[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

There’s an accepted literary rule called Chekov’s gun. The rule is simple: if you include a detail in a story, it must serve the story.

If you have a pistol on a desk or a rifle hanging on the wall, that gun must play an important part in the story…otherwise, it should never be mentioned.

Rules in literature serve a purpose, but…many are arbitrary. Three-act structures and driving plot are not as common in some cultures as they are in Western literature. Ending a sentence with a preposition or beginning a sentence with a conjunction is not the end of the world. The introduction to one of the most famous television shows of all time splits an infinitive with, “Where no one has gone before…” (and also ends the famous line with a preposition). And even the staunchest supporter of “Show, don’t tell,” usually has sections of their stories where we’re told what happened, rather than being shown.

* * *

I mention rules because there are some things in “Godspeed, Crazy Mike,” people enjoy…that don’t serve the story. Detective Vandiver’s quirky love for sweepstakes is just that: a quirk. Nothing in the story hinges on it. And Detective Mule having Tourette syndrome doesn’t lead to unfolding clues in their case.

I am not one prone to gambling and other games of chance—I just thought it would be funny if many of the things Vandiver uses in his everyday life were won in contests.

Mule’s Tourette syndrome, however, is a bit more personal.

* * *

Somewhere around third grade, teachers told me to sit still. Like Detective Mule, by fifth grade, I had developed a series of physical and audible tics.

I hid it pretty well, and when I couldn’t, I hung out with a friend who struggled with Tourette syndrome more than I did. I likely blinked as much as him, but he carried the “Blinky” nickname while I was mostly ignored. He was called a “spaz” for his physical tics, while mine weren’t as apparent when standing beside him.

By junior high, we were two of the more picked-on kids in Carl Sandburg Junior High School.

* * *

I still deal with Tourette syndrome—just nothing like when I was younger. I’m lucky that it’s never negatively affected my life, unlike others who genuinely struggle through their days.

I’ve had people ask if something was wrong when I’ve had a hard to not giving into tics, but others are shunned and struggle to find work.

While there’s no literary reason for Detective Mule to have Tourette syndrome, I wanted to portray a character with the disorder…because some people have brown hair, and others have Tourette’s.

* * *

Last year, I released a story titled, “Calling Out of Time.” The story’s protagonist, Amir Nazari, walks with a cane. It could be presumed he was injured as a child in the housefire mentioned in the story, but it’s never explained. He’s just a guy who needs a cane to get around.

Disabled people are underrepresented in fiction. If they are present, many times, their disability is part of the story. Sometimes that’s great—a friend recently wrote a novel called Breathe and Count Back from Ten, about a girl with hip dysplasia who wants to become a mermaid. But other times, a disability is seen like Chekov’s Gun: if the story isn’t about the disability, why mention it?

The answer, for me, is because disabled people exist.

* * *

I’m sure there are some readers who scrutinize every little thing, but I’ve never heard people ask, “Does that character’s haircut serve the story? Why do they prefer clothing from that designer…is that part of the plot? What clues or symbolism are hidden in their favorite meal?”

But…if that same character is a wheelchair user, some question why the choice is made. “If it isn’t part of the story, why not just get rid of the wheelchair?”

For me—again—it’s because people who use wheelchairs exist. I’m not going to try telling the story of what it’s like to be a wheelchair user, because that’s a story better left in the hands of someone who knows, but all people deserve to be seen as more than a plot point.

* * *

I’m fortunate: Tourette syndrome never limited me much. Sure, it used to contribute to my existing shyness, but it was never a disorder I had to fight to overcome.

My old friend (whom I’m still in touch with today), struggled more than I did, but he’s received help—and now even educates people about the condition. And still, for others, it’s a disabling syndrome that leaves them isolated from much of society.

There’s no reason for Detective Beatrice Mule to have Tourette syndrome—it doesn’t reveal anything about the story. But people with Tourette syndrome exist; in fact, they’re often played off as a joke.

So why not portray Detective Mule as a cool person doing her job…who just happens to have a disorder many people don’t understand?

* * *

I think writers sometimes become so fixated on literary rules serving the story that they forget stories ultimately serve people.

And some people have only seen themselves reflected in stories as villains, oddities, or not represented at all. Those tropes and views are best left in the past.

Others have seen their disabilities played for sympathy, or portrayed as only being worthy of inclusion in stories if they somehow “overcome” their struggle and make others feel better about themselves.

But a person with a disorder or disability is so much more than just a literary device.

So…that’s why Detective Mule has Tourette syndrome, even though it’s not essential to the story; why Amir Nazari uses a cane; why Akara Mok walks with a limp; and why I’ll continue writing about people like them as I would any other person.

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In September, when Kenna Baynes happens upon a rare book in her university’s library, she finds marginalia on a page that leads her to…well, you’ll have to listen and find out.

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois…

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Godspeed, Crazy Mike” deals with murder, speculation of suicide, divorce (including a custody battle), fraud, theft, tobacco and alcohol use, and Tourette syndrome (I only mention this because, if you’re like me and have Tourette syndrome, one of the character’s tics might set off some of your tics; in fact, I’m having a hard time sitting still as I type this). Oh, and there is—of course—swearing. (But really: not that much this time around.)

Two things before we get going:

Thing One: I want to thank everyone who’s supporting the show through Patreon. If you want a full-access peek behind the scenes for as little as a dollar a month, go to Patreon.com/cgronlund. That’s Patreon.com/c g-r-o-n-l-u-n-d.

Thing Two: I want to mention a couple great artists you should check out…

Julia Lundman is a snazzy person and one of my favorite artists. She’s been a visual development artist and art director working in animation and video games, but has turned much of her artistic attention to personal illustration and painting. You can check out her art at julialundman.com and julialundmancommercial.com.

James S. Baker is also very snazzy—and a wonderful storyteller. He’s worked in animation since 1982; in fact, he’s likely done storyboards or been a story artist on some of your favorite Pixar features. If you go to james-baker.com and click the writing link, you’ll be treated to some great stories and art.

When I heard Julia and James were listening to Not About Lumberjacks stories while working together, I was floored. Having creative people I respect see something in the stories I tell—people who have helped bring some incredible stories to life, themselves—well…it was the little nudge I needed to see if there’s more potential in what I’m doing…

So, thank you, Julia and James! I’ll be sure to link their websites in the show notes for anyone who wants to see what they’re up to.

All right—let’s get to work…

Godspeed, Crazy Mike

Crazy Mike was found dead behind the maintenance barn, covered in rose pogonia and grass pink blossoms. His pale body lay in stark contrast to the bright flowers and lush grass serving as his final resting place. Were two horseflies not crawling across his face, one might think Crazy Mike decided to relax where prairie gave way to tamarack trees and buckbean; to leatherleaf, sphagnum moss, and cattails rocked by red-winged blackbirds and gentle summer breezes.

Mike’s eyes were open, looking skyward with a seeming purpose when his body was discovered by Sawyer Bog’s other grounds keeper, Wesley Moore. Wesley turned and looked up, trying to spot what Mike’s dead eyes were fixed upon. But the only things above were thick, puffy clouds that could turn into a June thunderstorm by late afternoon, or just knock the humidity up enough to make the day miserable.

“Ah, geez. Mike…”

Wesley reached into his pocket, grabbed his phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

* * *

Detective Gary Vandiver was eating a bowl of Cap’n Crunch when his phone rang.

“Vandiver—hello.” He leaned forward and grabbed a notebook and pen from his coffee table; opened it, and began writing. “Uh huh. Covered in flowers? All right. Yeah, got that. We’ll be there soon. Yeah…bye.”

He hung up and made a call.

“Good morning, Beatrice—looks like our day is starting earlier than planned. Got a body—male—out at Sawyer Bog. Nah, not in it…behind a barn, I guess. Sounds like a suicide, but he’s covered in flowers. Well, petals, I guess. Sounds like it, yeah. I’ll be by in a few. Yeah, the Miata. They need us up there, now. Station’s down and back and out of the way. Come on, it’s a great car. What do you mean, I’m a good driver…”

* * *

Gary Vandiver looked more like an eighth-grade science teacher than a homicide detective. His glasses were long out of style, if they were ever in style at all—even in the 70s when large frames were all the rage. The lines on his face were reserved for someone in their sixties, or for someone who chain-smoked unfiltered Lucky Strikes, but Gary had never even tried a cigarette, and he was only forty-nine. Ever the consummate bachelor, a home-cooked dinner consisted of a leftover slice of pizza warmed in the microwave, or his favorite: Chef Boyardee Ravioli straight out of the can. Cereal was deemed a fit meal any time of the day. The one place where he broke away from the stereotyped detective seemingly reserved for television and cheap paperbacks was a love for sweepstakes.

He bought magazines he never read, believing their purchase bettered his odds at winning the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. He sat through the spiels of vacuum salesmen to see what guaranteed free prize he might win: a large screen TV, a free cruise to an exotic location, or a cheap ratchet set. Vandiver never won the TV—he still watched everything on a 19” color set he won as a teenager in a church raffle. He’d never set foot on a boat—the most exotic place he’d visited was a camp in Minnesota as a kid. But if you needed a bolt tightened or an ever-elusive 10mm socket, he was your man. People at the station teased him about his love for contests, but he had a 2004 Mazdaspeed MX-5 Miata to prove their worth.

Vandiver won the car at a movie theater when he went to see Mystic River after the crowds died down. The Miata was in the theater lobby…all he had to do was fill out a card with his contact information, drop it in the car’s barely-open window, and he was entered in the drawing. While he was rail thin, Vandiver couldn’t imagine his six-foot-eight height finding any harmony with such a small vehicle. His plan, if he won, was to sell the tiny car and pocket the cash—maybe put a little into his beloved 1989 Buick Regal, which he won fifteen years prior in a drawing at an all-you-can-eat steakhouse in Chicago. But the Buick died the day after he received notice he’d won a new car, and the Miata became his daily driver.

* * *

“It’s not that you’re a bad driver,” Vandiver’s partner, Beatrice Mule said on their way to the bog. “It’s just…this car is way too small for you. Every time you turn, you bump your knees on the steering wheel. It’s like a Shriner car—you can barely work the pedals. And these damn cup holders always open at the slightest touch, and I bang my elbows on them. I don’t see how you can be comfortable in this thing, even with the top down so you have head room.”

“This car is now a classic, Bea,” Vandiver said at a stop sign. When he turned left, his leg bumped the steering wheel, almost sending them off the road. “There are people who say this is the Miata of Miatas.”

 “I’m not saying it’s a bad car, Gare. I’m just saying it’s a bad car for you.”

From the moment of her conception, the world was placed before Beatrice Mule. Born into improbable affluence, anything she wanted growing up was hers. To her parents’ chagrin, she spent much of her time holed up in her bedroom watching cop shows on TV instead of establishing and expanding her social circles. Her father was ecstatic when she informed him she planned to attend The Law School at The University of Chicago, but disappointed to discover her intent to study criminal law and procedure—not something he deemed more prestigious and lucrative. Brilliant and beautiful, most people who met Beatrice were astonished to discover she was a homicide detective and not a model or actress. New officers and detectives at the Lake County Sheriff’s Office assumed she was paired with Vandiver because no one could imagine him making an advance on anyone, but she required protection from no one. She was paired with Vandiver because he was the only one in the office not intimidated by her presence.

As they neared the bog, Mule cleared her throat. Vandiver glanced over in time to see her crinkle her forehead enough to touch her brow to the top of her sunglasses.

“Something bothering you, Bea?”

She pursed her lips and said, “Just…you know.”

“New case?”

“New case.”

Somewhere around third grade, Beatrice Mule couldn’t fight the urge to move. Teachers telling her to remain still in her desk only made it worse, and by fifth grade, a series of physical tics developed. Losing herself in things she loved helped hold it back, but some days she couldn’t defeat the urge to jerk her head or left shoulder until getting the perfect feeling that satisfied her enough to stop for a bit. She annoyed people in the office with a soft whistle as she sucked air in between her lips, and sometimes she could only stop the tendencies by vibrating her tongue against the back of her upper teeth. Every action had to be just right to complete the cycle, but the throat clearing was almost constant. Vandiver learned early on in their partnership that Tourette syndrome was not the explosions of “fucks” and “shits” portrayed in movies and jokes when he was battling a lingering cold. His throat clearing set off Beatrice, who explained to him there’d be times he’d just have to deal with her movements and sounds.

If nothing else, Vandiver and Mule understood personal habits and conditions—whether strange proclivities or physical tics—did not necessitate speculation in those they questioned. To succumb to rigid beliefs was not their style. In the end, only facts mattered.

* * *

It still amazed Detective Vandiver how quickly houses and shops gave way to old farms and orchards standing in defiance of northern Illinois’ development. One moment you could find yourself trapped in rampant construction designed to look like it was always there, which had the opposite effect of making it feel even more fabricated, and then reach a bend in the road where fields and trees stretched to the horizon. This was the Illinois he loved—remnants of Bradbury’s Green Town dotted across the land. Vandiver turned off the highway and enjoyed the slow ride along the winding road leading to Sawyer Bog. Detective Mule closed her eyes and savored the breeze blowing against her face.

“You know, something, Gare? This really is a good little car…”

Around another curve, the tranquil morning was interrupted by activity: cop cars filled the staff parking lot; a man in coveralls Vandiver assumed was the person who discovered the body chatted with members of the patrol division. It was hard to know if the cops were struck by Detective Mule’s beauty, or Vandiver struggling to unfold himself from the car like a wooden ruler. By the time Vandiver stretched to his full height and the blood returned to his legs, a cop walked up to him and said, “Ned Littleton.”

Vandiver shook his hand. “Detective Gary Vandiver and Detective Beatrice Mule.” The cop nodded at Mule. When he stopped looking at her, she ticced her head and shuffled her left shoulder up and down—back and forth.

“What do we have?” Vandiver said.

“Deceased male,” Officer Littleton said. “Approximately thirty-five. Found by his co-worker this morning.”

“Cause of death?” Mule said.

“Not sure. There was a note in his car. To his kids, it looks like. But he was behind the maintenance barn and garage.”

“They said there were flowers?” Vandiver said.

“Yeah. I’ll show you.”

* * *

Crazy Mike was flat on his back with his fingers intertwined, hands resting on his chest. The growing breeze had blown some of the flower blossoms into the grass beside him, but the body was covered in flowers.

“Somebody put in a bit of effort,” Mule said.

“Looks that way,” Vandiver said. He turned to Officer Littleton. “And the witness says he found him like this?’

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s go look at that note.”

* * *

Crazy Mike’s 2009 Hyundai Accent was parked in the garage next to the maintenance barn.

“Anybody look inside the car before we arrived?” Vandiver said.

“No. You can see the note on the dashboard through the windshield.”

The piece of paper seemed torn from a notebook. Vandiver craned his body forward and read to Mule.

“Everything’s all fucked up. I’m failing Jenny and Michael as a father. I’m tired of fighting for everything. Audrey won’t cut me a break. Every week, she’s pushing me more, and now she doesn’t want me seeing the kids. I can’t afford this fight, dammit. I’m so sick of this shit.”

He looked at Mule and said, “I’ll call to get Terrance out here to run surveys of the sites. Then we’ll talk with the guy who found the body.”

* * *

The man in the coveralls snubbed his cigarette out on the heel of his boot when he saw Vandiver and Mule walking his way. He put the butt in his pocket.

“Good morning,” Vandiver said.

“Morning.”

“I’m Detective Gary Vandiver. This is Detective Mule.”

“Wesley Moore.”

“Did Officer Littleton check your ID?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I understand you discovered the body and alerted us?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give us a rundown of your morning from the time you got here until the patrol division arrived?”

“Sure. I came in at my normal time—”

“What time was that?” Detective Mule readied her pen and notebook.

“I usually come in between six and seven. I guess today was right around six. I drove up and saw the garage was open and Crazy Mike’s car was inside.”

“Crazy Mike?” Mule said.

“That’s his nickname. Real name was Mike Konarski. K-O-N-A-R-S-K-I.”

“Why’d you call him Crazy Mike,” Vandiver said.

“He was always pulling pranks and bouncing around. Hyper. And always coming up with wild stories…just kinda like a big kid that never grew up. He introduced himself that way, so that’s what everyone called him.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mule said. “Just needed to get that down.”

Wesley looked at her after she reverse-whistled.

“Go on,” Vandiver said.

“I usually get here before Mike, so that was kinda weird. And his car was pulled in. We all usually park in the lot unless the weather’s bad. He always backed in, so I thought that was kinda weird, too.

“I parked right there,” Wesley said while pointing to an old pickup truck. “Got out and called his name, but nothing. Looked around the garage and barn, but didn’t see him. That’s when I went out behind the barn for a smoke and found him. Like I said, he was always pulling stuff, so I thought he came in early to mess with me. Just covering himself in flowers and acting dead. I was gonna kick him to get him up, but saw a couple flies on his face. Looked at him for a moment, and then called you. That’s it.”

“Did you see anyone else around?” Mule said.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t hear anyone?”

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Mr…” Vandiver looked at Mule’s notes. “Konarski?”

“Nah, no one.”

“The last time you saw him, did he act any differently or say anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not really. He wasn’t quite his usual self in the last week or so. He’s going through a custody thing with his kids and was really down about that. He was a good guy. Could be annoying as hell at times, but I felt for him.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Konarski?” Mule said.

“Friday. We’re the main maintenance crew. Monday through Friday.”

“Did you two talk about anything out of the ordinary on Friday?” Vandiver said.

“Nah, just the usual. I asked how things were going with his kids, and he seemed a bit happier about it. Said he hoped to have some good news soon. And then the usual, ‘Seeya on Monday…’”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Moore. We’re going to get an officer to take a statement and we’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

* * *

Vandiver and Mule were reviewing notes when two people—a man in his 40s and a woman with bright yellow hair who appeared roughly half his age—rushed down from the museum. The woman carried a notebook. As they approached Wesley Moore, she said, “Crazy Mike’s dead!” The man said, “And Morey’s gone.”

“I know about Mike. I found him and called the cops.” Wesley looked at the man. “What do you mean, Morey’s gone?”

“He’s not in his case. He’s missing.”

“Well, it’s not like he can just get up and walk off.”

Detectives Vandiver and Mule approached them and introduced themselves.

The man said, “I’m Graham Maddox. This is Melanie Stevens.”

“And who’s Morey?” Vandiver said.

Graham answered. “Our Quaking Bog Man.” Vandiver and Mule looked at each other and then back at Graham. “This bog was formed by glaciers roughly twelve-thousand years ago. A little over two-thousand years ago, Morey fell in. He was discovered in the mid-70s, when they were constructing the boardwalk trails over the water. The bog preserved him, and he was on display in the interpretive center.”

“Why Morey?” Mule said.

“This land was shaped by moraines…glaciers. Seemed as good a name as any.”

Vandiver turned to Melanie and said, “You just told Mr. Moore that Mike Konarski is deceased. How do you know that?”

“I found him this morning.”

Vandiver called Officer Littleton over to assist with isolating Graham and Wesley.

“We’ll speak with you more in a moment, Mr. Maddox. Officer Littleton will need to see your ID.”

* * *

When Graham and Wesley were moved away, Vandiver said, “Melanie Stevens, spelled like this?”

He tilted the new page in his notebook her way and she nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Stevens. We also need to see your ID.”

She retrieved her driver’s license from her purse and handed it to Vandiver. He scrutinized the photo, holding up beside her.

“Is there a problem?” she said.

“No, just looking at your face. Your hair is very blue in the photo, but it’s yellow today.”

She laughed and said, “I dye it. It was green a few weeks ago.”

Vandiver handed Melanie’s license back to her and said, “Gotcha. So, what do you do, here, at the bog, Ms. Stevens?”

“I give tours. Well, most of them—Graham works with college programs. I give field trips for schools and groups.”

“And you discovered Mr. Konarski this morning?”

Melanie nodded.

“I was under the impression Mr. Moore discovered Mr. Konarski’s body. Did you just arrive?”

“No. I came in early today. To celebrate Solstice.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“A little before sunrise.”

“And Mr. Konarski was deceased at that time?”

Melanie choked back tears and said, “Yes.”

Mule cleared her throat. “If you need a moment, we have time.”

“I’ll be okay. He was always so nice to me.”

“Where did you find him?” Mule said.

“In the garage. When I got here, the garage was closed and I heard a car running. I unlocked the big door and started lifting it, but it stunk. I stepped back to let it air out. I opened the door and saw Crazy Mike’s car. I saw someone inside, and it was him.”

She took a couple deep breaths and continued. “I reached in through the window and cut the engine. That’s when I realized he was dead. There was a note on the dashboard about his kids. It looked like he’d torn it from his notebook.” She raised it in her hand.

“That’s his notebook?” Vandiver said.

“Yes.”

“Why do you have it?”

“He wrote poetry. I wanted to read some after I found him. See if there was something fitting for Solstice.”

Detective Mule pulled a packet of gloves from her pocket, opened the seal, and put them on. “May I have that, please?”

Melanie handed over the notebook and Vandiver said, “Do you know how his body ended up behind the maintenance barn?”

“He looked so sad in the car, so I dragged him back there. He loved the view.”

“Did you place the flowers on him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?

“I wanted to help with his transition. He loved flowers and everything about this place. So I opened his eyes, put his hands on his heart, and covered him with blossoms.”

“Why did you open his eyes, Ms. Stevens?” Mule said.

“So he could see everything one last time.”

“Why didn’t you call the police right away?” Vandiver said.

“I was going to, but I wanted to give him time. And I wanted to see the sunrise. I read some poems he never shared with me. I was going to call when I got back. That’s why I went to the gift shop. I bumped into Graham—he’d just arrived and was putting his backpack down. I told him I was going to call the cops, and he said he was about to head down because he saw you all. That’s when he noticed Morey was gone, and he freaked out.”

Vandiver said, “Where is your car, Ms. Stevens?”

“I ride a bike when it’s nice out. Graham does, too. There’s a bike rack up by the interpretive center.”

“You said you were going to there to use the phone. Do you not carry a cell phone?”

“I don’t like them. They’re too distracting.”

“That’s fair. And when did you last see Mr. Konarski?”

“Friday afternoon. He always said bye to everyone when his day was done.”

“How would you describe his mood?”

“Good. He wished me a happy weekend.”

“Thank you, Ms. Stevens. We’ll get an officer to take your statement and Mr. Konarski’s notebook.”

* * *

Vandiver and Mule approached Graham Maddox and said, “I’m sorry I cut our discussion short. We had some questions for Ms. Stevens.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’ll be okay in time. How are you?”

“Good. Or do you mean about Mike?”

Vandiver nodded.

“I just found out from Melanie. If I’m being honest, it’s not really settled in. I don’t really know what’s going on.”

Mule said, “Could you tell us about your morning, Mr. Maddox?”

“Sure. Anything specific?”

“No, just how your day’s been since waking up.”

“Well, I woke up at the usual 5:45. I showered and ate and got my wife up before leaving at 6:30. It takes about 20 minutes or so to get here. I ride my bike in the summer. I got here and unlocked the museum. The alarm was deactivated—I thought that was weird, but then I saw Melanie’s bike. And then I noticed all the cop cars through the window. I was putting things down and about to see what was up when Melanie came in. She told me she had to call the cops because she found Mike dead. I told her the cops were already here and that I was going to come down and see what was happening. That’s when I noticed Morey was gone and we came down to talk with Wes.”

“You don’t call Mr. Konarski by his nickname?” Vandiver said.

“No. I find it insulting. He’s not…well, he wasn’t crazy. Was annoying sometimes, but still—a good-hearted guy.”

Mule said, “What is it you do here, Mr. Maddox?”

“I run the interpretive center. I curate displays and preserve specimens. I’m also the liaison for programs we run with several colleges, allowing students pursuing degrees in biology and conservation access to the bog. And I guide field trips when Melanie’s off work.”

“That sounds like an interesting job,” Vandiver said.

“It is.”

Vandiver paused when the crime scene unit van arrived in the parking lot. He nodded to Mule. “There’s Terrance and Emily.” Then he returned to Graham.

 “When was the last time you saw Mr. Konarski?”

“Thursday.”

“Not Friday?”

“No. I work Sunday through Thursday. My wife works at a church, and that’s her schedule. I work the same days so we get our weekend together. A few kids came in at the end of the day when I was closing up. I asked them to come by today, but one of them said he needed a science book for a summer reading program he put off.”

“How old were these kids.”

“Teenagers. Fifteen…sixteen. Something like that.”

“How many?”

“Three. Two boys and a girl.”

“How’d the one pay for the book?”

“He didn’t. I’d already shut down the register, so I asked him to come back this week and pay for it. Figured if he didn’t, I’d cover it.”

Mule said, “Do you think they could have done that as a distraction. And taken Morey?”

“Morey was there when I left yesterday. But I was going to mention the three to the cops, because it seems likely it was them.”

“Do you have security cameras monitoring the building?”

“Yes. Inside, and at the door.”

“Any other cameras on the grounds? Webcams, for example?”

“No. Just here in the interpretive center.”

“If you could pull the footage for us, we’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. Of course.”

After Vandiver and Mule got descriptions of the three teenagers, Mule asked if there was anyone else Graham Maddox thought they should speak to.

“Carrie’s the only one you’ve not talked to.”

“Who’s that?”

“Carrie Anderson. She’s the administrator. She usually comes in at nine, but I can give her a call to come in early.”

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Maddox. But if you can give us her number, that would be helpful.”

* * *

After writing down Carrie’s number, Vandiver signaled for Officer Littleton.

“We have one more witness to speak to. She’ll be here in a bit. Until then, we need the witnesses we’ve spoken to isolated from each other and off their phones. But let us know if it looks like any of them get any calls.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you.”

When Officer Littleton wandered off, Vandiver called Carrie Anderson’s number.

“May I speak with Carrie Anderson, please? Good morning, Ms. Anderson. I’m Detective Gary Vandiver with the Lake County Sheriff’s office. I understand you normally come into work at nine-o’-clock, but is there any possibility you can come in sooner? Possibly nothing. We just need you here as soon as possible. I understand and appreciate it. Thank you.”

Vandiver turned to Mule and said, “She’s getting ready and said she’ll be here as soon as she can. Let’s go see how Terrence and Emily are doing.”

Terrence Powell slung his camera around his neck while Emily pulled her evidence collection kit from his van. Vandiver and Mule approached.

“Morning, Terrence. Emily.”

“Hey, Gary,” Terrance said. “Morning, Bea. How’s it been going?” From the back of the van, Emily waved.

“Good. You?”

“Staying busy, but relaxing when I can.”

“That’s the best any of us can do.”

“Yep! They said the body’s out back?”

“It is. Found in the garage, but was moved back there. We’ll need a survey of both scenes, and then when you’re done with that, a look around the interpretive center. It appears their bog man has gone missing.”

“Their what?”

“Bog man. Guy who fell into the bog thousands of years ago. I guess they had him on display up in the museum. Sounds like a few teenagers may have taken him last night.”

Terrence smiled and said, “This job never gets old…”

* * *

Terrence was surveying the garage when the medical examiner, Chara Mundi, arrived. Detectives Vandiver and Mule led her and her assistant to Crazy Mike’s body.

“Terrence is done back here, so he’s all yours.”

“What’s with all the flowers?”

“Summer Solstice. The person who found him did it. Doesn’t seem to be anything more than a harmless send-off. Terrance has samples if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Gary,” Chara said. “We’ll let you know when we have a report.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

While waiting for Carrie to arrive, and Terrence, Emily, and Chara to finish their duties, Vandiver and Mule flipped through the notebook.

Crazy Mike’s daily thoughts were peppered among poetry. Moving through to more recent dates, random musings about his days turned to the divorce and custody battle. There, the journal entries alternated between grief, anger—and more poetry. One moment, it was, “I miss Jenny and Michael so much. I need to be a better father and keep my shit together,” to, “Talked to Audrey today. I wouldn’t do it, but right now I really want to kill that bitch!” And then:

“There are few things more perfect than a stone

Skipping over the surface of a glass-smooth pond.

Veins pumped with time; eons living inside it

Driven by a heartbeat remembering the days

before we were here.”

By the time Carrie Anderson arrived, it seemed Crazy Mike was a nice-enough guy who felt like he was about to lose his kids. Vandiver and Mule turned the notebook over to Terrence and greeted Carrie.

“Carrie Anderson?”

A woman roughly Vandiver’s age in slacks and a blouse said, “Yes.”

“Good morning, Ms. Anderson. I’m Detective Gary Vandiver—I’m the person who called you this morning. This is Detective Beatrice Mule.”

Bea nodded and Carrie said, “Hi,” before turning back to Vandiver and saying, “What’s going on?”

“We got a call this morning that one of your employees, Michael Konarski, was found dead.”

“What?! What happened?”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“Mike’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“We don’t know, yet. He was found by one of your employees in the garage. And she dragged him out behind the barn.”

“Who? Why…? What?”

“Melanie Stevens,” Mule said as she cocked her head side to side and raised and lowered her left shoulder.

“If you’d be more comfortable talking in your office,” Vandiver said, “we can go there.”

“Yes, please.”

* * *

After disarming the office alarm, Carrie invited Vandiver and Mule into the administration building, a tiny one-bedroom house converted to office space. As she set her travel mug on her desk, Vandiver said, “We need to see your ID.”

“Sure.” She fished it out of her purse. Vandiver looked at it before handing it back.

“Can I get you two anything to drink?” Carrie said. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to finish this coffee.”

“No. Thank you,” Vandiver said. Mule shook her head. When Carrie stepped to the kitchen serving as a break room, she ticced her head three times in rapid succession and reverse-whistled.

Carrie returned with a bottle of water. She opened it on the way to her chair and took a sip. Once she was settled, she said, “Melanie found Mike dead?”

“Yes,” Vandiver said.

“That’s strange. She usually comes in later.”

“She said she arrived early for Summer Solstice.”

Carrie seemed to consider Vandiver’s answer before nodding and saying, “That sounds like Melanie.” She stared into the distance, eyes glossy with tears.

Mule gave her a moment and said, “When was the last time you saw Mr. Konarski?”

“Friday. At the end of his shift. He always stopped by before leaving to see if he was needed for anything else.”

“What time did his shift end?”

“Four-o’-clock. He worked seven to four.”

“Do you know why he’d come in so early today?” Vandiver said.

“No. Unless he planned to meet up with Melanie. They’re both really into being outside. If she was celebrating, I could see Mike coming in early for that. Normally, Wes is the first one here.”

“He was the one who made the call.”

Carrie took a gulp of water and exhaled. “You’ll have to excuse me, Detective…”

“Vandiver.”

“Vandiver. You said Melanie got here early and found Mike. Then you tell me Wes made the call? I’m a bit lost.”

“It’s a strange situation. We’re still making sense of it ourselves. How would you describe Mr. Konarski’s relationship to Ms. Stevens.”

“Harmless. He was like a big brother to her.”

“How about with Mr. Moore and Mr. Maddox?”

“They’re all co-workers. Graham could tire of Mike’s pranks, but they got along. Wes and Mike sometimes went out for a beer after work.”

“How did you feel about Mr. Konarski, Ms. Anderson?”

“I understand why Graham found him trying, but he and Melanie always brightened the mood around here. He had a way about him that made you want to throttle him at times, but he was so kind and charming in his own way. I like everyone, here, but I have a bit of a soft spot for Melanie and Mike.”

“Would you describe Mr. Konarski and Ms. Stevens as happy people?”

“Most of the time, yes. Mike was more reflective, so sometimes he’d seem a bit down. But it never lasted long.”

“How would you describe his mood recently?”

“Sad. His ex-wife is trying to get custody of their children.”

“Had he said anything about that?”

“Not really. I heard through Wes and asked about it. Mike said he wished he could make everything go away. I assumed he meant the custody case…not his life.”

“Do you think he took his life, Ms. Anderson?” Mule said.

“I don’t know. It just hit me when I remembered him saying that. Normally when he seemed down, he just got quiet.”

“Well, we thank you for your time,” Vandiver said, “and we’re sorry about Mr. Konarski. We’ll have an officer come in and take an official report. I have one more question. Would Mr. Konarski’s ex-wife happen to be an emergency contact?”

“Probably. Let me check.”

Carrie opened her laptop, waited a moment, and began typing when it woke up. A couple mouse-clicks later she said, “Yes, she is. Audrey Konarski.”

“Can we get her contact information, please?”

* * *

Crazy Mike’s ex-wife was waiting in a conference room at Tech City Industries when Vandiver and Mule arrived. When her manager knocked and showed the detectives in, a look of concern spread across her face.

“Ms. Konarski?” Vandiver said.

“Mitchell. Audrey Mitchell.”

“Thank you. Ms. Mitchell—”

“This is bad news, isn’t it?” she said.

“I’m sorry to say it is,” Vandiver said. “This morning, your ex-husband was discovered dead in his car.”

“What?!”

Audrey looked at the tabletop and then back at Vandiver and Mule. Her eyes filled with tears.

Mule said, “We’re very sorry. If you need a moment to yourself, we can come back. Or if there’s someone, here, you’d like to speak with, that can be arranged.”

“No,” Audrey said. “Just give me a moment.”

When Vandiver and Mule turned toward the door, Audrey said, “No, you can stay. Please.”

If you asked Detective Gary Vandiver what the hardest part of his job was, he’d tell you there is nothing worse than sitting across from somebody processing the loss of a loved one. Sometimes they got it out quickly, the gravity of the moment not fully registering until later. Other times it meant sitting still while someone wailed in grief for uneasy minutes. Audrey Mitchell got it out, took a drink of water, and finally said, “In his car?”

“Yes,” Mule said.

“He killed himself?”

“We’re looking into that,” Vandiver said. “It seems like it, but his body was moved by a coworker. We’ll have to wait to be certain.”

“Shit! Mike…”

More tears…

When she stopped, Vandiver said, “Did you have any recent contact with your ex-husband, Ms. Mitchell.”

“No. He started getting angry with me. He never hurt me, but he showed up drunk a few weeks ago. I was terrified because I know he had a gun.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A pistol. And he said if I went through with the divorce that I’d regret it.”

“Did he say what he meant?”

“No. I told him to leave. I thought he was going to hurt me. Or worse. He just had a look. I noticed him driving by the house a lot after that…watching the kids play when school let out. I was worried he was going to take them and run. That’s when I decided I wanted full custody…at least until he settled down.

“He…was a good guy in so many ways, but he grew to resent things.”

“What kinds of things?” Mule said.

“Life. Everything. He said he wanted more than just a job and a house in the suburbs. He was good with the kids, but I could tell he felt locked into fatherhood and a life he never imagined when they came along. But that’s not their fault or mine…that was on him. He always said he wanted kids, and I think he did. But he also talked about wanting more. His problem was he talked about wanting more, but he never did anything to make those dreams happen.”

“What dreams?”

“He wanted to write and travel. He’d talk about getting an RV and raising the kids on the road. Or travel to other countries. But all he did was blame work and society for getting in his way. It made him cynical as hell, and that got old. One day it was too much, and I had enough.”

Vandiver said, “Can you give us an account of your last twenty-four hours, Ms. Mitchell?”

“What? Sure. I woke up and hung out with Jenny and Michael. We went to Lakewood Forest Preserve and had a picnic. The rest of the day we stayed around the house, all doing our own things. I helped Michael put together a LEGO thing Mike bought him—a Star Wars ship. I made dinner, made sure the kids were ready for a science camp this week, and I fell asleep watching Beach Front Bargain Hunt. Woke up, made sure the kids had everything they needed for camp so we weren’t running around when my mother came by to get them, and I got ready for work. Now I’m here talking to you.”

“Thank you,” Vandiver said. “Did Mr. Konarski mention anything, recently, that would make you concerned for his safety?”

“No. Nothing. Like what?”

“That he was considering hurting himself. Or that he was concerned he might be harmed.”

“No. Nothing like that. The last time I saw him was the day he told me I’d regret divorcing him. Well, that’s the last day I talked to him. Like I said, I saw him drive by the house.”

Vandiver said, “Thank you, Ms. Mitchell. We’ll stay here as long as you need.”

She looked across the room and said, “Thank you, but…shit, what am I gonna tell the kids…”

* * *

On Tuesday, Vandiver and Mule reviewed Terrance and Emily’s preliminary evidence at the station. Where Mike Konarski was concerned, everything pointed to suicide. Surveys of the garage, grounds, interpretive center, and the administrative office revealed nothing. They reviewed security camera footage showing three teenagers—two males and one female—entering on the museum Sunday before closing. In the first clip, Graham Maddox accompanied one of the young men to the gift shop, while the other took Maddox’s keys beside his backpack and ran to Morey’s case. He tried a couple keys before finding one that worked, leaving the case unlocked. He then ran to the door and jammed something in the latch strike plate. After that, he returned the keys just before his friend returned with a book, and Maddox walked the three to the door.

The second clip was captured later Sunday night. A male in a hoodie uses a screwdriver to release the door latch. He opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. After disarming the alarm, he opened the door for his two friends. The three moved to Morey’s case. When the two young men lifted the case, the girl put her hands up and shook her head. The young men placed the case on the ground. One pushed past the girl and spread a blanket on the floor. They placed Morey on it and put the case back on the stand. Then they wrapped Morey in the blanket. One of the young men picked him up, and they all left.

“There are a couple good shots of the three,” Vandiver said to Mule. “We’ll grab those and put them online…hope somebody recognizes them.”

* * *

On Wednesday, Gary Vandiver received a call from the medical examiner, Chara Mundi.

“Mule’s here,” he said. “I’m gonna put you on speaker.”

“Good morning, Beatrice.”

“Hey, Chara.”

“I just emailed you two the Konarski autopsy report. He didn’t die from carbon monoxide poisoning in his car. He had a lethal amount of sodium cyanide in his system.”

“Really? Is there anything that could naturally account for that?” Vandiver said.

“Not in that amount, unless he deliberately ingested it or consumed it without knowing.”

“Anything else?” Mule said.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“All right,” Vandiver said. “Thanks so much, Chara, We’ll read the report and get back to you if we have any questions. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

Vandiver disconnected the call and said, “Well, Bea, looks like we have a bit of reading to do. After that, it’s back to the bog…”

* * *

Vandiver knocked on the door jamb to Carrie Anderson’s office. Carrie looked up, stretched her arms forward with a satisfied sigh, and turned off the monitor on her desk.

“Good morning, detectives. Can I help you?”

Vandiver started speaking, but Mule cut him off.

“Did you just turn off that monitor?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s county information. I always turn it off when others are in the room. I lock my system when I step away from my desk as well. It’s good practice.”

Mule stepped forward and said, “I’m going to need you to turn that back on.”

“What’s going on?” Carrie said.

“It doesn’t look like Mr. Konarski killed himself,” Vandiver said. “At least not by closing up the garage and turning on his car.”

Carrie turned on the monitor and shifted it so Mule could have a better look. Mule inspected the screen and said, “What am I looking at, here?”

“It’s a billing system. Aside from running payroll, the last week of the month slows down, so I run reports. See if there’s any way we can save more. I’m looking for any outstanding credits we may have missed.”

She looked at Vandiver and said, “Am I being accused of something?”

He shook his head no.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel that way,” Mule said. She shut her eyes tightly and grimaced. When she opened them, Audrey looked confused. Mule smiled and pointed toward Carrie’s chest in an effort to ease the tension. “That’s a lovely necklace.”

“Thank you. My brother made it. This, too.” She held up her hand, showing off a gold bracelet.

Mule tensed her left shoulder and lightly whistled.

“Are you okay?” Carrie said.

Mule nodded. “I have Tourette syndrome. In case you’re wondering. I’m sorry if it’s bothering you.”

“No, no…I’m glad you told me…”

“I assume you approve work orders?” Vandiver said.

“Yes. Why?”

“Do you recall approving any orders for sodium cyanide?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Do you know if anyone working on site uses it for any reason?”

“Cyanide?”

“Yes. It’s used in labs…agriculture. Mining.”

“I suppose Wesley or Graham might, then. But I don’t recall seeing it on any orders. I usually trust what they need if it’s not too expensive and sign off on it. I can go through old invoices and purchase orders and see if I find anything. It might take a day or so, though, if it’s old.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Mule said.

“In the meantime,” Vandiver said, “we’re going to speak with your employees again…”

* * *

Graham Maddox was cleaning a wall-mounted case displaying the wildlife inhabitants of the bog when Vandiver and Mule arrived. He put down his rag and glass cleaner when he saw the detectives.

“Hello,” he said. “It was Mr. Vandriver and detective Mule?”

“Vandiver.”

“Sorry. Vandiver. Any word about Morey?”

“No. I’m sorry,” Vandiver said. “But we’ve shared photos of the three teenagers from the security footage you provided. Thank you for getting that to us so quickly.”

“You’re welcome. So, how can I help you, then?”

“Do you have any reason to use sodium cyanide in your job?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sodium cyanide. Do you use it for anything?”

Mule brought her eyebrows together and ticced her head.

“No, I don’t.”

“No lab uses for the substance?”

“I’m sure some labs have uses, but nothing we do here at the interpretive center. No.”

“Can you think of any reason any of your coworkers would use it?”

“No. What’s this about?”

“We’re still looking into that. Can you think of any reason Mr. Konarski would use sodium cyanide?”

“Nothing that I can think of. Maybe as groundskeepers, he and Wesley had some use. But I can’t think of any.”

“All right. Thank you, Mr. Maddox. Would you happen to know where we can find Ms. Stevens or Mr. Moore?”

“Melanie’s giving a day camp tour. Wesley’s probably by the garage or the barn. Or on the immediate grounds.”

“Thank you, Mr. Maddox. We’ll let you know if we hear anything about Morey.”

“I appreciate it.”

* * *

Vandiver and Mule found Wesley Moore smoking a cigarette behind the maintenance barn.

“Hello, Mr. Moore,” Vandiver said.

Wesley exhaled and said, “Detectives. Do you need something?”

“Just a couple more questions. Follow up.”

Wesley pointed at his cigarette. “Would you like me to put this out?”

“No, that’s fine. Do you have any reason to use sodium cyanide in your job?”

Wesley cocked his head and said, “No.”

“Is it something that might be in some product you use? Like traps or anything else?”

“Not that I know of. We don’t use chemical traps. If something’s causing a problem, Mike and Melanie—well, just Melanie, now—catch it in a live trap and relocate it.”

“Did Mr. Konarski ever talk with you about wanting to hurt himself?”

“No. He was mad at his wife about the custody thing, but he never mentioned wanting to hurt her or himself.”

“Can you think of any reason your coworkers might require sodium cyanide in their jobs?”

“Maybe Graham? Some lab thing? But even that’s a stretch. Most stuff he does is with kids or college students.”

“You mentioned Mr.Konarski and Ms. Stevens,” Mule said. “What was their relationship like?”

“They were friends.”

“How would you describe their friendship?”

“Coworkers. I don’t think they were friends outside of work, but I don’t make other people’s business my business. He was almost like a big brother or father with her.”

“Do you ever see coworkers outside of work?”

“Mike and I went out for beers a couple times.”

“When was the last time you two did that.”

“Months ago. Early spring probably. Once things thawed out, we met up after work to talk about all we had to get ready for spring.”

“Thank you,” Mule said.

“You’re welcome. Anything else?”

“What do you do when you’re not working, Mr. Moore?” Vandiver said.

“I paint figurines. For war games. And make models—been doing that since I was a kid. Some of the dioramas in the interpretive center are my work.”

“That sounds like a relaxing hobby,” Vandiver said.

“It is.”

“Well, we’ll let you get back to work. Have a good day, Mr. Moore.”

“You, too…”

* * *

While Vandiver and Mule sat in their unmarked Crown Victoria waiting for Melanie to return, Vandiver’s stomach growled.

“Buona or Fratellos after this?”

Mule reached into her pocket and pulled out a quarter. She flipped it and said, “Fratellos.”

“Good.”

They were comparing notes when Melanie returned with a group of kids and two exhausted looking chaperons. “There she is,” Mule said.

As the group broke up, they approached.

“Ms. Stevens?” Vandiver said. “Do you have a moment?”

She joined them in the employee parking lot.

“What’s up?” Melanie said.

“In your job, do you have any reason to work with sodium cyanide?”

“Like…cyanide?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“How about your coworkers?”

“No. Unless there’s something I don’t know about. I don’t think any of them do.”

“And Mr. Konarski? Did he have any reason you can think of to use sodium cyanide?”

“Are you telling me he was poisoned?” Melanie said.

“We’re looking into that possibility.”

“No. No reason. Mike was poisoned?”

“We’re investigating that.”

“But that’s what you’re really saying. And it makes sense. The more I think about it, I don’t think Mike killed himself.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He loved his kids too much. Even if he lost custody—what I know about his ex-wife…she would have let him see them. At least in time. He was sad—even mad at times—but I just don’t get the feeling he took his own life. I don’t know anyone here who would want him dead, though. Maybe someone none of us even know did it…putting his body here hoping you’d focus on us instead of looking wider.”

Mule rolled her left shoulder and ticced her head. “If we have reason to widen our search we will.”

Vandiver said, “You mentioned you don’t get the feeling Mr. Konarski took his own life. What do you mean by feeling?”

“Just…feelings, you know. A feeling in my gut.”

“Do you get any feelings about any of your coworkers, Ms. Stevens.”

“No. If you mean do I think any of them did something to Mike. I’m not saying we’re like a big happy family, but we all like each other. So, no—I don’t feel like anyone, here, did something to Mike.”

“Thank you, Ms. Stevens,” Mule said. “If we have any other questions, we’ll be in touch.”

* * *

On Thursday, detectives Vandiver and Mule reviewed the Konarski case.

“Where are you on this being a suicide?” Mule said.

“Obviously, we can’t rule it out, but his ex-wife said he had a gun. Seems like if you’re choosing a way out, you’d do that instead of poisoning yourself. I could buy closing himself up in a garage, too, but we know that’s not how he died. Once we get DNA back and Terrence and Emily’s full report we’ll hopefully have more to go by. I’m good stepping back from this one today and reviewing other cases.”

* * *

Things picked up Friday morning when Vandiver received a phone call.

“Hello? Oh, hello, Ms. Anderson. You did? Wonderful. Really? Yes, email is fine. I appreciate that. Yes, goodbye. And thank you.”

Vandiver disconnected the call. “That was Carrie Anderson. She said she dug around and found a purchase order to a supplier Mr. Moore and Mr. Konarski used. She said it was for two and a half gallons of maganese carbonate and 125 grams of sodium cyanide. She’s emailing a copy.”

Vandiver and Mule were researching uses for the two chemicals when the purchase order arrived. Vandiver called the company, O-Chem Industries, and asked for the accounts payable department. After several minutes of discussion, he ended the call.

“I need to fax some documents their way so they can research the order. If they have a record for it, we’ll pay another visit to Mr. Moore.”

Later, while Vandiver and Mule were discussing where to get lunch, another detective knocked on the open door to their office.

”Hey, Gare…Beatrice. We just got a call about your bog man. One of the kids’ moms got a big surprise when she went to pull some steaks out of the deep freezer in their garage.”

He handed Detective Vandiver a piece of paper and said, “Can’t wait to hear more about this one.”

Vandiver looked at the note and said, “Thanks, Pete.” Then he looked at Vandiver and said, “Let’s see if Terrence and Emily are around so we can go meet this Morey fella.”

* * *

Vandiver took a deep breath through his nose. “I expected him to smell more.”

“He’s been preserved for thousands of years,” Terrance said. “And I’m sure more was done so he could be on display.”

“Yeah. Guess so. Still, I’m betting Mr. Maddox will not be too pleased about this. I can’t see being put in a deep freezer being good for ol’ Morey. You and Emily need anything more from us?”

“Nope, we’re good.”

“All right. Thanks.”

Vandiver and Mule turned away from the freezer in the garage and returned to the kitchen. Veronica Thomason and her son, Declan, sat at the table.

Vandiver took a seat across from Declan and said, “Mr. Thomason, can you tell me why there’s a bog man in your family’s deep freeze?”

“Some friends and I took him.”

“Why?”

“We were dared.”

“Do you do everything people dare you to do?”

“No…”

“Who dared you to do such a thing?”

“Some friends. We were camping on Saturday night.”

“Where were you camping?”

“A friend’s backyard. We were playing truth or dare, and I took a dare.”

“To steal Morey?”

“Yeah.”

“And what about the friends who helped you?”

“I knew I couldn’t do it alone. My best friend, Steve, agreed to help. Once he did, Tracy said she’d come with us and keep an eye out.”

“What are Steve’s and Tracy’s last names?” Mule said.

“Steve Peyton and Tracy Sommers.”

“Thank you,” Vandiver said. “Please tell me how Morey came to be in your possession.”

Declan looked at his mother and then back at Vandiver.

“We went to the museum at the bog. I said I needed a book for a reading program. When I went to the gift store with the guy who runs the museum, Steve unlocked the case.”

“Morey’s case, correct?”

“Yeah. He crammed some paper in the door, where the part that latches goes. Enough that it would catch, but be easy to open. Steve said as long as the alarm made the connection, we’d be good.

“The guy in the museum didn’t want to open the register, so he told me to come back later to pay for the book.”

“Did you return to the interpretive center this week to do so?”

Declan looked down at the table. “No.”

“All right. Go on.”

“When we left, we hid where we could see the guy set the alarm. Steve’s house has an alarm, so he knew what to do. Later that night, we went back. Steve jammed a screwdriver into the door and opened the latch. He turned the alarm off, and we took the bog man.”

“What were you going to do with him?” Mule said.

“Show him to my friends and then put him back. But we heard someone died out there and figured we’d get caught.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary when you went back to steal Morey?” Vandiver said. “Any lights on or people?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you see?”

“We saw a lady dragging something by the garage.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Mule said.

“We thought we’d get blamed for the dead guy.”

Mule shook her head and rubbed her temples. Vandiver continued.

“Could you tell what the woman was dragging?”

“I thought it was garbage. Tracy said it looked like a body, and we got out of there.”

“How could you tell it was a woman?” Mule said.

“The lights in that little building by the garage and barn were on. She moved past a window.”

“What color was her hair?”

“I couldn’t tell. It was dark and we were up by the museum.”

“But you saw the woman?”

“Yes.”

“Was her hair yellow?”

“No, that would have stood out. If you’re talking about the lady who does school trips, I can tell you it wasn’t her.”

“How do you know who she is.”

“I’ve seen her there. She’s kinda…”

“Kind of what?”

“Hot.”

“I see…”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Yes,” Declan’s mother said. “Lots of trouble.”

“We really were going to bring the bog man back and leave money for the book.”

“We’ll have to see,” Vandiver said. “Stealing the book is a misdemeanor, but breaking into the interpretive center and stealing Morey is a felony. Given the circumstances, if it’s your first offense, juvenile court will likely be forgiving. It’s not my call. Right now, I’m releasing you to your mother’s custody.

“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Thomason. We’ll need contact information for your friends. Other than that, we’re done here for now.”

* * *

Detective Vandiver cleared his throat as he and Mule entered Carrie Anderson’s office.

She looked up and said, “Oh, hello. Is this about the purchase order?”

“We’re still looking into that,” Mule said. She met Carrie’s eye. “We have a call into the company’s accounts payable group to see if they have a record of it.”

Carrie nodded and said, “Yes, of course. Then, how can I help you? Do you need to speak with Wesley again?”

“We need to speak with you,” Vandiver said. He stepped to the side of her desk.

“I learned something new today, Ms. Anderson. Some jewelers use sodium cyanide to clean precious metals.” He pointed to her necklace. “You mentioned your brother makes jewelry. Have you visited your brother lately, Ms. Anderson?

“I’m not saying another thing unless I have a lawyer present.”

“We understand. That’s your right. We’ll arrange for legal counsel at the station…”

* * *

Carrie Anderson sat beside her lawyer in the interrogation room of the Lake County Sheriff’s Office. Vandiver and Mule were seated on the other side of the table.

“Ms. Anderson,” Vandiver said. “Did you poison your employee, Michael Konarski, at the Sawyer Bog Interpretive Center?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He was blackmailing me.”

“Why was he blackmailing you?”

“His ex-wife was planning to argue for full custody of their children. He didn’t have money to fight it. He thought he could get it from me and stop the case…or at least have a chance to fight for shared custody in court.”

“Why did he choose you?”

“He found out…”

“What did he find out, Ms. Anderson?

“He knew I was moving county and state funds to accounts I set up.”

“What kinds of funds?”

“Sometimes vendors are owed small credits…just a few dollars most places never notice, or won’t research or fight. I’d find the credits and send them to accounts I set up. And then I set up a fake company and created invoices to the interpretive center. I paid those to another account.”

“How much do you suppose you’ve made doing such a thing?”

“Maybe an extra twenty-five thousand a year. I don’t make much running the interpretive center.”

“And how long have you been doing this?”

“About five years.”

“And Mr. Konarski found out you were doing this?”

“Yes. He was looking for an order he made, needing to update it before I processed it. He went into my office while I was at lunch. He found one of the invoices I made and kept digging until finding notes I kept about the credits. He kept it to himself, until his ex-wife decided to fight for full custody of their kids.”

“Thank you,” Vandiver said. “I want to be sure I have this right. You’ve been moving county and state funds owed to vendors to accounts you set up. You went as far as creating fake invoices to the Sawyer Bog Interpretive Center that you paid to an account you set up for such a purpose. Mr. Konarski found out. He needed money to contest his ex-wife in court for full custody of his children. He lacked the funds, so he blackmailed you?”

“Yes.”

“How did he do that?”

“He kept quiet about it when he found out what I was doing. But once his wife filed for divorce, he came to my office and told me he knew about the funds. He showed me photos on his phone that he took of the invoice and notes. I was so mad that he’d do such a thing to me.”

“You were stealing,” Mule said.

“That’s different. I never did things directly to people. Agencies waste money all the time…”

“Go on,” Vandiver said.

“He kept pushing me—threatening to report me if I didn’t give him money for a lawyer. So I told him I’d do it. I told him I needed time to transfer the funds. Friday, I told him I’d have the check after closing on Saturday, but he said he was busy. So we met on Sunday night.”

“I still don’t understand why you poisoned him.”

“He said he knew who to come to anytime he needed money. I was mad that he was pressuring me, but in a way, I didn’t mind helping with the custody case. But when I knew he was going to hold things over my head if he ever needed anything, I knew it wasn’t going to ever end.

“He talked about how much life hurt him—how he sometimes wished he’d never been born. I guess between that and knowing he was never going to stop blackmailing me, I did what I did.”

“Why did you choose sodium cyanide?”

“I read that it disappears in someone’s system with time. I figured by the time an autopsy was done, it wouldn’t show up.”

“How did you administer the cyanide, Ms. Anderson?”

“He loved scotch. So, I bought a bottle and toasted our agreement. I don’t like hard alcohol, so I raised a glass of coffee his way.”

“And the scotch you gave Mr. Konarski contained sodium cyanide you stole from your brother?”

“Yes. He slammed the scotch and…”

“And what?” Vandiver said.

Carrie’s eyes filled with tears. “He started convulsing. I ran from the office and waited outside. When I came back, he was dead.”

“What did you do after that, Ms. Anderson.”

“I took his keys from his pocket and pulled his car into the garage. He kept a notebook on his workbench. I thumbed through it and found something he wrote about being a bad father and failing his kids. I tore that out and put it on the dashboard. Then I went back to my office and dragged him to his car. I started it and closed the doors.”

“Did you see or hear anything while you were moving Mr. Konarski’s body, Ms. Anderson?”

She thought about it a moment and said, “This is going to sound ridiculous, but I thought I saw a ghost.”

“A ghost?”

“Yes. I heard something up by the interpretive center. When I looked up that way, I swear I saw the shape of a body floating into the trees. Why?”

“Just wondering. Detective Mule and I are going to step outside for a moment. Please remember, anything you and your counsel say is being recorded.”

As Vandiver and Mule made their way to the door, Carrie Anderson said, “I’m not a bad person.”

Vandiver turned back. “Pardon?”

“I’m not a bad person. Mike said he hated the world…said he wasn’t wired for it.”

“It’s not our place to judge,” Vandiver said. “But don’t kid yourself into thinking you did Mr. Konarski any favors.”

He closed the door behind him as he left the room.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Wesley Moore, Melanie Stevens, and Graham Maddox stood at the end of the boardwalk over the bog with a bottle of Ardbeg 10 scotch.

Wesley was the first to speak.

“Mike, there were days you drove me so mad I wanted to smack you, but you brought a life to this place. You’ll always be here as far as I’m concerned. I’m gonna miss ya.”

Graham said, “I know we didn’t talk as much as you and Wesley and you and Melanie, but I always appreciated how you checked up with all of us to see if there was anything you could do to help out. I’ll always remember the day you came up to the interpretive center and asked for a full tour. That was a great afternoon, just showing you around and walking out here. When we were done, you told me I have the neatest job in the world. I’m glad we had that time together.”

When Graham was done, Melanie said, “Mike, there’s so much I want to say, but I know I won’t be able to get through it without crying. So, I’ll see if I can get through a couple poems…”

She first read Crazy Mike’s favorite poem: “Peonies” by Mary Oliver. When Melanie was done, she read one of Mike’s originals.

Like soft-tipped spears,

Crocuses break through a crust of snow

And herald the coming of spring

When the world becomes mud

The ground oozes, plants grow,

And we welcome the return of the sun

Summer’s arrival is heard in

The buzzing of bees over fields of clover

And the laughter of running children

Lakes teem with life

From their surfaces to deep below

And we return to the waters that gave us life

When October arrives

Leaves glow like bonfires in treetops

And crisp breezes drive us home

As the season decays

We burn its remains, give thanks,

And prepare ourselves for darker days

Beneath a white blanket of silence

The previous seasons are hidden

And we huddle together for warmth

The icy hand of colder nights

Beats upon the front door

And we bow our heads and pray for light.

When my time comes

Lay me down in a field beside a pond

So I can give the earth all my memories

Let the ground devour me

So my body becomes the place

Where the first crocuses rise once again

Wesley and Graham each put a hand on one of Melanie’s shoulders, allowing her time to grieve. When she was done and had wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingers, Wesley opened the bottle of scotch and poured a splash into three paper cups. He held his skyward and said, “Godspeed, Crazy Mike!”

Melanie and Graham joined him. “Godspeed, Crazy Mike!”

They paused a moment after drinking in their friend’s honor—and then turned back, away from the bog.

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was by Moorland Sounds, Medite, Deskant, Christoffer Moe Ditvelsen, Magnus Ludvigsson, Horna Spelman, and Sandra Marteleur. And…several tunes with no listed artist other than “Traditional.” All licensed through Epidemic Sound.

All story music was licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

I’m not sure what September’s story will be. November’s anniversary episode is decided, and the Christmas episode is always a bit of this and that and comes together almost on its own. So, we’ll see what happens in September. If you go to patreon.com/cgronlund and pledge as little as a dollar a month, you’ll know as soon as I do.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

A very good friend of the family, upon listening to the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Revisions,” said, “I know that mother!” Meaning: this is based on your mom, right?

I mentioned the mother in “Revisions” is an amalgamation of moms I’ve known…but mostly, a made-up mom.

This friend still insisted the character was wholly based on my mom…

But…nope!

Outside of enjoying some camping trips in Wisconsin and a time she went to the Kerrville Folk Festival with one of her friends, my mom would rather enjoy the creature comforts of home than sleep outside. Even when younger, you’d not find her living in state and national parks, backpacking around the world, or living in communes and squatted buildings.

Even the mom that aspect of the mother in “Revisions” is loosely based on wasn’t that wild and free in her youth…although she was definitely more a hippie than my mom—who was really more a beatnik who sided with hippies in demonstrations and other stands taken in the 60s. 70s, and beyond.

It’s fairly common for people to assume once some tiny bit of influence creeps into a story that it’s truth.

* * *

Here is where my mom is in “Revisions.” She is a ridiculously supportive person who never crushed my sense of wonder—someone who encouraged me to never shy away from the things that interested me. She extended a level of trust to me that few friends had from their parents. She was always there when I needed her, even though there were times—as a single mom of two kids in the 70s—she didn’t want the responsibilities of motherhood.

My mom was encouraged to study programming by the company she worked for just as the computer boom of the late 70s and early 80s was taking off. But…as a single mom who was doing well enough to work, raise kids on her own (when that was still not very common), all she wanted to do after work was enjoy dinner with her kids and then relax. The mom in “Revisions” pursuing the opportunity to become a programmer is based more on female scientists and tech pioneers I look up to—women I’ve never met.

I personally know of no moms who have built their own homes, although maybe my friend’s hippie-ish mom did a lot of construction on her first house on St. John in the Virgin Islands…I don’t know…

So, there are definitely two moms who inspired the mother in “Revisions,” two people very dear to me—but inspiration is where things stop.

Just because a writer might look at people in their lives for an initial spark of a character, it doesn’t mean that character has much more in common with the influences than that starting point. (Of course, some writers do look at real people for more than inspiration—some writers write stories that blur the lines of fiction and autobiography. Hell, one of the books I look forward to reading this year is Brad Listi’s Be Brief and Tell Them Everything. Listi and his publisher don’t hide that it’s autofiction…and perhaps because of that, I expect it will be great!)

Speaking of Bradi Listi, he’s the host of the Otherppl podcast—a show where he has great discussions with [mostly] literary writers. A favorite interview is with a writer named Bud Smith, who grew up, at times during his youth, in KOA campgrounds.

In a weird way, one could argue that one tidbit about Bud Smith inspired “Revisions” as much as anyone’s mom…including mine.

* * *

Another thing people often assume is that when a writer writes about an author…they are actually writing and about concerns and feelings the writer shares with the author in the story. I’m sure many writers have used authors in stories to discuss what they think and feel, but that’s not the case with the protagonist in “Revisions” and me.

The author in Revisions frets and procrastinates. I sit down and I write. I write during lunch whether I’m in the office or working from home. (In fact, I’m roughing out this episode of Behind the Cut on a lunch break.) I don’t distract myself with other things to avoid writing. I write because sure, I have a certain compulsion to do it, but if I didn’t enjoy it, I’d not do it.

Perhaps because I was raised by a mom who encouraged me to pursue the creative endeavors I love, I don’t suffer from the struggles some writers seem to have. I don’t question or doubt my abilities. That’s not to say I never struggle through sections of stories, but that’s part of the process to me. I know with confidence that most things I set out to write will be what I hoped they would be (or more). But I know plenty of writers—some who make a living writing—who are repulsed by what they write. (Or at least have doubts about their abilities, despite their repeated successes.)

I might be shy and awkward and clumsy, but when it comes to certain things, I’m very confident. I’m not that asshole who believes just because I can do it, others should shut up and do it, too…but for myself and writing, self-doubt is not a thing I struggle with.

One could not say the same for the protagonist of “Revisions.”

* * *

I wrote “Revisions” for people who struggle.

Just because I’m confident as a writer doesn’t mean I can’t fathom not being confident. (Again, I have friends who have found far greater success with writing than I have, who struggle with self-doubt. It’s insulting to say, “I do it—so can you!” My view on things like that is generally, “If you can do it, recognize how fortunate you are and don’t discredit the struggles of others.” All right, enough of that…)

It’s my hope the self-doubt and anxieties of the protagonist in “Revisions” are familiar to some. Writing can be lonely, and when you see people on social media talking about writing 2500 – 5000 words a day, even a good day writing for you can feel puny. (If I have a 1000-word day, it’s a great day writing. Hell, if I write 250 – 500 good words, I’m happy.) Add to that people who say writer’s block isn’t real, that you should just do it, and it’s no wonder why many writers wonder if they have what it takes. I know plenty of writers who gravitate toward online memes about doing laundry or the dishes to avoid writing because it lets them know they aren’t alone.

I don’t give great thought to deeper things in most things I write, but I’d lying if I said the house in “Revisions” isn’t symbolic of whatever our daily struggles are. For me, it’s balancing the writing I most love with the writing that pays the bills. (But I’ve written enough stories about day jobs getting in the way of things, so…this time, it was a house!) For many friends, it’s writing vs. raising kids. I know people who try balancing writing and school or writing vs. illnesses and disabilities. Hell, for some people, it’s just mustering the energy to sit down and write when it seems like the world is coming apart.

* * *

I wanted the self-doubts and struggles of “Revision’s” protagonist to resonate with the creative people I love who have their own battles. My wife does volunteer art for farm animal sanctuaries…and…she has an autoimmune disease. Some days it’s a struggle for her to just get up. Some days, art goes down with no effort; other days, she’s exhausted and not willing to deal with requested changes or the challenges of timelines because her body is fighting her.

I know a lot of writers who struggle to sit down and write for similar reasons…and many other reasons. I don’t even want to say “legitimate” reasons because that’s a shitty qualifier. If you struggle, that’s legitimate…even if you feel like you have no reason to struggle.

It’s amazing to me the number of adults who feel like they require permission to do the creative things they want to try. But…chat with them, and you find out they’ve had lifetimes of people telling them what to do and how to think. I’m not a fan of saying “Get over it!”

One doesn’t just get over a lifetime or self-doubts brought on by growing up in a controlling or outright abusive environment. Or even an environment where expectations were high, and nothing less than perfection would do.

So many creative people I know (and people who want to be creative), struggle because they feel if what they create isn’t perfect (often from the start) that they somehow suck. They compare themselves to others and only see perceived flaws, rather than their own strengths.

Trust me, there are so many writers I admire—people I wish I could write like. But I’ve also written enough that I know, even with just a tiny following, there are people who wish they could write like me.

* * *

I was raised by a mother who had few rules for my sister and me, but one of her biggest rules was, “No self-ridicule.” Negative self-talk was a no-no!

Sadly, I have friends who, when they make what they perceive as a mistake, still call themselves idiots. They shred themselves over the tiniest things. Tell them 5000 positive things about them and someone gets one negative thing through, that solitary negative thing will eat at them for weeks.

I’m not saying my mom’s influence is not present in “Revisions,” but it’s not as pervasive as some who know her and have listened to the story think. Still, I know how fortunate I am to have been raised in such an environment.

Life can beat up the luckiest of us on any given day, and some of us aren’t even fortunate enough to be lucky. Add to that the expectations we put on ourselves, or expectations we accept from others, and the things we love can feel like an anchor.

I didn’t set out to solve any problems with “Revisions,” but I did want to write something that maybe made some people feel heard and even understood.

Why? Because we can all afford to be kinder to others and, especially, ourselves…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

I’m really looking forward to April’s story: a fun tale about a geek who, while knocking around an antique shop with his grandmother, finds something that changes his life in a most curious way…

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

Somewhere along the way while writing the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Gerald’s Grail,” I realized it was going to run longer than expected.

By the time it was done, it was the longest Not About Lumberjacks story to date.

While the mystery “Under the Big Top” was the first to cross the one-hour mark (by 1 minute and 49 seconds), “Gerald’s Grail” beats that by roughly 22 minutes.

* * *

I wrote “Gerald’s Grail” in the hope it would have the feel of an 80s teen adventure movie. I think I pulled it off, down to the run time.

Here’s a little secret: I could have kept writing.

I had so much fun with this story and had other ideas I wanted to run with.

When my wife read it, she said, “This would make a fun novel.”

She wasn’t the only one to think so…

* * *

There are several Not About Lumberjacks stories I think would make good novels. In fact, when the last novel I finished ran its course through the submissions process, only to end with the usual rejection of: “Great writing—ambitious project, but…I don’t know how I’d market this,” I thought about setting the following books in the series aside and turn “Standstill” into a novel.

With “Standstill,” I barely touched on what the protagonist’s husband, Aaron, was up to when time stopped for the couple. There was a scene I wanted to write in which Maddy hopped on a bike and pedaled out of Chicago for days, riding until she came to a place where the fog and clouds broke, and she felt the sun on her face for the first time in who-knows-how-long.

There is so much more in that story, and—at least until writing “Gerald’s Grail”—it’s the story I’d give the novel treatment to, were I to turn a Not About Lumberjacks story into a book.

* * *

“Gerald’s Grail” and “Standstill” aren’t the only stories I’ve written for the show that could be decent novels.

We don’t know exactly how old Horus is in the namesake story about a talking parrot—or how much of what he claims to have experienced is even true—but it would be fun to find out. Perhaps see flashbacks to his life, rather than him just telling his tales to Sarah.

The first 1980s story featuring Dungeons and Dragons-playing teenagers I wrote for the show, “Purvis,” could easily be a novel.

“Cubicle Punks” could end up a hip little book about a strange friendship and people on the cusp of middle age coming to grips with how different their lives are compared to what they imagined when they were younger…and another office story, “Alone in HQ,” could easily be longer.

I already mentioned “Under the Big Top” being the first story breaking the one-hour mark—I think mysteries lend themselves to novel-length treatments. I’ll call it right now, July’s mystery, “God Speed, Crazy Mike” could likely be much longer than it is.

The quirky tales, “Pepper” (about the protagonist’s father being reincarnated as a talking Boston terrier) and “A Deathly Mistake” (in which Death accidentally harvests the wrong person) have more story in them.

Hell, “In Cypress Slough” could easily be a novel as well.

So why, then, are they short stories?

* * *

I started Not About Lumberjacks because I’d gone years without writing a short story.

I used to write stories regularly when I was in a writing group with a couple friends, but when that faded away, I ended up moving on to novels.

Obviously, novels take more time to write. And when you consider the submission process on top of that, you’re looking at years of effort for a writer like me…for a single story.

In its most prolific year, I shared 14 Not About Lumberjacks stories. In my slowest years: 5. (Well, year three saw 4 stories, but one was the first Christmas episode…and that episode contained 7 stories so make of that one what you want!)

With a full-time job and a life, short fiction fits my life better.

* * *

I do plan to record and release a novella I have sitting around, and I’m thinking about how to handle recording and releasing the most “me” thing I’ve ever written: a novel about a celebrity-chef who sells his two Chicago restaurants following a divorce and moves to the north woods of Wisconsin…just as the most hated person in town goes missing.

And, of course, there’s the last novel I finished, about a girl born in a circus in the 1920s and her rise to fame as a magician in the 40s and 50s (along with the not-yet-written novels in that literary series).

* * *

Perhaps the reason I focus more on short stories than novels these days is I have an audience. It’s not huge, but I know the Not About Lumberjacks regulars enjoy the show.

There’s really not another fiction podcast like this one, with no particular genre and one person writing everything. (Granted, that might also account for why Not About Lumberjacks isn’t as popular as shows written by one or more people, and focused on a genre, like horror or sci-fi.)

A novel takes me several years to finish. In that time, I can have a pile of new stories, here.

* * *

There may come a day when I take a short story from the show and give it the novel treatment, but I doubt it.

Make no mistake: I think about it, knowing I’d be able to complete a novel like that much quicker than something totally new to me. But I’ve never been that writer who looks back and wants to keep tinkering with older things. For that matter, even though I have a list of close to 100 story ideas, I’m also not the kind of writer who chases something new when things get hard.

Perhaps because of Not About Lumberjacks, I finish the things I start and then move on.

I would love for fiction to be my full-time job—to have time for short fiction and novels—but that’s not my reality.

And so, every month or three, I record and release another short story…and then turn around the next day and begin the next one.

It’s a pretty snazzy gig!

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like you’re kinda thing.

In July, it’s the mystery set in a bog in Northern Illinois.

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a story about a geeky teenager who, while knocking around an antique shop with his grandmother, finds something that changes his life in the most curious way…

And now, the usual content advisory…

“Gerald’s Grail” deals with bullying, violence (including passing mention of the Cambodian genocide of the 70s), and—of course—swearing.

Before we get going, I have an announcement! For six and a half years, I’ve been doing Not About Lumberjacks for free. In that time, some listeners have suggested I start a Patreon for the show. Well, now I have!

If you go to Patreon.com/cgronlund you’ll see it. That’s Patreon.com/c g-r-o-n-l-u-n-d.

Don’t worry, episodes of Not About Lumberjacks will always be free. I created the Patreon for fans of the show who wanted a bit more. Regardless of what those-so-inclined can afford, all Patreon content is unlocked. So, for as little as a dollar a month, you get the same access to bloopers, behind-the-scenes videos, and other bonus content that people paying more see.

If you’re like me, Patreon is more about supporting creators you love than bonus perks because you can pay more. I’m touched that there are those who recognize the time and money that goes into each story and want to compensate that effort. But…I also appreciate those who simply listen to stories and episodes of Behind the Cut.

Again, if you’d like a bit more than just the always-for-free stories, go to Patreon.com/cgronlund to see what I offer. That’s Patreon.com/c g-r-o-n-l-u-n-d.

All right—let’s get to work…

Gerald’s Grail

Gerald Healy sat at the head of the lunch table watching his best friend, Brian Kaminsky, roll up a new character for their weekend Dungeons and Dragons session.

“…And…an eleven after dropping the worst of the four dice. I still say we should roll 3d6 for each ability six times and keep the best roll. It’s in the Dungeon Master’s Guide.”

“When I started playing seven years ago, we didn’t even get to drop the worst of four,” Gerald said.

“My name’s Gerald, and I’ve been playing D&D since 1979,” Dave Strand said. “I agree with Brian. Or…they should give players the option to choose a standard array of numbers. Like 15, 14, 13, 12, 10, and maybe 8. To guarantee you’d always end up with a playable character. That would be cool.”

“That’s unlikely to happen,” Gerald said. “Besides, part of what makes the game fun is the randomness. It’s possible to end up with a really powerful character if you’re lucky.”

Akara Mok said, “Yeah, but none of us are ever lucky. That’s the problem.”

“Fine. If you all wanna go with Brian’s suggestion, we can start doing that.”

“Nah. You’re the Dungeon Master,” Dave said. “It’s your call.”

Gerald nodded. “Yeah, but it’s our game. We’re all in it together.”

“I’m good,” Brian said. “I just have the feeling I’ll be rolling up another new character before the weekend is over.”

“About that,” Akara said. “Are we playing all day tomorrow, or in the evening?”

“Gonna have to be a late afternoon or evening thing,” Gerald said. “I’m going out for lunch and running errands with my grandma.”

“Aww, that’s so cute,” Dave said.

The rest of the group looked at him.

“No, really. I’m not even being an ass—I mean it. Your grandma’s awesome!”

Gerald smiled. “Yeah, she really is.”

As Brian wrote an “11” in the box for his new character’s Charisma ability, a hand swatted Gerald’s dice from the table, sending them bouncing across the floor. Gerald jolted to his feet and looked Cory Bradford in the eye.

“What the hell, Bradford?!”

Cory poked Gerald’s ample belly and said, “Sit back down, Healy. It was an accident.”

The four friends who never seemed to leave Cory’s side laughed.

“Bullshit!”

Cory Bradford ignored Gerald and said, “What are you losers doing?”

Brian said, “Making a D&D character.”

“D&D. What’s that stand for: dickless and dumb?”

“No, Dungeons and Dragons.”

“No shit, Kaminsky. You don’t think I know that? Do I look stupid to you?”

“You look like an asshole,” Dave whispered under his breath.

“What’s that, Strand?”

“It’s Strahnd. Like Strahd.”

Cory took a step Dave’s way and smacked him in the side of the head. “Fuckin’ dork.”

Before anyone else could react, Akara leaped to her feet and slapped Cory in the face hard enough to get the attention of anyone not already looking at their lunch table. Cory Bradford reeled in shock. After composing himself, he took a swing at Akara, who ducked his blow. Gerald charged him, using his full weight to pin him against the wall. As Cory’s friends pummeled Gerald from behind and tried pulling him off their friend, Mr. Gunderson, the wrestling coach and one of the lunchroom monitors, blew his whistle.

“Healy!” he shouted. By the time he reached the table, the sides separated and withdrew to their respected groups.

“What the hell are you doing, Healy?”

“What?”

“Why’d you jump on Mr. Bradford?”

“He started it!” Gerald said.

Mr. Gunderson looked at Akara. “I saw her start it.”

“Only after Bradford hit Strand.”

“Strahnd,” Dave said.

“You need to hustle your butt to the office, Mr. Healy.”

“Why?!”

“Because I said so…”

Gerald shook his head. “Fine!”

As he passed Cory Bradford and his gang, Cory whispered, “This ain’t over, fat boy…”

* * *

As the group walked home from school, Brian said, “Did you get in trouble when you got sent to the office?”

“Nah,” Gerald said. “I think they’re just as tired of Bradford as the rest of us. The coaches look out for him, but I think most teachers and staff hate him as much as the rest of us do.”

“Good point.”

“That slap from Akara was righteous,” Dave said. “Coulda got us all killed, but it was awesome.”

“Some of my family didn’t make it out of Cambodia with the rest of us,” Akara said. “I will never not stand up to bullies.”

Brian nodded and put his hand on her shoulder. They walked half a block in silence until he said to Dave, “Have you checked out the new Maiden album?”

“Yeah. It’s good, but it’s no Powerslave.”

Brian looked at Gerald. “What about you?”

“I get the appeal, but they’re not my thing…”

“Says the guy still listening to Rush’s Power Windows on repeat,” Dave said.

“It’s a great album!”

“It’s even worse than Grace Under Pressure. Those keyboards, man!”

“You can laugh all you want, but mark my words: Maiden’s next album will have keyboards on it.”

“No fucking way! They’d never do that.”

Akara said, “You guys do know there’s other music out there, right?”

“Uh-oh,” Dave said. “Ms. Black Celebration’s about to go on about Depeche Mode.”

“What’s wrong with Depeche Mode?”

“They’re weird.”

“You’re weird!”

The discussion was interrupted by the revving of a car engine and the squealing of tires. A red Camaro IROC-Z pulled to the curb, followed by a blue Mustang SVO. Cory Bradford and his best friend climbed out of the Camaro; Bradford’s other three friends got out of the Mustang. Cory approached Gerald.

“We need to finish what we started earlier, Fat Boy.”

Brian said, “Please leave us alone, Cory.”

“Shut the fuck up, Kaminsky.”

Akara stepped to Brian’s side.

“I’m not afraid to hit a girl,” Cory said.

“And I’m not afraid to hit a little boy.”

Cory looked at the group. “She’s gonna get all of you hurt.”

“Just go,” Brian said.

Cory grabbed Brian’s face and mashed his cheeks. Before he could say anything, Akara kicked at his crotch, but missed her target and hit Cory’s inner thigh. With his free hand, he hit Brian and bloodied his lip. Cory was ready when Akara threw a punch. He blocked her blow and shoved her to the ground.

As Gerald began his charge, Dave threw a handful of dirt in the eyes of Cory’s friends and then picked up a stick. He swung it like a sword, keeping them at bay. Cory took Gerald to the ground with ease. He rolled him onto his back and pummeled his face. Dave looked back and forth between Cory and his friends, deciding that keeping more people out of the fight was the better option.

Akara tried pulling Cory off Gerald, but he wouldn’t budge. When she climbed onto his back, Cory let go of Gerald and flopped backward, smashing Akara to the ground.

“Hey!” Brian shouted.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned his way. Brian held a chunk of pavement from the side of the road in his hand.

Cory laughed. “I’ve seen you throw things, Kaminsky. Go for it.”

Brian held the rock over the back panel of Cory Bradford’s Camaro.

“I’m not gonna throw it. If you’re gonna beat the shit out of us anyway, I’m gonna fuck up your car’s paint job—I have nothing to lose. Or…you can climb back in and get the fuck out of here.”

Cory Bradford looked Brian in the eye. Brian raised his eyebrows and slightly cocked his head toward the car.

“All right,” Cory said. “Come on, guys.”

When Cory and his crew were gone, Brian, Akara, and Dave checked on Gerald. He was sitting up, running the tips of his fingers over his red, puffy face.

“How bad is it?” he said.

“We have matching fat lips,” Brian said. “Good thing your glasses fell off—you might have a black eye by morning. But it could be worse.”

They all helped Gerald to his feet.

He stared down the road and said, “I wish people were better than that…”

* * *

Brian was right about the black eye. The following morning, when Gerald woke up and stretched in bed, everything hurt more than usual. Struggling with Cory used muscles Gerald had long forgotten existed. His head throbbed and his lip hurt. In the bathroom, he examined himself in the mirror. A black eye and scraped elbow. All things considered, he fared better than others he’d seen Cory beat up.

As he made his way downstairs, his pain abated—minor agony gave way to the sounds and smells of his grandmother cooking breakfast.

“How are you feeling today?” she said.

“Worse in some ways, but better in others.”

She leaned a wooden spoon against the side of a pan full of scrambled eggs and surveyed his face and elbow.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to contact the school or his parents?” she said.

“I’m sure. He seems to cycle through the people he picks on. I think it was bad this time because I fought back in the cafeteria. He usually just makes fun of me and moves on.”

“That’s no excuse, dear. No one should be forced to deal with that.”

“I know. If he does it again, I’ll let you know.”

Gerald’s grandmother returned to the stove and finished cooking a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, grapes, and toast.

Between bites, Gerald said, “Where all are we going today?”

“I’d like to wander around the old part of town, get some lunch, and maybe stop by the antique shop on the way back.”

“Sounds good…”

* * *

Avalon Antiques was a small home converted to a shop just south of the old part of town. Gerald enjoyed wandering the rooms, looking through an ever-changing inventory, as much as his grandmother. He seemed to always find some perfect little trinket to decorate his bedroom or dining room table on Dungeons and Dragons nights: old coins, skeleton keys, wooden boxes, glass vials and bottles, and a letter opener that looked like a dagger meant to be hidden in an assassin’s cloak. His greatest find was an old brass sextant and weathered hourglass the shop owner swore came from an old steamship from the 1880s. Nothing like that stood out on this trip to the shop.

Gerald was about to give up and see if his grandma was ready to leave when something in a back corner that would normally not catch his eye called to him. It was a simple clay chalice with a worn glaze, something he could use to hold dice or strap to his belt when visiting King Richard’s Renaissance Faire up in Wisconsin. It wasn’t as cool looking as some of his other finds, but it could serve an actual purpose at the table on game nights, unlike most of his other found baubles. He brought it to the counter and asked how much it cost.

The old man who owned the shop said, “I don’t remember seeing that.” He gestured for Gerald to hand it over. After examining the chalice, the man said, “You and your grandmother come here enough. You can take that with you.”

“You’re giving it to me?” Gerald said.

The old man nodded. “Consider it a frequent buyer’s bonus. I’m sure it will serve you well…”

* * *

Gerald sat behind his Dungeon Masters screen, surveying hidden notes and a map.

“The jagged stub of a large tower stands up from the razed walls. Two small black birds are perched on the tower top, about twenty-five feet up.”

“What do you do?”

Dave said, “I have Silvarius ready his bow and take a shot at one of the birds.”

“They’re probably just birds,” Akara said. “I say we check out the tower first.”

“Experience points are experience points,” Dave said. “That’s what Silvarius does.”

“Okay,” Gerald said. “Roll to hit.”

Dave shook a 20-sided die in his hand and rolled it onto the table.

“A twelve.”

“That misses,” Gerald said. He removed a six-sided die from the chalice he bought earlier at the antique shop.

“One, two, or three, they attack. Four, five, or six, they leave. Five. The birds fly off away from the party.”

Akara said, “Sovanara looks at the tower. What’s it look like?”

“One heavy door can be seen, barred and chained shut from the outside. Arrow slits are visible on either side of the door, but peering in reveals only blackness beyond.”

“Is there a lock on the chain?” Brian said.

“Yes.”

“Bautigan swings his battle axe at the lock.”

Gerald nodded. “Roll a d8.”

“A six.”

“The lock is damaged, but it’s still holding.”

“Bautigan swings again. A seven!”

“The lock breaks and falls to the ground,” Gerald said. “Now, what do you do?”

“We’ll all work at opening the door,” Brian said.

“Everyone roll a d6.”

Akara and Dave rolled ones—Brian rolled a two.

“All right, you all heave and pull and open the door. Great job!”

“It’s all in the reflexes,” Brian said.

Gerald laughed and then said, “Ol’ Jack Burton! This is probably a good time for a break if anyone needs one?”

“Yeah, all the pop I’ve been drinking has my teeth floating,” Dave said. “Be right back.” He made his way toward the bathroom.

While Gerald got up and stretched, Brian said, “Is that goblet new?”

Gerald shook the tension from his arms. “Yeah. Bought it today. Don’t know why. Guess I didn’t want to leave empty handed.”

Dave returned to the room with a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew. He refilled his glass and said, “Anyone else?”

Brian nodded. After Dave topped Brian off, he looked at Akara.

“Oh, no,” she said. “That stuff’s grody.”

“Gerald?”

“I put my glass up.”

Brian pointed to the chalice.

Gerald dumped the dice behind his Dungeon Masters screen and said, “Sure. Fill’er up!”

Once everybody settled back in, Gerald took a sip. The Mountain Dew tasted like a fountain drink—not something poured from a plastic bottle. The effervescence and rich flavors gave him pause before he turned back to the group and said, “So…what do you do?”

* * *

Even after opening his eyes Sunday morning, Gerald thought he was dreaming. Everything in his bedroom was in a crisp focus he’d never before experienced—even after getting new glasses. Each breath he took was open and deep, all without the use of an asthma inhaler. He felt his belly. While he was still big, when he stood up, no bones or muscles strained beneath his weight. He felt ready to run a marathon.

On his way to the bathroom, Gerald noticed the scrape on his elbow was gone, along with all the scars he’d collected over the years. He splashed cold water on his face in the bathroom sink. After patting water from his eyes with a hand towel, he looked in the mirror. There were no signs of the deep pock marks and pimples normally covering his face. He ran his fingers over his cheeks, savoring the smoothness of his skin. When he smiled, his crooked teeth were straight.

“What the…?”

He slapped his face to make sure he was awake—there was no sting against his cheek. Using both hands, he struck the sides of his face in rapid succession. No pain; no red marks.

He went downstairs to make sure his grandma had gone to church and called Brian.

* * *

Brian and Akara arrived sooner than Gerald expected. He was halfway through a bowl of S’Mores Crunch cereal when the doorbell rang. He let them in.

“So, what’s the big—” Brian started saying. He looked at Gerald’s face. “What happened? Where are your glasses?”

“I don’t need them anymore,” Gerald said. “I woke up and everything changed. No black eye—no zits. All the bruises and scrapes from the Bradford fight are gone. I feel great.

“I know it sounds impossible, but I think it’s the chalice. I didn’t say anything last night, but when I drank from it, everything tasted…more somehow. I felt different, like something good was inside the drink and fixing my body.”

“That’s not possible,” Akara said. “How could that happen?”

“I don’t know. But I think that chalice might be the Holy Grail.”

Akara laughed; even Brian shook his head. “Like, ‘We are the knights who say…Ni!’ Holy Grail?”

“No,” Gerald said. “The actual Holy Grail. That’s why I didn’t invite Dave over. He’d run his mouth and then everyone would know.”

“How the hell would the Holy Grail end up in an antique shop in town?” Brian said.

“Not sure. Things get lost and passed around. Legends come and go…and sometimes return. We live by a naval station—and the Field Museum’s an hour away. Who knows, but stranger things have happened.

“But look at me. There’s no normal way to explain this.”

“Get on the floor and do ten pushups,” Akara said.

“What?!”

“If you can do that, I might believe something’s going on. Maybe not full Holy Grail, but something more than what we understand.”

Gerald dropped to the floor and did ten perfect pushups. When he was done, he did ten more. He rolled onto his back and kicked his legs toward his head. Rocking back on his arms, he launched himself to his feet with a handspring. No sweat; no struggling for breath.

“Holy shit,” Brian said.

“Yeah, totally. The reason I invited Akara over is I wanted to try something. Your limp. From Cambodia. I wanted to see if the grail fixed it.”

She stared at Gerald a moment and then looked to Brian.

“That is, if you want to try it.”

She nodded. “Sure.”

* * *

Gerald pulled the bottle of Mountain Dew from the fridge and poured it into the grail.

“Does it have to be pop?” Brian said.

”I don’t know. It’s what worked last night. Figured we can test other things later, but it’s probably best to recreate last night.”

Akara reached for the grail. “I hate this stuff, but sure.”

She chugged the contents of the cup as quickly as she could. When she was done, she cocked her head to the side and smacked her lips.

“That’s good!”

Gerald said, “Like the best thing you ever drank, right?”

“Uh huh. Soooooo good!”

“How do you feel?”

“A bit tingly. Especially my ankle.”

“That’s what I felt, too. Like there was something good inside me.”

“Yeah…”

* * *

Akara slowly moved her foot in circles while Gerald and Brian played Super Mario Brothers.

“Feel anything yet?” Brian said.

“Not yet. It just feels good. Like it’s looser.”

“It might take a while,” Gerald said. “I felt good last night, but it wasn’t until going to bed that I felt even better. No idea when I was fully healed because I went right to sleep.”

“I think we should go to the antique shop when it opens,” Brian said. “Ask the owner about the grail.”

“He said he didn’t remember seeing it.”

“Yeah, but he’s old enough to be your grandma’s grandpa! Maybe asking more about it will help his memory.”

“Maybe. We’ll have to go later during the week, though. He’s closed on Sundays.”

“Damn, that’s right…”

* * *

The three headed out before Gerald’s grandmother returned from church and lunch.

Akara’s gait had improved, but her limp was still obvious. When they reached Viking Hobby Shop, they stepped inside.

Nestled in a back corner, among the myriad model trains the store was known for, were the role playing games. Gerald tried selling the group on other systems—Gamma World, Star Frontiers, Gangbusters, and Top Secret—but they always returned to Dungeons and Dragons. He looked through the modules and picked up Lankhmar—City of Adventure.

“What’s that?” Brian said.

“It’s based on some books I like.”

“Is it a module?”

“I think it’s more of a setting. A big city. Maybe they’ll come out with modules for it, but we kind of do our own thing anyway. I figure we can say there’s a cave in Greyhawk that leads here and we can go back and forth. I’m getting it.”

When they were done in the hobby store, they discussed catching the bus and wandering around Lakehurst Mall.

“I’m not in the mood for the mall,” Akara said. “We should just wander close to home today.”

They spent the afternoon meandering around town, ending the day in a convenience store that had a few arcade games in the back. Gerald and Brian got excited when they saw a new cabinet next to Joust.

“What’s Tron?” Akara said.

Gerald and Brian looked each other in mock amazement before Brian said, “We really need to get you caught up on some movies you’ve missed. Trust me on this one…”

By later afternoon, Akara’s limp was gone. She hopped around on her bad foot before falling into the grass and laughing. Brian sat down beside her.

“So it’s fixed?” he said.

Akara kissed him on the cheek and hugged him.

“As good as new!”

Gerald joined them in the grass.

“Maybe it’s not the Holy Grail, but it’s clearly something.”

“I think you’re right,” Brian said. “I can’t think of any other way to explain it.”

Akara slapped their legs. “Guys…” She gestured down the street with her head.

“Oh, shit,” Gerald and Brian said in unison.

Dave spotted them on the grass and shook his head.

“Are you guys blowing me off? I called you all and got no answer. Figured you might be here or the mall.”

“We’re not blowing you off,” Gerald said.

“What’s wrong with your face? Where are your glasses? What the fuck is going on?”

Brian patted the ground beside him. “Sit down—you’re not gonna believe this…”

* * *

After telling Dave about the grail, they walked back to Gerald’s house and sneaked into the kitchen.

“Gerald?” his grandmother said from the den.

“Yeah, grandma.”

“Don’t spoil your appetite. Dinner’s in the oven.”

“I’m just getting something to drink. Brian, Akara, and Dave are with me. They have to get some books for school before they leave.”

He grabbed the bottle of Mountain Dew from the refrigerator and went upstairs to his bedroom.

Brian was the first to drink from the grail.

“You’re right. I feel something. Tingly.”

After Dave finished drinking, he agreed. “Yeah.”

“I wonder how long it lasts?” Brian said.

“Dunno,” Gerald said. “We’ll see if it wears off on me since I drank from it first. If it does, then we’ll know when to have another drink.”

“If I have to do it again, I’m trying water,” Akara said. “I don’t know how you guys can drink that stuff.”

“We know this works,” Dave said.

“If it’s the Holy Grail, anything should work. So, I’ll try water next time.”

“We need to promise none of us will talk about this,” Gerald said. “I know my grandma’s gonna ask about my face. I’m gonna tell her I woke up like this. It’s not a lie. We can’t let anyone know about the grail—no matter what. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you guys at school tomorrow.”

* * *

The following day at lunch, Gerald and his friends talked about how they were feeling.

“My ankle feels great,” Akara said.

While nothing physical impeded Brian and Dave, they admitted they’d never felt better.

“I feel like I can just go run as long as I want,” Brian said. “All day long.”

“Same here.”

They stopped talking when Cory Bradford and his friends wandered up to the table and surrounded Gerald.

“How’s the eye?” Cory said.

Gerald looked up and smiled. “What about my eye?”

Cory examined Gerald’s face, looking for any sign of what he did to it Friday after school.

“I wailed on you, fat boy. Are you wearing makeup?”

“No. I guess you’re just not strong enough to leave a mark. Maybe work at that next time.”

Akara, Brian, and Dave laughed, adding to Cory’s fury.

“You think you’re funny?”

“No more than how funny you look. So yes, I think I’m funny. Hilarious, even.”

Cory took a swing, but Gerald caught his fist in his hand. He stood up, grabbed Cory by the shirt, and twisted the fabric around his hand. Even Gerald seemed surprised by how easy it was to lift Cory off the ground like a little kid.

“I think it’s in your best interests to leave us alone from now on,” Gerald said.

Mr. Gunderson blew his whistle and started for the table. Gerald put Cory down.

“This isn’t over fat boy,” Cory said.

“Are you not smart enough to come up with a better insult, Bradford? It’s always the same thing with you.”

“You’re dead after school.”

“Sure. Fine. Where do you want to do it?” Gerald said, loud enough for people at other tables to hear him. “If you want to fight, I’ll fight you. Just tell me where.”

Gerald saw fear on Cory’s face before he toughened up and said, “Behind the football field.”

Gerald put Cory down and said, “Cool. Seeya then…” Then he turned on his heel and walked away from Mr. Gunderson.

“Yeah, yeah…I know. Go to the office, Healy…”

* * *

Throughout the day, hype for the after-school battle grew, to the point that after Gerald’s last class—English—his teacher, Mr. Olander, pulled him aside after the bell.

“I heard you plan to fight Cory Bradford. Is that true?”

“It is.”

“You know you don’t have to. We can head to the office and take care of this.”

“Maybe. But I remember when we read Hamlet. ‘This above all: to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.’”

“Two things—no, three. First: I’m glad the things you read in my class stick with you. Second: that was said by Polonius who is later referred to in his death as a ‘foolish prating knave.’ Third: Is fighting true to who you are? Much of Shakespeare’s work is about the destruction that comes from violence.”

“This is something I have to do, Mr. Olander.”

“I understand. You won’t mind if I watch from a distance, though? Just in case?”

“That’s fair.”

* * *

A crowd had already gathered on the field behind the football stadium when Gerald arrived. His three best friends trotted up to him.

“Are you sure about this?” Brian said.

“Yeah. I feel great!”

“You’re not immortal,” Akara said.

“I know. But I have to do this.”

 Gerald broke away from his friends and stepped up to Cory Bradford.

“We can shake hands like gentlemen and call this done before it begins,” Gerald said. “Or…settle it your way.”

Cory swung at Gerald with all his might. Gerald backed out of the way and grabbed Cory from behind as his body spun around from the blow’s momentum. Gerald brought Cory to the ground and put him in a half nelson. He drove with his body, rolling Cory on his back. With a free hand, Gerald slapped the ground three times.

“One! Two! Three! Ohhh! The state wrestling champ just got pinned by a sophomore!”

Gerald stood up and offered Cory his hand. Cory accepted and used it to launch himself at Gerald in a punch.

Gerald ducked the blow, and Cory almost crashed to the ground. He turned back toward Gerald and came at him swinging.

Gerald looked like Muhammad Ali as he bobbed his head and ducked, avoiding every punch. He shook his head and mocked Cory, sending him into even more of a frenzy where every blow missed its mark and left Cory off balance. With a tap of Gerald’s foot against Cory’s butt or a slight nudge to his back, he sent Cory to the ground repeatedly.

“Mister Bradford,” Gerald said. “I beseech you to stop this madness before you hurt yourself or suffer further humiliation in front of your compatriots!”

Cory spit at him, but missed. When he charged, Gerald turned and started running. He stayed just out of Cory’s reach, even when Cory accelerated to full speed. Gerald deked and dodged, laughing and taunting as he drew Cory deeper into the field. When Cory could run no more, he bent over and vomited—Gerald running circles around him as he heaved. When Cory was done, Gerald put his hand on his back.

“All I’ve ever asked—all that any of us have ever asked—is that you leave us alone. I don’t know what benefits you get from preying on those weaker than you, but I hope this afternoon makes you reconsider some things.”

On his way back to his friends, Gerald spotted Mr. Olander by the fence near one of the end zones of the football field. He flashed a thumbs-up to his teacher and rejoined the crowd.

* * *

As if the effects of drinking from the grail wasn’t enough, the rush that came from having new, adoring fans made Gerald feel like a knight returning from battle. While none of Cory’s friends congratulated him, others still within the circle of popularity patted his back as he walked by.

The high of the moment and swell of popularity carried through to the next day. When the bell finally rang at the end of English class, Mr. Olander held Gerald up.

When the room cleared out, Mr. Olander said, “Your handling of Mister Bradford yesterday was rather clever.”

“Like I said, ‘To thine own self be true.’”

“Point taken. What I’d like to know is how someone I’ve seen get out of breath walking halfway across my classroom to hand in a test can suddenly humiliate one of the better athletes in the state. Are you taking any drugs?”

“No!”

“I’m on your side, Gerald. If you are, know they can hurt you. Especially anything that can make you run like that.”

“I’m not taking drugs. I promise. I’m not even taking vitamins. I guess I just had enough of Cory and adrenaline let me do what I needed to do.”

Mr. Olander said, “All right. But please, know that you can always come to me if anything’s bothering you.”

“I know. Thanks.”

* * *

“Mister Olander knows something’s up.”

“How?” Brian said.

“He saw the thing with Cory yesterday. He thinks I’m on drugs.”

Dave laughed and said, “Did you learn nothing from Nancy Reagan?”

“This is serious. My grandma keeps asking about my face, and now Mr. Olander knows something’s up. What about your parents, Akara?”

“I’m faking my limp at home. If I didn’t, they’d keep at me until they found out what happened.”

“Speaking of that, we need to find out more about the grail. I’m stopping by the antique store before heading home.”

* * *

Gerald’s heart sank when he saw the CLOSED sign displayed in the window. He looked inside at the dark store before knocking.

“Maybe he’s in the back.”

“Why would he turn the lights out?” Brian said.

“I don’t know.” Gerald tried rousing the owner with a second—and then third—round of knocking.

“Maybe he died,” Dave said, causing all heads to turn his way. “I mean, he’s old…it could happen.”

Akara said, “Or maybe it was a slow day and he went home early.”

“That’s gotta be it,” Gerald said. “Or maybe he had to run an errand. I’m gonna call my grandma and let her know I’m sticking around town a bit. See if he comes back. Anyone wanna hang out?”

“I have homework,” Akara said.

Brian nodded. “Me too.”

“Dave?”

“Hate saying it, but I have a lot of homework today, too. My parents have been riding my ass since my last report card.”

* * *

Gerald swung by all his usual stops: Viking Hobby Shop, Spender’s Books, and The Record Bin. He bought nothing—just looked at things he might pick up with money from future allowances.

When the sun began sinking toward the horizon, he returned to Avalon Antiques. Gerald knocked a couple more times, but the store remained dark and still. He turned away from the door and headed home for dinner.

* * *

When Gerald opened his eyes Wednesday morning, everything ached. His room was a blur; each breath an effort. When he stood up, his body strained beneath his weight. On the way to the bathroom, he noticed the scrape on his elbow from Friday’s fight with Cory had returned. He looked in the mirror, horrified to see a black eye and cheeks swollen with acne.

After splashing water on his face, he returned to his bedroom.

The grail was gone!

He lumbered downstairs, where his grandma was fixing breakfast.

“Grandma?” he said. “The chalice I bought at the antique store on Saturday. Have you seen it?”

She looked at his face and said, “Are you okay, dear?”

“Yes. I mean, maybe. The grail—have you seen it?!”

“Not since Saturday.”

He looked around the first floor of the house, finding nothing. When he returned to the kitchen, he said, “You’re sure you haven’t seen it?”

“I don’t make it a habit of going into your room and looking around. I’ve not seen it down here. Was it there last night?”

“I don’t know. I went straight to bed after watching Moonlighting with you last night. I was feeling really tired. Can you think of anything that could have happened to it?”

“One of your friends came by yesterday. He said he had to get a book for school from your room. Maybe he did something with it?”

“Dave?”

“No—”

“Brian?”

“No, let me finish. It was someone I’ve not met. A big blond kid in a letter jacket.”

That was the last thing Gerald wanted to hear…

* * *

“It has to be Bradford!” Gerald said to the others as they walked to school.

Brian said, “Yeah, but how could he have known?”

They all turned toward Dave.

“What?!”

“Did you say anything about the grail? To anyone?”

“Why do you think it’s me? How do you know it wasn’t Brian or Akara?”

“Did either of you mention anything about the grail to anyone?” Gerald said.

“No,” they said in unison.

They looked back at Dave.

“I only told Shane Kupfer. Not even about all it does. He promised not to tell anyone.”

“Doesn’t he have a crush on Cory’s sister?” Akara said.

“Shit!”

“This!” Brian said. “This is why we didn’t call you on Sunday! We knew you’d end up blabbing about it!”

Gerald waved his right hand at Brian. “What’s done is done. I suppose it was stupid to think we could hide it. My grandma knows something’s up. Hell, Mr. Olander knows something’s up. I just need to make sure it was Bradford…”

* * *

Before homeroom, Gerald spotted Cory Bradford in the hallway. Still emboldened a bit by the memory of Monday’s humiliation, he approached him.

“Hey, Cory,” he said. “Did you swing by my house yesterday for any reason? My grandma said someone stopped by to get something from my room, and her description sounded a lot like you.”

Cory’s slow grin spread out wide enough to reveal his sparkling white teeth. He grabbed Gerald’s shirt, twisting the fabric around his fist. With no apparent effort, he lifted all 325 pounds of Gerald off the ground with one hand.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I know this. You’re going to meet me in the field behind the football field after school today, and I’m gonna hurt you in so many ways…”

He let go of Gerald, who lost his balance and fell when he crashed back to the floor, causing those around him to laugh.

When the crowd dispersed, Brian stepped to Gerald’s side. “You need to tell someone about that. Mr. Olander, Dean Green…someone who can stop it. He’s bad enough without the grail.”

“If I were you,” Dave said. “I’d fake being sick. Figure out a way to get the grail back.”

Gerald shoved his friends aside and said, “I don’t think I need to fake it!” He rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to a stall before giving up his breakfast.

* * *

Brian, Akara, and Dave were walking home when they heard something from a nearby bush.

“Psst! Guys.”

“Gerald?” Brian said.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing?”

“Hiding.”

“Yeah, I know. But why?”

Dave kicked Brian’s foot. The sound of Cory Bradford’s Camaro roared as it got closer. It stopped at the side of the road. Over the music, Cory shouted, “Where’s Lardass?”

“Who?” Brian said.

“Don’t make me come over there, Kaminsky. You know who I’m talking about!”

“He went home early today. Sick.”

“Yeah. Well tell him when I see him, what I’ll do to him will now be even worse than if he showed up today.”

When the car got out of view, Gerald said, “That’s why I’m hiding.”

He climbed out of the bushes and ushered his friends to follow him.

“We need to stay off busy roads. And move slow, ‘cause I can’t keep up.”

“Sounds good to me,” Akara said. Her limp was returning.

“Safe to say the grail’s effects last about three days,” Gerald said.

Brian nodded and said, “Yeah. We need to get it back.”

“I have a plan,” Dave said. “I’m sorry I ran my mouth—I didn’t mean for this to happen. So, I’ve been thinking. Cory’s having a party Friday night. That means doors and windows will probably be unlocked. We can sneak in and take it back. If we get caught, just say we’re there for the party like everyone else.”

“We kind of stand out as not being the kinds of people Cory invites to his parties,” Akara said.

“Yeah. But it’s a Halloween party. We just dress in our costumes for King Richard’s Faire, and we’re good.”

“They’d still see our faces,” Brian said.

“So, we wear masks, too.”

“Or,” Gerald said. “we swing by the antique store and see if we can find anything there…”

* * *

Gerald was happy to see the OPEN sign in the window of Avalon Antiques and find the door unlocked. He and his friends stepped inside.

“Good afternoon,” the old man behind the counter said. “Oh, it’s you my young friend. How are you?”

“Fine. Well, not really.”

“I see. And the chalice? How is it serving you?”

“It was great…until someone stole it.”

Gerald braced for the old man’s anger; at the very least, his disappointment. Instead, calm as always, he said, “I suppose you and your friends have a plan to retrieve it?”

“We do.”

“And do you have a plan for what you will tell the people who have it? So, they do not discuss it with others?”

“We don’t. We’ve not planned that far ahead. We stopped by yesterday to talk, but you were closed.”

“I was. I had a timely appraisal that needed to be done.”

“Something special, like the chalice? It really is the Holy Grail, isn’t it?”

“You are a wise young man. And I suspect you have wise friends.”

“Why did you entrust me with the grail, sir?”

“Perhaps because not many people your age would have answered in such a manner. But a better reason: I am an old man, and have no need for such a thing anymore. I was curious to see what you might do with it.”

“I ended up losing it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It is not lost. You are an honorable group of friends, and I trust it will return to better hands soon enough.”

“Excuse me,” Dave said. “Sir. Do you have any masks for sale?”

He pointed to a long, wooden mask on the wall.

“Do you have anything more…inconspicuous?”

“Feel free to look around. See if something gets your…attention.”

They milled about the store, looking at old clothing and aged trinkets. Nothing in the store was cheap, and it all looked like it came from another time.

Akara took a bit of brocaded silk fabric from a short cloak between her fingers, savoring the feel between her index finger and thumb.

“What can you tell me about this mantle?” Akara said.

“It seems to be to your liking,” the old man said.

Dave picked up a white-hilted dagger from a shelf and admired it.

“You need something that will hide your face,” Brian said.

The old man said, “I think that is a fine choice.”

A chainmail tunic caught Brian’s attention. It would be the perfect accompaniment for a knight’s costume he’d been slowly piecing together. He lifted the armor off the old dress form in the corner, marveling at how light it was.

Gerald was drawn to a blue stone nestled among others in a small wooden box. It felt cool to the touch and filled him with a feeling of safety. When he approached the counter, his friends followed.

“Those look like fine choices,” the store owner said. “Quite fine, indeed.”

“How much is this dagger?” Dave said.

“Take it for now. See if it assists you during this endeavor, and then we can discuss things further. The same for all of you.”

“Are these magical, like the grail?” Gerald said.

“I think you will find they all serve their purposes when needed.”

“So that’s a yes?” Dave said.

“It is not a no. Let us leave it at that.”

“Why are you giving us these things?” Brian said.

“I am not giving them to you, my dear boy. These particular items cannot be possessed—only used by those with the right hearts. Perhaps they will aid in the cup’s recovery—perhaps they won’t. It is up to you to find out.”

He carefully placed each item in bags and said, “I trust you will do your best to ensure these do not fall into the hands of others?”

They all nodded.

“Good. May they serve you well.”

As they were leaving, Akara turned back and said, “What’s your name?”

“Feel free to call me Mr. Percy.”

* * *

On the walk home, Gerald developed a plan.

“I can probably get away with faking sick tomorrow after going home early today. And then I’ll ditch school Friday. I’m not giving Bradford the chance to kick my ass before we do this. We can meet at my place around six. My grandma will likely be doing Halloween stuff at her church. And if she’s home, we’ll just tell her we’re going to a party. It wouldn’t be lying.”

* * *

They gathered at Gerald’s house on Halloween Eve just as the sun was going down. Gerald turned off the porch light and ignored knocks from the most determined trick-or-treaters.

“There’s a Ferentino’s pizza in the kitchen if anyone’s hungry?”

Dave was the first to get a slice.

“I already ate,” Akara said.

“Same here,” but it didn’t stop Brian from joining Dave in the kitchen.

Gerald followed his friends. “We look ready to storm the Temple of Elemental Evil.”

“Like a D&D party come to life!” Dave said.

“Dude, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Dave opened his mouth even wider and rolled half-chewed pizza around with his tongue.

Gerald said, “We need to focus, guys. Dave’s been to Cory’s house once, with Shane Kupfer. What do you remember about it?”

He chewed and swallowed before saying, “It’s big.”

“And…?”

“They’re right on the lake. There’s a creek that runs along the side of the house. They have a big pool and backyard. Trees everywhere, so it shouldn’t be too hard to sneak up to the house. Once inside, things are pretty open. It might be hard sneaking around. I’ve never been upstairs, but there’s a bigass double staircase when you step through the front doors.”

“Do we all agree, then, to follow the creek and stay under cover of the trees?” Gerald said. “Survey the house when we get there and adjust our plans when we see what we’re facing?”

“Sounds good to me,” Brian said.

Akara and Dave nodded in agreement.

* * *

They skulked along the creek beside Cory Bradford’s house until finding a shallow section small enough to leap across.

“My ankle’s back to normal,” Akara said. “I can’t clear that.”

“Maybe there’s another place to cross further down,” Gerald said.

The music and shouting from Cory’s party covered the sounds of the group lumbering through the dark cover of trees. Eventually, they came to a section close to the lake where the creek widened enough to hold a small sandbar with a tree growing from it. An old tire swing hung from one of the branches.

“I can jump across,” Brian said. “If Gerald and Dave hold you up, you should be able to catch the tire swing when I push it your way.”

“Can you clear it in that armor?” Gerald said.

“Yeah. It’s so much lighter than it looks.”

Brian leaped across and, on the second try, Akara caught the tire swing. She swung across, where Brian caught her. Dave and Gerald jumped the creek, with Gerald coming up short and soaking his right foot.

“Shit!”

They repeated the process on the other side of the sandbar and made their way back toward Cory’s house.

From what they could make out in the backyard, it seemed like most of the party was there. A large bonfire sent sparks into the dark sky. Teenagers chugged beer in the fire’s glow. Music blared from an outdoor sound system near the pool, which was already covered in anticipation of winter. They made their way to the side of the house through the trees. A small patio gave way to French doors.

“I’m willing to sneak up and check the doors,” Dave said.

Gerald grinned. “I feel like I need to tell you to roll percentage dice to see if you make it.”

“I’ll be sure to do my best Silvarius impersonation.”

Dave left the safety of the trees and raced across the manicured lawn to the patio. When he stepped into shadows, he seemed to disappear completely. It was only when he checked the doors that he appeared in the glow from the inside lights. He tried the handles and gave a thumbs up to the group.

Akara was next to go. She pulled up the hood on the mantle and disappeared from view.

“No fuckin’ way,” Brian said. Gerald shook his head in amazement.

Before they started across the lawn together, the doors opened. Two of Cory’s friends stepped out and lit cigarettes. Dave disappeared into a shadow mere feet from the two. They had no idea where Akara was. The two party revelers eventually snubbed out their cigarettes and returned to the house.

When Brian and Gerald made it to the patio, Dave whispered, “Where’s Akara?”

“Right here.” She removed the hood from her head and appeared before them, startling Dave. “What’s going on, guys?”

“It has to be like the grail,” Gerald said. “The things we picked out at the antique store are real. When we were running across the grass, Brian’s chainmail didn’t make a sound. These are real magic items!”

“There’s no way,” Akara said.

“And yet, here we are,” Dave said. “So, now what?”

Gerald pointed the way. “I say we head in and go to the stairs.”

* * *

While much of the party was in the backyard around the bonfire, the interior of the house was a refuge for those wanting to get in from the chill of the night and get on the backside of speakers. Classmates the group only saw passing in the halls bunched together according to social standing. Gerald and his friends made their way to the front of the house, where a marble entry room gave way to two massive stairways leading to the same landing at the top. Velvet ropes turned away anyone thinking about making their way upstairs, but the addition of signs taped to the ropes reading KEEP OUT OR ELSE! – CORY warned anyone thinking about breaching the barriers that there would be serious repercussions for not doing as told.

Brian opened one of the front doors, ensuring no one was about to enter the mansion, while the others kept an eye out on the ground floor beyond the stairs. On Brian’s go, they stepped over the ropes and made their way upstairs.

Beyond the landing, a long room thrust into dim lighting. The grand hallway looked like a room from the Field Museum, down to lighted cases full of artifacts on each side. In the middle of the room, on a marble slab, was a dinosaur skeleton. The long creature was no taller than a human, but its menacing pose looked like it could break free from its supports and attack, or join the group sneaking around the mansion. Gerald read from a plaque mounted on the slab.

“Thes-ul-uh…Thes-kel-oh-sore-us.”

“Holy shit!” Brian whispered. He pointed to a T-rex skull in a glass case behind Gerald’s dinosaur.

“Are these real?” Akara said.

Brian leaned in for a better look. “Looks like it.”

“Check the cases,” Gerald said.

He and Dave walked along one side of the room, while Akara and Brian inspected the other side. The grand hallway in Cory Bradford’s house was a tiny museum. When asked what his father did for a living, Cory told classmates, “He’s an international businessman,” as if that said everything. Looking at Mr. Bradford’s collection, it seemed part of his international pursuits put him in touch with ancient artifacts and art. Dave stopped before a painting.

“What’s up?” Gerald said.

“That might be a Rembrandt.”

Gerald looked at the landscape. “How do you know?”

“Before my mom started appraising art and opened her gallery in the city, she worked in a museum in Montreal right after I was born. She talked about a robbery. She has some photos she took, and I swear that’s one of the pieces.”

Gerald looked at the other items Cory’s father had on display. “I wonder how much of this is stuff the Bradfords shouldn’t have…”

Their inspection didn’t turn up the grail. The group came to a point at which a hallway went to the left, and another to the right.

“We’ll go down here,” Brian said. “You guys go that way.”

“We shouldn’t split up the party,” Gerald said.

“We need to get in and out of here as fast as we can.” Brian and Akara started down the hall. Dave tugged on Gerald’s arm, leading him the other way.

“I’ll check the left side—you check the right.”

* * *

The first room Gerald came to was a bedroom. It was hard to make out anything in the dark hallway, but—judging by the smell of perfume and hair spray—he guessed it belonged to Cory’s sister. Next was a bathroom, where the smells of Cory’s sister’s room mingled with the odor of the cologne Cory splashed on each morning before coming to school. At the end of the hall was another bedroom. Gerald poked his head inside, but the light from the grand hall barely made it back to where he was. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a flashlight, and pointed it toward the floor. He turned it on, using his free hand to further try blocking the light.

He had found Cory’s bedroom. Band and model posters lined his walls: Paulina Porizkova flanked by Van Halen and the Scorpions; Cindy Crawford and John Cougar Mellencamp representing the Midwest; Elle Macpherson hanging out with AC/DC and Mötley Crüe. Gerald moved to Cory’s desk and dresser, hoping to spot the grail on top of one for a quick grab-and-go, but it was nowhere to be seen. The surface of Cory’s nightstand was also a bust. Gerald did his best to shield the light as he opened the nightstand drawer.

“Psst!”

Gerald instinctively shined the flashlight toward the bedroom doorway, flashing Dave in the face.

“Dude!”

“Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I didn’t find Cory’s bedroom.”

“Well, I did.”

“Did you find the grail?”

“Not yet. Gimme a sec.”

“That’s cool—I need it. I can’t see shit right now.”

Gerald checked the inside of the nightstand and all the drawers in Cory’s dresser. Nothing. He opened the closet and stepped inside. In time, he found the grail placed on a shelf. When he turned to leave the walk-in closet, Dave charged in, doing his best to quietly close the door behind him. A moment later, the light in the bedroom clicked on. Gerald turned the flashlight off and set it on the shelf beside the grail. He reached into his pocket for the blue stone, holding it tightly in his off hand.

“If anyone’s up here, you’re not gonna like what happens next, Cory said.

His feet cast a shadow at the bottom of the closet door.

“Stay here,” Gerald whispered to Dave. He opened the door and stepped out with the grail. Cory, dressed like Tom Cruise from Top Gun, greeted him on the other side.

“Healy?! What the fuck? I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know. I’ve been looking for this.”

“You’re dead.”

Cory grabbed Gerald by his shirt and twisted the fabric around his fist, as though picking up where he left off in the hallway at school days before. He grinned and lifted with all his might, but Gerald barely budged. Cory winced in pain.

“Oww!”

That’s when Gerald used his size to his advantage, shoving Cory back into two of his friends. He drove forward until the three crashed onto the top of Cory’s bed. He turned and broke through Cory’s other two friends and ran as fast as he could down the hallway. From the other wing of the house, he saw Brian and Akara. He waved them on toward the mini museum.

“Go, go, go!!!”

* * *

Cory and his friends quickly gained ground on Gerald. They closed in on him as he reached Cory’s sister’s bedroom. And then…they all went down.

When Gerald reached the light of the Grand Hallway, Dave seemed to appear beside him.

“I bought us a little time!”

Akara and Brian were already heading down the stairs when Dave and Gerald joined them. Cory and his friends hadn’t given up—three of them raced down the other side of the stairway, while Cory and his best friend started down behind the group.

When they reached the bottom, Cory’s friends had blocked the front door, driving the group deeper into the house. Brian shouted, “Go! I’ll hold them off!”

He unhooked one side of the velvet rope and wielded the support like a club.

Brian fought like a 10th level fighter, using his opponents’ momentum against them and sending them to the ground with a nudge of the post.

As the rest of the group made it to the back of the house, Cory shouted, “Stop them!”

Akara pulled her hood and disappeared, but Gerald could still hear her beside him as they ran past the swimming pool. As Gerald neared the bonfire, one of Cory’s friends stuck his leg out and tripped him. It seemed to happen in slow-motion, Gerald falling to the ground while the grail slipped free from his hand and tumbled into the fire. He continued his momentum, crawling closer to the flames on all fours, still clutching the stone in his left hand. He looked around and didn’t see his friends. The person who tripped him tried rushing forward with a kick, but the heat from the fire kept him back. Gerald’s classmates looked horrified as he reached in and grabbed the grail.

It didn’t burn. He thought, perhaps, the pain was so traumatic that his body blocked it, but his sleeve and hand remained unscathed. He stood up and pushed against some of the larger logs, toppling the bonfire and sending people fleeing. He stepped through the flames; when he exited the other side, he heard Dave calling for him at the back of the property. He raced beneath the canopy of trees, his lungs aching like when he was forced to run laps in P.E. Cory’s backyard opened to a small beach next to a boathouse. Dave struggled to unmoor a rowboat while Akara kept watch.

When she saw Gerald, she said, “Where’s Brian?!”

Gerald turned back toward the house, where Cory and others worked to stomp out the toppled bonfire.

“I don’t see him.”

Something moved through the trees along the creek spilling into Lake Michigan. Gerald stepped between the noise and his friends. A figure broke clear of the strip of forest near the boathouse.

Gerald squinted in the dark. “Brian?”

“Hey, guys.” He joined his friends beside the rowboat. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not going back through all that,” Dave said. “ and I’m not letting them catch up to us along the shore.” He tossed the rope in the boat. “Get in.”

Akara took a seat in the bow, and Brian took his place in the middle, manning the oars. Gerald and Dave shared a spot in the back, with Dave giving the boat a final shove free of the sand as he climbed aboard. Brian rowed with the strength of a small outboard motor. They were about fifty yards out from shore and heading south when Cory and his friends made it to the beach. They started down the shoreline, but when beach gave way to rocks, they gave up the chase.

* * *

As they rowed south, the sounds of Cory’s party faded. The soothing cadence of the oars cutting through the water helped relieve the tension concentrated in Gerald’s shoulders.

“This isn’t over,” he said. “Bradford will come back for the grail.”

Brian slowed the rhythm of the oar strokes. “He might still give us grief, but when I had him on the ground, I told him if he said or did anything about it, I’d make sure it was known that his father has a collection he likely shouldn’t have. And if he does that, I’m sure other things he’s done aren’t clean.”

“You had Cory on the ground?” Akara said.

“Yeah. All of them. It had to be this armor.”

“None of this makes sense,” Gerald said.

Akara pulled on the hood from the mantle. She didn’t disappear.

“It’s not working right now,” she said. “Brian’s slowed down the boat. Maybe we imagined it?”

Dave shook his head. “Or maybe it was stress? Maybe the powers kick in only when they’re needed.”

“Maybe…” Gerald said.

Brian turned the boat toward the shore when they reached the city beach. They dragged it up on the sand and started toward home.

* * *

On Saturday morning, Gerald, Akara, Brian, and Dave were at the front door of Avalon Antiques shortly before it opened. Gerald knocked and looked inside. The owner shuffled to the front of the store and let them in…locking the door behind them.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Gerald said. “We have some questions.”

“Questions are always good. How can I help you?”

Gerald removed the grail and stone from a bag and placed them on a wooden table. “What are these?”

“You’ve already discovered what the chalice is. The other items have also been around for some time and serve their purposes.”

“We decided these should remain here.”

The others placed their items on the table.

The old man said, “That is the conclusion I hoped for.”

“How old are you?” Akara said.

He pointed toward the grail. “As old as I’ve always wanted to be. You’re welcome to stop by and use that any time. All of you.”

“This still doesn’t make sense,” Gerald said.

“That is understandable. We’ve lost many old stories and items along the way. The world is not like it once was. It is heartening to see younger people like you still willing to believe.

“When I was your age, it was expected that one begin plying a craft or prove themselves in some other manner. I cannot offer you an apprenticeship in a traditional sense, but I can offer you an after-school job here in the store. And, eventually, I can teach you how to recognize the things most of the world has forgotten. Then, perhaps, it will all make sense.”

“I’d like that,” Gerald said.

“I hoped you would. You can come by Monday to formalize the agreement, and begin working on Wednesday. Now, go enjoy the weekend. And if you’d please, on the way out, leave the door unlocked and turn over the open sign.”

* * *

Epilogue

(Where Are They Now)

Cory Bradford remained an asshole, but he did give Gerald and his friends a wider berth following that Halloween Eve. After attending Notre Dame on a football scholarship, he followed his father’s footsteps into “international business.”

Dave Strand joined the Army after graduation, and took part in Operation Desert Storm. After serving, he returned to Northern Illinois and opened a collectible music store that’s still going strong today.

Brian Kaminsky and Akara Mok dated throughout high school and college. They later married and settled near their hometown, where Akara teaches high school biology and Brian works as the research librarian in their city’s library. They have one child, a son named Arthur.

Gerald Healy worked part time at Avalon Antique Shop throughout his schooling. After college, he worked there full time, putting his PhD in history to use in ways no scholar would have imagined. When Mr. Percy passed in the year 2000, he left the store and its many artifacts to Gerald. Even today, at least once a month, he meets up with Brian, Akara, and Dave at a round table in the back on the shop, to catch up on life, play Dungeons and Dragons…and show off his latest acquisitions.

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was by Lupus Nocte, Rocking for Decades, Ludvig Moulin, Christopher Moe Ditvelsen, Jon Bjork, Philip Ayers, and Cercles Nouvelles, all licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

And if you want bloopers reels, behind-the-scenes-videos, and other additional Not About Lumberjacks content, check out Patreon.com/cgronlund for more details. That’s Patreon.com/c g-r-o-n-l-u-n-d. For as little as a dollar a month, you help the show and get access to all bonus content.

In July, I think it’s finally gonna be that murder mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois. (I seem to have a certain affinity for that part of the country, it seems…)

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!