AUTHOR'S NOTE:  The last time we saw Randall, he was about to send Fritz on a dangerous mission. More surprising, however, was the mission Randall was about to give himself. Randall on a small plane? No way!

~o~~o~~o~

A small, two-seat, propellor-driven private plane rumbled through the twilight skies between a jumping-'n'-jiving Los Angeles, California, and a snoozing-'n'-snoring Moab, Utah. Randall, seated next to the pilot, looked at a map he held like an accordion, then he looked out the window.

"Can't we go any faster?" Randall said, studying the ground below, which was not very far below, actually, and which did not seem to be passing beneath them very quickly.

"I'm givin' it all she's got, Cap'n!" The pilot tossed off his best imitation of the Scotsman in the engine room of the spaceship Enterprise.

The plane began rising toward the stars just now beginning to wink above them.

Randall leaned left and then right, looking out as many windows as he could find.

"Well, do we have to go so high? Won't it just take longer to get back down there?"

"Gotta clear them mount'ns, sir."

"Couldn't we just go, I don't know, between them?"

The pilot looked at Randall and chewed the end of his handlebar mustache before saying, "Yew get a grip, sir, else I'm gonna charge yew by the word 'stead o' by the hour o' by the mile."

It was already dark in the valley near Moab, where towering red rock cliffs blocked the last rays of the sinking sun. A shadow moved beneath a tree across the dirt road opposite the lighted windows of a house. The shadow lit a cigarette—which possibly was not actually made from tobacco—and the match light revealed the face of a tough-looking biker leaning against his huge hog, watching Nichols' back bedroom. "Rooster," as he was known in the motorcycle gangs, was on guard duty.

Inside that back bedroom, ignorant of her guardian's presence, Lou sat cross-legged on a single bed. Her gear was spread around the cramped, rustic, pine-paneled room. She ate carrot sticks from her Ziplock bag and studied maps while she talked on the telephone.

"Yeah, I got some good sunsets tonight, and I'll get two more chances: Saturday night and Sunday night. Monday night I'll be back in Miami."

In Miami, Debbie wore an ostentatious peignoir while talking on her rhinestone-encrusted cell phone. She was seated near a potted palm that filled one corner of the room.

"Ah, ... Lou, there's somethin' I oughta tell you," she began. Then she changed her mind, shook off that idea, and said instead, "Just be careful. Don't ... ahm ... don't get eaten by bears."

"I won't. I'll be very care— Bears? Really?"

A branch of Debbie's potted palm made a dramatic arc and fell—timberrrrr—thump.

"Lou, if you make it back, we gotta do somethin' about Conan," said Debbie.

" 'If'?" Lou squeaked. "Whattaya mean 'if'?"

At that moment, blue lights flashed across Debbie's window, and a siren whooped once outside. "Oh, my date's here! 'Bye!" And Debbie was gone.

"Wait, whattaya mean 'bears'? Deb? Deb?" Lou stared at the phone. A dial tone buzzed in her face.

That evening in Los Angeles, the International Society of Nature Photographers held its annual gala at one of the city's posh hotels. Snobbish, artsy, Society members and their guests strolled around the reception room in formal attire, quaffing champagne and saying artsy-sounding things.

A gaggle of these silk-clad silly geese had gathered around one man, the guest of honor and the reason for the gathering: Fritz the chauffeur. Of course, nobody knew he was Fritz the chauffeur. Everyone thought they had the honor and pleasure of finally meeting tonight's recipient of the Man of the Year Award from the ISNP. They thought the man in the expensive tuxedo and new haircut was Galen Randall. Instead, it was Fritz the chauffeur, playing his part as ordered, but pretty nervous about it.

All poor Fritz could do was smile as various VIPs and self-proclaimed "old friends" shook his hand, everyone mouthing the same museum-quality tripe.

Slinking through the crowd, one crafty reporter snuck closer and closer to Fritz, using people, plants, furniture, and columns for cover. When he determined he was as close as possible, he rose to his full height, lifted his camera over his head, above the crowd, and FLASH/CLICK, took a photograph. Before anyone could stop him, the reporter ran gleefully out the door shouting, "I got him! I got him! I got the only picture of Galen Randall! I got him!"

One of Fritz's sycophants, noticing that the honoree's smile had dimmed, said, "Why, what's the matter, Galen, my boy? You look like you've just been 'shot.' Heh-heh-heh."

"I expect I will be," Fritz murmured, "when Meriweather and the rest of the world see that photograph."

The party went on for hours, but for poor Fritz there was to be no joy in Meriweatherville. The phony Galen had struck out.

The real Galen was at that moment vibrating like a washer on spin cycle with only a throw rug inside. The small, chartered plane buzzed in and bounced to a landing on a bumpy grass landing strip, then thumped across the uneven ground to a tiny tin-roofed hut that served as a terminal.

Randall jumped out of the plane even before it stopped rolling. He ran to the door of the terminal and shouted through it, "Is there anybody around here who'll rent me a car?" He turned slowly in a 360-degree arc, scanning the area thoroughly. No Hertz, no Avis, no Rent-a-Wreck, nothing in sight. Only the dumpy terminal hut with an ancient, rust-holed van parked in back.

~o~~o~~o~

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Don't stop now! There's another chapter just beyond the click of the button.  (But be sure to leave your vote and comment before you go.) 

Thanks for reading!