and spying were being leveled. Reporters from all over the world were asking questions of everyone at the embassy.  The entire embassy staff was recalled, for debriefing,  Some more were charged.   

    And the world went on its way. there was no world War III. He found himself back at the bank. This time the stately old back was still in its glory.  The marble walls, and counters remained in their place.  The majestic chandelier was still hanging in the center of the elegant lobby.  He was sure if he were to look in safe deposit box 0051 located in the bottom left corner of the main vault the missing Constitution would still be there.




    

    


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A Big Man

1/12/2016

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Picture
                "We're not losing time. Time ran away without us decades ago. " 
    That's what the old man said. The big man lay on the bed. Tired. His face showed years of living.His Skin was stretched in places wrinkles, age spots littered his body.   His hands showed the decades of hard work.
      "Here , come look at this,"  He slowly managed to straighten up on the old bed. The room seemed as old as he was. The pictures on the wall where faded, and a few were torn, and wrinkled.  He indicated a picture hanging off to his left.   Moving closer to him, I smell him. But it's not the smell of a old man. It's the smell of fear, of time running out. The picture is old. Very old . "Take it down." he instructs. So I gently take the picture from the wall. The wall behind it it is three shades lighter from not being in the sun for decades.   I step back a bit.
"What is it?" I inquire tentatively as I try to find good light in the dark room to really look at it.  Blowing dust from it, wiping cobwebs from the edges, I finally manage to get a clearer idea of the old picture.  By now he had managed to get himself sitting upright on the edge of his bed. Even at his old age, with a world beaten body. Sitting there on the edge, it occurred to me how tall he still was.  Several clever remarks ran through my head, But I quickly dismissed them.   The picture was big probably two feet square.  In a black frame. It was dark red on the top half, the bottom showed a flat landscape.  The ground seemed to be in a shadow.  Then it seemed familiar. I'd seen the picture before.  Then I recognized the cloud centered in the top two thirds of the picture.   It was a mushroom cloud .  Turning it over Printed on the back in neat handwritten  block letters, Hiroshima, August 6, 1945.   I glanced back at the old man.
"I was there." He reported, upon seeing I knew what the picture was.  "I was there for  the death and destruction . I barely missed being killed by the radiation .  Look at it son, Look close."  He got up with surprising agility   Coming over to me. He looked down at me. Even at a hundred plus years, he still towered over everything in the room.  "And this,"  walking past me to the display case. Opening, the glass door. He  reaching in he picked  up a small jewelry box.   He opened it. Inside was a yellow tooth. I walked over to see what he had in the little box. In the light of the display cabinet , I saw the tooth. 
He carefully picked it up. He glanced over to the picture still in my hand and back to the old yellow tooth.  Looking close at him in the light I could see the years had taken their toll on him. He body was bent, and warped by the years, and arthritis and many aliments I'll never know about.  
    "They found thousands of them. Teeth, That was all that was left of thousands of people. A few bones, and buildings  leveled or close to it."   He picked up the old yellow tooth, and looked at in the light, Then put it back in the box.  
He turned to me. Looking down on my small frame, he stared for a minute.  Finally he spoke. It was low and drawn, as if he'd been considering the words he had to say.
    "Son, we're in a hell of a Predicament. If our nation doesn't do what is necessary now, Than in all likelihood the  enemy will use everything in their arsenal to destroy us. And Yes, I believe that they  have atomic bombs. I have no doubt that they'd hesitate one second to use them on us."  He paused for effect.
"Well, Mr. President, What you going to do?"
I turned back to the wall behind his bed. There scattered across it were pictures of the world at war. Images from WWI, WWII. A lot of them. Fewer from Korea, And handful from Vietnam.   Turning back to the display cabinet;  Medals and ribbons were neatly laid across the top shelf.   I noted several large campaign patches and medals . On the lower shelf were at least a half dozen written citations . The bottom shelf held several old gns. One I recognized immediately , a Colt 1911 Pistol.  It was old, holster worn from spending  many months riding in his holster . The finish was gone in all the places it should be for a service weapon. Somehow it made my brand new 1911 seem like a toy. I knew it would never see the kind of use and live the life hs old pistol had.  All of this flashed into mind as I went on to notice the captured German Luger, and several other foreign weapons of war.  
    I turned back to the old man. He had retreated back to his bed.and now sat  on the edge of the bed, sipping on his lukewarm coffee. He looked over at me. Even sitting on his old bed, he could still look me straight in the eyes.  Suddenly he seemed old and tired again.  His question came back to me again. It echoed in my mind. ”Well, Mr. President, what you gonna do?”
    He was right. It was up to me. I had come to him to seek advice about the war that was brewing. My advisors had  told me not to bother seeing the senile old man.  But I knew better.  He had been a friend of the family for many decades. He had served under four presidents, served with Eisenhower, at D-Day. Been with MacArthur in Korea, and countless other wars, and police actions for many decades. The wars and battles he won, were the stuff of legends. And he’d been a friend of mine since I was a kid.  I grew up listening to his stories. I was there when he retired as a four star General, decades ago.  And Now. And now he was tucked into a dingy little house on the outskirts of Washington. He had served his country for most of his life. And this was how they rewarded him.  It made me mad to think about it. I put the anger out of my mind for the moment. It  had taken me a long time to find him, after he just dropped out of sight. Now I’d found him. I vowed to myself he wouldn’t be living in this dump anymore.  But first things first.  Two Secret Service agents waited discreetly outside while I talked to him. 
     I pulled up the old chair and sat down in front of him.  “General. You have any ideas, about what to do with the mess we’re in now ?” I asked quietly and pointedly. It was clear he knew what was going on in the world.  
    “Son, you must be prepared to act fast and ruthlessly . To take to war to them. Before they’re ready for it.  Look at World War II, Take the lessons from the  great generals of the time.  You must have commanders who will push their men and demand they do more than they ever thought they could.  Above all. Son, you must strike first and hard. And decisively . There must be no question about if you will win, but only how you will win.  Like D-day, the cost will be great, But you must prevail, or we’ll all be doomed. “
There. He’d said it. Exactly what I was thinking. He had put into words thought and feelings I’d had for the last couple of days.   
     “Thank you. Thank you General for saying what I was feeling.”  
I said my goodbyes.  I talked to his nurses aid. I informed him that people would arriving later in the day to help him move into a retirement home for Veterans, and that everything he owned here would be taken with him, from the pictures to the display cabinet, I also told him, There would no problem with his guns and other collectables,   I gave him the number to my private secretary. If there was any problems or questions; They were to call and they would be fixed immediately. 
I said goodbye to the General one more time.

That evening I went on national TV and declared war. 

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