No More To Lose: Aftermath

No More To Lose: Aftermath

A (4th) Novella

Dr. Gregory Steinberg

Preface

The character of Miranda Giles was originally introduced in the last section of the previous novella in this series, “No More To Lose: Strike 3”, published in 2021. Since then, several people have asked me questions about her. As one friend and fellow author put it: “I feel I would like to get to know her better.”

Well, here you go…

Prologue

“So, what can I do you for today, Ms. Giles?”

“How about not talking and leaving me alone?”

“Whoa. Take it easy. This is my store. And I’m just asking a regular customer if I can be of help. No need to be nasty and bite my head off.”

Miranda Giles paused and looked at him. Carefully. Somewhat grudgingly, she had to admit that she liked what she saw.

Paul Crabtree was indeed the owner of the Delta Junction General Store. The store was located less than a mile from the famed northernmost point of the Alaska Highway where it joins the Richardson Highway on its way to the town of Fairbanks, Alaska, about 100 miles further north. Fairbanks is the second largest city in the state with a population of over 30,000. By contrast, Delta Junction boasts a population of just 1200 souls, which is just over twice the number of bison that roam the surrounding 90,000 acre Delta Bison Sanctuary. Located on the banks of the Tanana River and surrounded by three individually spectacular mountain ranges – the White Mountains to the north, the Granite Mountains to the southeast, and the Alaska Range to the southwest – the small town is a bucolic wilderness paradise.

Given its unprepossessing commercial location, the store was remarkably well-stocked. Miranda had been coming there every three or four weeks on average for the past year or so. She did most of her bulk shopping at the Walmart in Fairbanks, but that was a grueling two-hour trip each way. It took only half that time to get to Paul Crabtree’s General Store. It was more expensive than Walmart for sure, but he carried an extensive array of spices, and the quality of his fresh produce was peerless. He even had a small meat section that regularly featured porterhouse and ribeye steaks that rivaled those of her beloved Lobel’s back in her native New York City over four thousand miles away.

Paul Crabtree himself wasn’t that hard on the eyes either. Like Miranda, he was in his early 60s, but, also, like Miranda, he clearly kept himself in shape. He still had a full head of dark hair, albeit now generously peppered with gray. Intelligent and lively iridescent green eyes peered at her behind attractive designer frame glasses. He looked like an erudite, somewhat younger Bobby De Niro.

“Sorry Mr. Crabtree. You’re absolutely right. As a single woman, I have to be a little careful. But that was way over the top. It was rude and uncalled for, and I apologize.”

“No need to go that far. Ms. Giles. Let’s just call it quits and start again.”

“Okay… I guess.”

“So, what can I do you for today. Ms. Giles?”

Miranda could not restrain her smile.

You better watch yourself – this guy is really cute.

Book 1

Paul had asked her to go for coffee at the end of that conversation. She had politely refused, but when he asked her again on her next visit to the store a few weeks later, she agreed.

They went to the Cave, a diner and coffee shop conveniently located less than two blocks away on Richardson Highway, and sat down in a corner booth.

She told him that she had a lot of errands to run and could only stay a few minutes. They left the coffee shop three hours later, only after the owner George asked them politely to leave as it was 4 PM and he was closing up for the day.

Paul had been born 63 years earlier in 1959 in Haines City, a few miles south of Disney World in Florida. His dad’s family were Cuban immigrants who had fled the Castro regime and were virulent anti-communists. Paul’s father had driven trucks and learned about engines in the Korean War. After returning home, he started working as a mechanic in a local garage. This allowed him to at least partially indulge his love affair with motorcycles.

Paul’s mom was brought up in a trailer park outside of Jacksonville. She met Paul’s dad in 1958 in a bar near Disney World when she was seventeen and hitchhiking around Florida with a couple of girlfriends. At the time Paul’s dad was twenty-five and, with his cap and Triumph motorcycle, he was the spitting image of Marlon Brando in ’The Wild One”. They were married within a week, and, somewhat predictably, Paul was born nine months later. Two siblings followed in quick succession.

Paul’s dad began to subsidize his meager mechanic’s income with low level drug dealing. Unfortunately, he was one of his own best customers, and, a few days before Paul’s eleventh birthday, he woke up dead with a needle in his arm.

Within three months, Paul’s mom found a new boyfriend and moved in with him. The guy already had two kids of his own who lived with him following the death of his first wife from meningitis. The guy had no interest in expanding his family by three more young belly buttons, so he told Paul’s mom that she would have to make a choice. She chose the guy.

Paul and his younger brother and sister went to live with one of his paternal aunts, but she too had a family of her own and did not like Paul or his siblings. The feeling was mutual.

Paul did well in school, both academically and athletically. He was offered full scholarships at both Florida State University and the University of Florida, but, by then, all he wanted was to get away as soon and as far as possible. He had never seen snow, so Alaska sounded like a logical destination.

He made it to Fairbanks and, after working several jobs simultaneously and living like a pauper for several years, he managed to save up enough money to put a down payment on a small general store that had just come up for sale in Delta Junction. He had meticulously and lovingly nurtured the business for the last forty years.

About twenty-five years ago, he had serendipitously met a girl named Sonia who was visiting Alaska by car with her parents. They had stopped and shopped in his store on their way to and from Fairbanks. They lived in Barstow, northeast of Los Angeles, and had decided to travel up the Alaska Highway. At the time, Sonia was in her early twenties, and he was already in his late thirties. For some reason, she became instantly infatuated, and she started writing to him on a daily basis as soon as she returned to California. Eventually, this led to a more protracted in person meeting, and they were married a year later. They had one son, Brian, who was currently a senior at the University of Alaska in Anchorage and majoring in public health.

Fifteen years ago, when Brian was ten, Sonia came to the realization that she wanted more out of life than, as she put it to Paul, “being just a mom and housewife in Nowhere, Alaska where the average temperature is colder than a witch’s tit, and half the neighbors are grizzly bears.” Shortly after that memorable discussion, she left Paul for a real estate broker who she had met on some chat platform on the internet. Paul had not spoken to her or seen her for over ten years The last he had heard was that she was living somewhere near Atlanta, Georgia.

On the other hand, Paul’s relationship with his son Brian was, and had always been, admirable. Brian had a tough time adjusting to the realization that his mom had left and presumably therefore did not much care for either him or his dad. He became withdrawn and depressed, and eventually refused to go to school because he could not bear being with ‘normal kids who have moms’. Paul mortgaged his modest ranch house and drove his son for therapy sessions to Fairbanks twice a week for the next six months. Slowly but steadily, Brian improved. He went back to school and rapidly caught up with his peers. He was big for his age and a star ice hockey player in both middle and high school. Paul never missed a game.

“I always promised myself I would be a better parent to him that either of mine were to me. And after his mom split, I had to pull double duty. I ain’t complaining ’cause I think it has worked out okay, at least so far. He’s a good kid, and, at the end of the day, you can’t ask for more than that. I mean, it’s a crapshoot. There are good people that have bad kids, and bad people that have good kids. I’ll bet that Hitler’s parents were probably nice people.

“Anyway, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. What’s yours?”

Miranda told Paul about growing up in Paterson, New Jersey, the single child of a police officer and a kindergarten teacher. She told him about her parents dying together in a fiery car crash on Interstate 80 in 1978 when she was 17, courtesy of a big rig truck driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel. She told him about attending and graduating from the John Jay College of criminal justice in New York and then joining the New York city police force, spending the last twenty years there as a detective. She told him that she retired from the police force in 2010 after being diagnosed with breast cancer, and that she had been in remission for many years She told him about meeting and marrying her husband Ron, a New York real estate lawyer, in 1985. She told him about their only son Bobby, how he was gay and living in Paris with his soulmate in 2015 when they were both killed by terrorists at the Bataclan nightclub. She told him how Ron became inconsolably depressed immediately thereafter, and eventually committed suicide on the one-year anniversary of Bobby’s death. She told him she had never remarried.

It took her until the owner of the coffee shop kicked them out to finish telling her tale. Most of it. She left out a few details. Like how, just before she moved to Alaska from New York, she had deliberately run over an NSA agent with her car. Twice.

*****

After that, Miranda and Paul began meeting regularly for coffee whenever she came into town. She would first shop in his store, he would help load her truck, and they would then meander off to the Cave where they would stay for a couple of hours, or until George kicked them out, usually the latter.

They learned a lot about each other over coffee. Most importantly, they learned that they liked each other. A lot.

She learned that he was an avid reader of both fiction and nonfiction, with a particular interest in twentieth and twenty-first century political history, and that his favorite fiction authors were Hemingway and Faulkner. He was partial to black-and-white movies and westerns, especially anything with Clint Eastwood. His musical tastes were eclectic and ranged from Spanish classical guitar to folk music and classic rock. He hated rap however, and referred to it as “misogynistic, scatological, violence inciting drivel who’s only saving grace is that most of it is incomprehensible”.

Like most Alaskans, he considered himself to be Alaskan first, American second, and definitely not Canadian. More specifically, he posited that “Canadians are nice people, but they are from a different planet.” Given that Alaska had no professional sports teams of its own he followed the Seattle Mariners for baseball and the Seahawks for football, albeit at a distance, both literally and figuratively. On principle, he hated any team from Florida as it reminded him of a part of a life he would rather forget He was a serious cross-country skier, and only slightly less serious fisherman. Unlike most of his neighbors, he did not hunt. As he put it: “I guess I would do it if I felt threatened or was starving to death but, in general, I find the thought of blasting an unarmed creature morally reprehensible.”

His politics leaned left, which did not endear him to most of the other residents of the state who had voted Republican in every presidential election since 1964. He felt that CNN and MSNBC were too monochromatic and US centered in their approach to news so he favored the Public Broadcasting Service for his source of information about the world. He was an ardent agnostic who believed that, throughout history, religion in general and religious extremism in particular, had, ironically, been responsible for an ungodly and obscene amount of death, destruction, and misery.

He communicated only intermittently with his two younger siblings, and rarely saw them given that one (his sister) had married an Australian and moved to Canberra, and that the other (his brother) was an officer in the navy who had been deployed overseas for years. For understandable reasons, he had absolutely nothing to with either of his parents’ extended family.

He had two good long-standing local male friends who he fished and watched sports with on a regular basis – John who owned the Alaskan motel a few miles south down the Richardson Highway and who was also the head of the local volunteer fire and ambulance departments, and Henry who owned the local hardware store. Henry had recently been diagnosed with and treated for prostate cancer which, sadly, had left him permanently incontinent, impotent, and depressed, and he now rarely ventured out of his house.

He spoke on the phone with his son Brian at least every other day, and, weather permitting, he would drive the seven hours and 335 miles to Anchorage to visit him whenever he had a few days off. Unless Brian was sailing, which was his main passion, after girls and keeping his GPA healthy. His goal was to get into a training program for physician assistants, and that was at least as competitive as getting into medical school.

Before Sonia, Paul had had just a handful of serious relationships, the longest being a five-year stint with the widow of a local gun store owner. None of them had ended well and, after Sonia, he began to seriously doubt his judgement when it came to picking life partners. Also, he felt his first and last responsibility now was to Brian. As a result, he had been celibate for the past one and a half decades. That said, he was starting to reassess his options now…

*****

While at John Jay, Miranda had taken several courses in literature and, thanks to a couple of outstanding and inspiring professors, had become a knowledgeable aficionado of both ancient Greek plays and the works of William Shakespeare. Her current literary tastes were more prosaic and tended to gravitate more towards popular fiction such as the oeuvres of John Grisham and Elmore Leonard, or, when she wanted to feel a little spooked, Stephen King. She also read the New York Times every day online from cover to cover. Like Paul, she preferred old movies, particularly those with strong female characters such as Bette Davis, Lauren Bacall, and Marlene Dietrich. Her favorite music was classical, particularly opera. She and Ron had been long-standing members of Lincoln Center, and regularly attended performances of the Metropolitan Opera, the New York Philharmonic, and the New York City Ballet.

Her politics were more center-right than Paul’s, and she tended to vote Republican more often than not. At least until the criminal orange buffoon Trump came along and tried to destroy the party, most government institutions, and the entire country for good measure. She now considered herself a recovering Republican. As a young adult she had been a moderately devout practicing Catholic, but after her son’s pointless murder, the theodicy question made her continued faith untenable. She still believed in God but, like Voltaire, another of her literary heroes, she now espoused Deism.

Although she identified predominantly as a New Yorker, her Paterson, New Jersey roots and her loyalty to and love for her dad conspired to make her a diehard fan of the New Jersey Devils ice hockey team. The New York Giants were okay too, because, after all, Giants Stadium was in New Jersey. Her favorite personal sport was boxing, which she had been introduced to while at John Jay. After being treated for breast cancer she had seriously cut back on her training routine, but since moving to Alaska, she had set up a small home gym in the back of her heated garage. She now contented herself with intermittent pummeling sessions with a punching dummy, supplemented by alternating workouts on elliptical and rowing machines.

As a good Catholic girl, she had been a virgin growing up in Paterson. Following the sudden death of her parents and her move to New York City at the age of eighteen, she spent the next several years making up for lost time. After all, it was New York in the 1970’s and the specter of AIDS was not yet on the horizon. She met her husband-to-be Ron at a 1985 New Year’s Eve function organized by the police academy. She was twenty-six and Ron was thirty. His wife at the time, a senior aide to Mayor Ed Koch, was the keynote speaker. Miranda and Ron left the party together and were married a year later, as soon as Ron’s divorce papers were finalized. He was a generally good man, but he had a wandering eye…and penis. However, he was a commendably devoted dad to their only son Bobby, and was fully supportive when Bobby informed them that he was gay.

As devoted to Bobby as Ron was, Miranda was Ron on steroids. After all, she was his mom. Dads can come and go, but you only get one mom. Her police schedule did not allow her to spend as much time with Bobby as she wanted while he was growing up, but she tried to make it up to him by spending every spare waking moment with him. Taking Bobby to and from kindergarten and then school was particularly logistically challenging, but that was when Ron really stepped up and shone. As a senior partner in his real estate law firm he had substantial control over his schedule. Bobby was very shy and introverted until his last year in middle school. That was when he came out. On his fourteenth birthday he told his parents that he was gay. Ron had no issue with it but Miranda’s Catholic roots and conservative upbringing made it harder for her to accept. At least initially. She sought answers from a therapist, but that quickly degenerated into a psychosexual search for someone or something to blame. It was Ron who made it right.

“Do you love him.”

“Of course.”

“Unconditionally?”

“Of course.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes, I know he does.”

“Unconditionally?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a good kid?”

“The best.”

“Do you want him to be happy?”

“Of course.”

“Well, he just basically told you that being gay is what makes him happy. So your problem is what exactly?”

“I guess I don’t have a problem.”

“Good. Neither does he. Anyway, this is New York City. Don’t you know that everyone is gay here.”

It was moments like those that reminded Miranda why she had married Ron and stayed with him, despite his shenanigans.

Bobby went to New York University and majored in art history. That was where he met Maurice, an exchange student from the Sorbonne in Paris. For his senior year he chose to take courses at NYU’s Paris campus. He also decided to move in with Maurice. To hear him tell it, which he did at least twice a week, that was the best year of his twenty-two-year-old life.

At 9:20 PM on November 13, 2015, French security officers thwarted an Islamic suicide bomber who was trying to enter the Stade de France in Paris where the French president, Francois Hollande, was in attendance at a soccer match between the French and German national teams. At 9:25 PM, a team of Islamic terrorists armed with AK-47s launched a series of attacks on various popular night spots in the 10th and 11th arrondissements of Paris. Multiple bars and restaurants were attacked over the next fifteen minutes leaving thirty-four people dead and dozens wounded. At 9:40 PM. the attackers entered the Bataclan nightclub on the Boulevard Voltaire. The American band Eagles of Death Metal were playing to a packed crowd of one thousand five hundred people. The attackers occupied the club for two hours during which eighty-nine people were killed and scores wounded. French security forces eventually stormed the club resulting in the deaths of all the terrorists, mostly at their own hands after detonating their suicide vests.

The police officer who called the next day told them that Bobby and Maurice were among the victims. He added that it appeared that Bobby had been trying to shield Maurice.

After Bobby’s death and Ron’s subsequent suicide in 2016, Miranda had forsworn any future significant relationships. However, like Paul, she was beginning to rethink her position…

Similar to Paul, she had no residual ties with any of her extended family, or that of her late husband, but that was by necessity following her expeditious and covert departure from New York in the aftermath of what happened in Maryland with that NSA guy James Noble. Also like Paul, she didn’t hunt. But, unlike Paul, she practiced regularly with the multiple firearms in her house, especially her Glock 23 and her Weatherby Mark V Camilla Ultra Lightweight hunting rifle with its Leupold Mark 5 HD scope. By now she could hit reliably hit a 3-inch target at one thousand yards.

*****

Miranda Giles had essentially gone off the grid when she left New York City.

The vehicle she had used to drive to Alaska, and had been using ever since, was a secondhand Dodge Ram with Alaska plates. It had been bought on her behalf by a retired New York City detective friend who owed her big time. He had purchased it from a small but reputable dealer in Jersey City, paid for it in cash (her’s), and registered the vehicle in the name of Miranda Bennett, her maiden name.

She lived in a two-room luxury cabin isolated on seventy-five acres of wilderness land located about forty-five miles due east of Delta Junction. There were no paved roads for at least twenty miles in any direction, just scattered dirt tracks. It took about an hour to get to Delta Junction by SUV, all-terrain vehicle, or, for most of the year, snowmobile, and she owned one of each. The cabin had belonged to a survivalist type who nonetheless still enjoyed his creature comforts. He had been an engineer and had equipped the place with state-of-the-art appliances, central heating, a Sonos sound system, internet connectivity, and two satellite televisions. He had also installed a windmill with three high tech blades each thirty feet long. The windmill powered the cabin, the attached heated garage, the in-ground well, and a thirty by ten foot shed which housed a comprehensively stocked greenhouse along one wall, enough tools to supply an entire Home Depot store, and multiple drums of diesel fuel. The latter was used by the large outdoor garbage incinerator located on the side of the cabin opposite to the shed. The engineer had been somewhat of a germophobe, and he had chosen a model originally designed to dispose of medical waste. It could handle a ten cubic foot load and dispose of about sixty-five pounds of waste per hour without leaving any residual trace for prowling bears or wolves. He felt it was worth every penny of the thirty-five thousand dollars he had spent on it. The diesel fuel was also used to power the snowmobile of which she was now the proud owner. In 2015 a company called DEW Engineering had partnered with the Canadian Armed Forces to develop a snowmobile capable of operating reliably for long distances in extreme conditions. The D900 had a range of over three hundred miles on a single tank of diesel. The model was not available to the general public, but the original cabin owner had an engineering school buddy who worked for DEW, and that buddy had somehow managed to send him a ‘spare’. Along with the windmill and the incinerator, it was his pride and joy. Miranda had to agree – it was an awesome machine.

A couple of years earlier, the engineer had died alone just outside his front door. He was found some months later by his brother who thought it had been either a heart attack or a bear. She had bought the cabin and land from the brother and paid cash. The transaction was recorded in a large leather-bound ledger by an eighty-one-year-old female county clerk in Delta Junction who did not believe in or trust computers.

The windmill ensured she did not receive or pay any utility bills. She bought a new prepaid cell phone from the Walmart in Fairbanks about every month or so. There were no car payments or mortgage payments. Before leaving New York, she had transferred all her assets – about six and a half million dollars’ worth thanks mostly to her late husband’s savings and the sale of their New York condo – to the Overseas Chinese Banking Corporation of Singapore. The bank provided her with a debit/credit card which could also be used to obtain cash from multiple proprietary cash point locations worldwide, including one conveniently located in Fairbanks. She had found that withdrawing a thousand dollars or so on each of her visits to Fairbanks easily allowed her to pay for all her daily needs in cash without ever having to use the credit card. Like other Singapore banks, the OCBCS had no regulatory connections with the either the US banking system or the US government. After paying for the cabin and its extras, the car, and various miscellaneous moving expenses her principal had dipped to just under 5.75 million. Even at a measly two percent interest rate, which is what OCBCS was currently offering, this generated an essentially untraceable yearly income of about one hundred and fifteen thousand dollars – more than enough for a little old widow to get by on.

She did not socialize, either in person or online. Paul Crabtree was the first other person she had had coffee with since arriving in Delta Junction eighteen months ago.

As long as she kept her head down, didn’t get arrested, or try to use her passport, it would be hard to find her. At the very least it would take them a fair while. But nothing was certain. That was why she had also bought the previous cabin owner’s extensive gun collection.

*****

After about three months of coffee, Paul finally screwed up enough courage to ask her out to dinner. He was not sure he was entirely ready, and he was pretty sure she wasn’t either. But he gave it a go anyway. It turned out that he was right

“Sorry, I just don’t think I can handle that right now.” Before she had even completed her sentence, she saw the wave of disappointment spread over his features.

“Okay. So how about I take you fishing?”

“I’ve never been fishing in my entire life.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing. I think you might like it. There’s nothing like eating a fish you just caught. And it’s a lot more relaxed than dinner in a restaurant.”

She thought about it a while. “What the hell. Yeah, I’ll give it a try.”

His look of disappointment had given way to relief. And anticipation.

“Yolo.”

“What?”

“Yolo. It’s an acronym for ‘you only live once’. It’s what all the cool people say these days.”

“I haven’t been cool for at least thirty years. But I’ll go for Yolo.”

*****

She met him a week later at his store. His truck was already parked outside. Hitched to it on a trailer was a twenty-two-foot Sundance skiff with a 115 hp Yamaha motor angled off the stern. There was a central, raised seated console for the instruments and steering wheel, and additional comfortable looking seats fore and aft. Inside a long, narrow canvas bag neatly tied down to the bottom of the skiff were two six-foot long graphite fishing poles equipped with 2500 size reels and fluorocarbon lines.

“I’m going to take you to Quartz Lake. It is part of a state park and has some of the best fishing around. And it’s less than fifteen miles away.”

It was a crystal-clear morning in early June. A thin veneer of snow covered the ground, and his breath fogged up his glasses as he spoke. She was wearing multiple layers, including long johns, bulky midcalf Ugg boots, dark insulated ski pants, a bright red parka, a dark green wool beanie with a red pompom, and mittens. She looked like an elf.

But a very cute elf.

“You look very, uh, festive.”

She shot him a withering glance.

“No, you look great. Really. It’s just that we are going fishing, not caroling. Also, you aren’t going to be able to do anything useful with those mittens. Here, try these Glacier Gloves. They should be about your size. They should keep your hands warm and dry but still let you move your fingers enough to feel what you are doing. And if you want, we can still go caroling after.”

You are a tough guy not to like, aren’t you?

*****

After launching the skiff from a ramp on the southwest shore of Quartz Lake, he took them across the middle to a small inlet on the northwest side where he said there were less people and more fish. It was midweek and there were only a handful of other craft on the water. Miranda sat in the fore chair and watched the skiff effortlessly carve its way across the limpid reflection of the surrounding foothills and overhead cumulus floaters.

Serenity now. I could get used to this.

The lack of current meant he did not have to drop anchor. He showed her the basics of casting and how to use the reel.

“These are relatively short fishing poles, and they are graphite which means that they are strong, light, and maneuverable – perfect for a beginner. We are using a fluorocarbon line because it’s very strong and it sinks without having to use weights. It’s also hard for the fish to see. Which is also why you should use relatively small hooks. They are also hard to see. And they are barbless – easier to get the fish off. Especially with mittens.”

“Very funny. I am never going to live that one down, am I?”

“Nope. We are going to be using live bait. Nightcrawlers actually. You might find it a little gross, but the fish love them.”

He baited the hook and handed her the pole.

“Okay, here you go. Let’s fish.”

*****

It took less than ten minutes for her to feel a tug on her line.

“Let it run a bit. Now start reeling it in. Brace yourself. They can be pretty strong.”

Paul wasn’t kidding. It felt like she had a five-hundred-pound shark at the end of her line. After a furious, sweaty, breathless, backbreaking, yet ultimately supremely satisfying fifteen minutes she finally got the fish close enough to the boat that Paul was able to reach down with his net and scoop it up.

“Wow, that must be a ten-pound rainbow trout. Nice going for a novice. Actually, nice going for anyone. I suggest we eat it to celebrate your first catch.”

The fish was flopping frenetically in the net on the bottom of the skiff.

“Now you don’t want to put it in a bucket or anything. That is just cruel. The fish gets panicked and builds up lactic acid. Which doesn’t taste good. So the best thing to do is kill it as quickly and humanely as possible.”

He reached into a compartment and picked up a six-inch-long steel spike that had a large rubber handle grip at one end. He gripped the rubber handle with his right hand and grabbed the fish with his left, holding it by its dorsum just behind its head.

“The key is to put the spike into its brain which sits deep just between its eyes. Right here.”

He tightened his grip on the fish and rapidly forced the spike into the spot he had indicated. She heard a small crunch as the spike penetrated the skull. Paul quickly rotated the tip of the spike, and the fish immediately went limp.

“Et voila. There are actually a few people I would like to do that to.”

Me too.

“We should cook this bad boy asap.”

He guided the skiff to a convenient spot and beached it. He jumped out and quickly set up a small portable gas grill. He gutted and bled the fish while the grill heated up. Ten minutes later, it was ready.

“I didn’t put anything on it - no herbs, salt, pepper, nothing. I want you to try it pure.”

It was the best damn fish she had ever eaten. And that included that ridiculously priced meal with Ron at Le Bernardin, allegedly the best fish restaurant in New York.

Yeah, I really could get used to this.

“So, you want to go back for some more? But just catch and release now.”

“Sure, why not? Yolo, right?”

“Yes, yolo. I guess that means you’re hooked now.”

Nice one.

“Hooked? Is that the best you can do?”

“Give me a break. At least I’m trying.”

Yes you are. And doing pretty well by the way.

*****

They went fishing whenever the weather allowed it. On the other days they went to the Cave for coffee. The Cave was for chatting. The fishing was for…just fishing.

“Next spring, I am going to show you how to fly fish. It’s a whole different deal and takes time and practice to do it right. But I think you’ll like it.”

It was the first words either of them had spoken since casting off over three hours earlier.

“Sounds good to me.”

Yolo.

*****

It was mid-November and the average temperature was hovering in the mid-single digits Fahrenheit. It had been snowing most days for the past six weeks and although the road crews did a pretty good job of keeping the main highways clear she had not been able to use her car for most of that time. Her only way to town was now by snowmobile, and the weather was gradually forcing the number and frequency of her visits down.

“I heard you live in that dead engineer’s cabin east of town.”

They were sitting at their favorite booth at the Cave diner. He had never asked her about where she lived before.

“Yes. Small town. I guess everyone knows everyone’s business.”

“I’m not trying to pry. It just seems that it would get pretty lonesome there sometimes.”

“It does, but I like it that way.”

“I figured as much. But why did you pick here. There are lots of other places to go and be lonesome.”

You knew this was going to come up sooner or later.

“If I told you I would have to kill you. But seriously, it’s a fair question. And I will answer it. Just not here and now. Why don’t you come and visit me there for lunch sometime next week. We can talk then. I’ll give you directions.”

“Deal.”

*****

He pulled up in his snowmobile just before noon the following Wednesday. It was a stunningly clear day without a cloud in sight.

“Wow, the view here is spectacular.”

“Yes, you can see for miles. It actually calls to mind your ex-governor and certified brain donor Sarah Palin who said she could see Russia from her house.”

“You actually can see Russia from Alaska. Turns out there are two small islands in the middle of the Bering Strait that are separated from each other by less than three miles. One is called Little Diomede and is part of Alaska, and the other, Big Diomede, is part of Russia. So not only can you see Russia from Alaska, but in the winter, you can actually walk there cause the water freezes over. That said, I’m with you on the brain donor part.”

“You’re such a know-all. Come on, let me show you around.”

*****

“Well, I can see how you can hang out here on your own away from all humanity and be pretty comfortable for weeks if not months at a time. Still doesn’t answer the why though.”

“I said I would tell you over lunch. I made a tuna casserole. It’s not lake trout but I caught it fresh out of the can this morning.”

“Okay. Let’s eat. And talk.”

*****

She told him. All of it. She told him about the unsolicited letter she had received almost two years earlier from a stranger named Herb Schoenberg warning her that, like him, she may be approached by a guy from the National Security Agency named James Noble with a proposal to kill one or more terrorists on behalf of the agency. The pitch would be that this would in some way make up for her son’s murder, that it would be good for the country, and that, given her circumstances, she had nothing to lose. She told him that Herb’s letter indicated that he had decided not to play ball, and that the NSA had almost certainly killed him as a result.

She told him that she had concluded that, if what Herb said was true, it was likely part of a larger pattern whereby the NSA somehow identified individuals who had suffered a major tragedy and were therefore vulnerable and desperate enough to actually consider such a harebrained proposition. People like Herb who refused to cooperate were disposed of in a way that would make it look like suicide.

She told him about how she had heard on the news about a guy from Westchester called Paul Goldstein who had been found dead at home from an apparent suicide after tragically losing his father, wife, and only son to COVID, all within six months. She told him how she had gone to Westchester herself and interviewed one of Goldstein’s nosy but very observant next-door neighbors. The neighbor had confirmed that Goldstein, despite his troubles, was not the type who would commit suicide, and that he had been visited several times by some unidentified guys, including just before his death.

She told him how the Goldstein episode had convinced her that Herb Schoenberg’s nutty story about the NSA was likely true. That was when she had decided to take proactive steps. That was when she had started looking for a place where she would be hard to find. That was when she found the engineer’s cabin east of Delta Junction.

She told him how she had then indeed been contacted by James Noble of the NSA. His pitch was just like Herb Schoenberg said. She told him how she had tracked Noble to his home in Chevy Chase Maryland with the help of an ex-detective buddy now turned private investigator.

And now for the piece de resistance.

“I figured these were bad people and that they had to be stopped. I cased Noble’s house for a couple of days and picked the right time and place. I waited for him to return from one of his early morning jogs. Then I ran him over with my car. Twice. I suspected the NSA wouldn’t take too kindly to having one of their agents killed. So here I am.”

“Jesus. That’s quite a tale Miranda.”

“Yes, it is. I suppose you will want to be getting back soon. It gets dark early these days.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

“Good. I noticed you had a small loveseat on your porch. Let’s bundle up and go outside and watch the sunset.”

*****

After dinner, they watched TV. The engineer’s satellite setup gave her access to hundreds of free channels worldwide. She found an ad-free version of Casablanca that had started playing less than ten minutes earlier. By the time the film had reached its last immortal line of “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” they were both holding hands and unsuccessfully trying to hold back a small rivulet of tears.

“I think we should go to bed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I don’t know how to say this, but do you want me to use a condom?”

“Why? No matter what happens, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get pregnant.”.

“Very funny. I’m thinking of the risk of sexually transmitted disease.”

“Nice. When did you last have sex?”

“About fifteen years ago, before my ex-wife left.”

“It’s only been about eight for me. Did you ever get tested for AIDS or hepatitis?”

“My GP tested me for everything a few years back when I turned sixty. He told me I was in good shape and would likely outlive him. That said, he was about eighty at the time, so he didn’t completely reassure me.”

“Well, I got tested in about 2011 when I needed a transfusion after one of my rounds of breast cancer chemo. They said I was clear too. Bottom line is I don’t think we pose much of an STD threat to each other. So, thanks for asking, but no, there is no need for a condom.”

“Well, that’s a relief because I don’t have one. And even if I did, I don’t think I would know how to put one on.”

“Lucky for all of us then.”

She gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and started leading him towards the bedroom.

“I don’t think I remember how to do this.”

“Don’t worry. It’s just like riding a bike”

She was right. It was just like riding a bike. Just more fun.

*****

“I told you it would be okay.”

“I don’t know. I think I need more practice.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

*****

Book 2

Miranda and Paul quickly settled into a comfortable and mutually convenient routine. As long as the weather cooperated – which it often didn’t as the Alaskan winter was now in full force – they would spend half the week in town in Paul’s bungalow and the other half at the cabin. Paul had a very dependable assistant, Phil who was the eldest son of his good friend Henry, the one who was having trouble following prostate cancer treatment. The family needed the money and Phil was more than happy to work extra hours and cover for Paul.

The weather made most outdoor activity challenging, so they stayed in most of the time. He asked her to go ice fishing once, but she politely yet firmly refused once she understood that it involved sitting in the middle of a frozen lake in a tiny tent for hours on end watching a line go through a small hole drilled in the ice pack.

“It sounds miserable. And unsafe.”

“The ice is about three feet thick by now. You could drive a semi across the lake and it would be fine.”

“Great. I hope you and the semi are very happy together. There is no way this old girl is putting her butt out in the middle of a frozen lake, no matter how thick you tell me the ice is.”

“Fair enough. And as usual, your butt wins.”

Paul was a foodie, so meal preparation was delegated to him. Dinner was typically followed by an old movie which was itself followed by cozy and tender sex. They would remind each other that they both had many years of abstinence to atone for.

*****

“I think we should drive over to Anchorage for a couple of days. You can meet Brian.”

“Sounds like a test.”

“It’s not a test. I just think it’s about time the two of you meet.”

“Fair enough. But it still sounds like a test.”

*****

They met at the Crow’s Nest, an upscale Nouvelle Cuisine restaurant perched atop the Captain Cook Hotel in downtown Anchorage and offering stunning three hundred- and sixty-degree views of the city, the Chugach Mountains, and Cook Inlet. After agreeing they all would try a bit of each other’s dishes, Miranda ordered crab legs, Paul went for the Alaskan King Salmon, and Brian had the cod. The sommelier suggested an Oregon Pinot Noir for the salmon and a Venetian Pinot Grigio for the crab legs and cod. No one was driving – they had all arrived by Uber – so they went for both.

Over desert Brian told them that he felt pretty sure that he would soon be accepted to the Physician Assistant training program at his alma mater but that he was still waiting to hear from a few other places. The two closest outside of Alaska were the University of Washington in Seattle and the Oregon Health and Sciences University in Portland. However, ‘close’ was a relative term because they were both over two thousand miles away. His two top picks however were the University of Southern California and Stanford.

“Best weather and best girls. What’s not to like?”

“The price for one.”

“I’d get a part time job as a sailing instructor.”

“What about your current girlfriend?”

“Which one?”

“There’s no hope for you. It’s a good thing I love you.”

“Back at you pops.”

“I think I’ll excuse myself while you two boys carry on and go powder my nose.”

*****

When she returned to her seat it was clear to Miranda that they had been talking about her. Both Paul and Brian were smiling broadly.

Good sign. I think I passed the test.

*****

They drove back to Delta Junction the next day. Paul was pretty silent for the first couple of hours. He seemed to be preoccupied. He stopped for gas at Glennallen, about halfway along the three-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey. They both got out to stretch their legs and visit the restrooms. When she returned to the truck, he was waiting for her. There was a small blue box with a white ribbon in his hand. She recognized the Tiffany’s paraphernalia immediately.

“I realize this is not the most romantic place to do this, but I would like you to marry me. And I’m worried that if I don’t do it now I might lose my nerve.”

He handed her the blue box. She opened it and looked at the diamond engagement ring inside.

“It’s beautiful Paul. Thank you. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I need to think about this on my own for a bit. It’s not that I don’t love you. I do. This is a very big deal. I just need to get it straight in my head. I need to be sure it’s right for me.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sure it’s right for me Miranda.”

She smiled softly and handed the box back to him. A look of abject disappointment tinged with sadness and embarrassment spread out from his eyes.

“I am not trying to play with you Paul. I don’t need that much time. I am planning to go to the bank in Fairbanks tomorrow. It will give me several hours to think. I’ll have a definite answer for you when I get back. Okay?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Not really.”

“Well, here’s hoping for a ‘yes’ then.”

Me too.

*****

“If it’s still available, I’ll take that ring now.”

“Sorry. I gave it to a barmaid at Joe’s saloon up the road.”

“I guess I deserved that. How can I make it up to you.”

“I’m pretty sure I can think of something.”

“I’ll bet you can. Now hand over that ring and let’s go get married.”

*****

They applied by mail for a marriage license from the local county office. It arrived at Paul’s house a week later. The wedding rings that they had chosen for each other from Tiffany’s online catalogue arrived the following day.

They decided on a wedding reception at the Cave diner. It was the only logical choice. It was attended by Paul’s two best friends, John and Henry, their immediate family, and Brian. Stavros, the owner of the Cave, provided a small wedding cake, finger food, and an open bar. A non-denominational minister officiated over a brief wedding ceremony with Brian as ring bearer and best man.

It was by far the best wedding that either of them had ever attended.

Just like that first fishing expedition at Quartz Lake. Perfect.

The one-week honeymoon at the cabin wasn’t too bad either. Hawaii could wait till next year.

*****

“Give me your money, bitch. And while you’re at it, fork over your rings and watch.”

They had just left the Cave after, as usual, being kicked out by Stavros at closing time. Although it was only four o’clock in the afternoon, the sun had set almost an hour earlier, and the deserted parking lot where Paul’s truck was waiting was only dimly lit given that one of its two feeble overhead streetlights had failed.

The guy was about thirty years old, and wore grease spattered winter overalls. A black beanie sat on top of a prematurely aged face housing nervous looking eyes and covered by a ragged, dark beard.

His right arm was outstretched and terminated in a vicious looking hunting knife with an eight-inch serrated blade. He smelled strongly of alcohol.

“We don’t want any trouble Caleb.”

Caleb wheeled and slashed randomly in Paul’s direction. Paul yelled out and fell to the ground clutching his left forearm. Despite the gloom, Miranda could see a red stain starting to spread out on the snow-covered tarmac. Caleb had turned back to face Miranda, the knife still held out in front of him, like a sword. They were about five feet away from each other.

“I wasn’t talking to you Paul. I was talking to your bitch girlfriend here. I’m told she always uses cash and that she’s probably loaded. So come on babe, hand it over before I cut you too.”

“I’m not your babe.”

“No shit. You’re older than my mom. And even uglier. Now cut the crap and hand me your money.”

“My wallet is inside my jacket.”

“Okay then. Take it out. Slowly. And hand it over.”

Miranda unzipped the front of her ski jacket and used her right hand to pull the wallet out of her inside pocket. She held the wallet out in front of her. Caleb reached his left hand forward to grab it. Before his fingers made contact, she released her grip and the wallet fell to the ground.

“You did that deliberately you cunt. And it’s going to cost you. Now pick it up and give it to me properly.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Pick it up or I’ll kill you.”

“I’m sixty-two years old, and I just had back surgery. I can’t bend down.”

Caleb considered this new information for a moment. With the knife still held up, he took a step forward to get closer to his fallen prize. He kept his eyes on her as he bent down to scoop up the wallet. The alcohol made his movements unsteady, and he began to wobble gently as he lowered himself. At the last moment, he had to look down to accurately locate it. This meant that his downturned head was now just three feet away from Miranda, about eighteen inches off the ground.

That was when she pivoted sharply on her already braced left leg and kicked him with her right boot. Hard. The boot made contact with Caleb’s left ear, and it knocked him over and sent him spinning to his right. Although he was obviously dazed, Miranda saw that he was still holding on to the knife. She moved quickly towards his right hand, now outstretched on the ground, and stomped on it with all the force her one-hundred-and-forty-pound frame could muster. She heard and felt several small bones crack. It felt good. Caleb screamed in pain. That felt good too.

“You bitch! You broke my hand!”

Caleb had rolled over on to his stomach and was furiously trying to raise himself with his remaining good hand. Miranda moved to his immediate left, level with his legs, and aimed her next stomp to the area just behind his left kneecap. Again she heard a satisfying crack and felt some tissue give way. Caleb screamed again, but it rapidly subsided to a whimper. Miranda kicked the knife away and turned back to him. He was lying prostrate, moaning various inarticulate epithets. Satisfied that he was no longer a threat, Miranda turned her attention back to Paul.

“Are you okay.”

“Yes. He cut me pretty deep, but it doesn’t look like he hit an artery or anything else serious.”

“Well, we should still get you to a doctor ’cause you’re likely going to need stitches.”

“Oh shit. I think he’s still trying to get to his knife.”

Caleb was indeed slithering towards the hunting knife now lying on the packed snow about ten feet away. Miranda trotted over – there was no need to run.

“Where are you going shithead?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Your choice asshole.”

She stomped on the back of his other knee. Same gratifying sound and feel. Then she kicked him on the side of the head, hard enough to cause him to flip over on to his back. He groaned softly and then lay still.

“That should keep you calm and quiet until the cops get here.”

She returned to Paul who was now standing up nursing his blood-stained arm.

“Jesus Christ Miranda. Remind me never to piss you off.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. I just don’t like it when punks like that try to mess with me or mine.”

“So does that mean I’m yours now?”

“Yes you are. Now and forever. Now let’s call the cops and get you to a doctor.”

*****

By the time the police and paramedics came it was after five pm and all the medical clinics and doctors’ offices in the vicinity were closed. They offered to drive Paul to the nearest Emergency Room which was in Fairbanks about one hundred miles and ninety minutes away. That was where they were taking Caleb, and there was space for Paul to ride along in either the ambulance or the police car.

Paul politely but firmly refused and told the officers and paramedics that he would make alternative arrangements. After getting him to sign some release documents, they departed, sirens flashing against the night sky.

“Take me to Dr. Connors house. He’s a veterinarian and a friend of mine. He works out of his house and I’m pretty sure he can patch me up. It’s only a few minutes away.”

Fifty minutes and fifteen sutures later they were back in Paul’s bungalow, in front of the living room’s welcoming fireplace, each cradling a large glass of Pinot Noir.

“It sounded like you two knew each other.”

“Yeah. His name is Caleb Horton, He’s the youngest of four brothers. As bad as he is, his siblings are even worse – meaner and, unfortunately for everyone else, less stupid. They all live with their mom in some crappy place somewhere north of town. All the brothers are involved in drugs and crime to some degree, most of it pretty low level, although I heard they may have higher ambitions, especially Corey, the oldest and meanest of the bunch. The police tend to look the other way however because Daddy Horton, believe it or not, was the beloved local police chief for over twenty years. His cruiser hit a moose about seven years ago which did not work out well for either Daddy Horton or the moose. The town gave him a big parade at his funeral.”

“Nice story. Sounds like a fun family.”

“You know what? I think we should get away from here for a while – get a change of scenery. How about we go to Anchorage for a few days and hang out with Brian?”

*****

It was almost five, the last customer had left over ten minutes earlier, and Paul was starting to close down the store when the three men walked in. He recognized Corey Horton from the snake tattoo coiled around his neck. The reptile’s gaping fanged mouth and forked tongue pointed menacingly forward just below the left ear.

Instinctively, Paul started to move towards the register where a bat and snub nosed 38 caliber revolver sat on a hidden shelf just below the counter.

“We’re looking for your girlfriend. Actually, I heard she’s now your wife. Anyway, where is she?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you want with her, and I’ll see that she gets the message.”

“I don’t think you get it Paul. Your wife messed up my brother and we’re here for payback. You know, the old eye for an eye shit. And turn around and face me when I talk to you.”

Paul turned around and saw that Corey had a revolver of his own pointed lazily at Paul’s midsection.

“So Paul, One more time. Where is your bitchin’ wife?”

“She went out. I don’t know where she is.” Paul knew that Miranda had gone shopping in Fairbanks and would likely not be back for at least a couple of hours.

“I’m not sure I believe you Paul. But no worries. I’ve got a plan B. Kyle, put up the ‘Closed’ sign and watch the street and front door. Now Paul, you, my brother Joe, and I are going to have a nice long chat. You see, you my friend are plan B.”

*****

“Mrs. Crabtree?”

“Who’s asking?”

“This is officer Charles of the Alaska State Troopers in Delta Junction. I’m calling about your husband Paul.”

Miranda felt the sudden terrifying nausea that washes over you when you know with absolute certainty that bad news is about to come at you fast.

“What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

“I’m afraid not Mrs. Crabtree. His store caught fire. The local fire chief believes it was arson. Your husband was found on the floor in cardiac arrest. The EMT’s did what they could but he was eventually pronounced dead at the scene.”

Miranda brought the truck to a screeching halt and slumped over the wheel. The hands-free phone crackled to life.

“Mrs. Crabtree, are you okay.”

“Yes. I was driving. I just pulled over. Where is he?”

“The local medical centers were closed so the EMT’s brought him to our headquarters in Delta Junction. The state medical examiner is on his way from Anchorage, but he won’t be here for several hours.”

“I know where you are. I’ll be there is thirty minutes. Did you call his son Brian?”

“Not yet. He was next on my list.”

“If you don’t mind, I would prefer to call him myself.”

*****

“Are you sure you want to do this Mrs. Crabtree? Your husband’s body was burned pretty bad.”

“Thank you for your concern. But, yes, I’m sure.”

“I’m afraid there is something else.”

“What?”

“It looks like he was beaten up before the fire. We have to wait for the official coroner’s report of course, but it appears to me that’s what may have killed him. I’m telling you this because your husband’s body and face are pretty banged up. So, again, I’m not sure you want to do this.”

Miranda straightened herself in the spartan seat across from the desk from Officer Charles. “Again, thank you for your concern, but please take me to him.”

“There’s yet another thing I did not tell you.”

Jesus, now what?

“I’m really sorry to tell you this. But, in addition to the fire and the beating, your husband was scalped.”

*****

Paul’s supine body was lying on a small cot along the far wall of a single person holding cell at the rear of the station. A low wattage solitary naked bulb glowed weakly from the center of the ceiling. Its surrounding protective steel grating cast alternating dim dark stripes across the tiny room. The body was entirely shrouded in a plain wool blanket. Despite the gloom and the sepulchral covering, Miranda could see that Paul’s right arm and leg were lying at odd angles.

“Please pull the cover down.”

Paul’s head and face came into view. What was left of them. He was unrecognizable. His nasal and cheek bones had all been crushed, and the entire contour of his face had been reduced to a shapeless, bruised and charred pulpy mass.

A deep knife wound ran across the top of his forehead. Behind it and extending backward about eight inches lay exposed skull streaked with soot and congealed blood. The remaining hair on the back and sides had been burned down to a singed stubble.

Miranda stood there without moving for several minutes. Then she staggered over to the small sink on the side wall and retched violently. After the dry heaves finally ceased, she wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and turned back to Officer Charles.

“Do you know who did this?”

“Not yet. A driver who happened to be passing by told us he had seen three men leaving Paul’s store. He was a regular customer and knew that it was after closing time, so he called it in. The security camera in the store was destroyed in the fire but we are canvasing to see if anyone else saw anything.

“I know that you and your husband were involved in a violent altercation with one of the Horton boys about a week ago that resulted in fairly serious injuries. It’s possible that this, uh, incident, has something to do with that.”

No shit Sherlock.

“We want to bring the Hortons in for questioning, but we haven’t been able to locate them as yet.”

Good.

“These are Mr. Crabtree’s personal effects. It appears that whoever did this also took the contents of his wallet. It seems they also robbed the cash register.”

He handed her a small paper bag. It contained a wedding ring and an empty wallet.

*****

The funeral service took place in Paul’s living room and was attended by the same people who had attended the wedding three months earlier. Paul had indicated in multiple conversations that he wanted to be cremated, and a sparsely decorated pewter urn containing his ashes presided over the fireplace mantlepiece.

The minister made a few benign general remarks and invited anyone else present to speak. The small crowd turned towards Miranda.

“After I lost my son years ago, I believed I would never be able to love anything or anyone ever again. I was wrong. It turns out my one true love had just been waiting for me here, in Delta Junction Alaska of all places. Thank you, Paul. I never felt so loved or so happy as when I was with you. And no one will ever be able to take that away from me. No one. Ever.”

*****

“Do you want me to hang around here with you for a while?”

“No thanks Brian. I know this has been very hard on you too, but I think I need to be alone for a bit.”

“That’s okay. I feel I need to be alone too. I know my Dad loved you very much. I had never seen him so happy. I’m glad he got to feel that with you. Anyway, you know where to find me. I’m sorry I never got to know you well enough to call you Mom.”

Me too.

But now, it’s time to pay a visit to the Hortons. Before the police get to them.

*****

Book 3

It took only some gentle questioning of Stavros to get the address. The Horton home was located at the far end of an unmarked trail off the Richardson Highway, about fifteen miles north of Delta Junction. Like Stavros said, unless you knew that the trail head was within a hundred feet of a road sign saying ‘Harding Birch Lakes 5 Miles’, you would never find it. Particularly when it was covered in snow.

Miranda parked her truck several hundred yards in where it could not easily be seen from the highway. She unfolded her portable steel ramp and gently eased her snowmobile out of the truck bed and onto the ground. The trail headed due east. After about five miles, her destination came into view, just as she crested a gentle ridge. It had just passed noon.

The house was a large, ramshackle log cabin that exuded a general sense of neglect and misery. It was centrally located at the bottom of a wide treeless gully. There was no cover in any direction for several hundred yards. Miranda herself was over five hundred yards away, hidden by the hillside.

No problem for the Weatherby Mark V rifle and Leupold scope at this range however.

She turned off her engine off and sat there. There were no parked vehicles or tracks of any sort, but someone was definitely home because a thin plume of smoke was curling gently up from the lone chimney on the far side of the metal roof. Miranda kept watching for a full sixty minutes. There was no visible movement and no sound, except for intermittent birdsong and the occasional bleat of some distant animal.

Time to go and take a closer look.

She parked the snowmobile about fifty yards from the front porch and started walking slowly towards the house. She walked sideways keeping her left shoulder forward, her right hand and its clasped Glock 23 hidden from view of the house behind her right thigh. Someone had to have heard her coming so she kept darting her eyes back and forth between the two narrow windows on each side of the front door.

No movement. No sound.

“Hello! Anyone home?”

She heard a small shuffle and the front door creaked open inward. Halfway. Miranda tightened her grip on the Glock, leaned her weight back on her trailing right foot, and steadied herself. A short, wizened, woman came into view, the right half of her body hidden behind the door. Her thinning steel gray hair was tied in a tight bun at the back of her head. She could have been any age between sixty and eighty. The image of Anthony Perkins playing the role of his dead mother in Hitchcock’s Psycho flashed briefly across Miranda’s mind.

“What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Corey Horton and his brothers.”

“I know who you are. You’re that bitch wife of Paul Crabtree. You’re the one who broke my son Caleb’s hand and knees and gave him a blood clot on the brain. He’s upstairs stuck in bed now. The doctors say he’s got brain damage and may never walk again.”

The old woman’s voice was soft, flat, almost inaudible.

“Maybe your son shouldn’t have come after us with a knife. Maybe then he wouldn’t be a vegetable and none of this would have ever happened.”

“Maybe so, but it looks to me like your husband got what he deserved. An eye for an eye, just like the good book says.”

The voice remained calm and even. No flicker of emotion.

“Time for you to go join him.”

The old woman’s right half emerged from behind the door. She was holding a sawed-off shotgun in her right hand and the barrel was already swinging upwards.

Miranda swung her right hand and arm upward towards the doorway and started firing. It was a race, and it was going to be close.

The shotgun spewed fire and Miranda felt snow and dirt splatter up from the ground a few feet in front of her. Miranda saw the old woman fall backward as she fired a second shotgun blast harmlessly into the sky. Miranda kept firing into the doorway until the Glock’s thirteen cartridge clip was empty.

She slid a fresh clip in and cautiously approached the door. The old woman was lying inert on her back several feet inside the doorway. She had taken a bullet to the left shoulder, two to the chest, and one to the throat. Miranda heard her death gurgle as she stepped across the threshold.

“Ma! Ma! What’s happening?” The voice came from upstairs and was rapidly rising in intensity. Miranda listened carefully for movement and footsteps but heard only wailing and bedsprings.

She walked back to her snowmobile and retrieved a two gallon can of gasoline which she then proceeded to douse liberally over the cabin floor.

One more thing to do.

She returned the can of gas and removed Paul’s Victorinox Swiss Army fish fillet knife from its sheath on the floor of the snowmobile. Paul loved this knife.

When she was finished, she lit a match and tossed it onto the cabin floor.

She waited near her snowmobile until the screaming from upstairs finally ceased.

As she drove away, she could see the flames in her side mirror leaping upward into the darkening sky. She also saw the old woman’s scalp. She had nailed it to one of the two posts that framed the entrance to the driveway in front of the house.

That should get their attention.

*****

She got back to her truck and drove back to Paul’s house. It was too late to drive to Fairbanks. That would have to wait until tomorrow.

Just before setting off, she used her burner phone to place several orders on Amazon for next day delivery.

God bless you, Jeff Bezos. You really can buy almost anything with these guys.

*****

She pulled into the parking lot outside the Sportsman’s Warehouse in Fairbanks just after ten am. It was located in the same mall as her trusty Walmart, so she had no trouble finding it.

Carrying her Weatherby in its case, she made her way to the rifle section and spotted an older guy who looked like he might actually know what he was talking about. His name tag said Steve with the word Manager just below.

Good choice.

She asked Steve for their best night vision scope. He asked her what she was planning on hunting. She told him she was having trouble with wolves near her property. Steve promptly took her to a glass case and proudly pointed to one of its contents.

“The ATN ThOR generation 4 thermal scope with 2.5 to 25 magnification is your best bet. At just under $3700 it ain’t cheap, but that’s what I’d use.”

“Can you fit it to my Weatherby here?”

“Sure thing. No charge. It’ll take about a half hour to mount. Another fifteen minutes to show you how to work it.”

“I’m also looking for a new AR-15. What would you suggest?”

“That’s easy. For you, the Daniel Defense DDM4 V7 LW with a 16-inch barrel. It’s very light but built like a tank. Accurate too. They run about seventeen hundred.”

“I’m also going to need ammo for both guns, as well as for my Glock. What your best cash price for all of it.”

“Cash, huh? Well, since I’m the manager and you seem like a nice lady, tell you what. You can have the whole shebang for forty-five hundred even. That’s over a thousand off list.”

“Deal. I’ll be back with the money in thirty minutes.”

*****

It was just after two pm when she pulled up in front of Paul’s bungalow in Delta Junction. The Amazon packages were waiting on the porch. There were two smaller boxes, and three large narrow ones each about seven feet long. She loaded all the boxes onto the large cargo sled already hitched to her snowmobile in Paul’s garage and tied them down with a couple of bungee cords. The sled was capable of towing a decent sized moose over rough terrain, but she didn’t want to lose anything in the dark on her way back to the cabin. Most of her setup work would have to wait for the morning.

A few things could be taken care of before then. One of the Amazon packages contained a pair of Luna Optics Gen 3 night vison binoculars with a six hundred and fifty yard range, a range finder, and the ability to toggle between green, black and white, and amber views. She needed to become proficient in its use. There was also the issue of practice with the Weatherby and its new ATN scope.

Clock’s ticking.

*****

The second smaller Amazon package contained three sets of Dakota Alert motion systems, one with fifteen sensors, and the other two with three sensors each. Each sensor had a range of one hundred feet and could send a wireless signal back to a central battery powered receiver up to one mile away. Each receiver could be programmed to generate a specific tone making it easy to recognize which specific sensor system was being activated.

As soon as dawn broke, Miranda set off on her snowmobile to a wide band of fir trees half a mile away down the gentle slope in front of the cabin. The topography of the surrounding land meant that whoever was coming would, almost certainly, have to come through these trees at some point. The entire span of the tree line was at least a thousand yards, but the lateral edges were inaccessible by snowmobile. She mapped out a likely central line about fifteen hundred feet across and began nailing sensors to trees about one hundred feet apart. She placed each sensor on the trunk about three feet off the ground, removing the lower branches with a tree trimmer when necessary to avoid possible interference.

Two hours later, she was back at the cabin.

Time to set up the other motion sensors.

The rear of the cabin abutted onto a sheer thirty-foot rocky bluff – too treacherous to approach from, especially when covered by snow and ice. Which meant that they would be coming from either the front and/or the sides. The view out the front of the cabin was entirely unobstructed and without cover, so the side approaches were most likely.

When facing the cabin’s front door, the attached garage and separate shed were to the right, and the incinerator was to the left. The garage and shed significantly hampered visibility from the cabin on that side, but the garage did have a side window. The incinerator was considerably smaller than the shed, and the cabin had a side window facing it, so the view to that side was better, although it still had some blind spots.

Miranda set up one sensor on the far wall of the shed and one each on the shed’s front and back walls. If the damn things worked as advertised, they would effectively cover the entire area of potential approach from that side, at least for a distance of a hundred feet. She proceeded to set up the remaining three sensors in parallel fashion around the outer perimeter of the incinerator. She then paired the three sets of sensors – tree line, shed, and incinerator - to their unique receivers and corresponding unique ring tones, and tested them repeatedly until she was fully satisfied.

It was almost noon when she began to unpack the three large Amazon packages. Each one contained a pair of twenty thousand lumen construction flood lights attached to a seventy-seven-inch steel tripod stand, and a two-hundred-foot extension cord. One box also housed a smaller box with a three-way heavy duty outdoor connector and a remote-control light switch.

She set one pair of floods against the side of the garage facing the shed, a second on the side of the cabin facing the incinerator, and the last in front of the porch facing down towards the tree line.

It was almost dark by the time she had finished.

She had some dinner and then tested the floods with the remote switch.

Looks like Giants Stadium at night.

She had some more practice with the Weatherby and its scope. She also fired off three full thirty-two round clips in order to get a good feel of the DDM4 V7.

Steve was right. Accurate, light, but built like a tank.

It was now almost eight pm. Time to settle down and wait. She made some coffee, checked again that the three receivers were all working properly, and turned the TV on to CNN with just the subtitles on.

Your hearing isn’t what it used to be but it’s just possible you might hear some engine sounds if the wind is favorable.

It’ll be soon. If not tonight, definitely tomorrow.

*****

Nothing happened that night. Except for dense fog and six inches of fresh snow.

Almost certainly explains it. They would probably have got lost out there.

Miranda spent most of the next day catching up on sleep – they were not likely to drop by during daylight hours.

The weather that night was forecast to be a balmy zero degrees Fahrenheit, give or take a couple of degrees, cloudy, but snow free, and with decent visibility. After that, it was supposed to storm for a couple of days.

As Rod Stewart would say: “Tonight’s the night.”

She spent the early nighttime hours rechecking her weapons, sensors, and lights.

At about eight pm, she made another pot of coffee, turned CNN on to silent mode with subtitles, and settled down to wait.

It was almost one am when she thought she heard a faint engine rumble in the distance. A few minutes later the vague sound stopped abruptly.

Show time.

*****

All the overhead lights had already been turned off, and the only source of illumination in the cabin came from three plug-in night lights located at the bases of the side and back walls. It was just about enough for her to see around the room, but not enough to make her a backlit target.

She strapped on the Luna Optics night vison binoculars and began scanning the tree line where she had laid her sensors.

Nothing.

No one.

The George Thorogood “Bad to the Bone” chime erupted out of the tree line receiver.

Miranda changed the setting on her binoculars from green to black and white.

Three white wraiths were now visible at the tree line, about seven hundred yards out and about twenty yards apart from each other. Despite the slightly blurry images, Miranda could clearly see that they were each carrying a rifle.

Looks like they aren’t coming by for coffee and cake.

Miranda slipped a well-insulated, loose fitting dark ski jumpsuit over her thermal underwear, placed her double socked feet into a pair of comfortable North Face combat boots, donned a black full face balaclava fleece ski mask with padded earmuffs, eye slits and breathing vents, and wriggled her fingers into her Glacier gloves.

Thanks Paul. As usual, you were right. I really can use my fingers with these things.

The cabins’ triple glazed windows all opened inwards on a latch as did the one in the garage. Starting in the garage, she opened them all wide, and the frigid Alaskan night air poured in, rapidly overwhelming the cabin’s heating system.

She positioned herself near the left front window and peered out through her Luna binoculars. The trio were slowly advancing towards the cabin, maintaining their twenty-yard separation. The recent snowfall made it heavy going. She followed them closely until they were about five hundred yards away.

She had decided to go for the center figure if possible as he was likely the leader. However, center-guy seemed to be deliberately trying to keep at least one tree between himself and the cabin as he moved forward. So did the dude to his left. The guy on his right however seemed to be less cautious, rarely if ever concealing his silhouette behind trees.

She looped the binoculars’ strap around her neck, picked up the Weatherby, and flipped on the night scope. She sat on a chair and rested the gun barrel on the window ledge for support. The scope located the three figures, all continuing their slow, methodical progress. The two cautious ones were still keeping themselves partially hidden from view, but their companion was wide open. She chambered a round and gently guided the reticle’s focal point over the center of mass. She exhaled slowly, paused, and softly squeezed the trigger.

The gun roared and she saw a dark, irregular jet erupt out of the figure’s back just before it crumpled over.

No coffee and cake for you.

The response was swift and fierce. Two sets of fully automatic gunfire raked the cabin’s front wall. Miranda dropped to the floor and lay prone until the shooting stopped.

So they have machine guns and probably night vision too.

She slid over to the other front window and gingerly raised the binoculars over the ledge. The remaining two figures were no longer visible.

A few minutes later, a single set of gunfire hit the cabin. Just before she dropped to the floor, Miranda thought she saw a flash off to her right. This was followed by a pause of a couple of minutes, and then a second set of bullets from what sounded like a different gun and a different location. The pattern kept repeating itself every few minutes.

They are likely moving slowly forward, one on each side, giving each other alternate covering fire. Which means they probably have comms too.

She wanted to know which one was making the most progress. Immediately after one of the bursts had ceased, she knelt up and cautiously peered out over the window ledge, scanning the side approaches with the binoculars.

Bad idea.

Almost immediately, a staccato burst erupted from her left, and she felt a searing pain in her left side.

Shit. I’m hit.

She looked down and saw a neat hole in her jumpsuit about four inches to the left of her navel. She could feel blood oozing out of it.

Clutching her side with both hands, she squirmed her way to the kitchen area and opened the bottom cabinet that contained the first aid kit and miscellaneous medications. She unzipped the top half of her jumpsuit and used scissors to cut open the front of her thermal underwear which she then peeled off sideways.

Clean entry and exit wound, bleeding profusely, but no arterial gushers, and no vital organs hit. Good news. Hurts like a sonofabitch though.

She grabbed a large bottle of peroxide and began pouring it directly onto the wound from the front, leaning backward so that the antiseptic would fully penetrate.

Christ, that burns.

It felt like someone had impaled her with a red-hot poker. She kept pouring steadily until the bottle was almost empty and she could feel some of its contents seeping out of the rear exit wound onto the cabin floor.

She reached for multiple packs of four-by four-inch gauze pads, opened them, and split them into three thick wads. She doused one with the remaining peroxide, rolled it up into a cylinder, and, after gritting her teeth, shoved it into the wound until it disappeared from view.

That should help soak up some of the oozing.

She took the remaining two wads of gauze pads and squirted one side of each liberally with antibiotic cream. One wad was then placed over the entrance wound, the second over the exit. She located a fifty-foot roll of three-inch-wide gauze tape and wrapped the entirety around her lower abdomen, pulling each circumferential turn as tightly as she could bear.

Serendipitously, the cupboard also contained a back brace with adjustable Velcro strips. Gingerly, she pulled the brace over her lower torso and adjusted the Velcro strips until it made her cry out in pain. Then she zipped herself back into her jumpsuit. The whole thing had taken less than ten minutes, but she was already freezing. Before crawling back to the window, she reached for the bottle of ibuprofen and scarfed down four caplets.

Not much, but better than nothing.

Meanwhile, the intermittent alternating gunfire had not abated. And it seemed to be getting closer.

Miranda kept low and waited.

A few minutes later, the xylophone tone of the receiver connected to the shed sensors sounded off.

She wanted to let them know she was still in the front of the cabin. But she did not want to get shot again. She took the Glock out of the right thigh pocket of her jumpsuit and reached her gun hand over the window ledge while her body remained safely on the floor. She squeezed of a half dozen shots in rapid succession moving the gun barrel randomly from side to side and promptly withdrew her hand. As expected, the automatic fire riposte was almost immediate.

As soon as the gunfire stopped, she crawled quickly towards the garage, grabbing the DDM4 along the way. She made her way to the back wall of the garage and cautiously stood up. She put a fresh clip in the Glock and placed it back in her pocket, safety on. She slid along the back wall and then the side wall until she reached the open side window. Her night vision goggles were still dangling around her neck, and she began scanning the wall of the shed facing her using low power magnification.

For a minute or so she saw nothing.

Then, a thin, bright white tube poked its way slowly out from behind the far rear corner of the shed.

His gun barrel’s hot. Not sure he knows it. Or that the shed is made of plywood.

Miranda made a mental imprint of the direction and angle of what she had just seen, lifted up the DDM4, and emptied the entire thirty-two round clip in just over ten seconds. Despite the deafening noise, she was pretty confident she heard an anguished scream.

Two down. One to go.

The remaining gunman on the other side had started firing again even before Miranda was done. He had heard the scream too.

“Looks like it’s just you and me now Miranda baby. This is gonna be fun. Maybe not for you, but definitely for me. You owe me big time now – Ma, Caleb, Kyle and Joey. I reckon at least thirty minutes of fun for each one sounds about fair. That’s at least two full hours of fun. And I’ve got all the tools I need right here in my backpack. See you soon, darlin.”

The booming voice trailed off into the night.

So, Corey’s the last man standing. Figures. From the sound of it, he’s going to be coming up to the incinerator soon. Got to move now.

The sill of the side window in the garage was low enough that she could swing one leg over it and crawl out. Under normal circumstances it would have been a cinch Not so much with a hole in your left side.

She had put a fresh clip in the DDM4 and thrown it out the window in front of her. After painfully negotiating the sill, she strapped the rifle over her back and took out her Glock, safety off. She moved toward the rear of the shed, gun ready, just in case the gunman lying somewhere behind it wasn’t quite dead yet. It was difficult to tell for sure in the darkness, but the angle of his limbs made it unlikely that he was still alive. Miranda kicked him hard in the head, just in case. Nothing.

Good.

Keeping the structures of the cabin, garage, and shed between her and what she felt was Corey’s current likely position, she headed straight out away from the cabin for about seventy-five yards. She then started back, moving along a semicircular arc, remaining about seventy-five yards out. The thought was that Corey’s night vision would most likely be trained on the cabin and not on the wilderness outside.

When she got level with the side of the cabin facing the incinerator, she stopped. She had been moving as fast as the snow and her wound would allow, and she needed to catch her breath. She estimated that it had been about four minutes since Corey’s delightful message. There had been two episodes of strafing in the interim, the last about one minute earlier. She had seen the muzzle flash, and knew that he was almost at the incinerator.

She needed to get a little closer if possible. She dropped to her hands and knees and began crawling forward as quickly as she could. The snow provided decent cover, but it made for a real slog. She was about forty yards away from the cabin when the third receiver, whose volume control she had deliberately set to low, began chirping its inappropriately cheerful merry go round tune out of her left breast pocket.

She took the rifle off her back and laid it on the ground beside her. She took the remote light switch out of her right breast pocket and placed it in her left hand. Her right hand grasped her ever present binoculars and she trained them on the incinerator. Sooner or later, Corey Horton was going to come around one of its corners.

She did not have to wait long. Less than a minute later Corey’s head came into view from behind the rear of the incinerator. He had been watching the cabin’s side window closely and was pretty confident that no one was there. But he did not come into full view. He remained largely hidden behind the rear of the machine. Miranda watched as he used his left arm to toss a small, rounded object through the cabin’s open window.

Two seconds later there was a loud explosion and part of the side wall of the cabin blew out.

That asshole just used a grenade.

Flames and smoke could now be seen emanating from within the cabin.

Finally, he stepped out and began advancing slowly, his back pressed to the side of the incinerator, his gun barrel moving back and forth across the cabin.

Miranda waited until he was midway along the long axis of the incinerator and let go of the binoculars. Quickly, she picked up the DDM4 and shouldered it. She was prone, elbows braced firmly in the snow, left hand still clasping the remote light switch now pressed against the gun barrel.

Now.

She clicked the remote. The whole scene lit up instantaneously.

Just like Giants Stadium at night.

Corey’s night vision goggles exploded in front of his eyes. The sudden blinding glare was completely disorienting. He lurched forward like a drunkard, firing his automatic rifle wildly in all directions with his right hand while clawing desperately at his helmet and goggles with his left.

Miranda steadied her aim and began shooting. Methodically. About one round every two seconds. There was no need to rush. After all, she had a well-lit field of view, and she was only about forty yards from her prey.

The first shot missed by a few inches, but she saw the second and third round make contact. Corey flopped over onto his left side. Miranda kept firing at the inert body until the clip was empty. The spasmodic twitching told her that most of her shots hit their target.

You were wrong, asshole. The fun was all mine.

*****

Suddenly, Miranda realized that she was cold. Real cold. And that she was still losing blood. She needed to find warmth and hydration. Fast.

The grenade-induced fires in the bedroom and living room areas were still going, but they were not enough to keep her warm, particularly with the windows wide open and a large, gaping hole in the cabin’s side wall.

The garage was still largely intact however. She closed its window and the door leading to it from the living area, and cranked the central thermostat up to maximum. While the garage heated up, she put out the fires using the two Kidde fire extinguishers that the engineer had thoughtfully stored under the sink.

The Subzero fridge had taken several bullets but, somewhat incredibly, it was still working and most of its contents were unscathed. She grabbed a gallon of full milk from the top shelf and turned toward the microwave. No luck there – the unit had taken a direct hit to its front door. The Viking oven had received a few rounds, but, miraculously, the electric cooktop was still functional. She poured half the contents of the milk bottle into a saucepan and stirred in several generous spoonfuls of Nequik chocolate milk powder. It took only a couple of minutes for the concoction to start to boil.

She began to feel a little better after the second large cup, and pretty damn good after the fourth.

From the bedroom closet, she retrieved some blankets, towels, a fresh set of thermal underwear, and another insulated ski jumpsuit. She lugged it all into the garage which was by now beginning to warm up quite nicely. Fresh gauze pads, another large roll of gauze tape, a new bottle of peroxide, and another tube of antibiotic cream were added to her stash. Arming herself with a fifth large cup of steaming chocolate milk, she retreated to the garage and closed the door.

The thermostat on the wall indicated it was now almost seventy degrees.

Time for the hard part.

She removed her boots, unzipped, and slowly wriggled out of her jumpsuit. Carefully, she removed the Velcro back brace. The inside surface was soaked with blood, especially the back. Blood had also seeped entirely through the gauze dressings and bandages and was now covering her entire left lower abdomen and thigh.

She unwrapped the abdominal gauze dressing and poured some peroxide directly onto the anterior gauze pad to ease its removal. Using peroxide, towels and gauze, she cleaned off as much blood as she could in order to better inspect the wound. As expected, it was a mess. The rolled gauze cylinder was still in there somewhere but was not retrievable. More importantly, the wound was still oozing. She needed to stop the bleeding.

Pressure and elevation.

Applying pressure to the wound would be awkward, especially in the back, but she could probably manage it with better positioning of the Velcro brace. Elevation above the heart would be a little trickier.

She spread the brace flat on the ground facing upward. Again, she poured peroxide on the entrance wound while leaning backward and waited until she felt the liquid trickle out of the hole in her back.

That felt no better than the first time.

Lying on her back with her head propped up on one of the sofa cushions, she applied a thick wad of gauze pads laced with antibiotic cream to both wounds, and held them firmly in position for several minutes, right hand over entry wound, left hand over exit. Slowly but firmly, she secured the two sets of pads in position with a fresh roll of gauze tape. On each abdominal revolution, she pulled the tape until tears of pain rolled down her cheeks. Once she was done with the tape, she gently wriggled over and positioned herself over the back brace so that the thick Velcro bands lay directly over the wound. Biting her lips, she pulled the bands as tightly as she could and fastened them down. Ideally, she would somehow now lift her lower back above her chest, but she realized that doing so would put tension on the wound if her legs were not properly supported. So instead she decided to lie flat and still on her back. It was not elevation, but at least now the wound was level with her heart and not below it.

After a while, it actually felt quite comfortable.

Miranda fell asleep. It had been a long day.

*****

When she awoke it was almost half past nine in the morning, and it was just starting to get light. The garage was now a tropical eighty degrees. Miranda cautiously undid the brace and checked the bandages. There was a little dried blood but nothing active.

Well done you.

She repositioned the brace, got up, and dressed. She made herself some more hot chocolate milk in the frigid kitchen, drank down two cups, and stepped outside.

She had a lot to do before the storm came in later that night.

She got onto her snowmobile and headed out beyond the tree line. The three snowmobiles were sitting in a neat row a couple of hundred yards away, each with its keys still in the ignition. After checking for any personal effects – there were none - she started the vehicles up, pointed them each in separate directions, and sent them on their way. They may not get far but they would be harder to find than they were now. And since snowmobiles in Alaska had no license plates or titling, good luck marrying them to their owners.

She drove back to where the first body lay in the tree line and painstakingly loaded it onto the sled, taking care not to excite her wound too much. The body had frozen solid overnight which actually made moving it a little easier.

She drove over to the back of the shed and retrieved the second body. Corey was already pretty much where she wanted him to be.

Before driving the two bodies back toward the incinerator, she entered the shed and retrieved a sixteen-inch cordless Makita electric chainsaw.

Time to get busy.

She figured she could lift no more than thirty pounds at a time into the incinerator. Which meant that arms and head were fine. but legs and trunk would have to be done in sections.

It was grisly but surprisingly bloodless work. Each body took only about twenty minutes to fully dismember. The rate limiting step was actually the incinerator. Even with its sixty-five pound per hour burn rate, it took over two and a half hours to fully dispose of each body and its internal organs.

Every hour or so she would take a break and go into the heated garage to warm up with a cup of chocolate milk.

It was almost seven pm by the time she was done. The sun had set three hours earlier and she could feel that a storm was coming soon.

Time to get out of Dodge. One last thing to do.

The engineer’s cabin had served its purpose well. She located a two gallon can of diesel fuel from the shed and emptied its contents evenly over the shag carpeting in the living area. She removed the cover from a second can and placed it in the center of the garage.

She lit a match and tossed it onto the carpet. She waited until the flames were roaring briskly before she got onto her snowmobile. The sled had been packed with a suitcase full of clothes and toiletries and, of course, her rifles and ammunition. As usual, she carried the Glock in her pocket.

She stopped and turned around when she got to the tree line. The entire cabin was ablaze, and the flames were licking the bluff behind. As she watched, she saw the shed ignite in a puff of fire.

Sooner or later, someone was going to come by with questions. Sure, a house fire would look suspicious. But not as much as a cabin full of bullet holes and three dead guys.

She wasn’t that worried about the local cops. It was the Feds she was concerned about. Because that would bring the NSA. Hopefully, this would buy her a little time.

Time to go and see Paul’s veterinarian buddy, Dr. Connors. This damn hole in my side is starting to hurt again.

*****

Book 4

“Brian, it’s Miranda. Can you buzz me in?”

“Sure. Are you okay? Never mind. Come on up.”

The front door to the apartment clicked open and Miranda slowly made her way up to Brian’s studio apartment on the fourth floor.

“Can I offer you some coffee. A drink maybe.”

“It’s a little early for booze. Hot chocolate milk would be nice, if you have some.”

Miranda eased herself onto the single armchair facing the television while Brian pottered around in the kitchenette.

“I’m leaving first thing in the morning. I wanted to say goodbye in person before I left.”

“Is it because of what happened to Dad?”

“Sort of.”

“I guess I understand. Where are you going?”

“This may sound weird. But the less you know about it the better.”

“I don’t think I can take that as an answer. I know he was your husband, but he was my Dad first. And for longer. You owe me more than that.”

Miranda considered his statement.

“You’re right. Sorry. I found the people that murdered him. Actually, they found me. Let’s just say they won’t be murdering anyone else soon.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Like I said. The less you know the better.”

It was Brian’s turn to ponder.

“I don’t know what you did, but whatever it was, those assholes deserved it.”

Miranda did not respond.

“You were the best thing that happened to my Dad since my Mom left. I’m just happy he met you.”

“Thank you, Brian. That means a lot.”

“I know you want to do whatever it is you are planning on your own, but from the way you’re moving around, I think you’re going to need some help. At least for a while.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I can’t ask that of you.”

“Why not?”

“You’re young. You have your whole life in front of you. You don’t need to get involved in any of this. Your father wouldn’t want it. And I owe him that.”

“That’s bullshit. I’m a big boy now. Have been for some time. I’m the one who decides what’s good or bad for me. As I said, you owe me more. And I know that Dad would agree.”

“Fair enough. Maybe I will have that drink now. You should probably pour yourself one too.”

She told him. Most of it. She told him about Herb Schoenberg, Paul Goldstein, James Noble, the NSA, moving to Alaska, the Hortons. She left out a few details. Like what happened to Ma Horton. And the incinerator.

“So, you see what I meant when I said the less you know the better. And why I have to leave.”

“What are you actually planning on doing?”

“I’m leaving for Singapore on a cargo ship tomorrow morning. Ten thousand dollars cash will get rid of a lot of questions. Also passport control. After that, I’m thinking of sailing around for a while. Years maybe.”

“Good idea. Turns out ‘Sailor’ is my middle name.”

*****

After an additional fifteen thousand in cash, the captain was quite pleased with the new arrangements. The voyage took twenty-eight days and the accommodations, while utilitarian, were clean and comfortable. The ship’s cook was of Indian descent and his curries were excellent and absolutely worth it despite the extra time spent in the toilet.

Brian and Miranda had plenty of time to talk.

She found out that, despite the bravado, he was in fact a sensitive guy who was still working through his issues in the aftermath of his mom’s departure. That was why he had never fully committed himself to any one relationship. He was also still struggling with his career choice as a Physician’s Assistant.

“You’re young. You’re smart. And you’re good looking. Just like your Dad. You’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks Mom.”

*****

“So, how much money you got?”

“Why? I’m not dead yet, and you aren’t even in my will.”

“Real funny Mom. Seriously though, we are going to need to buy a boat, and I need to know what price range to look at.”

“Fair enough. I’ve got a little under six million in principal, and that gives me a yearly income of about one hundred and twenty thousand.”

“Nice going. And Dad’s life insurance should be coming through any day now which will give us another two hundred and fifty, plus the eventual sale of his bungalow which should bring in another two hundred at least.”

“That’s all pretty cold and calculating don’t you think. Your Dad’s only been dead about a month.”

“Yes, it is. But it’s unfortunately necessary. Anyway, I’m thinking we can easily afford something between five hundred and a million. We’re going to be spending a lot of time on this boat together. Might as well be comfortable.”

“Yolo.”

“What?”

“It’s something your Dad taught me. It’s an acronym for ‘you only live once’.

*****

“So, I think I may have finally found what we need. It’s an Oceanis 51.1 made by a French outfit called Beneteau. I found a 2019 model for sale in one of the Singapore marinas. One owner, regularly serviced, or so he says. His company is moving him back to Germany and he wants to sell. He’s asking seven fifty, but I think we can get him down a bit.”

“You got pictures?”

Brian showed her a set of photos on his laptop.

“Looks like a nice boat to me. But then again, I don’t know shit about boats. Let the guy know we’re interested and that we’ll take a look when we get there in a few days.”

*****

In the flesh, the boat was even better than in the photos. It was a sleek, attractive, modern-looking vessel, just under fifty-one feet long (which explained the ‘51’ in the model’s name), and it sported a seventy-foot mast with an in-mast furling system and self-tacking jib. At the aft of the main deck were large dual steering wheels, each with a captain seat, additional bench seating for up to eight, two reclining sun loungers with drink stands, and a large swimming/diving area. The current owner had opted for the larger 110 horsepower engine instead of the standard 80, and had also installed state of the art radar in addition to the boat’s already impressive standard electronics

The living area below deck was bright and airy, with multiple side windows and even a skylight. It was tastefully furnished in pale woods and high end finishings and light fixtures. On one side of the center aisle was a U-shaped, fully fitted galley with a sink, fridge, oven, two burners, and generous storage and counter space. A washing machine, dish washer, and small wine cellar were tactfully hidden behind pale teak cabinets. Just fore of the galley was a lounge area with comfortable seating, a small office area, and fitted bookshelves. A large teak dining table capable of comfortably handling six occupants took up most of the opposite side.

The master bedroom was fore and boasted its own toilet and shower as well as a comfortable double bed. Aft of the stairs were two more cabins, each with a double berth, as well as an ensuite shower and toilet.

“Jeez, it’s even nicer than the engineer’s cabin.”

“No shit. It’s nicer than any house I’ve ever been in.”

“We should ask to take it out and see how she moves.”

*****

It was a thing of beauty. And easy to handle by even just one moderately competent sailor.

After ninety minutes or so of sailing around the Singapore Strait, during which time the owner meticulously inculcated him in the vagaries of the boat’s rigging and systems, Brian waited for a moment when he was sure the guy wasn’t looking and surreptitiously flashed Miranda a thumbs up.

“So, how much do you want for her?”

“She’s worth eight hundred but I’m asking seven fifty.”

“I’ll give you six fifty. Cash. No waiting.”

“Give me seven hundred and I’ll throw in two yearly maintenances. They can easily run you ten thousand each. I’ve been coming to this marina for years, and I’m good buddies with the owners. I’ll make sure they treat you right. I’ll even throw in all my deep-sea fishing gear. Turns out here’s not much deep-sea fishing around Munich.”

“Deal. Let’s do this at my bank. It’s in the OCBC Center downtown. I don’t really want to be carrying seven hundred thousand dollars in my pocket.”

*****

Two days later they set off. They headed southwest, following the group of islands strung out for seventy miles between Singapore and the eastern shore of Sumatra. The initial plan was to follow the coastline all the way south, hop over the Sunda strait, and then head east along the north shore of Java all the way to Bali.

As the crow flies, Bali is about a thousand miles from Singapore. By the time they would finish their coastal meanderings, Brian estimated they would actually have sailed closer to fifteen hundred. At the relatively leisurely pace of thirty miles a day, it should take about fifty days.

In fact, it took over four months. It was February, and the monsoon period had another couple of months to run. When the weather got bad, they would turn into shore, find a sheltered cove or fishing village, and wait for the rains to abate. Their progress was further slowed by the innumerable idyllic beaches and offshore islands begging to be explored, not to mention longer stopovers at larger ports like Jakarta, Cirebon, and Surabaya for sightseeing and supply replenishment.

It took Miranda about a week to get used to the motion of the boat and have the queasiness finally cease. It took Brian about the same time to get used to sharing what, in truth, was a relatively small living space, albeit a luxuriously appointed one.

After that, neither of them complained.

*****

They were anchored in a sheltered inlet on the north coast of Nusa Benida, a small island about ten miles southeast of Bali. They had just completed a four-night stay in a villa at the Samaya Ubud, a luxurious hilltop resort and the number one hotel on the island according to Trip Advisor. They had both been in need of dry, stable land for a bit, so why not splurge.

While there, they had taken several guided tours and also rented a small car, thereby fully satisfying themselves that Bali was indeed the island paradise they had both read about and been led to believe.

That said, it felt good to be back on the boat.

It was almost midnight, and they were both lying on their respective deck loungers, wine glass in hand, gazing up at the night sky.

“The stars are beautiful, but they look different somehow.”

“They look different ’cause we’re in the southern hemisphere. Everything will look upside down. Also, you can see much more of the Milky Way from here. You can even see Alpha Centauri, the closest star to the sun that you can see from earth with the naked eye. There it is, just over the southern horizon.”

“You remind me a lot of your Dad when you talk like that. You’re both such know-it-alls.”

“I miss him. A lot.”

“Me too.”

*****

“You’re limping.’

“Yeah, It’s my right leg. It’s been giving me some twinges for a bit. These are the sort of things you can look forward to when you get to be my age.”

Almost twenty months had passed since they had left Bali. For the first eight months, they had visited the north coast of Australia, circled New Guinea, and then headed west back to Singapore via Indonesia’s southern shore.

They had remained in Singapore for two weeks while their vessel underwent its yearly major maintenance and overhaul. Following that, they had headed northeast along the Indonesian coast to the Philippines where they had spent most of year two. They were now on their way back to Singapore for their second annual maintenance.

Miranda started down the stairs toward the cabin below. Just before she reached the bottom step, her right leg gave way and she crashed to floor. She had heard, and felt, the sickening crack of bone before the fall.

*****

“The doctors say it’s the breast cancer that caused the fracture in my right femur. Apparently, the damn thing is back, and now I’m riddled with it.”

Brian said nothing.

“They say they can stabilize the fracture with a combination of surgery and radiation. They’ve also referred me to the National University Cancer Institute. I’m told there are a lot of new treatments for breast cancer these days, and that the outcomes can be pretty good in some cases. I’m thinking it over.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Thank, but no sweetie. Just be here for me and support me.”

*****

“I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going for chemo. They told me I will probably start getting a lot of pain but that they will do their best to control it.”

“Whatever you say Mom.’

“Thank you, Brian. You’re a good son. Now take me out of here. I want to get back to the boat.”

*****

“I’ve made arrangements. All you have to do is present yourself to my bank in Singapore with valid identification. Ask for Jayden Chan. There are probably a lot of Jayden Chans so make sure you ask for the one who in Senior Vice President. Everything will then be transferred to you. With my past history of cancer, there’s no way I could get life insurance, so I’m afraid you will have to make do with the five million or so that’s in the account.”

“That’s pretty morbid Mom. You’re not dead yet.”

“Maybe not. But I am circling the drain.”

“In that case, fine. Looks like I’ll just have to scrape by on five million.”

“Like I said before, you’re just like your Dad. Which reminds me. I want to be cremated. Just like him.”

*****

For the next five months, they meandered up and down the southern tip of Malaysia, never straying more than one or two days from Singapore.

The doctors had been correct. She was starting to get a lot of bone pain, mainly in her hips and back. She was now on one hundred micrograms per hour fentanyl patches every three days, the highest dose, along with sublingual tablets as needed for breakthrough pain. The medicine made her nauseated and constipated. For the past week, her only food had been iced cans of chocolate flavored Ensure.

It was time.

*****

She had last been to see the oncologist in Singapore two days earlier. At the time, he had prescribed his usual total of five patches, enough for fifteen days. He had previously told her that it was the maximum he could ethically give her at any one time.

For the prior six weeks however, she had been deliberately using just one patch every four days, meaning she now had a stash of five back on the boat.

She had also read a reliable report on the internet where a woman had successfully committed suicide by applying eleven patches to her chest and back.

Ten would have to do.

*****

While Miranda had been seeing her doctor, Brian had been wandering aimlessly around the marina.

He spied an old local guy rowing back to shore in an ancient wooden fishing boat. He was accompanied by a young boy, probably his grandson.

“How much do you want for your boat.”

Along with Malay, Tamil, and Mandarin, English is one of the four official languages in Singapore. And the most widely spoken.

“She’s not for sale. I built her myself.”

“What if I said I’d give you twenty-five thousand American dollars for it? Cash.”

“I would say you’re crazy.”

“Is that a no?”

“Is this some sort of joke? If it is, it’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking. Tell you what. Thirty thousand. My final offer. And you get to keep all your fishing gear. I don’t need it.”

“Now I know you’re crazy.’

“Take it or leave it. Your choice.”

The old man rubbed his chin slowly while he looked over at his grandson.

“If you can show me the money, she’s yours.”

“It’s in a safe back on my boat. Wait here. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

His father’s life insurance had been paid a month earlier, and the bungalow was finally in contract for two hundred and ten grand. So it was not really a big deal. But it felt good. And he knew that both his Dad and Mom would approve.

*****

They were anchored just off the southern tip of the tiny island of Pilau Sibu, a two-mile narrow strip located about sixty miles up the eastern cost of Johor, the southernmost state of the Malaysian peninsula. The mainland was less than three miles away and still clearly visible in the gathering crepuscular gloom. They both greatly preferred the eastern coast to the western as the former was much less developed and unspoiled.

It had taken almost twelve hours to sail there from Singapore, and it had been a glorious trip from start to finish.

It had been impossible not to notice the wooden fishing boat trailing on a double nylon line about seventy feet off the stern. When asked, Brian had told her that he had bought it in case he ever wanted to row ashore to an island they were visiting.

That’s nice, but I wouldn’t advise a career as a poker player Brian.

They had just finished dinner. More precisely, Brian had finished dinner while Miranda sipped halfheartedly at her iced chocolate flavored Ensure.

“I think I’ll go to my room and rest for a bit before I come back out and watch the night sky,”

“Sure thing. Let me know if you need anything.”

Miranda went to her quarters. She sat down at the small writing desk in the corner and cogitated carefully for fifteen minutes. Then she took out a small pad and began writing. When she was done, she folded the paper, placed it in an envelope with the word “Brian” on the front, and set the envelope down in the center of the desk.

Slowly, she peeled off her clothes and then methodically applied the ten fentanyl patches to her skin – two to her front thighs, two to the back, two to her lower abdomen, two to her chest, and the last two to her lower back. She dressed in long shorts and a tee shirt, checking carefully in the mirror that none of the six and a half square inch pads were visible. Satisfied, she went to the galley and poured herself a large glass of Pinot Noir before making her way back on deck.

The sun had fully set, and a few stars were just beginning to become visible over the eastern horizon.

She made herself comfortable on her sun lounger and started sipping her wine.

“That looks like fun. I’m just going to check a few things out on the internet, and I’ll be up to join you in a bit.”

“Sure. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

*****

She was sixty-four years old. Not real old, but not young either. And it had been quite a life. Quite a few ups and downs but, on the whole, more ups. She closed her eyes and started ticking through.

Images of growing up in Paterson, New Jersey, summers at the shore, football games at Giants stadium with her Dad. News of the crash, the funeral, the sadness, the anger.

Moving to New York City as an orphaned teenager, attending John Jay College, entering the police force, the deliriously seductive pulse and rhythm of the city.

Marrying Ron, his infidelities. But then there was Bobby -the sweetest kid ever.

The breast cancer diagnosis, the treatments, the fear, the anger, having to resign from the force.

Bobby’s murder. Again the sadness, again the anger.

Ron’s suicide. No anger, just sadness.

Herb Schoenberg’s letter, the NSA, James Noble.

Bastard got what he deserved.

Moving to Alaska.

Paul, my one true love.

Brian.

I think Brian and Bobby would have been good friends.

Caleb Horton, Paul’s murder.

More sadness. But even more anger.

Ma Horton, the other Hortons.

They were right about one thing – an eye for an eye. The best revenge is revenge.

The boat and Brian.

And once more the cancer.

And here we are. Like I said, quite a life. And much more good than bad. Not everyone gets to say that.

And, most importantly, I got to meet Paul, my one true love. If there is an afterlife, we’ll be together forever. And if there isn’t, that’s also okay because no one can ever take any of it away from us. It’s just like Rick said to Ilsa at the end of our favorite movie Casablanca: “We’ll always have Paris.”

So, either way, it’s all good.

I think I want to look at the upside-down stars once more before I get too groggy.

It must be getting light. The stars seem to have gone out…

*****

“I have another glass of wine here. Any takers?”

He came up on deck. She seemed to be resting peacefully, so he lay down on the lounger parallel to her.

“It is a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

In moments like this, it wasn’t unusual for her not to answer. The total lack of breathing was.

Mom!

He lunged over to her and instinctively started performing CPR. That’s when he saw the two fentanyl patches plastered to the top of her chest. He ripped open her tee shirt and saw two more.

He stopped his frantic maneuverings and stood up. The bottom of her shorts had ridden up a few inches and he could see yet another set of patches.

Looks like you meant it. If that’s what you really want, who am I to interfere?

*****

He went to her cabin to retrieve a blanket to wrap her in. That’s when he saw the envelope with his name on it lying on the writing desk. He opened it. It was only a few lines.

Dearest Brian, I hope you will understand that I have done what I believe is best for all of us.

I want to thank you for being such a good son and being with me these past couple of years. I hope you loved it as much as I did.

Your Dad and I are very proud of you. Don’t be sad when you think about us. We had our lives, and it was wonderful because we loved each other. Now it’s your time. We both know you will make a great husband and Dad.

We love you forever.

Mom and Dad.

*****

Without moving her off the lounger, he wrapped her body gently in her duvet. He kept her face exposed.

He unfolded the diving platform off the ship’s stern and covered it and most of the rest of the rear deck with a large tarp. Then he reeled the fishing boat in and hauled its bow and most of its twenty-foot length onto the platform and deck. After securing it with lanyards, he carefully placed her body inside, head towards the bow, face up towards the twinkling sky.

Just before coming on deck with the duvet, he had also grabbed some silk flowers that had been standing in a vase anchored to a corner table in the sitting area.

You always said you liked those.

Gently, he lay the flowers on her chest.

He placed a pillow under her head and packed some bedding on either side so she would not roll.

After having pushed the fishing boat back in the water and turning it sideways against the sailing boat’s stern, he doused the bedding and duvet with most of the contents of a two gallon can of diesel fuel and tossed the can and its remnants into the stern. Bending over the edge of the diving platform he used a Zippo lighter to ignite the bedding. Once he was satisfied the flames had taken hold, he released the fishing boat from its moorings and watched it drift slowly away.

He sat in one of the two captain chairs and kept watching until the flames died out. It took less than an hour. From time to time, he would avert his gaze to reread the letter.

I think it’s time to go back home to Alaska.

*****

Epilogue

“Mr. Brian Crabtree?”

“Who’s asking?”

“My name is Patrick Rivera. I’m with the National Security Agency. These are my credentials.” The man flipped open an authentic looking picture ID that faced the clearly labeled and eagle-emblazoned NSA seal.

I was wondering how long it would take for you assholes to come knocking.

Brian had been about to let himself in to the lobby of his apartment building on M Street in the northwest corner of Anchorage. It had been six weeks since he had returned from Indonesia.

He had originally toyed with the idea of sailing back, but that was almost seven thousand miles and would have taken over two months. Also, it would have reminded him too much of his Mom. Instead, he had sold the boat for what ended up being a a small net profit, flew back to Anchorage business class, and used less than five hundred thousand of the remaining proceeds to pay cash for a three bedroom, two and a half bath, two thousand square foot fully furnished condo in a new building overlooking the Anchorage shoreline. It was more house than he needed, but he figured it would have significantly better resale value than a smaller place. And there were definitely worse places to hang out while he completed his two-year physician assistant program.

“What is this about?”

“Do you mind if we go in and talk? It should not take very long.”

“Actually, I do mind.”

“Okay. It’s a little chilly, but how about we go for a stroll then?”

“Fair enough.”

They started ambling slowly towards downtown.

“You are a tough guy to find Mr. Crabtree. We’ve been looking for you for over two years now. Actually, the person we really want to find is your stepmom Miranda Crabtree, previously known as Miranda Giles. Do you happen to know where she is?”

“What do you want with her?”

“I’m afraid that is a private matter Mr. Crabtree.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Patrick Rivera stopped walking and focused an evaluative gaze on Brian.

“I think you may have an idea of why we may be looking for your stepmom. At least, you think you know. Turns out your thinking would be wrong.

“Before I get into that, let me share with you what we know on our end so far. The story is a little convoluted, and there are few holes here and there. Let’s see now.” Rivera resumed walking and began consulting a small notebook he had withdrawn from his inside coat pocket.

“Some years ago, one of our operatives was killed outside his home in Maryland. We believe your stepmom, aka Miranda Giles, may have somehow been involved although we can’t be sure. What we do know is that Miranda Giles effectively disappeared from the radar screen right after that. Of note, someone called Miranda Giles purchased a property outside Delta Junction, Alaska just prior to this incident.

“Miranda Giles remained off the radar for eighteen months until she married your father, Paul Crabtree, in Delta Junction. Less than six months later - during which time we have records of your father’s activities but, intriguingly, no record of those of his wife Ms. Giles, now Mrs. Crabtree – there is a police report stating that Mr. and Mrs. Paul Crabtree were assaulted at knifepoint by a man named Caleb Horton, and that Mrs. Crabtree defended herself vigorously causing Mr. Horton serious bodily injuries.

“Less than a week after that, your father Paul Crabtree was brutally beaten and murdered by three men believed, but not proven, to be Caleb Horton’s older brothers. I am sorry for your loss.”

Rivera sounded like he could have been speaking about car keys.

“Your stepmom identified the body. There is no record of her whereabouts since then. And that was over two years ago.

“The day after your father’s funeral, the remains of Caleb Horton and his mother were found in the burnt-out wreckage of their home outside Delta Junction. Given what we know happened to Mrs. Horton at the scene, it was definitely not an accident.

“Caleb Horton’s three brothers, Kyle, Joe, and Corey were all wanted for questioning by the local police, but they could never be located. Although their bodies were never found, DNA evidence of all three was recovered near an incinerator on the property that Ms. Giles had originally purchased outside Delta Junction. Given the number of shell casings that were also retrieved, it looks like a small war took place there.

“A few days after the incident at the Horton place, you disappear from the earth and remain disappeared for over two years until you eventually resurface in Anchorage about six weeks ago.

“So, once again Mr. Crabtree, do you have any idea where your stepmom may be?”

“Like I said, I wouldn’t tell you even if I did know.”

“I don’t think you understand Mr. Crabtree. That is because I did not make myself clear at the outset. The agent who was killed in Maryland had gone rogue. I’m not suggesting that the NSA condones what happened to him, but let’s just say we were not that unhappy about it either. As to what happened to the Hortons and your stepmom’s likely involvement, let’s just say that my superiors were, uh, suitably impressed. Impressed enough to ask her to consider coming to work for us.

“So, once more Mr. Crabtree, do you know where I can find her?”

“I’m afraid she died. In Indonesia.”

“You’ll excuse me if I sound a bit skeptical Mr. Crabtree, but can you provide any proof of that?”

“She had widely metastatic breast cancer. You can check with her oncologist at the National University Cancer Institute in Singapore. His name is Dr. Xavier Chan. He is head of the breast cancer section.”

Patrick Rivera inscribed the information in his notebook.

“Where is she buried?”

“She was cremated. And her ashes were scattered at sea. I was the only one present at the time.”

“Where was she cremated?”

“At sea. Just before her ashes were scattered.”

“That’s a little odd, isn’t it?”

“It is what it is.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Crabtree. We will check on the details you have provided. In the meantime, please accept my condolences. Your stepmom appears to have been quite a woman.”

This time, he sounded almost sincere.

“Yes. She was a force of nature, that’s for sure.”

“Goodbye Mr. Crabtree. Thank you for your time.”

Rivera began moving away but turned back after just a couple of steps.

“By the way Mr. Crabtree. I can’t help thinking that you may want to consider stepping into her shoes as it were. The way I see it, at this point you have nothing to lose.”

Jeez, these NSA guys are clearly still at it. Just like you said Mom.

“I’ll think it over and let you know.”

“Here’s my card Mr. Crabtree. Hope to hear from you soon.”

You just might you sonofabitch, you just might.

And the best way to stop you guys is surely from the inside.

Brian began strolling back to his apartment.

And, who knows – you might even like the work...

END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dr. Gregory Steinberg was born in Paris, France in 1956, grew up in Geneva, Switzerland, and graduated from the Welsh National School of Medicine in Cardiff, Wales in 1978.

He worked as a Junior House Officer in England and Wales until 1981when he moved to New York City following the untimely death of his father. Between 1982 and 2000 he was affiliated with St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital in Manhattan, now part of the Mount Sinai Health System, where he eventually became Associate Director of Medicine and Director of Medical Education for the internal medicine residency program. He is Board certified in Internal Medicine and Cardiovascular Disease.

Between 2000 and 2011 he was Chief Medical Officer and then Chief Executive Officer of ActiveHealth Management, a clinical decision support and population health management company that was acquired by Aetna in 2005. Between 2011 and 2016, he was Head of Clinical Innovation at Aetna.

He retired in 2016, and lives in rural northeast Pennsylvania with his wife, three adult children, and a dog.

OTHER BOOKS BY DR. GREGORY STEINBERG

A Doctor’s Odyssey (2012)

LifeSpeak – A Family Legacy (2018)

No More To Lose (2019)

No More 2 Lose – The Tunnel Rat (2020)

No More To Lose: Strike 3 (2021)