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		The Power of the Intelligence Communities Sweeps 3 Unsuspecting US Citizens into a vast Conspiracy. Reporter Roy Garrison, and photographer, Sam Peters and his wife are swept into the same international cover-up. By mistake Sam has photographed high level operatives on a Florida bridge, and Garrison's pursuit of the story leads him into the heart of Green Haze, a covert and illegal intelligence operation, headed by a savvy intelligence deputy director, Craig Grafton. Only one brilliant move can save Garrison from certain death.

Green Haze Robert P. Fitton     Green Haze 1     It was one of those wild investigative stories, cast in an isolated wilderness beyond the high desert, a hundred and sixty miles out of Los Angeles. Roy Garrison was suckered into this type of arrangement a hundred times before during his twenty-year span on The Dispatch. The Wednesday phone call was too crazy to even make it into his weekly column. He knew the scenario all to well. A man or woman calls up, and with intense emotion in his or her voice, hints something dreadful has taken place, and Garrison is the only one they can turn to. Why not call the authorities? The answer was quick and the same every time: Talk of a cover up and nobody trusted the authorities.   Garrison gazed out his car window. The chiseled mountain peaks were stark against the cold sunset skies and shadows crept across the talus. As night spilled over the chilled desert floor, every twisted mesquite branch, every rock strewn terrace and treeless slope only heightened the isolation. The town was dropped between saw toothed mountains and a range to the east. Incandes-cent bulbs popped on across the flat stretches like awakening fireflies pulsing on a summer's eve. The asphalt split; west through the range toward San Francisco and skirted the smoother hills east to Las Vegas. Somewhere on that highway, according to his source, a van containing highly toxic organic compounds had flipped over just days before. One of the vials must have opened and some guy was dead from Viral Endoplasmic Disease, VED, a virus that ripped apart the DNA in cells. His calls to the Center for Disease Control went unan-swered until yesterday when they said not to panic. It was an isolated case and the investiga-tion was over. But the dumbest thing was their denying the van turned over outside of town. That, according to his source, was a fabrication. 1

Green Haze Robert P. Fitton   TALL TALES WERE SPUN BY THOSE WITH POWER. TWENTY YEARS OF CRANKING OUT STORIES POUNDED THAT INTO YOUR HEAD. OFFICIAL LINES WERE GOSPEL. THE ELEMENT OF TRUTH DIDN'T MATTER. IT WAS HOW THE DAMNED THING PLAYED OUT AND THE ATTITUDE SPREAD ACROSS EVERY GOVERNMENT AGENCY, EVERY CORPORATION... ANYONE WITH POWER. THIS WAS THE NEW MILLENNIUM. POLITICAL CORRECTNESS WAS EVERYTHING.     Garrison shifted his old green MG at the traffic sign and slowed to twenty miles per hour. A rusted yellow sign indi-cated speeders would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. That meant spending a long night in a cinder block little jail cell staring at some little dictator who called himself the Chief of Police. Already he missed Los Angeles. Except staying at home was an invitation to telephone bouncers, hounding him about his max-out credit cards and his bookie might call and tell him he had pushed his tab to the limit.   A green neon sign flashed in the twilight, leaving a red blotch in his eyes as he gazed at the northern mountains.   ROADSIDE DINER     The MG's little tires kicked up the parking lot dust as he pulled in and parked between two pickup trucks. Four hours on the road and his stomach tightened into a twisted hunger pit. He stepped into the cool air and stretched his tense frame. The light inside the silver metal diner glowed against the deepening blue sky. People were jammed at the counter and in the booths and a moving mass of gray cigarette haze hung across the place.   Garrison reached back in the MG, packed his microcasette, cigarettes, and wallet into his pants pocket. He put on his faded Angels hat and strutted across the gritty parking lot. This town was probably like any other town, full of gossip, unjustified rumors, and a cast of rowdy locals seeking notoriety. He stepped back as a family exited the diner and the father held the aluminum framed door open.   " Thanks." 2

Green Haze Robert P. Fitton   Garrison was comfortable in noisy joints like this. He lit a cigarette and sat at the end counter stool. Before he began asking questions, he ordered the meat loaf, gravy, mashed potatoes and carrots. He grabbed a folded, reread local newspaper on the scratched Formica and scrutinized every article for word of the overturned van. When the steamy plate arrived he had found no reference to the van.    MRS. LYNETTE CAMPBELL. THE LADY SOUNDED LIKE A DAMNED RELIABLE SOURCE ON THE PHONE. ALL THOSE COLLEGE DEGREES AND SAYING THAT SHE HAD SOMETHING ON HER COMPUTER CD. SHE EVEN WANTED MY ITINERARY, SAYING IT WAS CRITICAL I TALK WITH HER BEFORE I SAW RICHARD IN SAN LOUIS OBISPO. WELL, WHERE THE HELL IS THE VAN STORY, MRS. LYNETTE CAMPBELL?   " More coffee, sir?" The pink uniformed waitress held a glass pot of swishing dark coffee. Garrison nodded his head. She poured and looked at his hat before throwing a couple sealed cream containers on the counter. " Angels? You from L.A.?"   " Depends."   " Oh?"   " I left town: Armed robbery."   She held the pot, but did not look sure if he was serious as she smiled and quickly backed away. HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE, ROY. NOW YOU'VE GOT TO START THE BULLSHIT WITH STRANGERS. He went back to the paper, chewed up his food like a high speed grinding machine but found nothing until he came to the obit page. Then he sipped the bitter coffee, added another cream and sugar, and ran his finger over the death notice of a guy named Grover Moses. DIED FROM A SUDDEN VIRAL ONSLAUGHT  Garrison tore around the write up and raised his brows before stuffing the paper in his shirt pocket. The waitress returned but kept her distance as she rattled off the desert selection. Garrison ordered the tapioca pudding with whipped cream and nuts. He nixed any thoughts about asking her for directions to the Campbell place.   " Excuse me, I'm looking for the Campbell place." The old man next to him, a few days beard growth now stubble on his pasty face, squinted. Then he just stared. " The Campbell place. I have an address of Rawley Road West."   The old man shook his head. " Yeah, cross town. Left at the 76 station. About a mile in." 3

Green Haze Robert P. Fitton     Garrison held the coffee cup. " You hear anything about a van over turning out here the other night?"   " Rumors.."   " Yeah?"   " Nobody seen no van cept Grover."   NOBODY CEPT GROVER. ALL RIGHT, HERE YOU GO, ROY. THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE BIG STORY THAT'S GONNA BAIL YOU OUT. BIG BAD GROVER SAW THE VAN AND NOW BIG BAD GROVER HAS DIED OF SOME MYSTERIOUS, SUDDEN...     " Grover's dead."   " You tell me, Mister."   Garrison nodded as the waitress brought the green clear bowl full of tapioca and whipped cream. There was a single cherry on top, pierced with a toothpick. He pushed his cold spoon into the whipped cream and tasted the cherry sweetness first. " Grover Moses, right?"   " You gotta be a reporter. Yup. You gotta."   Garrison laughed again as he popped the cherry between his teeth. It was both sweet and bitter. " Yeah, yeah, it was Grover Moses. And he died of the plague, right?"  " Hey I ain't no scientist." He pushed his plate forward, pulled out a wrinkled five-dollar bill and placed it under the corner. Then he stood, looked down at Garrison and pointed. " This here is a mighty small town, mister. If a van tipped over, there damned well would have been somebody who saw it..."   Garrison finished the tapioca but watched the guy all the way out to his truck under the glowing neon sign. That old man just made the most valid point he had heard thus far. With all the open space and the tiny town population, why did only Grover Moses see that van? He wiped his faced with the paper napkin. Was this a fluke or was he onto something up in this little nowhere town? 4

Green Haze Robert P. Fitton       2       The old man's directions were perfect. Garrison turned at the illuminated orange and blue 76 station sign and headed along a narrow, half paved road to the north. No street lights were out here, but his headlights bounced across the rocky valley floor ahead. The weathered board fences led directly to a long, metal cross cut gate, which had to be opened manually. The smooth rock and wood post house was built on two levels up the hill. There were a number of expensive cars parked near the barn out front.   Garrison cut the motor and got out quickly. The air was cold and silent as he crossed the barnyard to the wide farmer's porch, protruding from the stone facade. A single porch light was left burning. He had told these people he might first go to his brother's San Louis Obispo house, but Richard was busy at his restaurant. Mrs. Campbell was surprised when he called two hours ago and said he was popping in. Discre-pancies came out when people were caught off guard. This was one story Hobson would demand he get right.   He thought about returning to the car for his jacket, but opted to cross the porch planks to the wood door. The quietness bothered him as he looked back toward the MG and the barn. He turned, lifted the heavy eagle brass knocker and banged the tarnished striking plate several times.   Half a minute later, a thin man in a red plaid shirt answered the door. He had a kind face, big brown eyes and a look of recognition. " You, Garrison?"   " I am he..."   " Ed Campbell. Come on in, my wife's been waiting for you. We thought you were going to San Louis Obispo first."   Garrison had to think, as he stepped into glossy, varnished log foyer, whether this was the beginning of an important story or just another excursion to a small town with large imaginations. The place smelled like cedar chips. " Nice house you have here, Mr. Campbell. What do you do?" 5

Green Haze Robert P. Fitton      " I work for the railroad. My wife is a lawyer here in town. Handles all the hard luck cases you might say."   Mrs. Campbell appeared in the knotty pine dining room to the left. She was a tall woman with permed brown hair and wore a denim shirt and jeans, a thick silver necklace. Garrison figured she was forty, younger than Campbell and still attractive. She had a soothing smile as she walked around a long family style pine table.   Garrison felt as if he should take off his cap. She extended her thin hand and her green eyes became intense. " Mr. Garrison, I had thought you-"   " Would be in San Louis Obispo. My brother got tied up."   " Then we'll give him another copy," said Ed and she nodded.   " Copy of what?"   " Not important now. See, I think time is of the essence. I haven't called you up here, away from you job and your home, because of a frivolous accusation."   " Got me off the hook from my creditors."   " What was that?" she asked.   " Nothing. Just a personal thing."   " Most of the press people I've called have written me off as a prankster. A left wing nut lawyer who defends the dredges of society."   " Credibility problem."   " Maybe." She motioned him into the dining room. A teenage boy with headphones dangling to a CD player asked her something and then left. Garrison handed her his card, containing all his relevant phone numbers.   She looked down the handwritten numbers and nodded. They sat down in the dimly lit room. On the wall was a huge map of the area and a large green arrow pointing to an area outside of town. " We have a problem, Mr. Garrison. A man in this town died of Viral Endoplasmic Disease. We had some people from the CDC fly in from Georgia."   " I talked to them."   " Cover-up." said Campbell.   " You think so?" asked Garrison.   6

Green Haze Robert P. Fitton       Mrs. Campbell half-closed her eyes and pushed her thin lips together. This woman looked as if she was under pressure. She moved her head slowly from side to side, veered over to the map and extended her index finger onto the arrow. " There was a van that tipped over right here. At two-thirty am, April 15. The one witness who saw it is dead."   Garrison raised his thick brows. " I read that-"   " He died of Viral Endoplasmic disease!"   " You're talking about Grover, right?"   " Yes. Grover Moses."   " The CDC said there was nothing to suggest that VED out there," said Garrison.   " Somebody's pressuring them," said Ed.   Garrison moved the chair back, stood and walked over to the map. The arrow pointed at a flat area with no houses or buildings. He aligned his thumb and index finger to the scale of miles and set them on the map. This spot was six and a half miles out of town. " Okay, I'm game. Prove this thing to me, you're a lawyer."   She looked at her husband. Up close, the tension was visible across her pudgy cheeks. " Moses saw the overturned truck when he was coming back from work. There's a borax facility sixteen miles up the highway. He left work at two. He spotted the van and got out. There was a man standing with an AK-47 who warned him very calmly to stay away. He used the words, ` It's too late for me. Don't you get it...'"   Garrison was not sure that Moses had told her the truth. " Then what happened to the van, Mrs. Campbell?"   Her eyes opened and her hands moved around as she spoke. Garrison noticed she was breathing rapidly. " Grover naturally complied. He went back to his car and drove on. But as he passed the overturned truck, he noticed something in the rear view mirror."   " What?"   " Military vehicles. Two of them. So he stops. He sees these guys dressed in white plastic leap out of the trucks. They shoot the first guy with the AK-47 and load his body on the truck. They spray something and then surround the whole thing with a massive plastic tent." 7

Green Haze Robert P. Fitton   Garrison was beginning to doubt the story. Her shaking hands and twitchy right eye made him suspicious. He sat down at the table again as she continued. " They begin taking wrapped canisters out of the plastic tent and brought them inside the first truck."   Campbell leaned to Garrison and tapped his arm. " This is the incredible thing."   Garrison nodded and looked back at Mrs. Campbell.   " Then they spray the tarp and the van again with some kind of aerosol. Grover wasn't sure. He told me they removed the tarp, put it in the truck. Then the second truck moves the van inside. They close up the tractor-trailer and leave the way they came. What do you think of that, Mr. Garrison?"   " Well, I don't know what the hell to think. If CDC came in here and went out there..."   " Yes, they would find nothing as far as the VED. But I've had the charred remains tested. There are traces of Mortoxin, a highly deadly chemical. "   " Then tell them."   " They want disease, they don't want chemicals."   Garrison sat again, propping his elbows up on the pine table. He tightened the crow's feet around his eyes and pushed his bottom lip into his teeth. " But he died of VED, correct?"   Mrs. Campbell, her presentation over, sat down. She nodded her head, leaned back in the creaky chair and exhaled. " You don't under-stand, Mr. Garrison. We have other proof that can undermine everything CDC is saying."   " I understand."   " You don't believe it, do you?"   " Well, it sounds plausible. What I require is that proof. You have one dead witness and secondly, why would some van be carrying VED along the highway?"   8

Green Haze Robert P. Fitton   " Obviously, it was the military. Moses saw the military trucks. They cleaned it up and got out." She stood and pushed her fingers back through her curly hair. " Listen, that's the story. If you don't want to look into it. Then don't. I've said my piece."   " I didn't say I didn't want to look into it, Mrs. Campbell. I just said I need the proof. I can't go writing off on a tangent without proof."   " Yes, I know."   She looked at her husband and he turned to Garrison. " Mr. Garrison, I'm a railroad man. I've got ten more years and I collect my pension. I'm the last guy who wants to open this can of worms."   Garrison wanted a cigarette.   Mrs. Campbell looked Garrison in the eye. " What I've accumulat-ed is on my computer. It is significant enough to get you going in the right direction."   " Let me get my tape recorder," said Garrison.   Mrs. Campbell's face was tense. " Okay, get your recorder, Mr. Garrison. I thought you had a computer."   " Back in my office I do." He looked at them standing before a huge rock fireplace before he returned to the car. " I intend to go forward with this story if I have proof, but..."   " But?" asked Campbell.   " But I have to be sure of what I'm doing. A van tips over, maybe a military van. VED is spread into the desert near a town. Somebody's going to elaborate lengths to cover this up."   Lynette nodded. " Oh, I know that very well."   " Okay, let me get my recorder. Just don't expect things to be printed in my column until I'm damned sure of what I'm doing."   " Mr. Garrison, you'll have a copy of-"   " I'll be right back."   9  Home Page Unimited Annual Access to all Fitton e-books and PODCAST Episodes $ 6.99 © 2000 - 2007 Fitton Books. All rights reserved.   .

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Kron Man Robert P. Fitton       Kron Man RX-7  1     Kron wondered if they would shoot at him again tonight. He remembered nothing of his past and his future was uncertain. His life began last night, as if he were turning on a TV set, when three casually dressed guys fired at him along a downtown Camden Bay sidewalk. A plethora of unknown entities popped into his head as he was pursued: the name Leiberman, a placed named Jefferson, and something called RX-7. Somehow he got back to his van. He spun the vehicle onto the Lakeland Expressway and continuously whispered the name of the President of the United States. His destination was his apartment on Eisenhower Ave. The long brick building, bordered with thick evergreens, did not look familiar, yet the silver key on his ring fit into apartment sixteen's lock. Once inside he checked the phone book for RX-7 and located a hundred and sixteen Leibermans. By Friday morning he still could not recall his past, but one image floated occasionally through his thoughts. It was a tunnel, ceiling and walls punctuated within a symmetrical arc of white beveled indentations. Center in this tunnel a rich, glowing aqua field was surrounded by a dark void to walls, and bisected by a line of red blocks extending to a luminescent red dome down the end of the white, waffled tunnel.   More relevant was the employment ID in his wallet, prompting him to report to work at Data Star. His job involved picking orders from long rows of brown metal warehouse stacks. The supervisor and workers knew him, but his recollections were wiped clean. He slowed the electric cart next to one of the towering stacks. In the fluorescent light he swept the red laser against the bar code and dredged up nebulous feelings from a time he could not remember. He folded his 1

Kron Man Robert P. Fiton    Dave stopped his cart in the aisle behind the boxes. Kron fought the intense anxiety about running for his life from the armed three men. " Kron, you going to break the quota record again? Three hundred and fifteen boxes." Kron's brow creased. He was more concerned about calling New York City again and questioning people at the Graybar Apartments, his last residence according to the rental form from Eisenhower Ave.. " Hel-lo? Kron, you over there, pal?"   " The record stands, Dave."   " I thought you were a competitor." Dave moved the cart forward and around the corner.   " I retired." Kron sat on the cart boxes and crossed his elbows on his jeans. His brain functioned, but his past was gone. Maybe a comprehensive scan would determine whether his head was injured. A head injury could account for him not recalling his childhood nor an adult life, yet, he believed someone had erased his memories and constructed a fictitious past on his employment and housing applications. Why were those guys trying to kill him?   " Kron, you all right?" asked the supervisor. Kron quickly stood, ran the red laser pen over the next box's code, and hoisted up the box. " I'm okay, Mike."   The burly, mustached Mike wore a stained maroon hooded sweatshirt. He handed Kron a wrinkled sheet of thermal paper. " Here's the fax from the last employer you listed on the ap. Hey, buddy, I ain't gonna say nothin' to nobody, but hell, the place ain't there. Neither is the other place it says you worked at a year ago."   Kron studied the faxes. " Great. Just call me nowhere man."   " You in trouble?"   " Who me? Trouble?" he asked, smiling. " I didn't list anything about a place called Jefferson on any paperwork, did I?"   2

Kron Man Robert P. Fitton     rms across his blue-checkered shirt and tried to understand why he had no memory before last night. Records showed he started this warehouse job on Monday morning, exactly five days ago, and moved into his furnished apartment at the same time. The hum of another cart grew louder and he turned. " Nope." " Great&ldots; I need a break, Mike."   " Sure. Go take a break."   " Thanks, and maybe I'll remember who the hell I am." His heart briskly beat beneath his checkered shirt. " The man with no brain. Has a certain ring to it."   Mike gave him a tap on the shoulder. " You do what you have to do, Kron."   Kron loaded the box on the cart stack. He pushed his boot into the floor pedal as Mike headed up front, the cart's electric motor whined, and he drove erratically up the warehouse aisle toward the docking bays. Fresh air leaked in from the bright border around the trucks. He made a wide loop, backed the cart in and dropped the pallet in front of a docked tractor-trailer. The wheels spun as he disengaged from the pallet and pulled across the concrete. He foraged his brain for any inkling of his past as he parked the cart next to the break room door.   He entered the smoke laden room. A few of the pony tailed women holding Styrofoam coffee cups at the lunch room tables giggled when they saw him pass by. He opened the men's room door, faced the mirror and gazed into his intense green eyes. His thick blonde hair outlined a ruddy face.  A radio newscast played through the ceiling speakers. "&ldots; of this visit. Mayor Richard Ames, although not of the same party as the president, said he looked with great anticipation to the presidential visit to Camden Bay next Tuesday."   " Richardson," said Kron in a low voice. Mayor Ames had a smooth clear voice. " Well, Democrats are always welcome in Camden Bay, provided they don't take up permanent residence." The mayor chuckled. " Seriously, this city has a lot to offer and the president has a lot to offer. We look forward to having him."   " The president will address a late afternoon rally from the philharmonic shell in Heritage Park in the financial district.   In other news&ldots;" " Richardson. President Aaron J. Richardson. And Leiberman, who is Leiberman? And what about you, Kron? What's the mystery? Who are you?" He pulled his black wallet from his jeans pocket and slid his license from the plastic folder. 3

Kron Man Robert P. Fitton     Randy M. Kron   1362 Eisenhower Ave.   Eisenhower Apartments # 16   Camden Bay, IL     Distant beeps reverberated in his head. He gripped the sink as every nerve ending in his body pushed outward. His innate strength and mental agility increased with prodigious power from an unknown source. Numbers rolled on a computerized screen, bordered with a thin blue neon line just few feet away. A few seconds ago his eyes were green, but now were inverted almond in shape and strewn with continuous thin blue charges like electricity spinning from a fallen wire during a storm. His biceps, skin now tinted a matted white, tore through his shirtsleeves as the beeps intensified, and his body muscles burst against his clothing. He abruptly turned, ripped the basin from the counter and it crashed against the tiled floor. The beeps faded and a man's annoying telephone voice penetrated his thoughts. " Hey, Pappy, you there?"   " Who is this?" asked Kron as he stared at the cracked sink.   " Who the hell is this?" asked the man.   " Kron." A colorful relief map of Camden Bay flipped into the screen's lower corner. He moved his hand, but nothing was there. " Oh, boy&ldots;"   " Kron? Where the hell is Pappy?"   A flashing red dot moved west down the green line depicting Interstate 45 along Lake Van Buren near Braden Springs. " How can this be? Who is this?"   " Eddie Conover. I'm a PI and I gut a client almost murdered this afternoon&ldots; Don't screw with me, Pappy. I dialed the right friggin' number. It's on the LCD. I knew this phone was bogus."   Kron marveled at his own extraterrestrial appearance in the mirror. His facial bones narrowed into a long smooth white skinned countenance, with a tiny mouth, no nose, and his eyes still vibrated with the blue charges traversing a moist, black medium. His hair had vanished under a white conical skull. He tensed his wide hands. " How did you call me?"   4

Kron Man Robert P. Fitton      " Screw you." The line went out, but the red dot flashed on Interstate 45.   Kron's dark eyes could scan far away objects outside the bathroom window and he had grown half a foot. His transformed appearance sent chills through his massive frame. He abruptly spun and smashed open the men's room door, loosening the top chrome hinge when the door hit the wall tiles. With the fury of a hurricane he rushed by the gray punch clock, but slowed, and carefully pushed open the outside glass door.   The computer screen remained bright as he ran across the asphalt to his van. Numbers and readings he did not understand rolled constantly on the bottom. He took out his keys and opened the van door. His thick trunk arms and bulging chest barely fit through the doorframe, and his hands were like two huge white mitts on the wheel. He had no explanation why his metabolism had thun-dered out of control.   He concen-trated on the flashing highway dot as he backed the van around Data Star's parking lot and the phone line inside his head rang a second time. " This is impossible."   " Eddie Conover."   " You?"   " Who the hell is this? Is that you, Pappy, bein' a wise-ass?"   " This is Kron... How did you do this?"   Do what? Whaddya talkin' about? Look, buddy, I misdialed. What is that a crime now?"   The forward screen in Kron's mind now formed a black bordered, schematic box around the road and provided him with driving information. " Some kind of transformation has taken place..." He smiled broadly in the mirror. His teeth were smaller and whiter. " This is incredi-ble! Who am I?"   " If you don't know who you are, I sure as hell don't know who you are. Good bye, Kokomo."   5

Kron Man Robert P. Fitton   " No, Randy Kron," he said as the line went dead again. The screen detailed the closing distance to the eighteen-wheeler just ahead. He tapped the brake. Again the diagram of Eddie's position materialized on his readout screen. " I wonder how far this guy is from me."   Kron's own coordinates blinked blue. The white digits indicated he was only four miles away from Eddie. He and sped up Interstate 45's ramp. When he thought about Eddie, an actual picture of a dark eyed, thin-faced man with black greasy hair came into focus. Eddie Conover was forty-one years old, was a private investigator for eleven years and had left Chicago after high school. Five other pages listed everything about the guy down to his school grades. " Wow."   As he looked into his electric eyes, an image of the fluffy, gray haired President Richardson filtered into his thoughts again. He shook his head.   " Why am I thinking of the president?"   Red composite buttons formed on the screen, designating the president's activities for the day, a live feed from Richardson's speech in New York, and several articles alluding to the president's trip to Camden Bay next week. Kron chose not to open the files and the screen again scanned the thickening traffic flow on the highway. He again marveled at himself in the mirror. " Who are you, Randy Kron?"             6

Kron Man Robert P. Fitton    2      The lime green sports car raced down the fast lane outside Braden Springs, and the image zoomed closer when Kron tightened his eyes. He smiled when he saw Eddie's cigarette hanging from his mouth in the side mirror. Kron pushed the accelerator and watched the green screen digits count down the space between the vehicles. He concentrated and the phone line rang. Eddie reached under the dash and pulled out a white cell phone. " Eddie Conover."   " Look in your mirror." Eddie squinted over his shoulder. Kron pulled within ten feet of the car. " Hey, you turkey!"   " How are you able to call into my thoughts, Eddie?"   " Thoughts? Whaddaya nuts?" Eddie looked at the phone. " Hey, this ain't my phone anyways."   " Who's phone is it?"   " Look, I wuz at the doctor's office. Well, the clinic. See, I gut this hernia. Keeps actin' up." Kron nudged his bumper and Eddie swerved on the highway. " You're gonna get us killed, you dumb bastard!"   " Pull over."   " I need to get to Alpine Memorial."   " What?" asked Kron.   " The hospital, you dummy. My client was almost killed, I tell ya."   " Pull over, Eddie."   " Yes, sir." He saluted and whipped across the lanes without looking, just missing an accelerating pickup as he veered into the breakdown lane. Kron was cautious because of the traffic pattern on his forward screen. He slowed the van once a few cars had passed and gently followed the little car into the side lane. Eddie remained inside as if he were getting a speeding ticket.   7

Kron Man Robert P. Fitton     Kron squeezed through the van's doorframe. A warning buzzer sounded in his head and the screen alerted him to a truck approaching from behind at eighty-seven point nine miles per hour. Instinctively, he leaped upward, surprising himself as he rose fifty feet into the air. The rumbling truck and stream of air passed below and continued down the highway. He stared at Lake Van Buren's blue horizon and floated effortlessly back to the asphalt.   Eddie sprang from the car and pointed with his cigarette in hand. " Heeby, heeby, heeby! How did you do that, Kron-man?"   " Good question," answered Kron. He chuckled, bent his legs and thrust up again. He ascended above the highway embankment grass and hovered near the off ramp. From several dozen feet up he surveyed the van, the sports car, and Eddie gawking.   " Get down before somebody sees you," yelled Eddie. " I ain't never seen nothin' like this! How the... how can you fly?" Kron slowly descended into the breakdown lane. " I can fly. I wonder how high I can go?"   " You gut buzzing eyes. I'm havin' a psychotic flashback."   " I think you mean psychedelic." " Huh?." Eddie looked as if he was going to throw up. " Hey, listen, Kron. I don't know how you did what you did, but, ah, we can make money: big money&ldots;"   " I don't care about money."   " You're shittin' me." He checked his watch. " I ain't neva seen nothin' like this. You're from another planet, Kokomo. There's an invasion, right? We're all gonna be killed! Man, figures just when I get a case."   " My body just changed. I'm not from another planet."   " I tell ya, we can make big money."   " Let's have answers, Eddie. How did you get inside my head with that phone?"   Eddie removed the white phone from his pants pocket and looked up. " I told ya. This ain't my phone. I musta picked it up in the clinic I go to near the bay. You're one scary dude."   On the Kron's screen, Eddie's heart rate increased and other readings showed he was sweating. Red letters flashed every few seconds.   8

Kron Man Robert P. Fitton   FALSEHOOD PROBABILITY 89%     " You're lying, Eddie. You stole it."   " Whaddaya a mind reader on top of ya other talents?" He handed the phone to Kron.  It looked the no different than a conventional miniaturized, cell phone, but white with a LCD readout screen. " There has to be some kind of chip in this phone for the signal to come inside my head."   " Stop with the head. Nobody gets calls in their head, dummy."   " I did."   " Yeah, right. Hey, keep the phone. I gutta get to my client in the hospital. This broad's father has a ton of dough and is connected to the mayor. I can smell the money comin' my way. " Eddie flipped a bright red card with gold embossed writing and his picture on it. It looked more like an entertainer's card. He turned toward the sports car, but Kron grabbed his arm and lifted him up.                 9  Home Page   Unimited Annual Access to all Fitton e-books and PODCAST Episodes $ 6.99 © 2000 - 2007 Fitton Books. All rights reserved.   .

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		Fitton's NEXUS Series. D.A. Jake McBride is now Marshall Jake McBride in the old west. District Attorney, Jake McBride watches as Butkis, a drug dealing killer, is released by the courts. Mr. Melbourne, proprietor of the Nexus House, whisks McBride back to the reality of the old American West, where the drug dealer is involved in a railroad gold heist. But McBride, now a frontier sheriff, only knows the old west reality, and in a life and death situation, struggles to bring Butkis to justice.

Nexus Series: Fool's Gold Robert P. Fitton   Nexus Series Fool's Gold   1     It was a time when liars were heroes and killers walked free. Jake McBride splashed cold water over his tired face and looked into the smudged men's room mirror. At twenty-seven years old he was about to lose his first case as District Attorney. The deranged legal system was favoring a man who had ruthlessly gunned down a young police officer. Judge MacKenzie had no choice other than enforcing the law and getting Butkis off on a technicality. The six week trial had left McBride haggard. Circles ringed his blue, bloodshot eyes and the dark beard stubble was embarrassing. He cupped his hands and doused his face again.   " Butkis is a damned killer, what kind of justice is that?"   " There is no justice."   Jake had seen no one inside the courthouse restroom. He shut off the tap and walked around the painted blue stalls. Next to the wall hoppers a darkened corridor leading to a hazy light source had formed within the tiles and chipped plaster. A bearded, rotund man in a brown, vested tweed suit stood firmly at the corridor's edge and held a gold pocket watch in his pudgy hand. " Who the hell are you?" The man produced a quixotic smile and his azure eyes gleamed. " And why is there a corridor in the men's room? "   " Why not?"   " I didn't see any corridor here."   " Then you were not looking, sir. "   " I repeat my question: Who the hell are you?"   " I am Mr. Melbourne."     1

Nexus Series: Fool's Gold Robert P. Fitton     " Okay." Jake laughed and shook his head. " I've finally cracked. Two and a half years, a perfect record... Now I lose my first case and I start hallucinating"   Melbourne's voice had a credible smoothness, laced with great emotion, " I assure you, Jake, what you are seeing is real. I apologize if I have startled you. I know you're under tremendous pressure."   " How would you know anything about me? And how do you show up in the men's room? Come on..."   " You've gone through hell and Dunbar's family has gone through hell. Letting Butkis off isn't right."   Jake gestured toward the corridor. " MacKenzie has no choice."   " Not in this reality."   " He has no choice and Sam Turner knows it. Turner makes his living getting people out of tricky legal situations. And Butkis has the drug money to pay him... Listen, I have to get back upstairs and then I'm calling a shrink."   Melbourne tucked his watch into his vest pocket. He squinted and pressed his lips together before he spoke. " I understand your misapprehension... I want to offer you a deal."   " Plea bargain, eh? Sure... Sure. Why not? "   " I've been watching you from the shadows of your life. I know the intensity of your commitment to the truth, your integrity and your quest for justice. What will happen in MacKenzie's courtroom in the next half hour is not justice. I can assure you that."   Jake's hand hit something solid, yet transparent, blocking the hallway.   " Have I lost my mind?"  " Not at all. You have to appreciate I cannot let you inside until you have accepted my terms. Please forgive my suddenness and my intrusiveness."   Jake smiled again and tightened his tie. " I'm getting out of here. I have to get back to court for the sentencing."   " Wait! I can arrange for you to bring Butkis to justice."   2

Nexus Series: Fool's Gold Robert P. Fitton       Jake faced Melbourne back in his corridor. " In case you hadn't noticed, I'm an officer of the law not a vigilante."   " You're a man who wants justice. I have the ability to bring people into situations where, using their own abilities, they can seek the justice not offered in this life."   " I am losing my mind. Good-bye, Mr. Melbourne."   Jake spun on the slippery men's room floor and stormed past the white ceramic sinks. The corridor chatter and confusion overtook him when he opened the wire mesh door. The reporters waiting in the rotunda turned in unison and descended upon him. A plethora of microphones were stuck in his face. " Jake, any chance the judge will change his mind.?"   " No comment."   " Do you think this is fair?" asked Cara Connolly from Channel Eight.   Jake looked back toward the men's room door. Melbourne's image was implanted in his mind and his words bounced around his brain. " No, Cara, I don't think this is fair."   " Can we quote you on that?" she asked, pencil in hand and ready to inscribe his words onto paper.   " After we're done upstairs." Jake veered left up the spiraling staircase to a rotunda with a mosaic floor. Around the rim, white marble Greek statues stood like guardians outside Hades and huge murals from American history led to the varnished courtroom doors. His chief investigator put out a cigarette and shook his disheveled gray hair as Jake ap-proached. Jake looked into his angry dark eyes. " Nothing we can do about it, Alby. "   " The guy is a low life scum, Jake. All I keep hearing is about his rights. What about Dunbar? Guy has a wife and kids. He just happened to answer the wrong dispatch."   Jake bit his lower lip. The sunlight pierced the open Venetian blinds and cut across the spacious courtroom. Judge MacKenzie's empty bench, bordered by huge fluted white pillars, hovered over the shiny defense table twenty feet away. Butkis was not yet back in the room, but his leather clad girl-friend stretched out in the seats behind the defendant's table. Her long, perfectly formed legs extended toward Jake and the deep scent of Pizzazz perfume surrounded the area. She had the sly look of a cheap street walking slut. " You lost the big one, Jakey."   3

Nexus Series: Fool's Gold Robert P. Fitton       Jake looked at her tight silk blouse and leather skirt. " He'll be back in court. You know that, Pam. You best just stay away from him before you get yourself into any more trouble."   Some part of him regretted sleeping with her. Her mascara brushed green eyes cast a seductive lure Jake still found arousing and she spoke in a low direct voice . " You call me... Mr. District Attorney."   Alby pushed Jake along to the prosecutor's table and his young assistants, glum faced and silent, looked over to him. He pursed his lips and said nothing. Letting them down was another aspect of this travesty. The side door popped and the bailiffs brought Butkis into the courtroom. A wide smile covered his wide grubby face and his dark eyes focused on Jake. He puckered and sent a kiss in Jake's direction. A pewter cross earring swung from his ear above a clump of sinewy dark hair, dangling down his neck. Jake read his lips. " You're a loser, McBride."   " Son of a bitch," Jake replied, continuing the silent dialogue.  Butkis tilted back his head and laughed. Even Sam Turner, his silver haired lawyer, a man about to launch a campaign for mayor, had a grin on his face. The chamber doors opened and everyone stood when the tall and lean Judge MacKenzie was announced. Jake heard the gavel but his mind was set on the Dunbar's autopsy photos. Dunbar had died in the line of duty. His wife and kids had already left the court. Jake looked over at Bart Bowers, the FBI agent involved in tracking Butkis' drug activities. Bowers grit his teeth, shook his bald head and folded his arms tightly over his vested suit.   MacKenzie's constrained voice pronounced Butkis the victim because of an illegal search of evidence. Jake knew Ernie MacKenzie did not relish sending criminals back to the street. Bowers stood and marched like a military man from the courtroom. The judge's gray eyes moistened as the FBI agent exited the rear doors. Jake and Bowers had eleven witnesses and a cruiser surveillance camera. Yet, Butkis was free.     4

Nexus Series: Fool's Gold Robert P. Fitton       2     Jake swung the racket and sent the little black ball careening off the wall. Jim Coltraine blasted it back. Jake cocked his arm quickly and missed. He closed his eyes. A week after Butkis' acquittal and the anguish only intensified. His game was off. Coltraine picked up the ball and faced him. " You all right, Jake?"   " I'd like to say I'm all right." He looked into Coltraine's sharp brown eyes. " What do you do when somebody like Butkis is free after committing murder? I don't know what to compare it to. Would be like someone refused to pay the bill at your restaurant and it was sanctioned by the courts."   " Except it was murder." Coltraine squeezed the black ball with his left hand. " I think you have to let time take care of it."   " Time, come on... Problem is, I'm never going to get over this."   " You will." He dropped the ball onto the wood court. " What about Pam, she keep calling you?"   " Getting involved with her was a mistake. She swore she hadn't seen Butkis in months."   Coltraine stroked his heavy handlebar mustache. " Woman is poison. I wouldn't believe anything she says."   " You have no idea what that woman can do."   Coltraine nodded and raised his brows. He put his hand on Jake's shoulder. " You want another game?"   " I may hit the showers," said Jake and he rubbed his eyes.   " I'm going to get a little more exercise. I'll join you in a few minutes"   " Good. Let's stop by the restaurant later and have a drink."   " Sounds good to me." Coltraine bounced the ball and lobbed it forward.   5

Nexus Series: Fool's Gold Robert P. Fitton       " Don't worry, Jake. You'll straighten this thing out."   " We'll see..." He lowered his he