Vision

A novel by

r.b. heine

Vietnam (1970) - U.S. Army corporals Buddy Steiner and J.J. Skeffington chose to go to the small Army depot on this dismal, rainy October morning because it suited their purpose nicely. The Supply clerks would stay huddled inside the tiny hut that served as an office. And the two MPs guarding the grounds would be reluctant to go out into the yard very often.

After signing in at the front gate and turning in their Army-issued weapons, they drove the small, canvas-covered truck to the back row of neatly stacked supplies. Although their purchase order mentioned only a few office supplies and some shovels and picks, they headed towards the munitions section.

They loaded anti-tank weapons, then quickly grabbed a few crates of ammunition, then a few small crates of hand weapons and automatic rifles. Finally, they headed to the truck to pick up the obligatory picks and shovels. Their path was blocked by one of the MPs, weapon still slung over his shoulder.

"What are you guys doin back here?" he barked. "Thought you were just gonna..."

His question, and his life, were immediately terminated by two 7.62 mm rounds from a Czech-made machine pistol that had been hidden in the small of Corporal Steiner's back. Skeffington quickly removed the MP's automatic rifle and fired the full clip into the nearby trees and bushes.

They then completed the well-planned, "Viet Cong-style terrorist harassment raid" , as the U.S. Army investigative report eventually read. The other MP and the supply clerks were killed with Chinese AK-47s and pistols made in Yugoslavia (the kind used by the Viet Cong). The corporals fired American rounds, from pistols and rifles, into the trees just outside the depot. And the entire supply depot was torched, "to keep the VietCong from using the supplies" said the two corporals.

The investigators took note that only "VC" spent ammunition was found within the deport, while American caliber ammunition was fired outward. And , since the depot - and the surrounding foliage - was severely burned there were no tire or foot tracks of use. They also concluded that the Corporal's Steiner and Skeffington had apparently acted with bravery by driving off the Viet Cong, both being wounded in the process.

(After dropping off their contraband at a dingy, but very secure, warehouse, they shot each other with 9mm machine pistols, in hopes of lending credence to their testimony. Steiner had chickened out by telling JJ to just graze him on the upper thigh, while Skeffington had Steiner blast him in the kneecap - the resulting limp serving as a constant reminder to all of his gallantry, and assuring that he not only got elected to the U.S. House of Representative, but also was re-elected time after time.)

Which is exactly what happened after they were honorably, medically discharged, replete with Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts.

"If a child lives with hostility he learns to fight" Dorothy L. Nolte

CHAPTER 1

His movements were slow and deliberate, his search pattern consistent. Ignore the boxes of books, civilian clothes, and linens. Try not to step on the creaky floor-boards. Walk carefully in the dimly-lit attic. Look for weapons.

The smell of mold went unnoticed, the near-darkness did not deter him, so urgent was his need.

Beneath what looked like a military jacket he found a leather pouch, an Army insignia stamped on the outside. Inside he found a brass-encased compass, designed to unfold for sighting purposes. The needle seemed frozen until he slid his finger under the device and pulled off a flat, five-pointed metallic star. It was a throwing star! With a flick of the wrist he could fling this thing 30 feet. Easy! "Great," he thought to himself, stuffing the weapon in his jacket pocket, "this is a start. But I need something better."

Five minutes later he found something much more exciting. Inside one of the old leather combat boots - pushed halfway up the toe - he felt hard steel. He withdrew it and turned it over in his hand. "Wow, it's like some kind of brass knuckles," he thought. Made of black-anodized steel, it had four finger holes and - much like brass knuckles - protruding ridges forward of each finger. He slid his small fingers through the holes and his thumb touched a button. A hard push of the button and - thwack - a short stiletto blade suddenly appeared at the base. He jabbed it into the wooden floor a few times. Although quite and short, it was obvious that this blade was tough. He felt both edges and they were quite sharp.

"Why," he wondered, "is the blade on the wrong end?" He made some slashing motions, back and forth, hacking his way through imaginary foes.

"This'll scare the hell out of them," he thought. "No one's gonna call me a nigger, or a Chink, or even a fatso anymore!" The bruises on his jaw throbbed, justifying his thievery.

Dylan Haun had found what he had hoped for - an equalizer of sorts. A weapon that would turn his five foot, chubby body into a dangerous force. Whipping and slicing the weapon through the air, young Dylan lost himself in images of revenge. But when he turned to ward off the "enemy" behind him, he found his uncle Matthew looming over him instead.

"Son," said Matthew Haun, "just what is going on here?"

Dylan froze, wide-eyed and fearful "He's been drinking again." he thought. "He only calls me `son` when he's had a few. Now what do I do?"

"Sir, I was just fooling around," he replied.

"Fooling around my foot! You stopped fooling around when you started playing with killing tools, dammit!"

"But Uncle Matt..."

"Don't even start it son. Put that weapon down now."

Dylan put the knife and the throwing star next to the boot and cautiously straightened up. He didn't know what to expect. His uncle had never beat on him, but then again he'd never been caught snooping and stealing.

"Downstairs, right now," snapped uncle Matt.

Dylan felt safer in the light of the den, sitting at the computer desk, where his uncle let him do his evening homework. He began to feel almost comfortable until his uncle came into the room and eased into the big chair, fresh drink in hand.

"Son, I'm not mad about your snooping about the attic. I have been aware that you've been poking around the house for a long time. I just put it down to youthful curiosity. Sign of a good journalist as a matter of fact. And you never took anything."

"But now," Matt drawled, "you've been caught in the act. And I think you meant to take that knife. Didn't you?

"Yes sir, but you gotta..."

"Gotta. Gotta! Don't you use slang words in this house, dammit. We've taught you better. In fact we've taught you a lot. And we certainly didn't teach you to become violent. What the hell are you doing getting violent on me now."

Dylan knew his uncle was right. Matthew and wife Sylvia - before her death - had taken great pains to add to his education and upbringing. They'd done tons of wonderful things for him. The tears began flowing from his eyes, quietly streaking his face. Confusion was spinning inside his brain. Confusion, then shame and then unexpected fury.

"You don't get it, man." blurted out the boy. "You teach me music, and writing, and religion, and art, and computers , and all that stuff ... and at school they teach me some more."

He was screaming now and Matthew was stunned. This shy fifteen year-old had hardly ever spoken above a whisper, but now he was spewing pure anger. Maybe some hate. Matthew felt a twinge of fear.

"But what you don't teach me," Dylan shrieked "is how I'm supposed to get from here to school without being beaten by the gangs, robbed by the drunks on 13th, hassled by the dealers or hurt by bullies. And they are dissin' me every ..."

"Dissin' you. What are you talking about? What's dissin'?"

"Disrespecting me. Treating me with no respect. Messing with me."

"What are you saying, Dylan? You've never mentioned one problem about ..."

"Who do I talk to? You? Half the time you're trying to drink away your sadness from losing Aunt Sylvia, and the rest of the time you're just preaching and teaching."

"Dylan, what's that mark on your face? Did somebody hit you? What's going on here?"

Dylan had worked himself into near-exhaustion, such was his despair. But he ignored the question and continued to cry out.

"All I am is some chubby little kid that everyone thinks is so smart and so creative, and so cute. And none of you understands that out there - on the streets - I'm just a niggger shrimp, or a Chink shrimp or a four-eyed, nigger, Chink, fatso, nerd .. and you ain't teachin me nothin bout how to stay alive out there!" He spun around and dashed out the front door sobbing - sobbing for what he'd just said, crying out because it was also true, blubbering in sheer confusion.

Which was the same state his uncle was in. Sagging into the big chair, mouth agape, drink now untouched. Matthew Haun found himself suddenly aware of the enormity of being a fill-in father for a very complicated young man.

Matt's older brother Peter and his wife Lan Chi had been killed six years ago by a drunk driver while he was stationed in Pensacola, Florida. And Dylan had come to live with Matt and his wife Sylvia. Two years later Sylvia was killed in what seemed to be a hit-and-run just blocks from their house. A house now filled with sadness and gloom. He was deeply troubled by the shockingly obvious truths just uttered by his nephew.

"The boy never complained before." thought Matt. "Always been quiet, almost reclusive. Hardly speaks a dozen words on any given day."

Matt found himself staring downward at the drink in his hand, unconsciously swirling it then looking away as if trying to deny its existence. He walked to the kitchen and poured it into the sink and returned to his chair in the living room. He slumped into it, suddenly heavy with the realization that it was he, not the boy, who was reclusive, shy, and close-mouthed.

"God, I've been hiding from everything. Hoping I wouldn't have to deal with him or myself. Buried myself in more of a rut than a routine. Work day and night to avoid coming home. Soon as I'm home I dive into that bottle - putting up another barrier. Watch TV, read a book, hit the bars ... anything but open the doors so that Dylan can get to me. I've left him to his own devices and this is what happens. No wonder he took such desperate measures."

Eventually, he forced himself to slip on his overcoat and head out to the "club" for supper. He was still dazed by Dylan's outburst, quite baffled by the boy's dilemma. He yearned not to think about it, yet knew he must. Losing the boy would be far more painful than having to deal with all that had happened.

The club, formally known as "The Bayou Blues Club", was a two-block walk from his house. But Matt avoided walking on 13th Street so he would not have to pass the area on 13th where his wife had been killed. The club was an anomaly in this status-conscious town of Washington, D.C. High ceilings, sprawling dance floor, stage large enough to comfortably handle a dozen musicians, and the smell of Cajun cooking wafting over 70 tables and booths. It was down-home and unpretentious. No ferns or tofu here. The same middle-aged Black men who cooked the evening fare, ended up playing New Orleans twelve-bar blues each night. They leased the building and owned the "club". The crowd was an eclectic, multi-racial mix of quiet, fun-loving folks from all over town. Politics, power, pomposity were not allowed to contaminate this haven. The other half of the huge, two-story brownstone building was leased by some quiet corporation that never seemed to do business there. No complaints, no conflicts.

Inside the club, he slipped into his favorite darkly-lit booth, ordered a double and the usual supper, and brooded over what Dylan had said. The band was just beginning to warm up for the evening, the crowd still light. Nothing to distract him. Not even the blackened trout when it arrived. He nibbled absent-mindedly, barely touching his drink.

They entered The Bayou Blues Club and immediately drew attention. Both tall, well-dressed and strangely elegant. B.E. Buckanaga, an American Indian currently working as a Special Agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency arm-in-arm with Holly Sorensen a news photographer for the New York Times Washington, D.C. bureau. An odd couple, yet good friends who like to "do the town" every so often. Everyone took notice of them except Matt Haun.

But they spotted him, slumped over his drink, oblivious to the merriment surrounding him.

"Buck, isn’t that the reporter from the Post?" whispered Holly.

"Yup"

"God, Buck he looks miserable."

"Guy's been thru hell lately. Brother Pete and his Vietnamese wife were killed by a drunk in a car, leaving Matt and Sylvia to take care of a son named Dylan. We sort of parted ways for a while, but when I heard his wife had been killed a few years later I he's too much the strong, silent type. He endures looked him up. Didn’t really want to see me."

"What happened to his wife?"

"She was killed a few blocks from home about four years ago. Hit-and-run they called it, but never proved it. He tried to forget it all by joining Special Forces with me."

"He joined Special Forces? I thought that group was some sort of elite, anti-terrorist, killer group."

"It's sort of like that Holly. Top Secret, maybe even illegal. I could never figure that one out and that's why I quit."

"But, to answer your question, yes he did join - same time I did. I looked him up after his wife's death and we started talking and I told him I was joining the group. Babbled something about being sick and tired of all those rotten drug lords getting away with murder .... frustrated because the law kept me from doing some things I thought needed doing ... so maybe, if I joined the "Force" I could nail a few of those worms."

"He jumped on the idea so fast it scared me. Looking back I'd say he was so overwrought at the deaths in his family, and the inability to punish the cause of those deaths ... he just desperately needed to payback somebody, anybody. So he quit the Post and joined. And, for a while he was one of the best they'd ever seen. Trained obsessively. Ruthless on missions. Can't say what we did, but I sure was glad to have him as a partner. I trusted him like no other man - white, black, red or yellow."

"And what about the boy Dylan?"

He was sent across town to live with a relative of Matt's, Some hard-nose, religious aunt. He would visit Dylan as often as possible and could see how miserable the boy was. I think that's part of why he quit Special Forces."

""I met him a year ago at another bar," recalled Holly, " I doubt whether he'd even remember me."

"Bet you a lobster dinner he will." grinned Buck. "If he doesn’t brush us off first."

"Got room for two more?" chirped Holly Sorenson, still linked arm-in-arm with B.E. Buckanaga.

"Holly! Buck! Wow, hey sit right down," Matthew blurted out, shocked out of his malaise by the couple. "Are you two a number now? Got a big announcement for me?

"Uh, uh," said Holly, "nothing earth-shaking. We just bumped into each other at Justice and decided to have gin and grits together and see who could lie best."

"Then we spot this great big black guy brooding in the dark. Not even sipping his drink, barely eating his food." said Buckanaga. "I say, something not good with dark man. No drinkum firewater. No eatum."

Matt managed a smile, sighed, and shook his head. "What's this world coming to when two college-educated people are barely able to articulate their own, simple thoughts. So much for trying to educate the masses - be they Texan or Cherokee. Thanks for coming over, but this is may not be a good time. Things aren't going well with my boy."

Buck and Holly glanced at each other. Knowing what Matt had endured so far, this sounded bad. They sat down to hear him out.

"It seems I haven't taught Dylan a damn thing."

"Bullshit, honey, from what you told me last time we talked" Holly drawled. "you done taught that boy everything from Doestevsky to Darwinian theory. Beethoven to Bacharach. Why shit, it sounds like that boy's so stuffed with culture and art and class it's a wonder he don't burst from over-complications."

Over-complications indeed, Matt thought to himself. Here's an elegantly educated, gorgeous journalist slipping into that down-home, Texan "bubba" drawl. But he couldn't help being impressed that she'd remembered their conversation a year ago, most "bar talk" being quickly forgotten. And he had to admit he was glad she had showed up, even though the circumstances weren't that good.

"Honey," Matt replied is his twangy, country best, "y'all don't know the half of it. The boy is right. We done taught him everything, 'ceptin how to survive the trip from one learning station to the next. According to Dylan he ain't nothin - imagine him talking like this - he ain't nothin but a nigger, Chink, four-eyed, fatso nerd. And out there on the streets, beyond our protection, that's a fact. Out there he is just a little butterball, target for every bully, gang leader and hustler, and he has the bruises on his face to prove it. He wouldn't even tell me where they came from."

"Probably got pushed around by some bully at school." said Buck. "That happens a lot, and the victim hardly ever talks about it. Too ashamed to admit he is being abused. Kids actually commit suicide every year because of the shame."

"So this might be going on all the time. No wonder he was in the attic, loading up on weapons. He's so desperate he tried to swipe my Special Forces combat knife tonight."

Buck and Holly settled back with a sigh. This was going to be a long evening. Not a bad one, nor morose, but long. Dylan was Buck's favorite kid. A gifted, creative, and very likable "son" of his good friend. A boy who had endured much pain, yet seemed to be handling it well. Dylan's words, and the harsh, crude way he'd expressed them, meant a real problem had arisen, and Buck wanted to help.

Holly was equally interested, yet for other reasons. The first time she had met Buck she had found him interesting and appealing. Now, thanks to a chance meeting, she discovered more about him and her curiosity grew.

"He's a trained killer, yet sensitive as can be." She thought to herself." He's so quite - strong, silent type - yet there is so much to him. Pays attention to others, loves music and art, yet covers the crime beat. After all that violence in his own life why the crime beat? And why so much drinking. Yet he does seem to care a lot about his nephew. He's hardly touched that drink since he came here. He looks so sad, yet he is awfully handsome. Wish I'd worn that silk dress tonight ...."

Her maternal instincts surfaced. Her curiosity rose. About the boy as well as the man. But the truth be known, this man, this Mathew Haun - unlike any man she had met - simply turned her on. He was neither one-dimensional nor two-faced. He was very complicated, very real, and, right now, very vulnerable.

"Strong and silent-type be damned. That's not one bit macho. Mathew Haun is a real man. Secure enough with himself to admit to insecurities, doubts, and mistakes. He isn't sitting around looking for sympathy, he's looking for answers to something he really cares about. No greed here, no yuppie self-indulgence. This man cares and shares and maybe I can help."

She quietly resolved that she would stay as long as she was welcome.

Drinking slowed to sipping as they mulled this dilemma. It soon became obvious that Dylan had verbalized a serious omission in the upbringing of "20th century kid" - that survival on the "streets" was far more immediate, and important to these kids than the skills they would use later in the "real world" of business and adulthood.

They knew of others who insisted in accusing the country of becoming a children-hostile culture and had always thought that too harsh a judgement. But, now the problem was brought closer to home and they were forced to reconsider.

If not "kid-hostile", maybe kid-negligent?

They all recalled their own childhood's, when the whole family would sit down together at suppertime - a deliberate, and highly comforting ritual - quietly eating and talking their way through the events of their individual day. And they realized how extremely important that ritual was to their well-being and stability - a ritual now missing in much of urban society.

"You know maybe I could teach him some photography. It certainly helped those kids I taught at that "Shooting Back" thing I did a while ago. Talk about beaten down, these were homeless kids and, by gawd we empowered the daylights out those youngsters. Gave 'em self esteem, expanded their horizons, and they figured out ways to shoot with a camera that had their whole neighborhood damn near bowing with respect, especially when we let them carry a Nikon for a week or two. It was like they carried a badge of honor. You could see the pride swell up in 'em. And the pictures they came up with! Anyway, if you want to try some of this with Dylan we can work up a plan..."

"We could get together here tomorrow night..." Matt blurted.

"Uh,uh honey, no boozin and bullshitin. We swill enough schnapps to outstinko a skunk as it is. And the next day we can't remember half of the BS we came up with. This will be a long and sober, and well throughout. And you will pay, and you will pay attention to what the schoolmarm has to say or I'll tan your hide."

"Sounds good..." said Matt.

"Sounds kinky too, can I come along and watch?" said Buck.

Which earned him a lot of playful smacking about the head and shoulders from Matt and Holly.

They parted, and Matt walked home aware of some parental feelings and concerns he'd thought long abandoned. He checked Dylan's room and was glad to see the boy safely tucked away, sound asleep. Then he poured a "night cap" and sat down to mull over the meeting and discussions with Buck and Holly. And the ghosts began to surface.

--------

Dylan awoke with a start, the thumping, pounding noises from the basement had started. It was 2:30 in the morning and his uncle was at it again.

It seemed to Dylan that each time Uncle Matt's wife was mentioned in conversation, Matt would end up in the basement pummeling that old, over-sized heavy bag to death.

Dylan had snuck down to watch once and the scene was frightening. Matt, fully-trained in martial arts, attacked the bag in a drunken frenzy, yet with deadly skill. The hand-chops and foot-kicks went high to the bag as though aiming to the "victim's" face. Cruel blows from hand and foot attacked the bags mid-section. And Matt' face, contorted with hate, would scream and groan and cry out.

It had terrified Dylan to watch his uncle physically "killing" this bag, dropping to the floor in exhaustion, and slipping into an agonizing, tortured sleep ... and he never went down there again to witness the ordeal.

Instead, whenever he heard the violent commotion, he would lay awake, curled up in a fetal position, cringing in guilt.

"If I hadn't come here and caused Aunt Sylvia to got to work, she never would have died. If I hadn't mentioned Aunt Sylvi's name, Uncle Matt wouldn't get so drunk and crazy. "Everyone who loves me ends up dead - I must be some kind of bad news."

Like most youngsters Dylan felt as thought the weight of the world was on his shoulders and every problem was his fault. Since his uncle was not the talkative type, there was no chance to air out all his fears and they grew out of proportion. He drifted off , still troubled.

"To nourish children and raise them against odds is in any time, any place, more valuable than to ... design nuclear weapons." --- Marilyn French

CHAPTER 2

Matt was barely up and barely awake. His usual routine was to fire up the coffee pot, stroll down the street to The Java Shop, pick up some croissants, The New York Times and the Washington Post and head home to wake up Dylan. He almost didn't hear the gentle tapping the front door opening. His sleepy eyes beheld young Dylan, eyes lowered, holding the Times and the Post plus a powerful peace offering - a pound of freshly-baked pecan caramel rolls purchased from the nearby shelves of the Java Shop. They fondly referred to these caloric catastrophes as "sticky buns".

Usually sticky buns were only bought when there was a holiday or a birthday but today, Matt realized, Dylan was hoping to make peace with his uncle. To apologize.

"Boy, that sure looks great," said Matt, "what's the occasion?"

"I just wanted to .. to um ... I just wanted to say I'm sorry about ..."

"You don't have to apologize to me for telling the truth last night, son, and a pound of sticky buns is a bit too much to pay for using the "n-word". Come on in. Let's consume the heck outta these puppies."

Dylan, much relieved, followed his uncle to the kitchen. Coffee had just finished perking. A tub of butter was placed between them on the large kitchen table, and they feasted, quietly intent on pouring through each page of both papers and devouring every ounce of that potent pound of pastries. They met half their objective with the buns and that was plenty.

Usually there would be some discussion of items in the newspapers, but this morning remained unusually quiet. Dylan would steal quick glances at his uncle, still unsettled by the previous nights events. Uncle Matt looked very unhappy.

"Uncle Matt, are you okay?"

Matt wiped a tear from his eye, coughed nervously and began talking. Quietly, haltingly, he tried to open up.

"Son, I'm sorry. I haven't been much good to you these past few years."

"Uncle Matt, you don't have ...."

"No, let me finish. I keep thinking maybe this isn't the best environment for you to be in ..."

"So you want to get rid of me again?'

"NO! I just don't feel your getting the best. I feel like I might be such a screw up that you'll get hurt, just like Sylvia did."

Dylan's eye's grew wide. His Uncle had touched raw nerve.

"But Uncle Matt, you didn't cause Aunt Sylvia's ..."

"If I had paid more attention, maybe I wouldn't have let her take that bus all the time. Maybe I would have insisted she drive to work."

"Sir, you know she hated driving in the city."

"Better that than getting killed on a dark street."

"Uncle Matt, she told me once that those quiet times on the bus were special to her. She said she wouldn't trade them for all the Rolls Royces in the world. Besides, If you two didn't have to take care of me, spend all that money on me, she wouldn't have to go to work in the first place and that wouldn't have happened to her."

Dylan's words - all of them - smacked Matt like thunder. He knew that this was a very important moment for the both of them and he tried to sort it all out.

In his grief he had forgotten about Sylvia's dislike of driving. Dylan's reminder of that fact certainly negated a lot of the guilt he had long endured. And Dylan's concern that his presence had forced both of them to work, thus contributing to Sylvia's death..."

"My God son, we've both been moping around blaming ourselves for the same thing. You didn't cause her death and neither did I."

" We have more than enough money. Your parent's insurance and now Sylvia's. More than enough to take care of you now and pay your way through college. But Sylvia, Dylan I swear she wouldn't quit that job for anything. I tried to get her to once, just once is all it took for me to know not to bring up the subject again. We certainly didn't need the money. She just was at the wrong place and we have to quit feeling guilty about it. And, while we are at it, maybe we should quit being afraid."

"Afraid. I'm not afraid sir, maybe sad sometimes, but..."

"Yes, your sad. Because you are afraid. Afraid to love people. Afraid they might die to. I can see why because I'm going through the same thing. Remember, it may have been your mom and dad that died, but he was my brother and she was my sister-in-law. And losing them hurt me a lot to. And talking about Sylvia is all but impossible for me."

"Me too, sir."

"Dylan, we have to make some changes around here, what do you say?"

"We should talk more about this kinda thing, maybe?" said Dylan.

"Yup. You and I have been punishing ourselves too much for things we couldn't do anything about. And, we been avoiding each other because we're afraid to love anybody again. Now it's time we stopped acting like a couple of chickens, and start loving again."

"I'm afraid..." stuttered Dylan.

"So am I son. But I don't know what I'd do if I were to lose you."

"That's how I feel to. But, half the time I just want to run away and hide."

"Yes, and half the time I've been hiding out in a bottle. This has got to change, starting now."

Matt leaned back, sighed, and sipped some coffee.

"Son, I'd like to walk to school with you this morning and discuss some ideas about the problems you brought up last night. Is that OK with you?"

"Yessir."

As they ambled towards Dylan's school Uncle Matt thanked Dylan for pointing out the problems of the streets, and then spelled out a few basic plans to fill in those gaps.

"All in all," Matt explained, "we - we being our friends B.E. Buckanaga and Holly Sorenson and I - we will not only teach you a few new disciplines, but prepare a total strategy for you. Hopefully, with your talents and smarts, you will have no further problems on these streets."

Dylan was very excited, trying to imagine all the skills he would soon acquire, fantasizing revenge, maybe even..."

Then he spotted his worst fear. "Cream" Romero, undisputed "owner" of this territory, hanging out across the street, leaning against the grocery store wall.

"Uncle Matt!" Dylan whispered. "Look out. That guy across the street is the meanest guy around."

Matt Haun stiffened, eyes like lasers. "I see him. Now tell me all you know about him and his family and friends, and be fast about it."

Dylan provided a quick biography, including Cream's sister (who at age 17 was plying the hooker trade to pay for her heroin habit), father dead, and a mother who had a good job, but spent most of her time drinking. And, finally, Dylan described Cream's track record of beating anyone who displeased him.

As they came close, Matt suddenly sped across the street, moved right up to Cream - hand on Cream's shoulder - quietly talking and gesturing. Dylan remained across the street and watched in fascination. Suddenly his uncle appeared to reached down and grab Cream's crotch. Cream yelped, then shook his head and Matt released him. As Cream wobbled around the corner, doubled over in pain, Matt calmly crossed the street and returned to Dylan's side. They continued their stroll to school.

"Sir, what did you say to Cream? What did you do to him?"

"FORGET THAT!" Matt yelled, his face a frightening death mask of fury.

Then Matt took a deep breath, exhaled and in a quite voice he continued. Look Dylan, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. But, please forgot the whole thing, it's not something I'm very proud off. But your friend Cream's attitude told me that he needed a drastic reality check. I might have gotten a bit too real. However, from now on, you do nothing to bug him and I'm sure he'll treat you the same."

By the way," he asked, hoping to get beyond the incident, "do they really call you a Chink? Don't they know that you're part Vietnamese?"

"When they tease me about being part Chink, I tell them they're wrong, that I'm part gook. And they just stop bugging me."

--

Later that morning Matt, at work, found himself with some idle time. Although the rest of the staff of the Washington POST was abuzz with the gossip about the presidential campaign, Matt was alone with his thoughts. The press conference he was to cover would not start until late afternoon. Matt began jotting down some ideas. He liked Holly's idea about cameras and photography and knew how effective the "Shooting Back" program had been in improving those homeless kid's self-esteem and ability to communicate.

He knew Buck would want to help out and decided to ask his Indian friend to spend a couple of hours each week teaching self-defense philosophy and tactics.

Which left Matt with the task of coordinating all these skills into a plan molded to fit Dylan's needs.

It seemed odd to him that he was planning strategies and physical training, much like preparations for war, for a child - living within a few miles of the nation's capitol, and that no one - no school, no parent, no church, nor any government had taken the time to realize the desperate needs of these children. Such a contradiction! The very heart of the nation's power unable to protect the simple needs of a kid..

Matt's concentration was suddenly broken by the sound of his phone ringing. The profound nature of this puzzle would have to wait.

"Hey black man, how you doin? You better have a big grin on your face today."

Buck's voice was unmistakable, but his statement was unclear.

"Hey, Buck, I was just thinking about you."

"Well, hell, are you gonna tell me how it went last night or are you one of those I don't kiss-and-tell types?"

"Kiss and tell ... what are you talking about Buck?"

"Hey, Matt, I didn't go home with the magnificent Holly, so I figure you must've."

"No, no, man, not that I would object. The notion never occurred to me."

"What! What wrong with black man? No gottum stomach for squaw? Dammit Matt, enough is enough, you've been buried in your grief too long. Get back to the real world, there's people - here and now - that need you. Or have you forgotten about Dylan, let alone others who care about you." B.E. Buckanaga stated in the most stern fashion he could muster.

"You might be right Buck," Matt sighed, "but listen, let me get back to the point. I could use your help with Dylan's problem."

"I was thinking of a combination of karate, ninja-san, and tai chi for warming-up. Maybe even some Indian wrestling techniques tossed in."

"Exactly what I had in mind. Dylan may think he needs to learn some "chop and drop" skills but, if he doesn't learn the disciplines, the philosophies, and the spirituality inherent as well, it's a waste."

"OK, Matt when should I start? Can I use the recreation room in your basement or should I drag him downtown to my health club?"

"Buck, the "rec" room is kinda dingy these days, hasn't been used in years."

"That's all right. Dylan and I can clean it up. About time some life was pumped back into that room. Remember the great parties we used to ... never mind that, Matt, sorry.".

Matt paused for a moment and then quietly observed, "No, Buck, I'm the one who's sorry. We did have some great times down there. And it's time for me to get beyond Sylvia's death. Dylan is alive and needs me, not some morbid, drunken slob. You are alive, and probably would much rather I get back to being the normal, pain in the ass odd-ball that you've come to love. I'll even help clean up the party room."

"OK odd-ball, give me my schedule .. how many hours a night and which nights of the week. By the way, how much does Dylan weigh? I think I better check into special techniques for little people. I expect you and Holly to attend as many of these workouts as you can, you understand?"

"Yup." said Matt, fully aware of how much his body needed the activity. "Buck, what would you think of having one of Dylan's high school pals working out with Dylan? Wouldn't that help him learn faster?"

"I don't mind at all." Buck replied.

They worked out the details and agreed to get together on the weekend to begin refreshing the "rec room".

And then Matt called Holly to set up a luncheon date.

--

"Why are we meeting in this over-priced hotel restaurant?" Matt queried, as they walked through the main dining area towards the back room. "I know it's posh, and swanky, and four-star rated and I am buying, but.."

Holly, leading the way to their reserved table, had given it some thought. This lunch was important. No trendy restaurant with too much drinking and too much noise. No sidewalk cafe with distracting "people watching".

"Because honey, JFK once said that this back room was the only place he could find for quality thinking.".

"Now where'd you hear that, Holly?"

"David Beadyn told me that story years ago."

"Beadyn! You mean that crusty old fart who ran the New York Times Washington bureau?"

"No I mean that brilliant old journalist who taught me a ton, and now is trying to impart some journalistic principles into the new so-called LIFE magazine.".

It was obvious to Matt that Holly was going to be serious and that was that. He sat down and listened.

"First thing I have to know is how you and Dylan get along. Friendly, talk a lot, have good times together?"

"Nope. We've been like to old sad grouches, moping around the house trying to avoid each other."

"Just what I thought. Both full of guilt over the tragedies you've endured. Both scared to love anyone for fear you'll lose them to. No wonder he does so well in school, it's the only half-way normal spot in his life."

"Yup. But we did have a talk about that this morning. First time we've ever talked about those things."

"Those things being your wife's death, and ..."

"and my brother's death. And his wife."

"Gawd amighty. You two been holding in all that for years? Damn fools. Time to get over these pity-parties and get back to life don't you think?"

"Well that's what Dylan and I agreed on, but how to do it is another thing."

"It's easy Matt. You start with a hug and a smile. You play together once in a while. Maybe you fight. Then you hug, and do some more things together. Etceteras. etceteras. For every hug you give, you're gonna feel a twinge of fear. So what you do is force your mind to remember that those fears are just shitty little thoughts. That's all they are - those twinges of fear - just thoughts. But the hugs and smiles and love are reality and that's where you need to be again. It takes while, and maybe you never get over the fear of being hurt, but you keep on trying because Dylan needs your love and so do others. By the way, when IS the last time you gave that boy a hug?"

Matt's head hung low, shaking negatively.

"Damn you and your strong, silent-type crap Mathew. Is that the way you want Dylan to be?"

Matt sat quietly for a while, absorbing all that she had said. When it became obvious to Holly that he was beginning to over-think all the possibilities that the future held, she decided to get back to the present. She began talking about Dylan's needs and how much fun, and re-assurance, he could get out of photography.

Matt snapped out of his thoughts and listened.

She recalled some of the experiences she had lived as a photographer, and how the homeless kids at Shooting Back had improved because of simple techniques she had taught, and she listed a few of the axioms she had established:

Verity #1: Hardly anyone objected to the presence of the cameras, unless - and this is very important - unless they knew they were doing something wrong.

Verity #2: The wearing of those cameras WAS like wearing badges of valor and honor and most people were inclined to feel immediate respect for the wearer.

Verity #3: You could approach just about anyone, including drug dealers and gang members about photographing them, and it took little persuasion to get them to go along. Such is the ego in all of us.

Verity #4: When you came back to them bearing 5-by-7 glossy prints as gifts they suddenly were your "best of friends.

` Verity #5: Most all kids learned photography quickly, therefore is was a fast method of improving their feelings of self-worth and confidence.

The potential value of photography - for Dylan's well-being - soon became apparent to Matt. He didn't need a detailed outline, complete with technical details, but Holly persisted. She would supply the first, simple camera with flash. He would supply film, batteries, etc. If Dylan showed some talent and interest Matt would buy a better system.

Dylan would come to the New York Times bureau twice a week at first, then three times if he showed promise.

When school started up in the fall the two of them would go to Dylan's principal and lobby for the boy to get on the staff of the school newspaper - as a writer and sports photographer.

"Keep in mind," explained Holly, "if he can get all the jocks in his corner by coming up with some neat sports shots to hand out and get published in the school paper,, he'll have a pretty tough bunch of friends on his side.".

Matt returned to his office impressed and energized. He'd eaten well, listened hard and was amazed with the thoroughness of Holly's plan. She has a few Machiavellian qualities, he thought, but she can be so tender. In thinking of her again, he began to tingle again. He thought that strange.

"We thought, because we had power, we had wisdom." ... Stephen Vincent Benet.

CHAPTER 3

Despite the serious nature of their "plan" the following weeks went fast and furious yet almost joyful for these clandestine warriors. Dylan took well to photography to the point where Holly let him carry the camera and flash wherever he went, carefully hidden under an old Army jacket donated by Buck.

Dylan's physical skills were improving swiftly, such was his obsession to "get tougher". Although short and chubby he had excellent balance and coordination and rarely needed to have things repeated to him. And having his friend from school, Xao Xiang, to work out with made it fun.

At first Matt was appalled at the conversations Dylan and Xao would have, primarily because of the barbaric "street" language they used. "Yo dude" and "check it out" and "don't do dat shit tame" seemed out of place to Matt, but Holly quieted his concerns by pointing out that this was just kid stuff, much like the "pig-Latin" he had used when he went to school.

"It's just their secret jive Matt, not some insidious, threatening gang thing. All kids do it."

Everyone would get together on Saturdays, first to help Buck and Dylan renovate the basement rec room, later on just to get together. Without knowing it they were becoming what they all needed, a "family".

The following weeks went incredibly fast for Dylan. He was in seventh heaven. To be able to walk into the Navy club, a block from the White House, be greeted by the Security Guards, head up to the New York TIMES bureau AND THEN spend hours in the fascinating world of photography! Wow!

Holly enjoyed watching this young man evolve so fast. Within weeks he had become competent in B&W shooting, processing and printing, and now he was delving into color. His final treat these days was to be allowed to transmit a photograph - using a fascinating gadget called the Leaf transmitter - to the main offices in New York. Of course Holly watched him closely and insisted on being at his side when he was ready to send the photo, but he'd learned the computer's methods of cropping, and sizing, as well as the lightening and darkening of certain areas (called dodging and burning) of the photo well enough that all she had to do is see the final result. It was always on the money.

Equally as exciting for Dylan were those evening bouts with Buck, and Xao Xaing. It wasn't just the physical part - the warm-up exercises, the holds and the throws - but the discussion Buck insisted on having after each session. Those seemingly religious teachings that were an integral part of the martial arts. Those teachings seemed to stretch his mind, much as the warm-ups stretched his body. Buck also tossed in some observations from the teachings of the Buddhist, Moslem, Jewish, American Indian, and even a touch of Jack Kerourac . --

The summer went well, Dylan's "classes" were working out to the satisfaction of all. They had also begun taking junkets on the weekend with Dylan in tow. They spent one weekend at a Cherokee Pow Wow, with Buck acting as host and guide. All were amazed at the various ceremonies, the huge crowds - families from hundreds of miles away - gathered to celebrate and learn their heritage. With no need for alcohol or drugs. With no conflicts.

Holly took them all to a weekend long "blues festival" where bands, both black and white, would reach back to the time of slaves and other more recent hard times living in the South. Gospel-singing groups would sing of the struggles of life, and an odd lot of singers and dancers would offer their unique rendition of that most incredible of hymns "Amazing Grace."

Matt, realizing how little knowledge he had of his heritage, dug up the complete set of VCR tapes on the movie "Roots" rented a huge TV to show them on. Xao Xaing was invited to join the foursome and they spent an entire weekend watching the story, discussing it all, and cooking up whatever black African, Cajun, and Creole recipes they could find.

Dylan's only disappointment was not being able to head south for a weekend of SCUBA diving. Matt knew underwater life was Dylan's favorite obsession and had done all he could to satisfy the lad's interests. Dylan's room was covered with huge prints of aquatic life, paintings of dolphins, and posters from the movies "Free Willy I and II". Matt promised to take Dylan on a dive over the Christmas holiday.

The summer proved to be enriching, enlightening and very fattening. When it came to an end, their minds began to focus on the challenges Dylan would face at school. His rec-room classes became more intense, his mentors more concerned.

--

A few weeks, back into the school system, Dylan had indeed become a "staffer" for the school newspaper and he began taking some very nice, and very valuable, sports shots. His confidence began to rise, not only because of his success in learning new skills and seeing the final product used (i.e. published), but the equal successes of using those skills to gain much needed allies.

The breakthrough had come when he brought a handful of prints into the boy's locker room just as the basketball players were suiting up for practice.

"Hey dude, what got? Those dirty pictures or what?

They all swarmed in on him, pulling and shoving him around, grabbing for the pictures.

"Hands off, dudes! Back off or I tear these to bits."

Suddenly Dylan was free, the players slowly backing away.

"Can we take a look at 'em?" said one player.

"Sure. Just try not to get finger prints all over them."

"Wow, righteous jump-shot Smitty."

"Hey man," said Smitty, "can I have a copy of this one?

"Sure Smitty, you can have that one and I'll print another for the paper."

"Yo, check out Barney blocking a shot. He looks like he's about ten feet off the boards."

"Barney can't jump one foot, let alone ten." said another.

And that's when Barney walked into the locker room.

At six foot, three inches and 195 pounds he was an imposing sight. Although his moves looked awkward, he was a gifted athlete and college scouts were already sizing him up on the football field and the court. He could also be fairly mean to those who irritated him.

"I used a wide-angle lens to make it look like he's that high." said Dylan, looking Barney straight in the eye.

"Listen, you little maggot ..." said Barney grabbing Dylan by the collar with both hands.

Dylan's instincts almost caused him to box Barney's ears, but he just cocked his head to one side and smiled.

"Barney, please take your mitts off and keep them off, okay."

Barney was stunned. Not only did the kid show no fear, he was smiling! Slowly, he let go of Dylan and reached for the picture.

Dylan beat him to it, snatching it up, he began waving it in front of Barney's face.

"So, check it out dudes. Hands off me from now on, No more dis'n me. That way these pictures get printed in the school paper ... and your teachers find out what great assets you guys are to the school ... and the girls get to drool over you raunchy-looking bodies ... and the college scouts ..."

He handed Barney the photo, saluted the team, and sauntered out the door.

Call it a hunch, or just curiosity, but he turned, walked back to the door. Pressing his ear to it he managed to hear Barney yell out.

"No one messes with that runt anymore, you got that. Dylan's my buddy and anyone does anything bad to him, I'll get them back ten times as bad. You got that. Pass the word, don't touch the nerd."

As Dylan turned to head back to the darkroom, he could hear the team chanting, "Pass the word, don't touch the nerd."

All he could think of, was "Whew. It worked."

The second month of school was nowhere near as frenetic as the first, but Dylan still had a lot on his mind. As he headed home from school, he was so lost in thought he didn't hear Jimmy Helms coming up from behind.

"Shut up and give me your money .." said the bully grabbing Dylan around the neck.

It happened so quickly Dylan didn't have time to think. Just act. As soon as he felt Jimmy's arm reaching over him from behind, Dylan reached back with both hands, over his right shoulder, and grabbed whatever he could of his assailant's upper arm. As he yanked forward he forced his upper torso forward and downward, at the same time stepping forward on his right foot, both knees bending down.

It was as though he was going through a slow-motion dream sequence, for he was aware of every millisecond of that event. He could feel Jimmy's body rolling over his shoulder, hear Jimmy grunt as some air was forced out of his lungs, and see his own arms extending and then slamming Jimmy to the sidewalk. Dylan's glasses had slipped off and he reached down to retrieve them. Jimmy lay on his back groaning while Dylan stood over him, amazed at how easy the throw had been. Before Dylan could get over his excitement, Jimmy staggered to his feet and ran.

It took a while for Dylan's pulse to slow down, such was the adrenaline rush. And his imagination went rampant with notions of how he could have finished the bully off. Then he realized that "finishing someone off" went against everything Buck and Matt had been teaching him and the issue became confusing. He decided not to tell anyone about the run-in until he could resolve these conflicts.

In the meantime he kept a constant vigil, looking for his worst concern, Cream. Sometimes Dylan actually wanted to confront the bully, but most of the time he feared the idea of an encounter. Cream, however, was too terrified of Dylan's uncle to bother him. And, upon learning that the Dylan had a whole bunch of new pals from the football, basketball and wrestling teams (!!!) he knew that he needed to keep as far away from Dylan as possible.

Dylan's only problem was understanding the need for disciplines, especially moral disciplines, that went along with the martial arts Buckanaga was teaching him. Dylan thought it unfair that he should have to be fair and decent to everyone, when none of the bullies ever showed those qualities to anyone.

And that was the topic of conversation over the dinner table after one Saturday session. Holly had suddenly gotten over her so-called "hatred of cooking" and whipped up some great barbecued ribs. Buck had brought fresh corn from the country-side and Matt delivered a mighty pastry for desert, claiming it had taken him all night to bake, although everyone was certain he'd snuck down to the Java Shop early that morning and bought it fresh off the baker's truck.

Dylan was on the defensive, trying to justify "getting back" at a few guys who had terrorized and beaten on him.

"I just want to teach them some respect!" he stated.

"No you don't kid," snorted Buck, "you're out for revenge, pure and simple. And you know what they say about seeking revenge."

"Ya, ya, that you better dig two graves." moaned Dylan, "but both you and Uncle Matt used violence. You did, sir, you did something real bad to Cream and he's been a piece of cake ever since. You are contradicting yourself Uncle Matt."

"It's possible I am contradicted, after all I am a fairly complex human being. I honestly wished you hadn't seen that son. But it was very necessary. I'm almost ashamed at what happened with this Cream boy, but, from what you told me, he was beginning to believe he had the monopoly on power - in this case the power to terrorize and hurt anyone. So, like it or not, it then became necessary to remind him of that he didn't have a monopoly on being able to scare and hurt.".

"Ya but I think it's necessary for ME to get these guys. For everyone to know I can kick ass. Even Buck says he's teaching me some ninja stuff, and those ninja guys were all stone-cold assassins."

"Son, your friend Buck is not teaching you to be a "ninja assassin". That's modern-day movie shit. You are learning ninja-san, an ancient Chinese martial arts skill complete with reason and morality. In fact those Chinese leaders insisted that the highest duty of a ninja is to make a friend of an enemy.".

"You want me to make friends with Cream!"

"In a sense, yes," Buck responded, "the next time you encounter him, you will not be afraid, just respectful. Of yourself and of him. If he ignores your attempt to be decent and tries to pound the fear back in you, then you fight back. Not with intent of putting fear into him, just respect. And if you do beat him, and I think you probably could, make sure you give him the room to save his self-respect."

A few weeks ago Dylan would have thought Buck was pulling a con job, saying that he could "take" Cream. But after some intense training on balance, timing, learning to use the opponent's force and momentum to his own advantage, Dylan was beginning to feel comfortable with his self-defense skills. Especially after the school bully's attempt to jump him a few days ago.

"Dylan, are you listening? Do you think I'm conning you about maybe being able to take Cream? Son, I meant every word I said..."

"I threw a guy a couple of days ago."

"You what? Threw a guy. What are you talking about?".

"One of the guys who keeps on picking on me jumped me, tried to choke me and get some money from me."

"Jumped you how?" asked Buck.

"From behind, as always."

"Like a true coward, " Buck observed, "and then what?".

"I kinda yanked him over my shoulder, like we practiced Uncle Buck, just used his weight and kept on rolling him over. And he landed on the sidewalk and grunted."

"So what didya' do honey?". Holly chimed in.

"He ran before I could finish him off."

"Finish him off!" said Matt. "Just what makes you think you have to finish him off? You stopped him cold and scared him away. Isn't that enough? What's next" Are you thinking maybe you should look up Cream and finish him off? Well, what about tough guy?"

"All I want to do is.."

"Honey," said Holly, "what you want to do is pay him back for all the mean things he's done to you, but to do that you have to be just as cruel as he was. And no one likes a cruel human being. To do what you want means carrying hate in your heart, and hate will poison you bad. Think about it, he deserves to have some sense knocked into him, but do you really want to pound him to a bloody pulp. Are you ready to go that far just for "pay-back"? When you get done with him what do you want to be honey? How do you want to feel about yourself? Do you want others to respect you. Do you want to respect yourself. Or do you just want everyone to fear you. That's what you need to think about.".

"Much like the white man's Golden rule, we believe that anything you do to demean another, also diminishes you." said Buck.

Dylan trusted these three, knew of their backgrounds and accomplishments, and thought of them as heroes. And he wanted to be a hero someday too. He decided to trust what they were telling him.

Cream was a real puzzle. He's smart and yet he keeps flunking classes. And he always seems to be hiding. There must be something scaring him bad, Dylan thought. He doesn't do drugs. Doesn't have friends. This is getting complicated.

--

To coordinate their efforts, the three teachers for the "Dylan School for Survival" had taken to meeting at the "club" each Tuesday night.

"Matt, that boy is a real quick take." said Buck, "He's learned so much, and so well, I'm about out of things to teach him ... unless we wanna start going into the hardball stuff."

"No way" said Matt and Holly in unison.

"I know what you mean," replied Holly. "In a few short months he's picked up enough on photography to match what it took me three years to learn. I must be one helluva teacher."

"Can't be it, honey. You got too much bubba in you to be smart enough to teach." chortled Matt, finding himself moving even closer to her in the darkly-lit booth. "Must be the genius of the boy."

Which earned him an elbow jab in the ribs.

"The good thing," Buck said softly, "is there are no more worries about going to school. No more fears about the "streets" or the bullies. He flips one coward on his ass, takes a few neat pictures of the basketball team, writes a fluff-piece on the girl's volleyball team and he's become almost "king of the hill. Did you know there was talk of making him the Prom King until they realized he's a sophomore?"

"That's just great," she replied, not at all uncomfortable with Matt's closeness, "but the problem is he's beginning to drift on me. And I'm afraid he'll get too cocky. I think he needs something to focus on. A project of some sort."

"Agreed. In the meantime Buck could you just stick with refining and practicing his defensive skills? I'd rather he learn how to get out of situations right now. We can save the offensive stuff for later" said Matt, while Buck nodded in silent approval. "Now, any ideas on a good project for Dylan?".

By the looks Buck and Holly were shooting back at him, it was clear what the answer was. "You're right, that's for him to decide.".

"Commit a crime and the world is made of glass. There is no such thing as concealment." ... Ralph Waldo Emerson

CHAPTER 4

Former Army Corporals Steiner and Skeffington had built themselves a fairly profitable, albeit criminal, business since leaving the Army and it was not by accident. They had both returned to their hometown of Charleston, West Virginia where they proceeded to initiate a well thought-out plan.

Skeffington sold the hardware store/lumber yard complex that his father had willed to him while he was in the Army. He sold this highly successful enterprise, at a low price, to the staff of employees who had kept it going. He even offered to allow them to make payments so that all of them could afford to be part-owners. His real profit was gaining their loyalty.

Since he and Steiner had a few million tucked away from their chicanery in Vietnam, they could afford to be patient.

JJ schooled Steiner in the ways of politics and better manners, while he began quietly making himself a popular and easily-approachable asset within the Republican party. Within three years Steiner was elected the County Sheriff. JJ passed on a number of possible political positions until a U.S. Congressional seat appeared vulnerable. With the backing of the party, and active support of his "friends, he won the seat handily.

Once in Washington, Congressman Skeffington began making the necessary moves to get Steiner a law enforcement job with some clout behind it, in D.C. Then they began putting together the connections, equipment, and property to setup up their illicit trade.

"Hey JJ, get your ass over hear and look at this." Steiner was getting antsy. For a long time they had managed to run their operations out of this non-descript, old brownstone building with impunity. Located at the edge of one of D.C.'s many "poor areas", operating only in the wee hours of the morning, when the streets were totally quiet, gave them a sense of security that had lasted for year. They had named their "business" Black Widow,Inc. in hopes of presenting a scary image, yet hinting they might be affiliated with the surrounding Black community. And, for many years, managed to run their dirty business without drawing any attention.

Lately, however, they had begun getting paranoid, especially Police Chief Steiner. Too many middle-class families were moving into the neighborhood renovating the houses, sprucing up the lawns, and starting nice flower gardens. The sounds of happy children and dogs barking playfully permeated this once nervous neighborhood causing better police protection, increased building inspections, and more attention to zone compliance.

They had talked seriously a time or two about moving, but never felt any sense of urgency to do so. But, in their paranoia they had burrowed through the wall separating them from The Bayou Blues Club and installed a TV camera - replete with zoom lens and motorized swivel base - so that they could monitor the clientele next door. And that is what had caused Steiner's nervousness.

The camera was zoomed in on a darkly-lit booth on the far end of the night club. The three people in that booth - two facing the camera and one with his back turned - were identifiable enough to Steiner to make the hair on his back rise.

"Ain't that the bitchy photographer from the New York Times?' he growled.

"AND the damn crime reporter for the POST" snapped JJ.

"Whose the other guy ... oh, shit that's that damn Indian from the DEA. What the hell are they doin here?".

"We gotta move outta here." yelled Steiner. "We gotta move now! This shit is gettin' outta hand."

"Settle down Buddy," Skeffington cautioned, knowing by Steiner's manner of speech that he was "loosing it". "No one knows we're here. No investigations show up on any law enforcement computers. It's just a coincidence. Hell, you know how good the cooking is over there..."

"Don't give me that crap JJ. We can't take no chances! We gotta move. Hell I killed that guy's wife and now he's here with a damned DEA agent and a New York Times photographer."

"Is that what's got you so nervous these days Buddy?" JJ asked. "You're beginning to fall apart on me boy."

"He must be hitting the bottle hard." thought Skeffington.

"Look JJ, I've been in the crime business for over thirty years - both sides of it - and I'm telling you that we are way out on the limb of luck. We're pushin' it. The best of criminals get caught, there are no perfect crimes dammit."

"In the past year four major drug rings have been busted, three were caught almost by accident."

Steiner's response was barely acceptable to Skeffington. Had he known what was really going with Steiner, Skeffinton would have killed him in a heartbeat. But he had no way of knowing. Their alliance was not one of friendship, they never socialized together or visited at each other homes. Their's was simply the union of two amoral, power hungry, stone-cold killers who discovered early on that by joining forces they could accomplish much more than by going it alone.

They had met as youngsters, gone hunting together in the hills of West Virginia, and quickly discovered that they both enjoyed the killing more than the hunting. Their parents were as poor as their education and spiritual upbring and they soon discovered the pleasures and payoffs that come from crime and cruelty. And no one ever saw the connection etween their new possessions - cars, clothes, and new hunting tools - and some crimes of violence in the community.

They joined the Army together and, operating in the violence of Vietnam, they thrived and brought back to America enough wealth to set up this highly profitable and safe smuggling business.

But Steiner - who had never shown one iota of concern for anyone's life finally discovered one life he cared about - his own. And that would be his undoing. The years of leading the dual role of being a police chief by day and a violent criminal at night had taken its toll. He had become aware of too many well run criminal businesses that had been brought down by the simplest of errors or accidents. Started wondering if that could happen to him. And in the wondering he began weakening ... taking to drinking to avoid worrying ... then more powerful drugs like amphetamines and morphine ... and finally discovered his passion for violent sex. The more he feared for his own life, the more of it he destroyed.

JJ knew he had to get Steiner calmed down fast. The last time he had gotten this out of hand was just a few years back, Steiner had panicked and killed a woman who was just walking by the front door. Steiner had thought she recognized him and could cause trouble so he had yanked her inside, snapped her neck and then demanded that JJ let him throw her in front of JJ's speeding Jeep Cherokee to make it look like a hit-and-run. They had engaged in such spontaneous "fun" before, had always gptten away with it, and though nothing of it this time. It had happened just before midnight, on a Sunday, with the Bayou Club closed and no one around so it was easy to disguise the murder. But it did draw some unnecessary attention to the neighborhood.

JJ tried to calm Steiner down, but only aggravated him further. Steiner finally stormed out of the second-floor office, cursing softly to himself.

------

The basketball game had ended well. Dylan's school had won, he had taken some nifty shots of his favorite guard - the best showing him blocking what should have been an easy two points - and he was heading home with his friend xao xaing. Xao's father had left Vietnam 20 years ago and, with the help of his Vietnamese "que" (a coalition of a dozen Vietnamese families) had received funding to buy the small grocery store/delicatessen across from The Bayou Blues Club. Whenever possible Dylan would "buddy-up" with Xao by walking home with him. Safety in numbers was important in this neighborhood, this late at night. As they walked down 13th Dylan was proudly showing off his camera and flash unit, which was now turned on to full power. Holly had convinced him that one powerful burst of light could so blind and stun a person so as to render them incapable of immediate retaliation - especially at night.

Just then Police Chief Steiner emerged from the building in front of them. in full uniform, stil cursing JJ. Still furious and frustrated.

He saw the camera in Dylan's hands, yelled "Hey you what the hell are you doing. Get the hell outta here with that camera!" as he charged furiously towards the frightened boys.

Dylan's reaction was quick and instinctive. He pointed the camera at Steiner and triggered the unit. The flash froze Steiner in his tracks. The boys dashed across the street, ducked into an alley and back-tracked to Xao's back door ... before Steiner could even think, or see, to pursue them.

Steiner was indeed confused, shocked and hurting from the brilliance of the flash. This boy, with a camera, outside a building where a very anxious conversation had just transpired had pushed him over the edge. Like a cornered jackal he could only think to lash out. "I'm gonna get that litte nigger and break his neck!", followed by "I gotta get the hell out this town now!" He began sweating and weaving. He needed to get home. He needed a hit. Anything that would keep him from having to think.

The right, honorable Congressman from West Virginia had watched the whole incident from the second-story window and, although he couldn't know everything that was going on down there, his instincts told him something dangerous had happened and his life might now be in jeopardy. He'd had survived on his instincts and now they were telling him not to fight, but to take flight.

--

The following day Dylan decided not to process the previous night's "shoot" at the school's darkroom. He would save it for this evening's session with Holly at the New York Times. After school he headed to the Times Photo Lab, using 17th Street rather than risking a confrontation on 13th. As he strolled leisurely towards the Time's offices he tried to work out some strange notions. Notions about coincidences and uncertainties.

Why did that fat cop react so strongly? Was he actually as scared as he seemed? Of two little boys and a camera? What was it Holly had told him? That "people, especially public officials, only object to the presence of a camera when they are doing something wrong!" And this was on the same street that Aunt Sylvia had been killed? Dylan never accepted the hit-and-run theory, partly because the case was still open.

He could feel inside him a strange tightening in his stomach whenever these questions came up. As though they all were leading somewhere.

Of course these weren't the only strange feelings he was encountering lately. The odd feelings in his groin and embarrassing erections when he sat next to a girl in class.

Also, the tightening of his arm, chest and leg muscles. The snap in his step. A feeling of power. Whap! His quick leg-kick at the small tree yielded four falling leaves, and a rush of satisfaction.

Many strange new feelings to deal with. But the awareness that he was a much better, more capable person than he had felt like six months ago made it all worthwhile. No more the fatso geek! Bap! A sudden palm slap at a parking meter brought him back to his senses. Parking meters do not yield like saplings do. The stinging sensation in his wrist subsided as he shook it off and quickened his pace.

--

"Dylan, where did you get this shot of Chief Steiner?"

Holly had come into the darkroom as Dylan finished up the evening's printing. Steiner's enraged image lay "fixing" in the tray.

"I ran into him on 13th last night and he tried to get me."

"Tried to get you. Steiner's the Chief of Police on the hill, boy. Why-in-the-hell would he come after a pipsqueak like you?

Dylan began thinking out loud, trying to explain what had happened. Tried to make sense of it. And then he spelled out more concerns because there was no sense to it. What was that cop doing coming out of an old building in the "hood" in the first place? Why charge two kids like that? Because of a camera? What did he have to hide? And, why the rage? And that it had happened so close to where Aunt Sylvia had been killed.

"Lordy! Lordy! Look at this buckaroo, that cop is reachin' for his gun."

Dylan was stunned. The print clearly showed Steiner's right hand open and reaching downward for his weapon. He knew Steiner appeared mad, but not this mad.

"Like you said, Holly," he replied, trying to reason it all out. "A public official will never object to cameras unless he is doing something wrong. So why is this top cop of Capitol Hill pulling a gun on a kid? Why would anyone pull for a gun on a kid, day or night? Jeez! This thing is crazy. And I think I have to find out why. Come on Holly, don't you think something's going on?"

"Honey, you tryin to tell me you got a hunch about this?" she drawled.

Dylan nodded.

"Well what are you going to do about it?"

Dylan said he didn't know what to do. But he knew he wanted to study all the files that the police had on his Aunt's death. And all of Uncle Matt's files. And figure out some way to check up on Chief Steiner. Find out what the Chief was doing there in the first place, because he didn't seemed to be pursuing any police stuff. And what was the Black Widow company anyway? Nothing ever seemed to happen there. Maybe find out more about Steinder. What kind of reputation he had. What kind of record as a cop.

And the smile on Holly's face broke into a grin. She put her arm around Dylan and gave him a big hug, left the darkroom, dashed to her desk and called Matt at the paper.

Dylan was somewhat stunned by her affection. He couldn't recall his mother, vaguely remembered Aunt Sylvia's smile, and, for the last four years, had hardly been touched by anyone. But Holly's simple hug made him feel great, as though a coating of ice had melted from his psyche, letting in the warmth. He wondered what Holly would be like as a Mom.

"Honey I think our young Dylan has a project." Holly gushed over the phone. "All the signs are there. He's got a hunch for crying out loud. A very real and solid hunch! Do you believe it? And a decent list of questions. And it's something you know about."

"Slow down Holly, what's this all about? What does he want to look into?

"He had a run in with Chief Steiner. And he wants to investigate your wife's death!".

Matt's silence was deafening and long.

"My God. I don't know.. Steiner? Sylvia? I can't..." His voice was barely audible, "We have to talk. This is a tough one."

Holly knew that Matt still had strong feelings for his wife, and a lot of difficulty getting past her death. But Holly's feelings toward Matt were beginning to simmer an she wanted to protect this growing relationship.

Born and raised by oil-rich, conservative parents in the heart of Texas she had rebelled against them and insisted on going to the Sorbonne in France, instead of Texas Christian University, where her folks had influence. She then went on to the University of Missouri to get a graduate degree in photojournalism. The oil-enriched totally mistrust, indeed hate journalists. But she persisted.

After a few years of scrounging news work around the Washington, D.C. area she managed to get on with the New York Times - first as a part-timer, then finally a full-blown staffer.

Unlike movie and TV portrayals of people in her line of work, she did not thirst to have her picture on the front page every day. She was far more professional than that. She studied the issues and people she had to cover and tried very hard to make her photographs not only visually appealing, but relevant to the story as well. It was a hard task but she did it well. And she was slowly gaining respect around the country.

Although she loved her work, she was very protective and private about her personal life. She deliberately avoided socializing and had few friends. But Matt was someone worth trusting, worth possibly....

"Come on over and I'll fire up some ribs and beers." she insisted, "We can talk better at my house."

Matt, still confused by Dylan"s new notions, agreed.

She had to remind him to eat. And encourage him to open up. It was already obvious to her that Matt needed to get past his wife's departure. And it was also obvious to Holly that she couldn't even begin a relationship with Matt, if she had to constantly compete with a dead woman. What was needed here was a compromise. A way for Matt to accept and participate in Dylan search, without having to deal with the painful details.

The meal consumed, the problems raised, they carried the dishes to the kitchen.

"I'll wash, you dry." she said emphatically. She needed to keep this conversation under control. Decisions would be made here that would affect not only Dylan, but also Matt and herself. As they worked she dictated the plan.

"Dylan will need to learn some investigative skills. You can provide those skills. We'll simply tell him that he can ask you how to accomplish tasks without spelling out the details. He can spell out details to Buck and me. As he goes along we can tell him whether he has the legal right to pursue something and how. We can show him the ways of getting to the information. And we can help when he gets in a jam. But you don't need to know every little thing."

"Which gives me a way of being part of this, without constantly being reminded ... "

"Yup. You aren't being hurt, and Dylan's energies and passion for the project aren't being stifled. And I'll let you know, each week, how he's doing."

They built a fire in the fireplace, sipped wine and talked of other things. Anything Holly could think of to keep this man's mind off the hurting inside. They touched "accidently". They looked longingly into each others eyes. And they drifted into each other's arm, and began the wondrously scary journey of loving each other.

They woke up early the next morning in each other's arms. Because it was Saturday there was no sense of urgency so they stayed in bed, and talked, and giggled and loved some more. Around noon they spruced up and headed for Matt's house, grabbing and gulping a fast-food version of breakfast along the way.

Dylan was already working out with Buck and Xao when they arrived. Once that session was over Xao headed home. Dylan showered and then he was sent to the grocery store with a list, giving the three "teachers" a chance to coordinate this new plan Later they laid out the final plan for Dylan as they prepared their Saturday Eve ritual ... everyone gathered in the kitchen, stirring this, baking that, joking, filling up the dining room table with outrageous amounts of food, and all of them complaining about their ailing cars.. Everyone trying too hard to keep the mood light.

Dylan did his best to keep things light, his best effort aimed at Buck.

"Hey Buck, I almost forgot to tell you about the magical Indian chant we learned at school. Teacher said it was Seminole, but I thought you might recognize the dialect."

"Oh, how does it go?" said Buck, now serious and attentive to Dylan.

"Okay. The first word - now you gotta repeat it - is waya."

"Ummm. Okay, waya."

"Next is duna."

"Umm, still don't recognize it. Okay, duna."

"Next is uppan."

"Uppan."

"Okay, now say all of it along with me ... waya dunna uppana ..."

Everyone listened attentively, trying to fathom the meaning of this mysterious, magical chant ... except Matt, who had spotted the gleam in Dylan's eyes.

Buck repeated the phrase "Waya dunna uppana ..."

"Okay, let's try it together," said Dylan.

Buck started chanting slowly "Waya ..."

"Down upon the Swanee River, far far away," giggled Dylan as he tried to keep singing the old Stephen Foster tune. But he broke up laughing and couldn't continue.

Buck's face turned ferocious as he grabbed Dylan with both hands and lifted him up, eyeball to eyeball. He growled menacingly into Dylan's face. Dylan's eyes bugged out but he wasn't the least bit scared. He just kept giggling and humming the tune.

Buck stopped, lowered Dylan and started chuckling, while Holly and Matt broke into laughter and then they all started chortling.

Even that did not prevent this evening's get-together from being anxious. For it was obvious to the adults that Dylan - shoulder's slumped, casting nervous glances at his Uncle - was worried sick. Most probably worried that Uncle Matt would be very hurt and mad that he had pushed to re-open the case of Aunt Sylvia's death.

Buck and Holly left earlier than usual, to give Matt some time to "air out" the situation.

"Don't you worry none, son," Holly said to Dylan as she was leaving. "Matt and I have talked this through and he's glad you're doing this project. Just be easy with him at first, okay?"

"Yes Ma'am"

"Now give me a big hug, honey>"

They hugged, she kissed him on the forehead, and winked and smiled reassuringly as she left.

"Uncle Matt sir, I ..."blurted Dylan.

"Hold it right there son. Don't even start. I know exactly what you are going to say and there is no need for it."

"I want you to know that I am very pleased that you want to dig into this matter. I have tried many times myself, but I just couldn't take on all the pain. Do you understand?"

Dylan just nodded, happy to hear his Uncle was not upset with him but sad knowing the subject caused his uncle pain.

"Good. Now I'll try to help you all I can and hope I don't have to listen to the gory details. Agreed?"

"Yessir."

"O.K. then, what do you need? What do you need to know? What can I do?"

"I need to go check out the official files, whereever ..."

"Yes, to City Hall, and the Police Department ..."

"... and I don't think it's smart to wear that old Army jacket ... even though I really like it. I just think I need to, ummm.."

"Appearance does make a difference when you're trying to get information from the government." said Matt as he jotted down "Dylan needs". A nice London Fog 3/4 length overcoat, preferably lined.

"And I think I might need to get on the Internet. Can I have my own account and password"

"Yup" said Matt noting on the Dylan wish-list .. AOL or Prodigy in Dylan's own name.

"And I need you to tell me how you found out a few things - like the time you did that expose` on those two swindlers. How'd you get their business records. And how did you catch that guy that was growing all that marijuana in a house! And, when you did that story about how tourism was way down in Washington - even though the Chamber of Commerce said it wasn't - all you said was "toilet flushes." How does that prove tourism is down? And how did you know where the ransom money would be dropped in that kidnapping case a few years ago?"

Matthew Haun tried not to show the immense pride he suddenly felt for this boy. Dylan was undoubtedly very smart, but who'd of guessed he had been that attentive and perceptive. "He's recalled some of the best work I've done," thought Matt, "My God, I've got to do better for this boy."

"All right son, we'll get you a nice overcoat for your downtown work and you'll look just like Shaft, O.K? Good. And, you'll be on the Internet tonight, with your own account and password. And I'll cover the expenses, unless you go crazy on it."

"We need a much faster modem sir.

"O.K."

"And we should have a Super VGA card, CD Rom player and a sound card, just in case."

Matt knew the boy was pushing it, but his savings account was very healthy, the cause was certainly not frivolous and he wanted young man to have every break possible.

"We have some shopping to do this week, in the meantime, tomorrow I want you to bring a fresh 8 X 10 notebook, so I can tell you all I know about how the human animal leaves a trail of clues because of stupid habits, over-looked bodily needs, and just-plain stupidity. Now let's fire up this computer and get you on-line." said Matt as he quietly began singing the Swanee River tune.

----

Early the next morning Dylan awoke with a start. His uncle was "killing" the heavy bag again. The hard thumping noises, the cries and screams of Mathew Haun went on for nearly an hour.

"Was he lying to me about not blaming me for things?"

"Maybe I should just leave. I still cause him so much pain."

"He said he loves me ... he said he was glad I'm looking into the accident ... then, why does he still get so crazy?"

--

The next evening found Dylan's notebook rapidly filling up and his head swimming with new places - Depart of Business Licenses, Public Works, Department of Public Records, Police Files - and every time his uncle would bring up a new office, a new government source, Dylan would object saying things like .."I'm just a kid, they wont let me..."

To which Matt had one consistent and very firm reply .. "You are a citizen dammit!" And that was that.

"The only department that will be a problem are the Police. They are very secretive about their files, especially those that are still considered active. But I have a grouchy friend down there and I'll ask him if you can at least look at Sylvia's file and take some notes. His name is Sergeant Nedermeyer, in the downtown precinct station."

But, more than the usual government sources, Matt also listed a few less obvious means of obtaining information. And heading the list was garbage containers. Dylan was surprised to learn that even the most cautious of peoples will casually throw things away that can tell you much of their business. And he was even more shocked to discover that close-mouthed professionals like bankers and lawyer have been known to throw away records of their client's business affairs, from loan application forms to copies of privately-taken depositions. The most private of information casually tossed into a Dempsey-Dumpster, unfortunately ignored by the impoverished homeless who scrounge through them each night seeking food or aluminum cans to cash in on - when the paperwork they overlook could reap them much higher "rewards".

"But, most important of all is the public library. You wouldn't believe the wealth of information in it. Did you know you can "modem" into the librarie's files? Thought so. That's just the beginning. They have CDs you can check out that contain information on everthing from census reports to the Congressional record. You need to go there and spend a whole day just discovering how much more there is to that place than books and magazines.".

On Tuesday Matt bought him a dark-blue overcoat - slightly oversized after Matt learned that Dylan had grown a few inches in the past few months. As they left the store Dylan, resplendent in his new attire, decided "I think I'll be a Private Eye when I grow up".

Matt did not head directly home. Instead he headed downtown and parked near the City Hall.

"What's up sir?"

"City Council meeting in ten minutes Dylan and they're going to discuss some police matters. Might even interest you."

As they headed up the front steps Matt informed Dylan, "If you do get interested in any matter being discussed here and feel like making your thoughts known, just sign in on the register and wait for them to call on you. O.K.?"

Dylan quietly thought it over and agreed. But, despite his new-found confidence, and obvious regal splendor, he wasn't so sure.

"Son, the door to the council chambers is to your left. I have to check something out, so you go ahead and get us seats." Matt headed down the hall before Dylan could object.

"The boy has to know he can do these things on his own," thought Matt as he headed to the men's room, "it's the only way he'll be sure of his rights."

Dylan pushed the heavy, oaken doors slowly and entered the council chambers. They were already in session, engaged in a heated debate about some zoning laws and Dylan quickly found two open seats halfway down the isle. He placed his prized overcoat over the back of the next seat. Matt came in shortly, sat down, handed Dylan a piece of paper, and began taking some notes.

The paper was a print-out of the subject matters on the agenda for discussion. Two police matters were to be discussed, one pertaining to the disposition of over three hundred thousand dollars in funds generated by an auction of assets acquired under the RICO laws, the other matter relating to authorizing certain night clubs the right to hire off-duty police officers as bouncers.

Within a half hour Dylan had seen over a dozen people go to the podium and offer their advice, concerns and objections. He noticed that the City Council members listened to each of them - no matter who they might be - carefully and with interest and tried to responded in a respectful manner. Dylan had also mulled over that three hundred thousand dollars the Police Department had suddenly acquired and he had an idea how some of it might be spent. Cautiously, tentatively, he walked down the isle and signed in on the register.

The discussions of police matters began shortly and Dylan's name was announced on the speaker. Matt tried not to show any anxiety as the boy walked to the podium.

He barely whispered his name and address and was told to proceed but please speak up.

"Yes sir. I hear this Council discussing the allocations of some three hundred thousand dollars of RICO funds and I cannot disagree with the way you're gonna .. going to use most of this money. But then I see the next item on the agenda is to allow night clubs and restaurants and bars the right to hire off-duty policemen as protection. And I'm thinking how about someone hiring those cops .. police officers to protect us kids? And I think some of those RICO monies should be allocated to us. Some kind of fund to hire off-duty policemen for an hour before school and an hour after school to make sure we aren't hassled by all the criminals and trouble-makers that make it hard for us each day."

"Son, that kind of security is part of the school's budget."

"Yes ma'am but the school's budget is strained to the limit. I know 'cause I asked the Assistant Principal and the Head of Security at school and they both told me they were out of money. You know they need newer computers and stuff too. They can't even afford new books for the library."

"And besides," he continued quickly, hoping he didn't sound like a troublemaker or a jerk, "lots of that RICO money comes from the dudes who are selling dope to school kids and it makes sense to me that we have a claim on some of that, sort of a school kid's protection fund. And the the money - doesn't have to be a lot, maybe ten percent of the RICO money - should be allocated according to how heavy the crime problem is in each school's district. That would be fair."

He paused and there was silence from the council table.

"If there aren't enough police officers available, maybe the students at the Police Academy could be hired."

More silence.

"Or, maybe you could figure out how to turn those gang-members into some kind of Street Patrol. Let 'em carry walkie-talkies. You know like the Guardian Angel guys in New York."

He paused again.

Just when he was certain he'd made a complete fool of himself the City Council President spoke up.

"Mr. Haun I want to thank you for your remarks. You have defined the problems well and offered a very intelligent, innovative series of possible solutions. I hereby move that the matter of passing a City Ordinance to tithe those RICO funds made available to the Police Department, for the purpose of increasing safety on the streets for school children, be placed on next Wednesday's agenda."

"I'll second that motion." said the lady Council person.

"All in favor signify by saying aye."

The "Ayes" were unanimous.

"In the meantime Mr. Haun, you can rest assured that each of us on the Council will check into the facts and the numbers so that, by next week we will be able to seriously discuss implementing this idea. In the meantime I believe we should hold off allocating all the RICO monies. Let's just spend 80% tonight and hold onto the rest in case we decide to proceed with Mr. Haun's suggestions. Any objections. Good. Hearing none, let's get back to doing what we do best - spending money."

As they drove home, Matt could not help expressing his thoughts.

"That was quite a proposal, son. When did you come up with that idea?"

"Uncle Matt I was almost too scared to talk about it. When I was walking up to the mike, I almost peed in my pants. How come, when I was so certain that the idea was good?"

"You're telling me you were scared up until the time you began talking? "

"Yessir. It doesn't make sense. If I really thought I was right, why was I so chicken?"

"So what I am hearing is that you went ahead and presented your idea, even though you were afraid to."

"Yessir."

"Dylan, all you did is show some courage. Guts, if you will."

"What's so gutsy about almost peeing in your pants over something you believe in?"

"Anybody can do things they enjoy doing, no matter how dangerous. You see one man's danger is another man's fun. For most normal people, courage is the ability to overcome our fears to do something we think we must do. The fear may be justified, or just imagined. That does not matter. Fear is fear. And, to make yourself go beyond it, to overcome that fear and do what you believe in - that is courage. Many an entertainer has been know to throw up just before going out to face a strange crowd. Most soldiers, pilots and SCUBA divers all go through the fear to do what they thought they must. But, by overcoming that fear and going forward they exhibit courage."

"That is why Buck and I have tried to teach you the philosophies of, not only the martial arts, but alternative religions, all of which give illustrations of courage from people of all walks of life."

They rode home in silence, Matt giving Dylan time to mull over this concept.

Dylan mumbled "Good Night" as he trudged upstairs to his room, still preoccupied with the events of the evening. "Sweet dreams, Citizen Dylan." he said proudly as Dylan beemed and trundled off to bed.

About four hours later, Dylan awoke. He grabbed his bathrobe and headed for the computer in the den. While sleeping his subconcious processors had come to the conclusion that he could, and should, do more with his "RICO proposal".

He booted up the computer, logged on the Internet, and clicked the "GoTo" icon. Then he punched in an address that he had discoverd a few days ago. It yielded the Internet address of every Senator and Congressman currently in office. Dylan downloaded and printed out that list. He then switched over to the built-in word processor and wrote a one-page letter which included everything he had said in the City Council Chambers speech. He did not give his age.

When he was satisfied with it he switched back to the Internet, pulled that one page letter into the message file and began addressing it to each memeber of the Senate and House. After sending nine letters he began yawning and decided that he could send the rest over the next four or five evenings, after a faster modem was available. He sent one more copy of the letter to the White House Internet address and headed back to sleep.

-

On Wednesday they bought enough computer upgrades to communicate with the whole world and, as Dylan helped his uncle figure out and install the equipment, he would fantasize his detective agency taking on global dimensions.

On Thursday, his day for photography with Holly, he found her waiting at the front door of the bureau ready to take him home for some "interesting conversation".

Once there, she told him of her friend, Judge Lydia Wagner, who would be stopping by to tell him a few more rights and tricks of the trade.

"A Judge!" exclaimed Dylan. "And I'm in these grungy jeans and a half-wrecked sweat shirt. Gawd, she'll throw me in jail for vagrancy or somthing."

"I swear, what is it with you boys, huh? Everyone says girls are vain, but here you are worryin about your grungy look. Next thing you know you'll be preening in front of the mirror and buying designer jeans. And then what, manicures and facials? Don't worry Honey, the grunge look was in back in the 60s too. Besides, Judge Lydia is retired so she has plenty of time to help us out. She still sits in on some cases, but only those concerning young people. She lost two sons to the Vietnam War and she is very concerned about the way all youngsters are treated. But, since our President got her that federal appointment years ago when he was Vice-president, he still cares about her a lot so she still has a lot of clout, okay? Good."

"By the way," she said. "I am very proud of you for speaking up at that City Council meeting. That's quite an idea you came up with." and she gave him a big hug to boot.

Dylan could only smile, slightly bewildered yet enjoying the affection.

The doorbell rang, Holly answered it and in walked Judge Wagner.

To Dylan's amazement this woman had her hair up in a bun, granny glasses, an old, tattered flannel shirt and the grungiest pair of blue-jean overalls he'd ever seen. She's not an old judge, she's an old hippie, he thought.

It didn't take him long to find out otherwise. Judge Lydia, as Holly was prone to call her, began a long and fascinating dissertation of younger citrizen's rights, replete with stories, case histories, and names.

Her conclusion said it all. "You are an American citizen, with all the rights of another citizen, except you can't drive or vote for a few years. Period."

"There are those that might quibble on this issue. Let them. They wont get away with it in my court ... nor a lot of others. Along with those rights comes your obligations, your responsibilities. Be civilized about your affairs, obey the laws and rules, and participate in those matters that are of importance to you. Speak up at a government hearing if you wish. Write your representatives - local and national - and I am not talking about cute-kid stuff. If you want to be treated like a citizen, act like one. And never be afraid to speak your mind!

"Call or FAX if the matter is urgent. And remember not to offer your age, or most politicians will not pay attention 'cause you're not yet a voter. Hells-bells they barely pay attention to any voter. Not because they're deceitful or dishonest, but because they are grossly overworked and, in some cases, overly impressed with their new-found power. That's why we all have to do our part to help them out, WHETHER THEY LIKE IT OR NOT. Any questions, son?".

"Yes ma'am." replied Dylan. "If the laws say a kid like me has all those rights and we aren't getting them ... well, what I mean is .."

"What you are trying to determine young man," said Judge Lydia. "Is why the system doesn't seem to work anymore. Well, I call it Civil Servant Sytem Sickness. It is an insidious disease that slowly invades the perfectly decent intentions of our government to provide compassionate services for those who need help, and then that same government allows it to turn into a contemptible process of dehumanizing those it was meant to serve. To try and tell you how this happens would take ions. Suffice it to say that it happens. And the only way to stop it is for every so-called public servant to remember who the real client is, the citizen - who pays their wages - and, who is simply asking for what the law says they have a right to ask. It is as simple as that."

"In the meantime, it is incumbent on everyone of us to keep on pressing for those rights provided us by law. We must not let them deny what those laws say we should have.

We must be prepared to use our Constitutional rights of freedom of speech, freedom of the press, even petition the Government if necessary for a redress of grievances. Any other questions?"

Judging from his City Council "experience" the previous night, Dylan knew she was right. His head was filled with a few dozen questions, but he would only mutter "no Ma'am, not right now", and try to sort things out later.

"One thing you might need when you go to these damn bureaucrats for information," said the judge, "is a small tape recorder. One of those that is activated whenever someone speaks. I think you might find it handy to carry it with you always ... and when you go to these various government offices just turn it on ... just in case someone treats you improperly ... I, for one, would like to know whenever you run into trouble. If someone gives you a bad time you'll have it on tape. And be sure to get their name. And any witnesses name and phone number."

"I know just the ticket." said Holly. "Smaller than a pack of cigarettes but extremely sensitive and great recording quality. I'll get it to you tomorrow Dylan."

"Good," retorted Judge Lydia Wagner, "now Dylan if you do run into a problem you be sure and bring those tapes to me right away, O.K.? Good. Close your ears for a while honey, whilst we do some "women talk". Now where's that wine you promised me, Holly."

Dylan ambled off to the kitchen, grabbed a soda, sat down at the table. He began writing notes about all he'd heard. His memory was flawless and an hour later, when Holly appeared to take him home he'd written it all down.

As she drove him home she hit him with another blockbuster.

"How'd ya like to shoot the President, son?" she drawled, smiling as she saws his eyes go wide.

"I'm talking pictures, boy - don't get all goofy on me. Here's what I'm thinkin'... I go the to President's Press Secretary and tell him about this cute little high school newspaper photographer..."

"I'm not cute, dammit!" Dylan blurted out through clenched teeth.

The tires screeched to a halt as Holly pulled to the side of the street. Lights and engines shut off before Dylan could stop blinking.

Holly turned on him, finger jabbing him in the chest, "Now you listen here boy, you get smart and do it now! I don't know what you expect to find out about Chief Steiner, or your aunt's death, but you're heading into some very dark places, possible killers, and powerful people ... and Matt and Buck can't be there to protect you every step of the the way. So you take advantage of the FACT that you are a cute, chubby kid 'cause it may save your little butt. Even the meanest of grown ups will hesitate to really hurt a cute kid, and that moment's hesitation could save your butt. Do you hear me?"

Dylan realized how serious she was, and how serious this project was, and knew she was right. He needed every edge he could muster.

"Now," she said, taking a deep breath and calming down, "you know I wouldn't get mad unless I cared about you. I love you kiddo, but you have to think smart and use every tool you can cutey. Get it. Good. Use it."

"Besides," he heard her mumble as she started the car, "you're gonna be big enough and cuter enough, soon enough."

"What children become, that will the community become." ... Suzanne LaFollette.

CHAPTER 5

Dylan was beginning to feel the thrill of the hunt and that is why, instinctively, he went to Buck with some special concerns. He knew Buck was the best hunter them all, and he needed to talk to someone about his uncle.

He quietly told Buck of Matt's "killing sprees" with the heavy bag.

Buck's face remained stoic as the boy told of those episodes, reveal his child-like fears of being the cause.

"Listen to me young Dylan, your uncle is the kindest, most loving man I have ever met - and, maybe the toughest fighter. He tries to hide from the pain of his loss, but when someone reminds him of it he gets confused and mad. But, you should not feel bad about accidently bringing it up. Truth is he needs to face this problem head on."

"Until he does, these "dances with death" that you see him going thru are just his way of fighting the ghosts and demons inside him."

"Don't you worry about this. It will go away when he finally decides to deal with it, which he will. In the meantime I'm guessing this is good therapy for him and it certainly is keeping his fighting skills in good shape."

"Now, let's talk about the hunt."

"Always remember, no matter what the size of your prey, they are extremely dangerous if you corner them. Don't be loud in your pursuit. Be quiet also in your clothes. That's why I gave you that old Army jacket. It is dull. And your cameras should not be shiney. You should trade that chrome Nikon for a black one. And puy black tape on any other shiny equipment you have."

"But what if Holly gets me in at the White House to shoot the President? I can't wear that old jacket there."

"Why not? Your just a dumb little high school kid and the "grunge-look" is in. Who's gonna say anything. Besides you're going there for what? you know Chief Steiner will be there. Maybe this time you want him to know you are stalking him. Rattle his cage just a little. See what shakes out?"

"Yup. I want to shake up that cop." said Dylan, now getting used to the notion of using the "dumb-but-cute routine. "I know there's some reason he got so rattled the other night. He's up to something. So I want to let him know I'm there and I'm watching him. Maybe he'll get nervous. But, there's nothing he can do there to hurt me. Once I'm back on the streets tho, I'm going to have to be extra careful, 'cause he might start hunting me."

This kid is gonna be good, thought Buck, he has the instincts of a hunter, street smarts, and a super brain on top of it. I'm gonna have to watch his backside if this gets any deeper.

A week later things got a lot deeper.

As Holly and Dylan approached the security gate for the White House, on Pennsylvania, Holly was a touch annoyed at Dylan. "He could have worn his good clothes," she thought, "I kinda thought he was above needing to be part of that high school, "in-crowd" bunch.

But, her fears were somewhat calmed by the guards cheerful acceptance of Dylan's Press Credentials (all the guards had been briefed by no less than the President's Chief of Staff to be professional with this young journalist). He even allowed Dylan to photograph the sign-in page "So I can prove I was officially here" said the boy, using his new macro-zoom lens to crop tightly on the full page of signatures.

They had arrived a bit early and while they waited for the formal press conference Dylan did some snooping. He spotted his prey, Chief Steiner - off to one side , talking to a thin gentleman in a pin-stripe suit. Their demeanor was calm until Steiner spotted Dylan shooting away - at them!

"Goddamit, JJ there's that little nigger, or Chink, or whatever the hell he is. That's the same one who snapped me outside the office the other night."

"Calm down Steiner, now you're the one in a panic. Can't be the same kid. Kid that rattled your cage was a ghetto brat. This kid has enough clout to get inside ... must be some fat-cat, campaign contributor's kid. Nobody but a rich brat would dare to wear shabby clothes like that. And that camera gear looks to be pretty pricey to me."

The President arrived, everyone quieted down and formed a respectful semi-circle facing his podium as he gave a short speech on the current flare-up in Europe, an update on the economy and a lot of smiles for the cameras. He then answered the Press Corp's questions for about ten minutes.

Then to Dylan's horror the President welcomed "our youngest member of the Presidential Press Corp, Dylan Haun, reporter/photographer of Washington,D.C.,s very own Paul Robeson High School. Come up here for a moment son, and let me introduce you to my staff."

It was a great photo opportunity for the press, cameras snapping and whirring away, reporters trying to catch every cute word the boy uttered while Holly did her best to get as many shots of Dylan and the Pres as she could. Boy, will he be happy and proud as a button, she thought.

"Damn," thought Dylan - all teeth and cute smiles, "now Steiner knows my name. Didn't mind rattling him a little, but I really didn't want to make it easy for him to find me."

"Son, are you the Dylan Haun who sent me some thoughts on RICO allocations?" said the President as they wrapped up the Press conference.

"Yessir." Dylan said, amamzed that his E-mail letter had gotten through.

"That's brilliant concept, son, and my staff is working on it. I have to get back to some urgent business, but I'd like to call you later. Would you give your number to Mr. Thomas over here so I can reach you later?"

"Yessir!"

The President charged off with his staff in tow, leaving Dylan to dictate his name and number to the President's aid. Then Dylan turned, looking for the Police Chief and just managed to spot Steiner in hot pursuit of his comrade in the pin stripe suit.

Mr. "Pin Stripe" hopped into a big, black Jeep Cherokee with Steiner still yelling in pursuit. Dylan fired off a batch of frames as they departured, remembering to photograph the licenses plate of the Jeep just before they scooted out of sight.

Back at the Time's photo lab Holly and Dylan quickly went about the business of processing the film. Once dry the film was cut into strips of five frames each and slipped into clear, plastic sleeves. As they viewed them on the light table it became obvious to Holly that Dylan's concerns about Chief Steiner might have some foundation. And possibly a tie-in with Cong. Skeffington to boot.

The look on both men's faces was a worried look, and they were both staring directly into the camera - at Dylan. They chose frames and went "dark" to make prints.

One print of the Chief and the Congressman stood out, mainly because both men's eyes showed fright. Holly found the negative, slipped into the Leica Focomat enlarger and ran it up as high as she could to make a huge enlargement of just their eyes. The print was very damning, so well did it show the men's fear. Five more were made.

And then Holly called Matt and they set up a meeting, at the Club, for that evening. B.E. Buckanaga and Judge Lydia Wagner were also advised.

Dylan wanted to be at that dinner meeting. He didn't like being left out of any discussions concerning his project, but he had learned to trust the three adults. They were teaching him a lot, and letting him do most of his work. And, maybe - just maybe - the President would actually call him

He spent the evening scanning all the "evidence" he had gathered, into the new computer he and Matt had picked out. Everything was B&W - the photos and the documents -using up a lot less computer memory than color would. He stored everything on two complete sets of disks. One he would hide, the other to be turned over to Judge Lydia, who had agreed to be the "overseer" of all the gathered materials.

--

They quietly finished their meals, waiting for Matt to formerly open the discussion.

He slid the empty plate back, sipped his bourbon and began. "I think we all need to decide whether we've opened Pandora's box. Have we unleashed a monster, or unlocked the talents and gifts of a great kid?"

"Young man." Holly corrected.

"And young warrior." Buck insisted.

"Come on you guys," Matt replied, "do you really feel that way about Dylan, or are you letting your love for him bias your evaluations? We could be putting him in a lot of danger if we let him continue this project."

"The reason we've got together the first time," snapped Buck, "is because Dylan was already IN a lot of danger. And, within a few short months he learned enough from us not only to survive the hazards of his life, but to show tremendous potential for being able to handle a lot more. He has demonstrated enough to me, to tell me almost all I need to know."

"When Holly called me this afternoon about this mete," said Buck, "she told me that Steiner might be connected to Cong. J.J. Skeffington. So I did some checking on those two. One of the first reports I got was from a friend of mine in the Pentagon. He dug up the "S/S boys" service records. They received numerous decorations for an incident that occurred just before they were discharged, but one member of the inquiry board objected to giving out the medals and insisted on entering a letter of dissent. It makes for interesting reading."

Buck reached in his jacket and pulled out copies of that letter and passed them around.

"You couple that letter, with Steiner's first run-in with Dylan, and thses photos taken today ... hell Matt, you've had enough investigative skills to know that this merits looking into.

"Agreed Buck. That's not what concerns me. We need to decide whether Dylan is up to the seriousness and danger we all agree might be out there."

"If you mean is he mature enough honey, that's bullshit. Hell who's ever mature enough? And what is mature enough? Besides, so far, neither Steiner or Cong. J.J. have done anything - not one ounce of retaliation. So far we have no solid evidence of anything more than fear. And if we cut the boy ... if we cut Dylan off on this project we'll be castrating him."

"Hells, bells boys if Dylan were big enough to go out and bang heads on the football team he'd be in danger, but I betcha you wouldn't think twice about letting him play. So, let him continue this investigation and we'll watch his backside every minute ... is what I say!"

"What about you Buck? Go or no go?"

"What we are going through right now is the same ritual my tribal elders went through with me when I was passing from boyhood to manhood. And they instructed my parents that it was extremely important, even in the 20th century, that - as part of my ritual of passage - that I go through what we call "the vision quest". And I did. Reluctantly at first, thinking this was some stupid old Indian Hocus-pocus, but, by the time I finished I was so persuaded by that ritual that I have recommended it for every young man and woman I have met."

"During a vision quest the young man must talk and smoke with the elders, spend time in a "sweat hut", fast, and hike to the top of a mountain and think, or pray."

"He may come down from that mountain with new insights, a vision if you will, which he may or may not discuss with his elders. But, that is it. After that it is felt by all the adults in the tribe that everything that could be done has been, and now it was time to treat the boy as a man.

"Dylan is going through such an ordeal now, in an urban sort of way. And I say let him go on. And let us get closer and stronger in the way we protect him. But, let us begin by treating him as a man."

Matt expressed his fears about rushing this boy. So Holly and Buck reassured him that this is only natural for the parent. But, in the best interests of the boy, Matt needed to begin letting go of Dylan ,the boy, and accepting the man. Matt agreed and they spent the rest of the evening working on ways to better protect the young warrior Dylan.

--

"Dylan Haun! Dylan go-to-my-Hell Haun!" Washington Hill Chief of Police was pacing and slamming his fist. "That little shit is Matt Haun's nephew. Lives with THE DAMN CRIME REPORTER FOR THE WASHINGTON DAMN POST! AND I KILLED THE GUY'S WIFE! We gotta do something!"

Steiner was beginning to wear thin on JJ. The cop seemed to be easily irritated lately, and, for the first time in their life-long partnership, JJ felt Steiner was getting weak. He tried to calm things down.

"OK Buddy we have to do something. Not now. Sit down, cool off, Ill tell you how this is going to happen."

Congressman Skeffington was obviously in control, which meant Steiner's only choice was to do as he was told. JJ would tolerate nothing less. He sat, tapping a ball-point pen and listened.

"We have a shipment coming in soon. Are you certain there is nothing on the computers indicating that we're in trouble?"

"Nothing JJ, I've checked every four hours." said Steiner, absent-mindedly doodling.

Today's the 14th. We don't need to be here until the 23rd. That will give us a few days to wrap things up before the "shipments" arrive. You got vacation? Good, take it. I'm off to Europe on a Congressional junket on the Muslim problems and I leave tomorrow night. I don't want you in town ready to bump off some kid and screw things up. How soon can you get out of here?"

"I'll be on my way to Amsterdam in 48 hours."

"After the 25th we move outta here post-haste. Got it?

"Ya, but if that kid - or his old man - gives us anymore ...."

"Then we get rid of them both."

"You gonna let Pancho run things while we're gone? Remember we got some Chinks coming in a few days to finish processing the stuff we have on hand."

"Pancho won't screw up" Skeffington replied. "he's handled things pretty good so far. He knows all the routines ... and he likes the girls."

Their man "Pancho", so named because his real name is Guillermo Villa, had been working for them for over six years and overseeing the operations in the basement for the past two years. Being an illegal immigrant he was disposed not to be a problem for his bosses. He had also helped out on a few transfers of "shipments" and knew the operation well. And he thoroughly enjoyed the "favors" - the easy access to the young women, as well as the bundles of money he earned. He was not inclined to "stray from the fold".

"And I get to "off" the kid and his uncle if they cause us any more shit?" said Steiner, doodling and scribbling on a sheet of note paper.

"WE get to "off" 'em Buddy. I get to have fun too."

--

Dylan started his routine the next morning. He rose a half-hour early so that he could stop by the alley behind Black Widow and check the trash. Two huge trash containers, filled with empty beer bottles, food wrappings, and an occasional scrap of paper. It was a discouraging, almost overwhelming pile of smelly, nasty junk to contemplate digging into, especially on a long shot. Fortunately the long shot paid off on the first day. Half way into the mess Dylan found a crumpled-up note. He picked it out with his gloved hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. He wanted to preserve any possible finger prints. It read:

50 Ch

Kaohsiung, Taiwan

Oct 25 Widow Negra

Dylan carefully put it inside a plastic zip bag, sealed it and continued his search.

He ran to school, extremely excited, only to discover that everyone near him suddenly wasn't. Most wrinkled up their noses and groaned. He asked his teacher to let him out of the first two classes. After one whiff she readily agreed. Dylan dashed home for a shower and a change of clothes, making note not to wear school clothes to the search anymore. Before heading back to school, he fired up the computer, went on-line at the Encyclopedi site and searched the word "Kaohsiung" and quickly determined it to be a huge port city.

As he walked back to school he pondered the meaning of the note and the new-found knowledge that Skeffington and Steiner might be interested in the port city of Kaohsiung ...

But his visits to City Hall proved equally exciting. He had learned a lot from his Uncle. The simplest method of tracking down information was to s