As a prominent attorney, I have made a name for myself. Whatever name that is depends on whom you ask. At any rate, names don’t concern me. I am only interested in helping those unfortunates who would otherwise be victims of circumstances beyond their control by big corporations and an uncaring public. The money isn’t bad, either.
From his porch, Henry Moody spied the cloud of dust that indicated an approaching vehicle well before it came into view. He raised one liver-spotted hand to shield his eyes from the brilliant Montana midday sun and waited to get a better look.
The small antechamber in which Max Kohl had been waiting for far too long was spare to the extreme and smelled of disinfectant. Whitewashed walls were barren of art or decoration of any kind. He sat at one end of a row of six rickety wooden chairs, the room’s only furniture, lined up against one wall. There wasn’t even a table for his violin case, which he had to place next to him on the stone floor.
Peggy made the turn onto M-90 just past the hamlet of Johnsondale and started the final slow incline up the mountain. She’d begun the drive from San Diego before dawn; without traffic or delays, it was a little over six hours to Sequoia National Forest’s closest entrance and another twenty minutes or so past it to the cabin her father used to rent across from Ponderosa Lodge at the top of the mountain. It had been fifteen years since she’d last visited her father and his longtime partner, Juanita, there, but the tunnel of trees, rock outcroppings, stream crossings, and occasional meadows along the ascent were still familiar. There were no other cars on the road as she drove through the freckled shadows in the clean mid-October light.
Standing at the church door, Tom Reed, Smith Memorial’s senior minister, held Malcolm, his new husband, with one arm and shook hands with the other. Tom had a shaved head and an open and welcoming facial expression. Malcolm was about 5’8”, trim, black hair with a part on the left as straight as U.S. Route 20.
Barbara Loraine’s stout figure filled the doorway of Karen’s art studio as I came up the walk. “Right on time,” she snapped.
I didn’t reply. This was the last place I wanted to be.
“Captain, the rescue team from Tanzania has arrived. They’re unloading their gear. Where should I take them?”
Captain Dietrich Hall paused, his hand full of rubble and freezing snow held mid-air.
High Lord Seti Mereneptah hid his worry. The Ashkar citadel defenders were proving more resilient than expected. The planned-for easy spring siege had leached late into the parched summer season. The young nobles were restless.
Kali pulled down the sexual harassment notice in Judson High School’s all gender restroom used by boys and taped it in the cheerleaders’ locker room. She placed it over the middle of the south wall where guys watched them.
Sparks flew as the circular saw made its noisy way. The campus police officers stepped back toward the wall of the metalworking studio.
The deafening buzzing stopped.
