PROLOGUE Corsicana, Texas January 10, 1969

_______________________________________________________________

The sun was setting as Reginald drove his taxi down bumpy Beaton Street of the secondhand town. He adjusted his glasses again; they were ready to fall off his face. When it got dark how was he going to find his fare? Where was Golf Estates?

He pulled into the old Rexall parking lot, next to a running pickup truck, a shot gun slung across its back window. Flourescent lights shined from inside; the store was open. Reginald merely looked down at his ignition——off. He got out of his cab, walked up to the drug store door, and pulled it open.

A big cowboy, about 25, with long chestnut hair, handlebar mustache, and straw western hat, charged out, drinking a can of beer. "Hey, watch it, Fuzzy," the cowboy said. He slammed into Reginald, who noticed the cowboy’s eyes as he passed. Reginald chilled. Where they would normally be blue or brown or green, there was only black. Not just dark eyes; pure black. Stunned by what he saw, Reginald straightened his shirt and stroked his crewcut as the cowboy pushed by.

"Never mind him, son," a man drawled from behind the counter inside the store. "Just Coy, one of them tough ol’ boys."

"But those eyes——"

"Don’t know what you mean, fella," the man said. "What about ‘em?"

"That’s right, I forgot only I——" Reginald could see many things mortals couldn’t; this was just one. But this was the first time he had seen these kind of eyes in many years, even decades. There was no doubt about it, though. They were pure evil.

"They say Coy’s a member of the Klan here in town. Better not fuss with him," the man said.

"The Ku Klux Klan? Maybe that explains——" Reginald put his index finger to his lip. "He certainly looked a bit flustered," he said. "Like he had something a tad serious on his mind——going out and burning some cross?"

The man shrugged. "Been known to happen."

"Oh, say," Reginald asked, "by the way, where might the candy be?"

"Aisle Two," the man said. He looked at his watch.

"Thank you, sir." Reginald walked over, picked up a package of Junior Mints, and walked back to the counter.

Reginald felt the man eye his fifties clothes and haircut. "Be 15 cents," he said.

Reginald reached in the right front pocket of his beige wash-and-wear slacks, pulled out a quarter, and put it down on the counter. "Here you go, mate."

The man looked up suspiciously. "Mate? Say, y’all aren’t from around these parts, are you?" He scratched his matted curly white hair and squinted his eyes.

"First time," Reginald said. "Oh, I need one of these kits to repair specs. Mine are ready to fall apart." He laughed; the man didn’t.

"Hmmm, help yourself, pardner." He pointed at the kits and looked away at the same time.

"I say, a bit of a quiet town," Reginald said.

"Yep. Unlessin’ you count Oscar Sanchez’ annual holiday shindig for all them Coyote Brand folks," he said.

Reginald laughed.

"What’s so funny, son?" he asked.

"Werewolves around?"

What kind of place is this?

"Don’t know nothin’ about that." The clerked frowned. "Say, you ain’t heard of Coyote Brand Products here in town? Best darn canned chili in the whole world."

"No, I’m afraid not," Reginald said.

"Yep. Better ‘n homemade."

"Then maybe I ought to purchase some," Reginald said. The main office had sent him to this strange little town to pick up a fare; the least he could do was bring back some local Texas food. All he knew about chili was that it burnt up a decent man’s insides.

"There you go, fella." The clerk barely smiled. "Over there, Aisle Three," the clerk said. "Hope them Yankees don’t spoil it none."

"Yanks?" Reginald said and snickered.

The man shook his head. "That’s what I said, son. Some corporation up there in Chicago bought Coyote ‘bout a year ago. Still the hot news."

"Indeed." Reginald walked over, picked up a can and studied it as he walked back to the counter. "Named after the founder’s pet coyote, I see. Quite clever."

"I’m sure," the clerk said. "Be all, then?"

"Yes, sir." Reginald looked at the scrap of paper he’d been holding in his left hand. "Oh, I say, I meant to ask: Where might Golf Estates be?"

"North o’ town. Take Second Street out to the wooded road with the sign. Can’t miss it."

"Right or left?"

"Be a left. Only way you can go."

The clerk looked down at the old register over the tops of his glasses. His finger pecked a few keys, it rang and, the drawer opened. Without moving his head, his eyes looked up at Reginald. "Why Golf Estates this time o’ night, son?"

"Oh. My assignment, you see; gather a fare." Reginald pointed out to his cab, hoping that would explain.

"Course." The clerk eyed him and the cab suspiciously. "Not many taxi cabs around these parts anymore; fact, not for years."

"Right. Thanks, mate." As he picked up his bag and change, Reginald felt gawked at by this Texas man. He glanced up at the man and met cool eyes.

"Y’all come back," the clerk said in a slow monotone.

"Right, mate." Whistling God save the Queen, he walked out hurriedly. He felt the clerk’s eyes study him all the way to his cab.

Once outside he glanced back, feeling spooked by the clerk’s eerie reception. He looked down at his locked car door. It clicked. He pulled it open and sat. He held the steering wheel and stared at the ignition switch. The car’s engine roared. He backed out of his parking place a bit too fast and drove down Beaton Street, bumpy with inlaid brick. He looked around the strange little town: a diner, a Salvation Army store, a currency exchange; boarded up storefronts.

Smells like rain.

Reginald rolled up his window as he turned left on Second Street, passed the Navarro County Historical Society, whatever that was, and the road that led to some cemetery, and headed north to Golf Estates.

Minutes later across town, the thunder cracked.

"What?" James Post looked up from his desk.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

Across the hall from his office, in the ancient bathroom next to Mary’s coffee stand, the faucet splashed. Alone, Post heard the drip echo throughout the four rooms that comprised the little office building, even over the intermittent rattling sound of the old heater.

Couldn’t someone fix that blasted drip?

The thunder boomed again outside. As he studied Coyote Chili’s sales results, Post puffed on his pipe. He didn’t mind the thunder. It would bring rain, crops, food. Besides, what more was there to do on a rainy Friday night? Go to that damn party? No, instead the president of Coyote Brand Products had done what he always did on Friday night, especially since the Yankee acquisition——have a thinking session.

Seeming to ignore the impending storm, evening birds played outside the little office in the last of the orange dusk. Between the drips and the heater and the birds, Post thought he had himself a symphony. Maybe, for a change, it would serve as a backdrop for breakthrough decisions during one of his Friday night sessions instead of getting nowhere like usual.

The sudden ring of the phone made him jump.

Now, who’s that on a Friday night? He picked up the phone.

"Hi . . . Jim?" a low voice on the phone said.

"Yep?"

"Bill Brownburg here." It was the Food Division President at Puritan Corporation in Chicago, Post’s boss since the acquisition.

"I’ve been following your O. I., Jim," he said. "Still down. Since just after the sale."

"Damn bottom line?"

Brownburg cleared his throat. "We call it O. I. Operating income?"

"Right, I knew that," Post said.

"Seems to be your merchandising spending; those billback trade deals," Brownburg said.

"Really? Well, shoot. Your man Hickman added ‘em right after he started. But I haven’t approved any for a while."

"Funny. We show through the reporting system that they’re killing your O. I., Jim."

"Really?" Post said.

"And I thought we agreed you’d think about advertising some other products, too, like that Chili Hot Dog Sauce."

"But wait. How can I do that if Hickman is spending all the money on them billback trade deals?" Post asked.

"Hmmm. Maybe I can send somebody down to help you trim the deals, then revise the advertising."

"Nobody ‘round here’ll take to that."

"Jim, I don’t want to get off to a bad start with Coyote. There’s this young fellow, Marcus Ramsay," Brownburg said. "Sharp fellow. You might like him."

"Wait, Bill. Can’t I just sort this thing out over the weekend? Look into these billbacks," Post said. The thought of surrendering to the Yankees within a year after the sale made Post quiver. Next they’ll be making the damn day-to-day decisions.

"Jim, need to put your last payment in escrow until you turn it around. A pretty penny——two million."

"Shoot," Post said.

"Listen, Jim. I can send Ramsay down next week. Just for a few days. He can help."

"I bet."

"Really. He’s got a reputation up here for getting a handle on those trade deal expenses."

"Right." Post clutched the phone hard.

"Hey, Jim. I’m trying to be civil here," Brownburg said. "How’s late Monday?"

"Fine, then, Monday. G’Night." Post hung up. He had skipped Oscar’s party, preferring to work late on a Friday night than to attend his plant manager’s predictable holiday bash.

That Yankee sales manager, Earl Hickman, would be standing in anyway. Quite the "climber". His wife, too! Post thought back to how Hickman had started at the company humbly the year before: He drove a Plymouth and wore clothes from Sears. But now, less than a year later, Hickman drove a Mercedes and wore custom silk sports jackets made by some fancy Dallas tailor. That was mighty strange.

Maybe I should check out those deals the man’s been pushin’. Maybe he made some errors or something.

Crash! The thunder was near.

Post rose and walked over to the scratched-up metal cabinet where all his red vinyl binders were stored. He pulled out his Budgeting Manual, walked back to his desk, and sat. He opened to the "Trade Deal" account, thumbed through a few pages and studied the rows of numbers. With a flick of his old Zippo, he relit his pipe.

Dear Lord.

Starting with the Dallas market, Post remembered how the billback deals——paid to each of his sales brokers after they submitted a performance certificate for approval——had begun just after Earl Hickman started. Damn Yankee!

Then the first few deals on the list had been approved by Post himself. He specifically remembered that because they were new. For every case sold on "deal", a "per case" allowance was paid. A check was cut by Al and forwarded to the broker who in turn would endorse it and forward it to participating trade accounts like Safeway or Tom Thumb or Kroger:

DALLAS MARKET

Allowance # of cases

$/case sold on deal Approved by Start Date

1.50 4,102 Plain Chili James Post 4/2/68

2.00 3,676 Plain Chili James Post 5/30/68

2.00 3,011 Plain Chili James Post 6/12/68

1.50 3,388 Hot Dog Sauce James Post 7/31/68

Then, still in the Dallas Market, Post noticed that at the end of September, the approval signature changed. Hickman had begun approving the deals without Post’s okay. That was fishy.

Allowance # of cases

$/case sold on deal Approved by Start Date

1.50 5,086 Hot Dog Sauce James Post 8/7/68

1.50 6,339 Hot Dog Sauce James Post 8/30/68

2.00 7,212 Chili with Beans James Post 9/10/68

2.50 5,923 Plain Chili Earl Hickman 9/30/68

2.00 5,016 Chili with Beans Earl Hickman 10/7/68

2.50 4,925 Plain Chili Earl Hickman 10/23/68

2.50 5,128 Plain Chili Earl Hickman 11/15/68

2.50 5,431 Plain Chili Earl Hickman 11/29/68

2.00 7,936 Chili with Beans Earl Hickman 11/29/68

2.50 7,009 Plain Chili Earl Hickman 12/15/68

2.50 5,127 Plain Chili Earl Hickman 12/30/68

2.50 6,203 Plain Chili Earl Hickman 12/30/68

2.00 4,177 Chili with Beans Earl Hickman 1/3/69

All these deals in the last three months? My Lord! Post quickly flipped to other markets and saw no similar deal activity there. He flipped back to Dallas. Hickman was just approving these deals for Dallas. That was real fishy.

When the allowance per case paid by Coyote Brand was multiplied by the number of cases sold "on deal" in Dallas, thousands of dollars worth of billback deals were "earned" by the Dallas broker, and supposedly paid to accounts once they built end-aisle displays of Coyote Brand chili.

But that assumed the billback check, approved by Hickman and made out to Frank Benedict, was endorsed and properly forwarded to the trade account. Post had always been suspicious of that payment scheme, but never questioned it; he figured it was just more Yankee nonsense he’d have to get used to.

He looked at the list of deals again and shook his head. How could Benedict’s band of salesmen do such a great job that they suddenly "earned" thousands of dollars from Coyote for trade accounts for putting up displays? Frank and his boys couldn’t possibly set up that many displays! And with no safeguard to assure the retail trade account was actually being paid, Frank could theoretically pocket the deal money, or even kick part of it back to, say, Hickman, in the form of cash.

Shoot!

Post felt remiss for not having seen this major loophole before; he should have been co-signing the checks, or something, to verify all deals had his approval. No wonder Brownburg said Coyote’s merchandising expenses were so high!

Wait. If Frank and his boys were doin’ such a great job, sales ought to be way up.

Post looked at his sales chart, laying on the desk. He followed his index finger down the overall sales column and found Dallas. Sales were up, but only modestly.

Shoot. This here’s pretty convincing proof. All these displays and no real change in sales? But Hickman’s clothes and car are lookin’ a little too fine?

Now it was hard not to conclude that Post’s long term Dallas broker was in cahoots with Hickman; giving the Yankee some kind of kickback! It was circumstantial, but real convincing. Post shook himself with anger and fear at the same time.

Could Hickman be capable of such a thing? Also, since the acquisition, Hickman had taken every opportunity to meet alone with Frank, but Post had thought that friendship positive.

The picture looked clear. Hickman must’ve been in cahoots with Frank Benedict for several months. This was unbelievable! Frank had sold a majority of Coyote’s sales for years. He had even personally "closed" the Safeway account, something no one else ever could. Post had always known and trusted him! They had played round after round of golf. Frank hadn’t missed a single Coyote Brand Christmas party.

Now Post felt empty, like the very foundation of his company was crumbling under the Yankees’ influence. He admitted to himself that his relationship with Frank had cooled over the past year: short lunches, perfunctory phone calls, cancelled golf rounds. Frank had attended only one of the quarterly broker review meetings, which he’d never missed in prior years. Post had thought all along that Frank was just put out because he hadn’t been awarded the Houston market and all that commission.

Maybe that’s why he’s cheatin’!

More damn evidence. It seemed wherever he looked, Post found substantiation for his fears. It seemed obvious now. He sat back and nervously flipped pages of his latest copy of Agent, a local publication that tracked the real estate market in Navarro County. He had begun receiving the little magazine since he moved into the big white house in Golf Estates.

The cover story got his attention: It was about how the Yankees moving into Texas affected everything. He read how Texas’ population had been exploding and how the infusion of Yankees was diluting the growth of Texas products. Per capita sales for those products actually declined as Yankees chose not to purchase the same shopping basket Texans did.

Post sat up. Lord, that must apply to chili! In order to tap into the Yankee population explosion, he would have to tailor products for them and not assume they would outright purchase the same things Texans would. Maybe Brownburg was right about pushing other products like Chili Hot Dog Sauce, a chili with a lower meat content, especially formulated to make great chili dogs. Shoot, even Yankees must like chili dogs.

Come Monday——with or without that kid Brownburg was going to send——Post vowed to himself to reconsider what products were appropriate for his changing customers. Those’d be what he would advertise.

He tapped his pipe in the ashtray he had received for service to the Rotary. He looked outside and saw the darkness spread across the company’s parking lot. He sighed. While he felt shaken by his discovery of Hickman’s malfeasance and the need to change his advertising to adjust for the Yankee boom, Post figured his Friday night thinking session had actually gone well for a change.

He leaned back in his chair, flopped his boots on the desk and clasped his long fingers behind his head. He glanced at the orange Grady Davis Garage receipt, the one for new brakes the boy installed over lunch. Post would certainly surprise Margaret when they drove to church on Sunday. That darn squeaking had bothered her for months; it bothered most of Corsicana! Not anymore, thanks to Grady. He could fix a car better than anyone.

Post neatened his desk by sorting his follow-up memos into piles. What’s this?

A small white note fell off the pile onto his desk. He picked it up and unfolded it.

Dear Mr. Post,

A friend

That’s odd. Were Oscar and Harold playing games? Or maybe someone else wrote this.

Post chilled. He thought about calling the sheriff. The next morning, for sure, just to check it out. For now, so he wouldn’t forget anything, he would summarize his Friday night revelations and head home. Outside the storm clouds blocked the last of the setting sun. The birds stopped singing. Drizzle started.

Post sat up and reached in his drawer for the impressive Parker Duofold fountain pen——engraved and made of pearl-like celluloid——Margaret had given him for their anniversary. He pulled out his crystal ink bottle, filled the pen, and closed the bottle. He tested it——perfect.

Post documented Hickman’s likely culpability and Post’s need to take advantage of the Yankee population boom by pushing Hot Dog Sauce. He reached for the phone and dialed home.

"Hello," a dainty female voice answered.

"Margaret!"

"What is it, James? You sound excited."

"I am, sugar. I am." Post tapped his pipe.

"When you coming home?"

"Margaret, I have significant news," he said.

"What?"

"For once I’ve had a wonderful Friday night session. It’s that damn Yankee, Hickman." He tapped his pipe particularly hard.

"What about him, James?"

"I had a feelin’ all along; now I’m sure: Looks like the polecat’s on the take." He sat up.

"Really? James, my Lord."

"Yep. Getting a kickback from them damn billback deals he’s always pushing." Post lay his pipe down.

"But I thought he said they would save the day," she said.

"In bed with that Frank Benedict——"

"That Dallas ruffian," she said scoldingly. "He’s still bothering you about handling Houston?"

"Well, he’d get a $300 thousand increase in commission," Post said.

"As if the man weren’t well-off enough. Shame!"

"Oh, Margaret. Don’t fret. Old Frank’ll get tired of hearing ‘No’, althought that’s why he might be cheatin’."

"Why won’t he just leave you alone and do his job?"

"Margaret, I think I caught both them foxes in the henhouse, alright," Post said.

"I never did like that Hickman, James. Actin’ like a Texan. Thinks he’s a southerner because he’s from Baltimore. Such nonsense."

"Have to let him go is all." Post picked up his pen and tapped it on the desk. "Then I’d cut those billbacks and have enough money to push other products. Brownburg likes Hot Dog Sauce; he thinks the Yankees movin’ south would go for it," he said.

"James, why don’t you forget all this nonsense and head home. Henrietta’s making her chicken. And I have a mighty big surprise for you."

"You do? Your tests?"

"I’m not sayin’, darlin’," she said. But Post heard a smile in her voice.

"In a few minutes, then. Oh, and Margaret?" he said.

"Yes, James," she said softly.

"I do love you."

"Oh, James." She giggled. "I love you, too."

"You bathe in that rose blossom scent, dear?"

"Yes, James." She giggled.

"Good." He smiled. "Be home soon."

They hung up.

Before he left, Post picked up his pen, looked over his notes, added a few scribbles, and rose. He carefully lay the pen back on its wooden carrier in his drawer. Large drops spattered the north-facing windows as he switched off the heat and turned out the office lights.

Monday, with Puritan’s token help——that Ramsay kid——he would begin to weed out the effects of Hickman and his billback deals. With a little luck the kid could really help.

Post’s boots thumped over to the worn wooden hat rack. He picked up his black felt hat and stuffed it under his arm. He left the office, pulled the door shut, and locked it. Outside, rain sprinkled on the dust-covered asphalt, leaving a tiny crater after every drop. The rain dripped on Post’s head. Lightning zapped in the distance.

Margaret would want to hear about his ideas for the company. She would be supportive, of course, but would also infuse him with skepticism——gently challenging him, as always. Post shook his head and smiled; he loved his dainty Margaret so.

He looked around his company courtyard, lit only by the eerie blue of mercury vapor.

Puritan Corporation might own it now. But it would always be Post’s in spirit.

Crack. The thunder.

He stopped and looked up. The stars struggled to show themselves through intermittent storm clouds. How beautiful this sight. How small he felt amidst this whole universe.

He felt exhilarated by his discoveries. Earl Hickman would get the ax for his fool-ass, money-skimming ways; Cecil would stay, always Mr. Reliable; Al, the backbone of Coyote, would also stay; and maybe Oscar, if he could douse his damn career obsession and focus on his job, would stay, too. And Coyote’s Dallas sales broker, Frank Benedict, and his Benedict Company, would be reassessed.

Man’s gotta prove to me that he and Hickman aren’t schemin’ together.

Post dodged raindrops as he beheld his massive Cadillac with its cruise control and automatic windows. It sat there, bathed in blue. Looking up, he stretched his long arms out, catching the rain. It was wonderful now that Grady went and fixed her up. Margaret would be so surprised.

Shoot! His leisure life was only a heartbeat away now. He dreamed of an idyllic retirement, maybe even in the south seas; his 30 years of hard work had finally paid off and no cheatin’ Yankee was going to spoil it! Instead he wanted his last five years as president——part of the Puritan deal——to be the best of all.

He felt famished and couldn’t wait to get home to Henrietta’s outstanding chicken dinner. It sure was nice living in that big white house with the breezy porch. A might pretentious, he thought, but thank the Lord it wasn’t one of those boxy tract homes across the field.

Post opened the car door; he heard gravel crunch.

Not him.

He looked left, then right——not a sound.

Guess I’m hearing things.

He got into the automobile. As he put his keys in the ignition, Post thought about how Collin Street Bakery, makers of the world’s finest fruit cakes since 1896, seemed to continue successfully, year after year. Gus Weidmann and Tom McElwee had personally stopped supervising production of the famous Christmas cakes years before. Maybe things had worked out for the boys because they didn’t have any know-it-all Yankees spending their money. Post thought about the Rotary Meeting coming up. He would share his Hickman experience with Gus and Tom——

Suddenly, a young man jumped up from the shadows in front of Post’s car. He turned and ran out the open chain link gate toward the field across Main Street.

"Hey, boy!" Post blurted. He jumped out of the car. "How dare you!" He shook his fist; his heart pounded.

The young man, probably in his twenties, was tall, muscular and quick. Long brown hair flopped under his straw western hat, which he held onto as he ran like a gazelle across the partially lit field, thrashing through weeds and kicking loose stones. He sped toward the railroad tracks a half block away.

James Post stared at the disappearing form. As the boy passed under a streetlight, he glanced back, revealing an obvious mustache, but Post was still unable to recognize him.

His stomach relaxed as the patter of the boy’s boots faded. A distant engine revved and tires squealed. Sounded like a truck, he thought. Then Post sighed——the intruder was gone.

He glanced back to the distribution wing. As usual, the large door was left open. He looked right, over at the plant. Both were lit by the purple security light aside the front office on Main Street. Everything looked normal around the little Coyote Brand compound.

Better just get out of here!

He got back into his car, closed the door, turned the key, and revved the mighty V-8.

After a dusty exit, James Post rolled down Main Street through deserted downtown Corsicana. His wipers pushed away the increasing rain. He hoped he’d run into the boy at some stoplight. Then he could at least get his truck’s tag number and report it.

When Post got home he would tell Margaret again in detail about his crazy day. How the strange boy had run from the shadows. How that Yankee Hickman had hurt Coyote’s profits with the billback deals, and was probably taking a kick-back. How the company could push Hot Dog Sauce to take advantage of the Yankee population boom.

He calmed down as his car approached Second Street on the east side of town. As he turned left, passing the road to Pioneer Village and the cemetery, he noticed his brakes were quiet, all right, but felt mushy, too. His foot pressed half way to the floor before they engaged.

Not good. Better have Grady check ‘em out.

Post rolled out of town to the wooded entry road that led to Golf Estates. When he turned left there, his brake pedal depressed too easily and didn’t slow the car effectively. Post gulped.

He pumped them multiple times to get a response——better.

Post decided he would definitely take the car back to Grady’s in the morning.

Unlike that boy to foul up.

Anticipating the winding road ahead, he lowered his window and proceeded carefully. Post whiffed the faint smell of manure. Fresh country, all right. Enjoying the moment, he lost himself in thought.

Then, newly painted lines on fresh asphalt appeared——the curving road that led into Golf Estates. The road’s sudden changes reminded Post of the way Coyote would focus on a new future despite being owned by Puritan. He gently swerved down the winding road. Post noticed that, with the momentum of each turn, his large car rocked side to side and gained speed uncomfortably. As he approached the entrance to Golf Estates, the long entry marker——a freestanding brick wall——appeared.

Post pressed on his brakes.

Nothing.

What? He pushed hard to the floor three times. No response. He downshifted; the gear broke cleanly. He was in neutral. Post’s heavy Cadillac lurched into the dip just before the entrance and gained momentum. "Holy Lord!" The long wall and the letters ‘G . . . o . . . l . . . f . . . E . . . s . . . t . . . a . . . t . . . e . . . s’ loomed at him in slow motion. He pumped again. The car swerved to the right, out of control.

"No!"

Margaret Post stood aside Henrietta in the kitchen of the Post home when the explosion rocked Golf Estates.

"Oh, my. What’s that, Miss Margaret?" Henrietta asked. They both turned their heads away from the frying chicken, then rushed to the front door.

In minutes, Margaret Lassiter Post pushed through the murmuring crowd; Henrietta followed. Empty eyes and shaking heads greeted her. She approached her James, whose bloodied body lay perfectly still: by the brick wall, aside the car, surrounded by glass bits. His eyes remained open. She fell to her knees, splashing the mud, quivering in disbelief. Behind her, Henrietta hugged herself and, along with the crowd’s jabbering, whimpered: "Mr. Post, Mr. Post . . . ."

Margaret closed his eyes and dabbed the side of his bloodied face with an arm of her soft robe. She traced his cheek with her fingers as she did during affectionate interludes. "Oh, my James." She shook and strained to control herself. She leaned over and kissed him on his cheek, vaguely aware of approaching sirens and flashing red. In a broken voice she prayed, "Dearest James, may the Lord keep you."

Then the voices faded to a murmur. Margaret disregarded the large drops of rain that splattered her. "Dream sweetly, my love," she whispered. The first lady of Coyote Brand rose to her knees. Her bottom lip quivered as she looked into the sky, watching the shadows of a hundred heads frame the stormy sky as the thunder rumbled away.

Then Margaret’s muted cry joined Henrietta’s and, with the others’, sounded an eerie siren throughout the group of custom homes in the clearing in the woods they called Golf Estates.

Down the road, barely visible in the faint illumination created by all the porch lights, sat a taxi. Even less visible, the driver sat hunched, eating candy from a little white cardboard box with green letters. He shook his crewcut head. "Too much——this death. The hateful ones should pay." He popped a little minty chocolate circle and chewed.

The driver scoured the crowd, then stopped. Only he saw the spirit of James Post rise from the lifeless body. It grew into a multi-pronged swirl of colored sparkles, beautiful yet terrifying. The vapor shot out of Post’s body, flew throughout the area and surged into the sky. In an instant it occupied all the heavens; in another, it returned, streamed throughout the area, and entered all the plants and bystanders——all living things. Then it was gone.

Reginald clasped his hands together. "I say. Quite a spectacular dislodgement." He picked up his pen and made a few notes on his clipboard. "Rest now, Spirit," he said. "In time you shall have your day." He started his car’s engine by merely glancing at it. "In time." Then the cab headed back down the winding road.