Doctored photos? Tainted reviewers? Verbal smears? How can you prove what you haven't done? Macaluso didn't even know what he was doing in his car, but there he was, compelled to drive. Churning events were bringing up a bottom sludge of his mentality. From the hospital toward home, visions of Mama swirled, warning about trust, Jazz Man oathing to God, Aldo reciting names for novenas to Father Joe, baby Chucky crying nu-mommy, and Sissy's ever present and aloof sadness. There was not a thought of where he was or where he was going, his life was no longer in his control. Marcus, caught in what could be a lethal undercurrent, just went with it. It was the only thing that seemed to have direction.

But where to? Turning up the lonely hill on which his house was perched in near seclusion, ghosts of North Mountain fluttered into recollection, lingering through a sharp left down his steep driveway, and a k-turn right into the indoor garage whose automatic opening was his only welcome. From the street, the only hint that this house had a garage, was the driveway itself. The doors closed behind him. The other car bay was empty. Mina wouldn't be home until later tonight. Sitting in his car, in a quiet garage, he toyed with the radio buttons which he left off, finger dusted the steering column, rubbed the extra glue that inevitably framed the inspection sticker, "Isn't blood thicker? You trust too much. Just sticking up for kids. Truth has no value when process is cranked." At least home was secure from the madness. Home is a place from which to evolve or involute. Home can be anything, but right now it was just a place away. In the depths of a ranch house with the classic simple style hip roof, a place cozy with trees and space, sat confusion seeking clarity. Clarity was not to be found in the dust on the steering mechanism or in the silent radio knobs.

The basement, which also continued as the garage, was finished in a plain manner as a downstairs office and rumpus room adjacent utility portions. Standing inside his own garage in his own home, in total quiet save for the pinging of a cooling car, he was almost surprised to be there. Without television or radio sounds to warm to, the house had the same queer hush as the clinic. Too quiet, it was silent as he entered and passed the workshop. It was quiet heading upstairs to a back room walk in closet where he kept old documents and older little used books. But there were echoes jangling like wire hangers, unintelligible, fighting their way into his consciousness. Echoes in his head were not quiet.

No answers here. His mind raced. As he sorted through papers, old papers, those curious old memories that had become recurrent nightmares tore at him. A picture of Mamma, dad with his drum sticks gripped like lightening in an Eagle's claws, and father Joe, all smiling. Joe cheats. Does it for the kids. A picture of dad and .. "You lika da sfogliatelli? Nice-a boy. You nice-a boy. You make-a no troub," Nino. Marcus smiled then laughed to himself. Some character witness. Your honor, here is the man who taught me life's lessons on his very lap - Nino. Man, they wouldn't pull this shit with him. Some perspective, though. He bounced me on his knee and stroked my hair - with love. It was love. That wasn't put on. Even Nino could love? Loved us all. Dad didn't have a lock on fidelity. Man, Nino had it by the ton - just different. Healers, warriors - all part of the fabric. One of Sissy's drawings stared out at him from a folder which fell open. It looked like a little girl clinging to devils being scooped up by an angel. It wasn't clear if she was being saved or stolen. The look on the child's face was ambiguous - dismay or resolve. Thunderbolts were crashing all about. Another smaller child was hanging from her leg. The ground was scattered with dead. The oil painting that Sissy did of this theme brought her huge attention as an artist. "It addresses what we know and what we want, of what we don't know, to be." Young Marcus had accepted his Sister's gift, this sketch. "Cool," having no idea of what she was talking about. Sissy was deep. Really deep. Your honor, my other character witness is my sister who paints the dead and the possessed. If anybody knows wierdos, it's her, or is it she, your judgementalness. Old compass, three way plugs, two of them, oh - my old needle nose pliers? How did they, and my lens cap! This was going nowhere. The boxes of old research materials. No.

He sat back distracted. Damn, he thought. What do I need? How do I fend off smears with documents? Floundering through contracts, deeds, agreements, research papers, books on ethics and medicine, he was looking through his past for remedies, proofs of who he was. There were none. He couldn't prove himself to himself. How could he prove himself to others? Certificates? Of what? He realized that he wasn't raised to handle shit like this. There are no proofs in certificates. Prove myself? Who's the judge? Fair and impartial? As the death of fairness and the mockery of impartiality pulsed and receded, his thoughts became less and less attached to specifics, lists, exceptions and inclusions. His Sister's sketch was gnawing at him. Deep receptivity was intensifying to levels he never knew were in him. Walls between facts were dissolving. Rigid medical categorizations were giving way to liquid association and endlessly recombinant insight. Intruder.

In that heightened state, an alarming trespass, a conclusion, someone was breaking in. Brief composure was enough to confirm the faintest of sounds, of the downstairs back door being jimmied. A fast peek revealed that there was a sitting running car with a driver in front of the house. He thought he saw, no, he saw a gun. Back and front cut off, there was no way out. Trapped.

There was a way up, though. Marcus moved quickly but silently. In the center hallway, that led from the parlor, with its brick fireplace, to the bedrooms which were over the garage, was a ceiling draw cord. Carefully, pulling down to open the trap door as quietly as possible, he eased the aluminum ladder which descended to the floor. Quickly up the steps into a wickedly hot attic crawl space, the dead end escape was closed behind him, but carefully, to not let it slam. Would the hanging cord swing and give him away? He pulled it up then lowered it carefully to dampen its movement.

This was not a functional attic. There was a mere four feet of clearance under the peak. Only a central lane under the peak was floored, about six feet wide, with rough raw planking that ran most the length but stopped just past the wide brick chimney which vented the parlor fireplace below. All of this he already knew, having cleaned it out years ago and having sneezed for two full days. He knew it but could not actually see it in the sudden darkness. Off the sides of the narrow center lane of flooring were the exposed joists, like skeletal ribs, but with insulation rather than muscle filling the spaces between. He removed his shoes and tucked them under insulation.

Minimal light penetrated roof vents. Even with incomplete vision, he remembered that the wide fireplace chimney obscured the far third of attic space from direct view. It took what seemed like eternity to get sufficient acuity to inspect the mostly forgotten goods stored in perched boxes straddling the joists. There were fans, bagged toys, sporting goods, fishing poles, baseball gear, and boxes of assorted junk which included an old knife with two Z's carved on the handle. This he tucked into his belt. What else could he use? There were many boxes of a discarded past. But there was no time. He could now hear conversation - two men, inside, below him.

A mere creak would undo him. Staying carefully away from any of the floor boards, lest they squeal his presence, he slowly monkey crawled the joists. A multitude of nails that jabbed downward everywhere, at least two inches through the roof, to anchor the shingles, were yet another distraction. Get behind the chimney. He instinctively sought its sanctuary. Quietly. Quietly. Joist by joist, lizard like, slow but carefully to a hiding place. Behind the brickwork, crouched, in this womb of darkness, straining to hear conversation, clutching the few things he could muster from the clutter, the muddle in the dark of his mind cleared and his hands felt like lead.

"I'm telling you Mick, it's the fucking Jamacians. No. No. Think about it. Who pays our bills? Huh? Who? Who is the competition? See? No, really. See? Think about it. A baby doctor doesn't go around hanging heads on walls. This is all.." but he was told to shut up. Thinking was not what they did. Follow orders. Don't think. Do. Do the unthinkable. Conversation was drifting in and out as the two men moved about. Whoever Mick was, he didn't say much. What kind of figure of speech was that? Hanging head? He couldn't get all the pieces of what was being said, "So what are they going to do with.." died out with distance but was followed by a closer, "she's not our problem, he is." He who? Most of the conversation over the next five minutes was too indistinct to grasp. Then, "I don't know why we're bothering with bugs, Mick. This guy's so clean, even his garbage doesn't stink. Why don't we just whack him?" That was clear enough.

Mick finally spoke loudly enough for unfading complete sentences to be noted. "We will, but not yet. It can't look like a hit. Maybe we get a way to set him up. First, our job! We collect information. Get it? That's our meal ticket." Mick was pacing, perhaps measuring the length of the upstairs, "This house is a problem. It's long. Too many places to bug. I think the attic might be a good place to set up linked ceiling pick-ups with long term power. Look for an access. And give me that! I'll bet the safety... ass hole."

"Right there. Up there. See? Mick, you check that. I'll check the basement." The doctor shuddered to think what would happen if they entered the garage and saw his car. Was it still making clicking noises as it cooled? Maybe they would leave? No. Well, maybe..

Although the house looked like a long single level ranch from the street, built into a hill, the lower level was unseen from the front. Upper level rooms were in two rows, the front yard facing rooms and the back yard facing rooms, with a hallway, the one with the attic access, running the center. From the back, however, the basement, fully exposed, overlooked a long back yard. A utility room, a large storage area, and the workshop, on the front side below ground level lacked windows. The office and play room had windows and the play room a door into the back yard. Fortunately, the inside door to the garage was offset, opening into the office where it looked more like a closet than another room to inspect.

This was close to where the intruders entered, from the lower rear. The hill on which the house sat was gentle but long, mostly wooded, and lonely. There were few neighbors, and those at some distance, well past the rear yard separated by some woods where a parallel street was located unseen through the many trees. This was a sparse neighborhood of widely spaced professionals. Slim chance that any were home. Marcus was alone, very alone, with guests.

Downstairs, there were interlocking composition ceiling tiles in all but the workshop. Dealing with them would be a nightmare. The workshop was below bathrooms and an upstairs utility room as one could see from the pipes. Tile. This was not the best place for drilling microphones into the floor above. An attic, depending on how it was finished, would probably be better than this. But there was a computer here in the downstairs office. Maybe there's something in there. Wouldn't hurt to check it out.

Marcus was breathing through a face mask which he quickly assembled from his two socks. He was, once again practicing, practicing, repetitiously practicing. This he stopped, along with his heart, as a creaking noise and light clearly indicated that the attic trap door was being opened. There was a loud metallic clack of the unfolding ladder slapping into position. Upward bound stepping sounds were terminated by a loud dull thump and a "Damn!" Mick struck his head on the center beam of the low roof. "Can't see shit," feeling the attic floor. "Hmmm. Beautiful, just insulation. Steve! Forget the basement. The attic's perfect! " Marcus thought, yeah, perfect.

Steve called back, "Hey Mick!"

"What?"

"Basement sucks, but there's a computer down here, I'm going to check it out. OK?" this voice was getting louder as it neared.

"Yeah. Good idea. Bring up the kit in five minutes. I'll get the spaces cleared." He was measuring. The sounds of a steel tape measure being extended and reeled in was alternated with humming. The tune was not one he knew if it was a tune at all. Insulation was being pushed aside. More metallic tape noises followed and more insulation was set aside.

"Lemee see."

Marcus could hear Steve ascending the ladder for his own look. Thump. "Shit! Low. Damn, watch the nails! You know, Mick, it would be easy to place charges up here. We could use the bugs to time the boomer. Blow the whole place in one toot."

"No. You see what you're doing? Thinking. Don't think! Explosion? Has to look like a robbery or maybe a dispute. Give me that drill and the tape. Go check the computer and come back with the kit in a few minutes. Don't mess up the office or screw up any files. We leave this place looking the same as when we came in."

Marcus thought not. Mick's eyes were just accommodating and the fireplace chimney gave him the landmark he needed. "I'll put one just past the chimney," was mumbled to himself as his accomplice's voice was getting, once again, distant. A pen light held in his teeth could have worked in two ways. It could reveal a doctor balled up behind a chimney. It could also indicate how far away an intruder was who was heading toward the chimney. It depends on one's expectations and their sensitivity to the situation. What is more dangerous, a gun or surprise? In danger, reflexes, skill, and coolness count. Context counts. It didn't matter how deadly the situation was, Macaluso couldn't help but reflect on Aver's rat story. "Step step step step, approaching my mark" and the unsuccessful outcome that, then, was comic but now could be lethal, one way or the other. But he lacked something. Strange. Why? That heightened state thing. Something was missing. It was something important.

"Daht wilw be wight ower da dining woom," Mick muddled with the pen clenched in his teeth, proceeding on all fours along the squeaky wooden flooring that ended just past the chimney, pulling out the tape measure as he went. "Measure twice," he thought. Had the wooden flooring ended one foot sooner, he might not have caught that baseball bat right in the face just the moment he pulled the flashlight out of his mouth. His head wasn't Chuck's sand bag, it was better! A had a far more satisfying collapsing crackling sound! It was a good uplifting hit, a definite home run, driving this pesky unsuspecting head straight up into the roofing nails impaling that viper's skull, stuck there. "TOO SHORT," before turning to check the trap door, "NEXT," Marcus whispered to himself with a lightening twitch of his hand. Mick's scream was just silent air escaping from his slit throat. Marcus again flashed a brief recollection of Frank Aver standing there with a broken coal shovel in his hands. Hank Aaron. Frank should have used a Hank Aaron. This rat wasn't shrugging off this hit. He was laughing to himself. There was definitely something missing. That something was fear. He didn't see me coming. Marcus's mind was a screaming blaze of churning solutions for the endless uncertainties that might follow. No fear. Just purpose. Purpose consumed fear. He was in a virtual world of solutions and insight, of next moves and choices. Mick's gun was already in his hands even before the throaty hiss stopped and studied in a crack of light cooperating through a vent. Safety on, safety off. Ought to work. "Thanks, Zee Zee." Marcus pulled the stiletto out of Mick's gaping windpipe then wiped it on his lifeless crotch. Mick looked like he was kneeling, still at his game, what with his head stuck to the nails.

Gathered insulation was rolled into a muff as Macaluso crawled back to, around, and just past the trap door - laying low on the short opposite side like a panther in the dark. His eyes smiled as he waited prone, wedged in the narrow eaves wrapped in darkness. "It's OK," he thought, "I know where you live. Come to papa."

Time goes slowly when you are waiting to kill or be killed. It seemed like years. But for a while he felt whole. I can do this. This bastard is mine. He waited. But in the swirling mind storm of solution and counter-strike an abrupt unknown slipped in. Shannon. Did she also have visitors? "Got to warn her. Got to warn her," his mind persevered despite his single unstraying purpose. "Come-on you bastard. Come to papa. I want you bad." There were reassuring facts. "Come on you rat's ass. Come to papa." John O'Brien's nearly nonstop receiving line of Irish guests for his ongoing magazine and public relations projects, which he carried on out of his house, would pretty much squelch any intruder inroads at that location. "Steve, baby, have I got something for you." O'Brien's huge and very loud dog was also an asset. No, Shannon was probably OK, but there was no way, right now, to know that for sure. "Come on you ass hole. I don't have time for this. I have plans for you." His mind raced and was stalled both at the same time. He became one with an infinity of futures all branching from this singularity in a singleness of purpose. "Come to papa." He had already settled on the guy in the car out front, in a multitude of ways. He won't wait forever. Certainly won't go home alone. Can't risk a shoot out in the front yard. "I know where you live. Come and get it." About time. Foot steps on the ladder!

"Hey Mick, when we whack this guy, can I keep his.." Piff piff. Dropping electronics made more noise than the muffled gun.

"No. You may not keep anything." Ducking below the windows, Marcus dragged two bodies toward the basement stairs then to the garage. Both men's wallets were studied, especially, their business cards. Venture Electronics. Bethdale? He noted some phone numbers, and driver's descriptions which matched the two men, except that they were even less perky looking now than in the photo IDs. He laughed. "Time to go jogging." His sweat suit nearly tripped him as he hurried getting it on. Head band. Too much? He wondered, maybe, but then he kept it and downstairs out the back, across the rear lawn to the tree hidden back street, and down the hill three blocks.

Sitting in the car, watching for trouble did not include paying much attention to a lone tired jogger running up the hill from three blocks away. Anyway this guy was not running toward the Macaluso house. He was running by, in the street. Anybody that tired was not much danger, except for, perhaps, that quick Zee Zee wrist motion. That move was a problem. So was the lightening follow up knife thrust through his left eye into his brain. Marcus shook it as if opening up a stuck paint can, driving it even deeper. "You're done. Move over. The rats are dead," he thought a moment, then amended, "No. Some rats are dead. Who is the rat master?" His hands feeling large and heavy on the steering wheel, he was now all business, as he started up the Venture service car and eased it down the driveway and into the garage, into Mina's space. His stilled navigator was pulled from the vehicle to the garage floor with the other two. The trunk of their own car, emptied of its full array of electronics and tools, was the obvious cage for three dead rats. Inventory. The only question unresolved was what to do with it. This would be his second wandering in the desert, wandering with an unusual flavor. Some load. Rum banana did briefly cross his mind. Who'd buy this shit?

His countenance darkened as he once again beheld the handle of that stiletto with its blade still wedged fully into the corpse's orbit. He muttered, in Latin, Chalybs, steel. Of what steel was he forged? Grasping the handle with its lightening bolt insignia, Marcus pulled mightily from that stone to behold the blade held upright, high, gleaming in the overhead light, dripping with inexplicable energy. "If I am Arthur, who is my Gawain?" Eternities passed in seconds, and then, reality - revived by the timed outage of the overhead garage door light. Who was he kidding, as he shook his head, "I need help." A back-up team? But the question was, "Who?" and, as important, who won't talk?