Alan L. Moss

Michael Bloom sat on a chair in Honolulu's International Airport, his six-foot frame bent over in an uneasy sleep. It was slumber from physical exhaustion and mental stress. On the run, how could he reconcile the seriousness of his predicament with the success of his escape?

Slices of memory flashed before his subconscience, defying explanation but striking a deadly fear.

A mirror flips over and over, first projecting a handsome man of middle age with brown hair and intense blue eyes. Then it reveals a broken-down soul with white hair and defeated eyes -- and back again and back again.

Karen, behind the wheel of the Audi A4, flies through the air, then blood, her blood, everywhere. A seagull with a broken wing, fighting to re-enter the ocean as the tide pushes it ashore, never letting up, never giving it a chance.

Michael's body convulsed. He sat straight up, snorted, and slumped back down. Passengers nearby glanced at this unfortunate man. Some shook their heads before returning to their reading or conversations. One moved several seats away, not knowing what to expect next.

The flashes ceased for a while. Then, new sparks shot into his mind, each one causing fresh apprehension.

A conference room, all eyes are on him. He would take their assignment, make them sorry. He wouldn't play their game. But the room bursts into flames. They surround him. He smells the odor of his burning hair, burning skin. He watches his body melt into nothing.

Stephanie drives down the trail to the Parrot and Pourpoise. Vicious dogs attack, but she keeps going, unafraid. At the Lanu-eka Country Club, a 30-footer breaks right, then left, and disappears into the hole. She pumps her fist into the air, a brave soldier victorious once more.

On his back, he feels her on him. Large breasts float by. He swims after them, now underwater. He can't breathe but he can't surface without them.

In the desert. On the beach. In the desert. On the beach. Pop the cork, drink the Champagne. Black! Black! Black! Have a nice life without me. A nice life. A life. Life. The cemetery. Karen under the ground. The kids crying for their mother.

The hearing room in Samoa. The prosecutor points at him. The Chairman declares his verdict. Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!

The phone rings, a warning given. Officer Kiley, gun in hand, seeks his prey. Run! Run! Run! Find Sammy Finn. Find Sammy. End the nightmare.

Walking the boards, a jitney is pushed by his bench. It stops and a gold Hawaiian fish hook on a long chain floats into the air. The chain expands, grows longer and longer. It surrounds him, pulls him off his feet, up, up thousands of feet up. Panic fills him. The chain dissolves into a cloud. Michael falls! Falls! Falls!

Must escape, must escape, walk, run, run away from it all.

Over the loudspeaker, a flight is announced.

Eyes glazed, still in the grip of his life's horror, Michael rises and begins to walk, to get away from it all. He must find sanctuary from those who continue to attack him, from his own weakness, from the temptations he cannot resist. He must crack the conspiracy and get his revenge.

Other than expressions of passion, sighs of pleasure, and grateful whispers, they said little to one another. They were two creatures, caught in a trap, helping the other to withstand the fear of being hunted and the challenge to capture those who had killed for money. How this rendezvous would affect their relationship and the course of their lives was a question neither was willing or able to explore. They would try to stay on track and see what the future might hold, if they could survive long enough to have a future.

In spite of his warning that their physical and emotional relationship was an illusion that would not stand the test of time, he could feel himself being drawn to her. Joy�s youth and passion and her soft expressions of caring aroused the very feelings he was trying to deny.

Suddenly, Joy opened her eyes, catching Michael staring at her, a dreamy look on his face.

"I thought you were the one just going through the motions," she said, instantly diagnosing Michael's reverie.

Michael blushed.

"Alright, let's not get too cocky about your own influence. After all, I'm an old man. I don't know that it takes all that much to shake up a senior citizen."

Joy removed a comb from her purse and stroked her long, jet black hair. She produced a rubber band and with a lightning fast move formed a shoulder-length pony tail.

"You know Michael, after last night, using your age as a copout is pretty poor strategy. Remember, I know what this old guy can do."

Joy seemed to snuggle into her seat and Michael got comfortable in his. When they arrived in Greymouth, they would find a charter boat to Pago Pago, American Samoa. Once there they would look for a room at the Agelu Lodge, the last place George Partain was seen alive. They would question the owner, a French lady Michael had met years before. They would ask if she knew who in the Territorial Government George was doing business. Then, they would devise a strategy to bring him down.

Almost asleep, Michael felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder. He opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of Russell James, standing in the aisle. He held a rolled up newspaper and had a sinister smile across his face. Peering into the paper, Michael could see the glimmer of a muzzle, then a flash aimed at Joy's shoulder.

Michael prayed for a surge of adrenalin, but it was no use. His arms and legs were as heavy as lead and a thick fog fell over him. He saw Joy's body flinch and then slump. Once more, all went to black.