Circle of Distrust

By Noel Carroll

A young engineer takes his company's top secret listening device out for a little fun, a lark that plummets him into the midst of a deadly conspiracy. In short order, he is embroiled in a circle of suspicion that has his company, the FBI, and a murderous Black Moslem group aimed against him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Noel Carroll
• Release date: Aug 4, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452316710

Noel Carroll

About The Authors For years the husband-and-wife team, Noel Carroll*, has published novels and short stories in two genres: thrillers and science fiction. A third genre, humor/satire, permitted them moments of fun and mischief. Although unwilling to abandon fiction, they steadily gravitated toward political commentary, first in opinion editorials and then in a full-length non-fiction work (“If You Can Keep It”). All their novels, short stories and essays have received highly favorable reviews, many being awarded five-stars. They currently make their home in Ponce Inlet, Florida. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEErCnUycaE) *a nom de plume (Noel and Carol also write under the names John Barr and N.C. Munson.)

Book preview

Circle Of Distrust

Triggered my interest from the first page

Keen sense of pacing

Noel Carroll brings us into the cold corporate world with a new approach

Multilevel, at times frightening, conflict

Climaxes in a daring but intriguing scene

AA Showcase Reviews

Also From Noel Carroll:

Novels

Circle of Distrust

Accidental Encounter

Never By Blood

Starve The Devil

The Exclusion Zone

Coming Soon: A Long Reach Back

Short Stories

(soon to be the anthology, Carroll’s Shorts)

Slipping Away

The Galapagos Incident

Silent Obsession

Recycled

The Collection

Butterflies

Stairway Through Agony

Beyond Sapiens

End of The Beginning

By Invitation Only

Humor-Satire

Hey, God; Got A Minute? (as John Barr)

Soul Food

Political

If You Can Keep It

Reviews Of Other Noel Carroll Novels

Starve The Devil

"Quick-witted writing style.

Keeps nails short and edges of seats warm"

eBooks NBytes

"Not sure what worries me more, that I can actually

see something like this happening in the world today, or

that I understand the president’s action and partially agree."

Roundtable Reviews

Never By Blood

Strap on your shoulder harness and get ready for a non-stop thriller

Keep(s) you guessing until its final pages

Descriptive style…fluid pace

"To all readers who enjoy fast paced action,

international intrigue and suspense, with a dash of romance."

Scribes World

All the hallmarks of a great whodunit, international thriller

A multi-layered exercise in what excellent writing is all about

A most amazing read

Midwest Book Review

"An excellent out of this world romp"

Chillingly believable

Gives this skeleton some meat that most mysteries don't usually take on

Sime~Gen

"Nicely paced, well written"

Keeps the reader guessing … well worth reading

A. A. Showcase

Broken Odyssey

"Masterfully engineered tale

First class dialogue, spine tingling action"

Book Pleasures Reviews

"Excellently crafted

Keeps you on the edge of your seat"

Simi-Gen

The Exclusion Zone

"Hang on to your hats, as this book will blow you away!"

Picks up the reader from the first page

Non-stop action plot

Midwest Book Review

A fast paced thriller with a mesmerizing arc

"Knits characters and scenarios expertly together into a woven tapestry

of an international political thriller"

eBooks NBytes

**********

Circle of Distrust

By Noel Carroll

Published by Noel Carroll on Smashwords

ISBN: 978-1-4523-1671-0

Also available in print under ISBN: 0-9658702-0-0

or ISBN-13: 9780965870207

First printing by Hollis Books

Copyright © 1999 by Noel Carroll

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Cover by KC Creations

Dedicated to the giving souls who have so patiently reviewed

both this and others of our works.

*********

"What we have here is a circle of distrust, where each party

is prompted to action, not by reason, but by the presumed

behavior of another party. Where, pray tell, do we expect

this will end?"

Prologue

You have big problems, Son.

Clay was tempted to deliver a sarcastic retort but held back. Better to play it straight until he could learn more of what Canning had in mind. Rascal is on schedule.

The annoyance on the older man’s face was immediate. I’m not going to play games with you, Son. You smuggled a top-secret military device out of this building. That alone gets you Leavenworth.

For the second time in a very short morning, Clay decided he’d had enough. First of all, unless you’re planning to adopt me, don’t call me ‘Son.’ Second, I took nothing out of this building. It was, of course, a lie; Canning knew it too. But what Canning did not know, and wanted desperately to know, was whether the device had been used to pick up what was said inside the blimp.

There was a momentary flicker in Canning’s eyes; it was clear he had not expected opposition. You took Rascal out. Twice that I know of.

Really? Who saw me do it? You? Your security people? The FBI?

You really want to play it that way?

Clay was not sure how he wanted to play it. Were it left to him, he would not play it at all. He would transport himself back in time to that fateful decision of two Sundays ago and this time watch the damn game on TV!

1

Ignoring the mass of humanity that pressed in from all sides, Clay shifted his rear on the cold, wooden seat that would be his for another hour and a half. As far as he could tell there was not one unclaimed spot in a stadium designed to hold better than sixty-five thousand people. And all of them, or so it seemed, were intent upon losing their voice by day’s end--his body was being bombarded by sonic waves.

The volume of noise meant he would have to be careful. One careless swing of Rascal’s dials and he could lose his hearing. He reduced the scope of the antenna and arranged a greater reduction of signal. The filters would take care of the rest.

Twenty-seven-year-old Clayton Robert Iverson was well aware that he should not be anywhere near this stadium. Certainly he should not be here with Rascal. He smiled as he considered the risk, calculated but not serious.

Screw them all! With the words came a tug at his confidence, and he stretched his eyes to take in the people around him, relaxing only after it became clear that the ambiance of noise made it unlikely that anyone would hear. He switched his focus to the camera sitting on his lap; another series of plays was about to begin and he wanted to be ready.

The readings proved that the unit was still locked on to the Eagles quarterback, a man with enough distinguishing characteristics to make the job of targeting him easy. He was tall and black (when ordered to do so, Rascal could consider skin tone) and thin enough that he could easily be distinguished from the other ten men in the huddle. Whatever that man said would be picked up as clearly as if Clay were sitting inside his helmet. He smiled as the expected words came through.

Flash left, 41 long on 3

Shit! (Clay could tell that this came from the quarterback’s left side, but he could only guess at who said it.)

Hey, the man says do; we do.

Double shit!

Look, bunt early. I’ll check you out.

A third voice broke in. Ten seconds left on the clock!

Okay, let’s go!

Clay’s smile broadened as he watched the players scatter to their respective positions. Never had he enjoyed a game as much as he was enjoying this one. Not only was he getting all the plays beforehand, but he was hearing the scuttlebutt as well, including some colorful expletives from the head coaches as they vented their frustrations along the sidelines. He felt like a member of an elite group, able to share intimacies few ever got to hear about. Hell, not even the owners would come to know what was being said, at least not all of it. He kept the device on to pick up what might come out of the backfield during and immediately after the play. Sometimes that proved as interesting as the calls themselves.

The device was the latest marvel to come out of Ezra Electronics, a developer of advanced weapon systems for the military. Clay worked in the most sensitive part of the company, the part that turns theory into reality, generally unconventional reality. Not yet senior enough to command a project of his own, he was nonetheless so well thought of that he was permitted freedoms few engineers his age get to enjoy. The testing of the device, one of the most promising products to come out of Ezra, fell mostly to him, a reward for what he contributed to its design.

Referred to as Rascal by those who brought it to life, it was developed at the behest of the National Security Agency who wanted to improve upon the ability of the intelligence community to penetrate the most private of conversations. The result was a refinement on the concept of thermal imaging, used to search out people in the dark. With that and with the help of a tiny but powerful computer, Rascal was able to track an individual wherever he or she might go, even if that individual could no longer be seen. The control unit, or trigger, was small enough to fit into just about anything an eavesdropper might find convenient to carry: a paperback, a calculator, a radio, even a baseball as long as no one tried to hit it out of the park. Or, as was being proven today, it could fit inside a camera.

Two other pieces of equipment were necessary to complete Rascal’s function. The first was a small disk antenna, its color a soft gray and its center looking as if it had stopped a bullet. The size of an American half dollar, it was small enough to fit into a breast pocket, and when arranged with the bulge pointed outward, it permitted Rascal a field of vision that included everything ahead, above and below. Aiming it was no more difficult than keeping that pocket pointed in the general direction of the target.

The second piece of support equipment was a tiny receiver that fit well within the user’s ear--it required tweezers to insert and remove. It also required an exceptionally steady hand; as familiar as Clay was with the system, he had passed some ten minutes of his morning getting it installed. Not necessary to complete its function, but an important part of the system, was a receiver/recorder, this component able to do its job at a great distance. Although it needed to be tested as well, Clay had decided against activating it for today’s game. It was difficult enough smuggling the main components out of the Ezra building; taking this much larger piece along would have invited already curious eyes to take a closer look. Equally unwise would be to leave it on in the lab where an inquisitive colleague might decide to listen in. Clay smiled as he thought about what that colleague would think when he came upon an active recorder and decided to check it out. He would hear coded instructions, ungodly screams, and the most imaginative curses ever devised by man.

Power 44 on six. And watch your feet this time.

Up yours.

Let’s go; break!

A tinge of guilt wormed its way into Clay’s consciousness, this at the thought of not having told Shelly of his impromptu day off--she would raise hell about the risk he was taking in bringing Rascal along. He wondered if she would call in to Ezra to drop a kiss or a word of intimacy. Today that little game could end in disaster, not so much because of what she might think—later, when they got together, he would take care of that—but because the person taking the call might find it curious that one Clay Iverson, scheduled for duty in the lab, was not where he was supposed to be. And that Rascal was not where it was supposed to be.

Such thoughts added nothing to what had been a fun afternoon. Clay re-checked the adjustments on his camera then forced himself to dwell only on what came out of the tiny receiver in his ear.

The first half was over but Clay remained in his seat, unwilling to cycle Rascal down or risk damaging it by exposing himself to the crowds now fighting for every inch of space in stadium ramps and walkways. By now the chill in the air was penetrating his jacket, and he drew in his arms and shook his upper body to ward it off. To accommodate a sagging conscience, he tried formulating a report in his mind, one that would take advantage of these hours of testing without blowing the whistle on the way he chose to go about it. There was too much success here to throw away. For the first time in a real-life situation, Rascal had focused in on a specific individual and followed that individual wherever he chose to go, steadfastly ignoring anything that got in the way. Whoever made use of this expensive toy in the future would be guaranteed a front-row seat to any conversation he elected to join.

While grappling for soul-saving prose, Clay allowed his eyes to drift upward. At first he saw only the products of his private thoughts, but in time he awakened to the fact that he was staring at a blimp slowly circling the stadium in a counter-clockwise direction--the markings on its side identified it as belonging to Goodyear. It was bouncing in and out of low-lying clouds, and the row of moving lights on its lower half, an electronic message board of sorts, was obscured more often than not by those clouds. Odd that it was still there; odd that the people inside did not call it a day and move back to wherever it was that such massive vehicles were kept. But then maybe they had no choice; maybe they were the remote camera for a national broadcast of the game.

Clay realized with a renewed burst of enthusiasm that it was within his power to find out! Pulling the camera from his coat pocket, he immediately went to work arranging its tiny dials. He knew it would not be as easy as targeting the Eagles quarterback, whom he could see. Whoever was inside the blimp was invisible to him, which meant he had no physical attributes to relay to Rascal; he would have to proceed on a trial-and-error basis. He plugged in five-feet-nine, one hundred and sixty pounds and between a quarter to three quarters of a mile away, then set the spread of each setting to permit as much slippage as possible--the quality would be lacking, but it was the fastest way to get a fix. Then he set the scope to take in the entire cockpit and to track the airship as it moved. He took care to avoid the blimp’s two engines. Rascal was designed to limit the influx of noise through the ear piece, but with the settings he had chosen, as encompassing as they had to be, what it did allow was far from comfortable. At last satisfied, he looked around, saw that no one was paying him more than an occasional glance, then arranged his body in such a way that the disk antenna in his breast pocket would have no trouble finding the target.

Success came unexpectedly fast, at least to the point of picking up the hint of a male voice. Pleased with himself and with the wizardry of his machine, he worked the scales upward on both size and weight. Then, since Rascal had the target in sight, he reduced the search area—the improvement in quality was immediate and dramatic. Seconds later, after backing down first on one option then another, then finessing the tracking dial as the characteristics of the target became better known to him, Clay was satisfied that he was listening to the voice of a five-feet-ten-inch male of approximately one hundred and seventy-five pounds. This man was talking to at least one companion, and by the faint sounds reaching Rascal’s ears, this companion was also a male.

Gotcha, suckers! The unintended comment drew a doubtful look from the man on his right, and Clay hastened a smile and a wave of his hand to shake it off. Then he made sure his expression did not reveal his thoughts as he pressed the lock-on button that sent Rascal firmly on its mission.

What he heard had nothing to do with the broadcast of a football game.

The men inside the blimp were discussing what had yet to be tested--their word. Intrigued by the similarity to his own efforts, Clay’s interest heightened. As time passed, and the words continued to pour through, his concern heightened as well. Whatever these men were testing, the crowd below them was to play an active part. Clay could not hear the second man clearly, but he was able to pick up an occasional word. Two particularly bothersome ones were beam and targets.

Okay, but we might learn more if we re-do the side we hit earlier. We’d have control and contrast all in one.

The reply suggested the idea was not a good one. Something about tainted reaction.

Understood. I’ll go from the twenty to the fifty, second deck, northwest side.

Clay tried to figure out where that was, finally deciding it was across the field and slightly to the right of where he sat. What was to happen there? More importantly, what had already happened to the group hit earlier. He held his breath, hoping to pick up the reply.

..cameras on...capture speed...change...minutes from..

There was nothing else other than the clatter of men adjusting equipment.

It sounded like something in which he himself might be involved; the terminology and the procedure were similar and thus easily recognized. The people in that blimp were scientists or engineers; they had to be. Their syntax was complex, their diction precise, and their voices soft and lacking in emotion. But what were they after? What were they about to do that would cause a change in unsuspecting—and certainly non-consenting—human beings?

Our choice of sample is a good one, Charles. They’re loud, easily excited, perhaps a hair away from rioting.

....or brunette?

You tell me. Just look at them!

Clay could hear only a scattering of what was a lengthy reply, but it was enough to verify his guess as to where they were aiming their beam. He ran his eyes over the area hoping to pick up some clue to what was going on. People were milling about, mostly in an effort to regain their seats for the second half, but they acted not unlike the people on his side of the field. In an instant of panic he looked to his right. Could he have misunderstood; could they have said northeast rather than northwest? That would put him on the fringe of the test group. Hell, he might even be part of it! But here as well, nothing stood out as unusual. After some two minutes of silence, the voices returned.

Apply minimum power; no more than that given to the foxtrot chimps. We want knowledge not an incident.

...adequate...

Granted, but we can adjust the beam as we go. For now my greater concern is to keep from being obvious.

Obvious? What was he was supposed to see? If it were not to be obvious, would he see it at all? He mentally kicked himself for not taking the time to broaden Rascal’s scope to take in the background. Had he spent two or three additional minutes searching out others inside that blimp, he could now be receiving both sides of the conversation, just as he’d received everything said in the huddle. But there was no question of modifying settings now. To do so would risk cutting off the little he was getting, and he needed to know what those men were up to, needed to hear that this was nothing more sinister than a new advertising ploy.

A shake of his head proved how little he believed this. If this were advertising, a control group, would make no sense. A message beamed from that blimp could not be precisely aimed; it would get everybody who happened to be looking up. And then there was their reference to loud, easily excitable, near-rioters.

Captured by private thoughts, Clay failed to notice the Eagles kickoff that officially began the second half of the game. A loud burst from the crowd at a Washington fumble yanked him back into the picture. But there was no possibility of returning Rascal to where it could spy on football huddles, at least not until he had his answer. He placed a protective hand over the ear housing the tiny receiver then prepared himself for what might come through next.

He heard an occasional clicking but nothing from the plotters themselves, nothing that would tell him how close those men were to unleashing their beam. He tried to concentrate on what he could see of the faces on the other side of the field--whatever was going to happen, it would happen there.

That fumble would have been good.

...opportunity (Clay was sure the first word had to be missed.)

I think the moment has arrived, Charles. [silence] I hope the level we’ve chosen is not excessive.

...with it.

Yes, I know, we’ve been all through this; we need at least one at this level. But once I push that button, a select few of us could have some explaining to do. I still contend there is a better way.

...know...secure...

Let us hope so, for both of our sakes. [sigh] Very well, I’m ready if you are.

Cameras.....?

Up and running. On both sides.

Clay felt a buildup of adrenaline; the mysterious it was about to happen. Suddenly he was not sure where to aim his eyes, the message deck on the blimp or the people on the other side of the field, people who were, even now, on their feet and throwing clenched fists into the damp air. He decided to stick with the latter.

It turned out to be the right choice.

As Clay’s eyes moved among them, desperate to spot something that could be called change, a group of about two hundred people abruptly lost interest in the game. They appeared confused, as if unsure what they had risen to their feet to do, this even as those around them reacted with unrestrained enthusiasm to a spectacular catch just inside the goal line. Equally as enthusiastic only seconds before, they now stood like schoolchildren waiting to be told what to do next, their heads turned not to the action on the field but to one another, and their eyes mirroring not pleasure but a sense of awkwardness and embarrassment. Where this enigma began was easy enough to see; where it ended as well. There was a large circle, about forty feet in diameter; Clay could pick out a center where the reaction was heaviest, and a periphery where the effect was there but less pronounced.

Cutting...five...

Check. Five seconds. I’ll keep the camera going for another fifteen minutes. I believe that should do it.

Clay counted silently to himself while his unblinking eyes strained to avoid missing even a fraction of what was to come. He had to be sure that there was a connection between the conversation in that blimp and the odd behavior on the other side of the stadium.

On schedule, the entire group, every single one of them as far as he could tell, began a collective return to normalcy. At first they tossed covert glances at each other, as if each was unaware that any but himself had had a momentary lapse of concentration. Then a certain sheepishness fell over them, the result of which was a unified resolve to redirect their eyes to the action on the field. What they thought after that was not as apparent as soon they were shouting and waving as passionately as everyone else.

Clay lifted his eyes to the massive airship that had so quickly turned around a perfect day. What in the hell had those people done? And what was he going to do about it?

2

The ride home was anything but pleasant. The rain had intensified, worsening what was already an impossible traffic situation. Clay all but ignored both as his mind struggled to make sense out of what had been thrust upon it. He kept his late model, fire-engine-red Mustang headed in the direction of his Villanova apartment, but was not aware of a single traffic light or even one turn. It was as if the vehicle knew, not only where he wanted to go, but that he needed help in getting there.

Something had happened today, something brought about by at least two men in a blimp with Goodyear markings on its side. How many others were on board? Certainly a pilot, maybe two. More people witness to...to what? An atrocity? He shook his head in disapproval; overstatement would not lead to the truth. Those men, whoever and whatever they were, did not come across as terrorists.

Damn! He ran a hand through his short, blond hair and wondered how could he profess such indignation when he had been doing the same thing--had those men in the huddle volunteered to be spied upon? Jumping on a soapbox and oozing a self-righteousness he hadn’t earned, was hypocrisy in the purist sense. Worse, using Rascal to enhance his enjoyment of a football game was bound to fall outside the confines of his security clearance. People with guns and badges and ugly looks could come running.

He could not march into his boss’s office, and he could not go to the police!

Was this serious enough to go to the police? Was it serious at all?

Shit!

How could he just let it go? How could he forget the looks on all those faces, looks that, even now, he could see in vivid detail? For a brief moment they had been zombies, even if they did not know that themselves. And it was only chance that the same thing had not happened to him.

How did he know that? How could he be sure it hadn’t happened to him? He might have been part of whatever test took place in the first half, on his side of the field. He pounded his fists on the wheel, the action causing a shift toward the oncoming line of traffic. He had to suffer in silence as an offended driver worked out his ire on his horn.

The incident did, however, awaken him to the fact that he had arrived home. Upset with himself and with people he did not even know, he turned onto the two-lane path that wound its way up to his apartment complex. Normally, and especially after a long day designing way-out toys for pentagon types, he would drift up the lane slowly, permitting his hard-pressed senses time to absorb the lurking ambiance of the country estate that had once occupied this site. Today, however, that wasn’t so easy.

His rooms were sandwiched between the first and third floors of a three-story garden-style apartment building. Four other such buildings, four families in each, flowed easily from the first, their entrances linked by gently curving, concrete walkways, much of which was bordered by Japanese boxwoods. Adding to a country atmosphere was a generous spread of well-endowed trees, mostly pines and sycamores. They were in and around, not only the buildings and walkways, but the scattering of parking lots that provided rest for tenant automobiles.

When close enough to do so, Clay shot a glance at his bedroom window and wondered whether Shelly would be waiting inside--he was not yet ready to describe his day. The two of them had agreed to meet for dinner at her townhouse a few miles away, but with Shelly that didn’t mean much. She went where she wanted to go and when she wanted to go, and whether she was expected or not had little impact on her sense of protocol. Earlier in their relationship, Clay had regarded this as evidence of mistrust on her part, but now he knew better. It was simply the way she was; she enjoyed freedom and she enjoyed people games, and rapping on his door at any and all hours played to both. He smiled as he realized how much he had come to appreciate this.

Of the two of them, only Shelly had family remaining to her, this in a second cousin living on the west coast. Both had come from small families and both had lost parents early in life, Shelly while not yet in her teens, and Clay soon after turning fourteen. In Clay’s case, a father was able to carry him though to manhood. Shelly’s grandparents performed that function for her, but now even they were gone.

He gave the wheel another slap, this time in pleasure rather than anger. He really could go to the police, at least in a sense. Shelly worked as a researcher for the Philadelphia Police and could dig out all kinds of answers without inviting curious eyes or ears. He pulled the Mustang into an available space, turned off the motor then sat there in silence, his mind working out how to go about it. With her help, and a little luck, this thing could be put to rest before it developed into a sleep disorder.

The only problem was how to explain it all to her.

You are fucking crazy!

Clay smiled. Shelly’s reaction was not unexpected. They were in her townhouse, sitting on the couch, sipping drinks and discussing the highlights of their day--Clay had held his silence until sure she was finished presenting hers. That’s a given, Puss Cat, but it doesn’t change what I said. Something rotten happened today and it was brought about by the two men in that blimp. Remember, I was getting both sides: I heard what they said and I saw the results.

Shelly was upset but not in the way he wanted. She was hung up on his sneaking Rascal out of the Ezra building, not on what happened later. He watched as her eyes roamed her well appointed living room as if in search of an appropriate retort. Recognizing that it had to be said, he gave her the time.

A fire was burning in the fireplace, and he got to his feet then moved to where he could lean against the roughly hewn, oak mantle upon which rested treasured mementos of her life: pictures, a small brass clock with roman numeral markings and a trophy from her single victory in a baton twirling career now some ten years in the past. He feigned interest in the pictures, two of which were of parents Shelly barely remembered. Although they never left center stage, they were increasingly in competition with presentations of the life she and Clay were carving for themselves.

At five feet, four inches tall, Shelly Ann Haines came to just above his chin, a fact that Clay found much to his liking. She had short blond hair, light blue eyes that flashed emerald at times, and a slim, firm body that would flood his inward eye at just about any time of day or night. Even now, with the anger building within her, she was a sight to see, and Clay found himself suppressing a smile he knew would be misinterpreted. He had never known such a creature as this, so positive and so filled with the expectation of a brighter tomorrow, even while rarely dissatisfied with the day she had going. He marveled at the fact that more than a year had passed since they met, a year when emotions had gone from attraction to unrelenting desire. The circumstances of their meeting might as easily have made them enemies rather than the inseparable pair they had become:

With no knowledge of the other’s presence, each had been out jogging in a heavily wooded section of Valley Forge park, Clay in jeans and a sweater and Shelly in sweats. They traveled on paths flattened by thousands of anonymous feet as visitors from all over the nation walked or jogged or sometimes rode horses in pursuit of an afternoon’s commune with nature and history. It was a cool autumn evening, with less than an hour remaining before dusk, and the fading light made the woods appear unfriendly, even sinister in parts. Not helping was a huge black cloud approaching with uncommon haste from the southwest and bringing with it a threat to flood their world before they could reach the safety of their cars--not yet realized, those cars were standing side-by-side in a parking lot a mile away. They became aware of one another when the separate paths they were traveling abruptly converged into one. Arriving there at exactly the same time, the discovery startled them both.

Although he could not help noticing how pretty this woman was, Clay’s mind was on other things: the approaching weather and an unresolved problem at work. He did no more than pull back a step to let her pass before pushing on as before, effectively matching her speed if not her stride. He gave no thought to what this might suggest to her.

When, after an uncertain glance over her shoulder at the pursuing stranger, the young woman increased her gait, a distracted Clay did the same--it was as much a response to some vague herding instinct as anything else. This encouraged her to put on even more speed which, again without giving it thought, Clay matched.

By then the clouds were rolling in, and the light, already losing its punch to the encroaching night, dimmed further. When the wind arrived, its appearance marked by ghostly forms dancing and moaning just above the trail, it completed the strain of intimidation that the woods had become to an anxious young woman. Her speed increased yet again, this time to a dead run. Seeing the clouds about to burst into rain, Clay considered only that she was showing good sense. He did the same, catching up then falling in behind to accommodate a sense of chivalry.

The parking lot was just coming into view when the rains arrived, and by then the woman was barely touching the ground--Clay found it a challenge just to keep up. So warmed was he by the effort that the first drops of cold water felt good. The thousand or so after that, however, did not. Shit!

In response to Clay’s poorly timed cry, the woman planted a foot in front of her, spun around as fast as her forward momentum would allow and struck out with a fist. Her face showed a mixture of fear and determination, but neither the fist nor the expression had as much effect on Clay as the suddenness of her stopping. He could not prevent himself from crashing into her and carrying the two of them to the ground. For a brief, confused moment he lay on top of her, his mind not yet grasping why this had come to be. But then she reacted with a flurry of blows and a cry of despair. Get off me, you creep!

Clay’s mind would not cooperate. He was aware only that the rain was drenching them both and the crazy behavior of this woman was preventing him from reaching shelter. Jesus, Lady, what the hell are you doing? He tried to get up but could not. He was kept off balance by the fury of her blows.

Clay’s words only spurred her on. She lashed out with everything that was hers to use as a weapon, determined that she would not give in to this Neanderthal who kept her pinned to the muddy trail. Clay was painfully aware that she was beginning to score. Goddamnit, will you cut that out?!

That she would eventually find the right spot was inevitable, and when this happened, Clay recoiled off her body like a suddenly released spring. Then, before he could focus enough to realize the assault had ended, she regained her feet and took off in the direction of the parking lot, leaving behind a trail of curses that were all but lost to the wind. Clay watched her go, in pain but grateful that he was at last free of her.

The rain was unrelenting and the effect on his body rivaled in discomfort the blows he had suffered. He picked himself up then pushed on toward the parking lot and the shelter offered by the waiting Mustang, moving at a slower pace than before to allow the girl as much space as her disturbed mind required.

But it was not to be.

He was just stepping out of the trees when the warning came. Hold it right there!

His halt was quicker this time. Ahead of him was a park policeman, his uniform obvious even with the full-length parka that covered all but his cap--a yellow stripe could be seen just above the spot where his boots gave way to the parka. Even more obvious was the service pistol he held in front of him in that classic manner reserved for the good guys on television. Supported by both hands, it was pointed at Clay’s chest, and the sight of it was enough to get him to put aside all thoughts of shelter. What in the hell is going on?! His comment was involuntary and instinctive.

The fact that this officer was so willing to ignore the drenching rain was not promising. It testified to the seriousness he attached to whatever Clay had become in his eyes. Off to one side, hastily tied to a tree, was a chestnut-colored horse, the markings on its saddle blanket identifying it as the property of the federal government. It was standing in the rain, uncaring of what its dismounted master was up to. The woman Clay had unwittingly chased through the forest was standing behind the policeman, her face ridged with shock and anger. Like her new protector, she was oblivious to the rain that by now had to be cozy with every part of her body

Down on the ground; now!

You’ve got to be kidding! Clay’s face showed disbelief as well as disapproval, the latter at what was getting to be an overplayed joke.

The officer simultaneously angled his head and jerked his pistol forward to lend emphasis to his words. I said on the ground! I won’t say it a third time!

In a moment of clarity, Clay saw the whole thing through their eyes, and with realization came a wave of amusement. As he lowered his drenched body to the pavement, he allowed himself a chuckle at the absurdity of it all, a reaction that was not understood or appreciated by either the policeman or the young woman watching from a safe distance.

Lie on your stomach and put your hands behind you!

Although his clothes were already wet and gave ample evidence of recent contact with the ground, Clay loathed the idea of lowering himself that final few inches. This is a little much, don’t you think? Look, this is all my fault.

The officer appeared pleased by the admission but was far from ready to grant absolution. There was growing impatience in his voice as he said, All the way! Now!

Resigned to paying the price of his naiveté, Clay sighed then allowed his body to sink to the cold surface--the last of his elevated body heat faded away. Look, do us all a favor. In my wallet is all the identification you could want. I’m an electrical engineer working for Ezra Electronics just down the road from here. I have a top-secret security clearance, which means the FBI knows me from top to bottom. I’m out jogging, nothing more than that.

Hands on your head.

Clay moved his hands out of the way while the policeman went through his pant's pocket. Seconds later he had the wallet out and had found what interested him most: a driver’s license. Iverson, Clay. That your name? His eyes said he was comparing the description to what he saw in front of him--six feet one inch; blond hair, blue eyes.

Yes it is. Mind if I sit up?

The officer thought for a moment before giving Clay the okay to turn over and rise to a sitting position. On his face was the first blush of doubt.

Why were you chasing this woman? By his frown, Clay could tell he was genuinely confused.

For the first time the alleged victim joined the discussion. Her voice had a quiver in it, but Clay could not fail to recognize a determination there as well. She had escaped a great danger and was not about to forgive and forget. He attacked me. He threw me down then jumped on top of me! Her accusing finger stabbed out at Clay in case there was doubt whom she meant.

Lady, you stopped short with both of us running at top speed; what the hell did you expect would happen? Then he turned to the cop and added, I crashed into her, we fell to the ground, then she started beating on me. And kicking too, in pretty effective places.

The cop was amused but not yet sold. I repeat, why were you chasing her?

Clay could not help laughing. For sure it was not helping his case, but he had a sudden image of himself trying to explain it all to friends over a beer. "Look, I wasn’t thinking of how she might be seeing this. All I wanted to do was get