From a pay phone, "Frank? Marcus.... Huh? Oh, tell Nora I love her too. Yes, I hear her. Tell her I do miss them, maybe some night over supper, Mina hasn't had the pleasure, the experience, just word of mouth. Frank, cool it. No, don't tease. I'm in a pay phone. Umm, I'm in deep shit. I need help. Remember those pilots whose helicopter you flew? I'm here with three fellows who met them recently. We're at that place where we had dinner last month with the two new surgical residents? Meet me there." This was not normal Marcus conversation. Frank, already concerned by Milton Blake's absence, and having heard a variety of rumors, knew not to speak further and was on the spot in under thirty minutes, squealing around corners in his Ford Explorer.

After a few versions of so who did you piss off this time and how did it get so mean, came the resolute need to act on the unknown. Turning over a few notes taken from one of the bodies, Frank muttered a chilling, "Well, they know where you live," in a tone which meant that it was imperative to find out where they lived. First the wallets and any other items that might serve as ID were removed from the pockets and the Venture car trunk paraphernalia. "Got any really big bags?" There were leaf bags in the backyard shed. A careful wrap of duct tape connecting two bags, one from each end, somewhat limited the mess. Through this sickening work Sumner paid careful attention to the events as described by Macaluso, with an occasional clarifying question here and there, "And these guys?"

"Never saw them before. They were the ones stealing our garbage. I heard that much. What am I going to do with these bodies?"

Frank waved his hand to say no problem, his new farm was not that far away. There were great places to lose anything, lots of huge holes that need filling. Each bagged corpse was carefully placed into the trunk, with ritual surgical neatness, as if that mattered as Frank sighed, "There. That's the three of them. We'll leave their guns here, for now. Follow me in my Explorer."

"No!" Marcus insisted, "I'll follow you with you in your Explorer. If we get stopped, I don't want you tangled in this mess."

"I'm in man."

"Frank, I'll drive their car."

Maybe this is old hat to you, but if you've never done it, there's a certain paranoia that comes with carting bodies around in the trunk of a car. A bump, it might open.. maybe a tail light is out .. get pulled over... where's your registration.. so many what if's, all bad. This particular trip meandered right past the police station which was quiet and without any trace of interest in their funeral procession as they passed. But it seemed like there were eyes of the law peering from every window. There were no hats off in respect. That's good. Is it wise to not be too careful? Looks suspicious, like a drunk going slow to not attract attention but attracting it by way of gross over-caution, or the reverse. "Jesus, Frank, slow down!" The farm was not that far away, yet it seemed like the other side of the earth.

A dirt path led deep into the Sumner homestead. It reminded Marcus of his shortcut through the woods when he one upped the Humor Man. It wound around a barn and out through a field and fizzled out as the cars drove even further over rough but hard ground just past a tractor sitting idly. Shouting out the window, "Here!" Frank pointed grandly. "It'll swallow the whole damn car." An old mine shaft was perfect. Frank was quite good with the tractor making sure this coffin car didn't hang up on the way down. His release hitch worked perfectly. "Used those in helicopter rescues all the time." He had removed the plates first. Never can tell, was his only reason. Mounds of dirt that had been piled to eventually fill this hazard were now put to their intended use. "Perfect," Frank declared, as Marcus threw a clarification seeking glance at the odd timing of the remark. They were walking toward the tractor. Frank obliged his quizzical look, "Can't think of a better use for HMO ass holes - landfill." Marcus just did a throaty growl eye rolling affirmation. Wiping his hands with an old shirt that hung on the tractor, Frank was mulling over the tactical problems. "You know Marcus, they'll never find these bastards, but it doesn't matter They'll be missed by tonight. No matter how cool you act, how innocent, they still have you as a problem." He pulled the business cards from his back pocket, reading and rereading them. After a quiet reflection Frank made a breathy whooshing sound. "Whhhhssseuu. Venture Electronics... Bethdale? Isn't that where AmeriMed's offices are? The shit they pull... I've heard nasty stuff about them... well it isn't rumor at this point."

Marcus related what he knew of the Philadelphia Blake affair. Frank was aware of some of it but not how closely Macaluso was involved in the process. Marcus did an imitation of the agitated warning that Blake's patient had given and which had Gwen all freaked out. "Yeah. I'm fucked," Marcus nodded.

"That ain't so bad," Frank smiled sideways, "It just depends who's doing who. You know you're not alone. I'm in this with you, but we need real help. We need infantry. Mac, this is a war. You know? So. Do we - call the cops?" He tossed this out rhetorically, without enthusiasm, nose curled in an I don't think so sneer and a head shake of negation.

Marcus made a 'beats me arm gesture' then ran the possibilities, the known facts and issues. "What do I say? What can I prove? Who do these bastards have in their pocket? Who can I trust? How do I explain three missing men? Shit, they can just shoot me. Bang. That bypasses everything. Bang. Who will prove it was them? They win, no matter what. No. I've either got to fold, no guarantee they'll quit with me, or - or - or find a bigger devil." Doctor Farr had creeped into his conversation. They walked the perimeter of the barn in silence. "Frank, I gotta go. These bastards are smart, but speed counts more than intelligence." He was unearthing old axioms moored in a foggy past. "Take me home... to my car.."

The where you going question only drew an introspective face. On the ride back, Frank was groping for sense and stability. "Don't crumble under pressure! We've got people to protect!"

"No. I'm OK. I just need more information. Angels aren't going to help us. We need a bigger devil. Warn Shannon. She's at work. And John and, oh shit, Mina. Here, call this number and ask for Shondra Woodrow. Use my name. Talk to her. Tell her what's happening. - everything. Everything! Trust her. Don't use your name. Don't use any phones that could identify us. Tell her ev-re-thing."

They were back to the Macaluso house quickly. "Mac, you have one of those rubber bath spray hoses? The kind you press over the faucet and hold in your hand?"

"In the bathroom closet. Why?"

"I'll clean up. Make your trip. I don't plan on hanging here more than I have to."

"Frank, you don't need to be in this. Just leave now."

"How long have you known me, Mac?"

"Many years."

"Do you honestly think I am physically capable of just walking out?"

"No. No, I don't," but pausing, "I don't want to monji e corra..." then, to the blank stare, "just leave you hanging here .. but, I gotta go. Somehow, I'm the lightening rod. There's things that I gotta know before I die. Before that lightening hits and the angel grabs me away."

"Die? Where, you going?"

Although Frank Sumner could not possibly understand, Marcus hollered back as he ran the stairs, his mind a spiraling storm of memory rubble. "To see my sister. I don't make sense and somehow she does. It all keeps coming back to her." From downstairs, just before the garage door slammed, "La risposta vive nel mio sangue!"

Frank raised his right hand and did his best cross of blessing, "Eggs Benedictum."