Normal   Secrecy

        Suspicions and reports about certain activities can be conveyed rather tersely.  The statements can be made by persons facing other persons in the same room, or they might come as handwritten memos, emails, some people acting as go-betweens, etc.  There's a grave series of dialogues that includes a few persons thinly associated.  These persons are Sydney Fabron, Jill Deeves and Craig Rintala, with a man named Kevin Mullis taking the lead.  He's a consultant for various organizations.  Sydney and Kevin first meet at a conference in the Midwest.  On a break from the proceedings they mention, among other things, a recent loss of privilege.

        Kevin says, "The circle of cooperation at the top has changed, I guess.  You know more about that than I do."

        "But not enough," the other man replies.

        Kevin comments, "I've seen the recollections you published.  You've had actual experience.  That puts you ahead of most people."

        "It's true that we have a new governing elite, like you say."

        "But I don't know if the change that I heard about is what made a difference in your case.  I'm still trying to see why they drummed you out of the circle."

        Sydney answers, "The commissioners didn't like me."

        "Why not?"

        Sydney gives an explanation, but it doesn't make sense to the other man.  Kevin still has no concept of the independence that Sydney's most prominent colleagues enjoyed - independence from public agencies.  The relation isn't commonly understood.

        Sydney, wanting a more cheerful topic, declares, "It's fun to start one of these seminars, for what it's worth."  He's able to look enthusiastic.

        "Some of you appointed officials have it made," Kevin says, not that he's envious.  Nor is he obsessed.  During the rest of the conference he thinks about other questions.

        More than a week goes by.  A new talk - one suggested by another person - takes place in a small Massachusetts town.  Kevin has gladly accepted the invitation.  He sits at a table on a patio, talking to Jill Deeves, a source of information about Abner Deeves.  This interview begins with a question that has been bothering the consultant for several weeks.

        He asks, "What about your brother?  Always misrepresented?

        Jill answers, "The interesting things they say are mostly accurate.  The other claims, the hostile opinions, are false.  He's still alive, no thanks to them."

        "Spoken like a family member.  I can believe you."

        Jill continues, "They don't like the fact that he's part of a movement working for certain goals.  But I don't see why they'd concentrate on him instead of others.  We've had threats of prosecution, threats of murder, coming from the people who try to send you to prison for being antiwar, pro-diversity, that sort of thing.  They talk about a secret partnership, but there isn't one.  He's just part of a movement.  He doesn't hold office, he isn't wealthy, and he goes into hiding.  Do you blame him for that?"

        "Hiding," the visitor says.  "And you don't mean Witness Protection."

        Jill grimaces.  Witness Protection brings its own problems.

        "A lot of people can sympathize," Kevin admits.  "But it's too bad he won't let you give me a way to reach him."

        "It isn't just you.  He has his reasons."

        "Well, it sounds like he could use some help."

        Jill says, "Abner's on his own, definitely.  If there's someone out there he can trust, I don't know who that is.  He didn't tell me."

        The woman's comments and body language indicate disappointment with her would-be helpers.  Kevin suspects the discussion about essential facts won't get much further.  There must be a remark that can keep it useful.  He tells her about Sydney's experience, and she believes that she can make a meaningful comparison.

        "He's a target like Abner, but less innocent.  From the way you describe his background I'd say that he's been playing the game and now he can't complain if he's losing.  Abner wants to help society, not control it."

        Kevin thinks it would be fortunate if other women were so gracious about their brothers.  He certainly thinks this woman should look on the bright side.

        He states, "I'm acquainted with some officials who might be able to help you people."

        "It's good to think so.  I've told Abner that such people exist."

        "Will you send him a message for me?  I'd like to know his opinions on all of this.  He's got some opinions if he's still alive."

        "I can do that," she agrees, "but don't expect an answer from him." 

        Compared to Kevin's views about the social order, Sydney's are deeply theoretic.  He thinks the possibilities of power must include these: cults, offices, parties, partnerships, pressure groups and movements.  In her talk with Kevin about this Jill has blamed a well-organized pressure group.  It's true that the movement Abner participates in can be faulted for various reasons, but its rejection by the oligarchs is harder to explain than most people think.  Their use of coercion is a last resort.  Like Sydney, most rejected people are disposed of by gentleman's methods.  Jill prefers the idea that rejection is bound to be more dramatic than that.

        Another occasion : smoke rises from an ashtray that belongs to a young man who never speaks adoringly of the natural environment.  He sits next to a stand that has the ashtray.  Over the past forty-five minutes he's found that he enjoys the company of Kevin Mullis.  They lounge on the front porch at his residence.

        Craig says, "I'm glad you dropped by.  With you I can talk about the Deep State instead of something like home improvement or basketball."

        "Deep State, I guess, if you like the phrase."

        "It's just a matter of how deep the stories go."

        Kevin remarks, "In the groups I work with you hear some allegations, but they have the feel of being magnified from a kernel of truth."

        "Sometimes the kernel of truth deserves attention."

        "Yes, you did tell me something noteworthy.  You were part of the caper that started the upsurge in clandestine mischief.  Your part was near the headquarters of that most infamous corporation."

        "Just across the street from headquarters."

        After growing up in Oregon, Craig somehow found employment near the nation's capital.  He fell in quickly with the wrong crowd.  Their most colorful misdeeds continued for two weeks, triggering a show of law enforcement zeal by one minor politician.  Kevin has seen the odd narratives about this in the news media.  It must be fun to reveal some of these events without having to describe them fully.

        He tells Craig, "You seem to think the mischief is prompted by a change in technology."

        "That's part of it."

        "And what's the other part?"

        Craig answers, "The competition between different groups of the powers that be.  This part wasn't a matter of technology.  It seems arbitrary that I was brought into it.  They may have thought it's funny that I'm related to Sydney Fabron."

        His expression changes.  "Somewhere in this county there's a mobile home with some damage which isn't - or wasn't - very obvious.  The thing is still there as far as I know.  It was worse than a meth lab, and I participated for a few days.  I went along with it because it was my phase of insanity.  In other words I was young enough."

        "How did they use you?"

        "I shouldn't say any more about that.  I will admit that the arrangement I have now is preferable to what I had before my phase of covert action.  What I had before was low-wage, ratty employment.  It was the main reason my prospective marriage never happened."

        The suggestion is one of youthful confusion along with excess energy.

        "The system leading you astray," Kevin surmises.

        The young man shamelessly takes his fourth cigarette of the morning.  The billows follow each other as he waits for the next question.  It's finally put to him.

        "You mention competitive groups.  Which one did you belong to?"

        "The one that isn't changing with the times.  We were soundly defeated when it got serious.  Our idealism is a joke.  I got out and I finally found the kind of lifestyle I can handle." 

        Kevin says, "Maybe you'll explain something about that - I mean your current position.  You don't have a job.  You're allowed to stay at this retreat, and it's a place in Cowlitz County no one's ever heard of.  Rather pleasant surroundings.  You've got a cabin.  There must be some special reason you're allowed to stay here."

        "Kind of nice, isn't it?" Craig answers, and lets it go at that.  He isn't all bad.  Before he became involved in stealth he'd already made his humanitarian pilgrimage to the tropics.

        After the conversation, Kevin is outside, loving the silence of the forest as he meditates and walks towards his new Chevy Tahoe.  He could tell Craig that his interest in the matters they discussed has no strict relevance to his job.  He convinced the young man that they should confer in person from time to time.  He reaches the vehicle and gets in the driver's seat.  Then the sound of the nearby rushing stream is covered by the sound of the car's engine.  Kevin begins his drive home.

        "All these things are conclusive evidence of accommodation," declares the voice coming from the radio as Kevin drives.  He listens to this talk show, but not more than twice a week and only that much if the guests are worthy.  He doesn't listen because of the man who conducts the show.

        "You need to embrace the wisdom of the East," the man tells the latest caller.  Driving a truck in Oklahoma, the caller has taken the bait.  He likes the idea, not just that humans are accommodating the nonhumans, but especially the frightful terms of the accommodation.  Nothing rational is heard about this for the rest of the interview.  Still, Kevin keeps listening.

        Enthusiasts for the paranormal talk about angelic or extraterrestrial manipulation of human events.  According to their view the obscure citizen they call the Subject was forcibly inducted several months back into a program of medical experimentation.  It was two months ago that public statements about this captive began to appear.  Speculation typically refers to his lineage, with bogus claims of high society credentials reaching back to ancient times.  Abner knows this man and was on good terms with him.  Prior to the friendship Abner had a prodigious exploit, but not one that would make him famous.  He's been harassed in spite of the exploit.  It's also clear that the Subject continues to endure a nightmarish treatment.

        Electronically, Jill posts a message that could be intended for just about anyone.  "I used to think that revolution was on a level with the tooth fairy.  I still think it won't happen in a meaningful sense, but my friends tell me the urge has drastically increased without the public knowing or having yet to pay a price."

        Her sophistication blends in with all things Internet.  People respond to her online message and they enjoy mouthing off, but it's still pretty dull.  And she was correct when she told Kevin he wouldn't get a return message from Abner.

        A few days after Kevin's visit with Craig a resident of Maryland finally journeys to the West Coast.  Life with his fellow workers is heating up again.  He had thought that such controversy, at least for him, was dead.  His new colleagues envy his achievements but they also have a flagrant mistrust concerning his actual sympathies.  He's learned something from the way his situation has changed.  His wife still believes in him even if some of his friends have given up.  At the moment, having found the address and having made his way in from where his car is parked, he's glad for the opportunity of another meeting with Kevin.  The front door opens.  Kevin takes his guest to the main room.

        Sydney declares, "So this is Battle Ground."

        "Where the great battle never happened.  Actually one person got killed.  I suppose you're here on your way to see Craig."

        "I've already seen him.  He showed me some property that he's got up there - I don't mean where he's living.  It's about two miles west of that.  He thinks we should build some houses.  I wish I knew more about it.  This kind you've got here - what would you call it?"

        Kevin tries to remember.  "Dutch Colonial, something like that.  And now that you're here, you can tell me about your new working conditions, if you want."

        "They're like the old conditions.  At the conference in St. Louis I told you part of the reason for my decline in political rank.  But something else was involved: the disappearance of Abner's favorite heretic."

        "The one you people call the Subject?"

        "Splendid label.  I admit I still don't know his name.  But Abner knows the guy, and the rest of us have some details, including how it is nobody can find Abner."

        "They might find him," Kevin says.

        "Next to impossible.  Of course the reasons for that have to be explained."

        "I don't mind if it's hard to understand," Kevin assures him.  "Take your time."  

        The two men rest in the living room's easy chairs.  Kevin's close relatives are shown in some photos displayed on a buffet and a coffee table.  The wife is deceased.  One of the room's corners has an old but adequate TV set.  Sydney has yet to be noticed by the drowsy canine, a mixed-breed terrier.  The room has a fragrance unfamiliar to the guest.  He thinks Kevin doesn't deserve attention except for the fact that he's curious about state secrets.  After saying more to describe Abner's predicament, he gets a response from Kevin.

        "This must involve Craig, too."

        Sydney frowns.  "Why do you say that?"

        "He was close to the operatives in this.  I'm not basing this on something explicit he told me.  He's evasive.  You'd have to sort it out to be sure what happened.  It's like somebody let him go from his job and they gave him world record severance pay.  I've also seen his name in some documents.  These are a kind of paper that I'm shown sometimes when I have to be in D. C.  They don't say much about him except that he's mentioned along with some other people."

        Kevin pauses, then concludes the summary.  "There's one more thing to mention: some testimony I received unexpectedly, from a person who knew Craig back in Virginia.  I'm no investigator.  I'm not aggressive in tracking these things down.  But I'll refer you to the documents.  There seems to be a connection."

        The other man sighs.  "If there is, it's pretty indirect.  I do have a definite sense of my own trap, though.  Someone didn't like my statements about policy."

        "You mean someone outside of Congress."

        "That's right.  Maybe you've never heard of him."  He gives the man's name. 

        Like Sydney, this other someone outside of Congress makes his way as an appointed official.  But he's much more accomplished than Sydney.  He prides himself on being unpredictable.  He once intimidated Craig Rintala by suddenly visiting the mobile home and giving an ultimatum.  He likes to do some things himself instead of always delegating.

        For Kevin this person - someone he's heard of - is another fanciful reminder.  He says, "There are some blogs that have a fictional character with a resemblance to the people you talk about.  This character is a geologist.  When he comes to the Northwest he gets cozy with persons and organizations.  He 'studies the volcano.'  It turns out his purpose is dictated by government bureaucrats.  The story means nothing to me, but I guess it expresses someone's aversion to federal authority."

        "That's too interesting to ring a bell.  My co-workers get less and less fascinating."

        Their leisurely talk uses up the afternoon.  Sydney acknowledges embarrassing facts about his nephew.  The talk is also a sobering look at a range of unfortunate conditions in society.  Sydney's candor might be regarded as a lapse.  Does Kevin gain something with these revelations?  He thinks the visitor is definitely getting something off his chest.

        One group of executives in the Deep State claim to receive guidance from a superhuman, otherworldly class of beings.  Do they really believe this claim, or is it just a ploy?  Another faction denies the claim and says the claim is a ploy.  Who did Craig side with when he was active in stealth?  Kevin has obvious questions about Abner and the Subject, men who seem to have suffered betrayal as a result of the clash.  Abner fears, more than the possibility of being killed, the chance that he'll be pulled into the medical experimentation, and even more the chance that he'll be exhibited for the general public in a most disgusting manner.  He can't talk about his phobia.  During his fellowship with the man who became whisperingly designated the Subject, he was given clues about the adverse potential.  Unlike his friend he took the warning and managed to escape, in a sense.

        There's an exchange of emails between Jill and Kevin.  

        Jill:   "Abner and I have a workable technique, one that isn't too obvious, for sending each other messages.  Right now he seems in good spirits.  Expect more news any day about his plan for striking back.  He's also been telling me more about the times he spent with the Subject.  Their friendship started three years ago.  They have similar views regarding the ways to restructure the corporate world.  That's one reason the man was forcibly sequestered." 

        Kevin:   "It's what we assumed, of course.  He's a political prisoner, as well as a research guinea pig."

        Jill:   "But he's no hostage, according to my brother.  They're not using him to get what they want from some other group.  The reason for holding him is more esoteric."

        Kevin:   "Wonderful!"

        Abner Deeves continues to be a minimal reference in the nation's publicity system.  Actions extending through the next week are decisive for him, guaranteeing his permanent role as a missing person.  Kevin has a vague sense of how that happens, but no idea who's responsible.  Jill's brother enjoys a kind of security, though.  What's been happening is normal secrecy.

        If the oligarchs don't feel beleaguered, they do have a new kind of wariness.  In fact the leftist movement is getting along very well without Abner Deeves.  The activists have decided they won't play him up as a great inspiring figure.  Their tactical relationship with him over the past year hasn't been very cordial.  They fear his cleverness with cyberweapons because they're not sure he's reliable.  In any case the movement's crucial events have just now broken as political news.  This means that a few personalities and their problems are displayed.  As 'revolution' the surge has impressive dynamics and memes.  That being said, there's no reason to think the economic status of most people will improve as a result of the activism.  Jill doesn't get too much publicity, but she has a degree of influence apart from her brother. 

        A news reporter on the West Coast receives information from Kevin, and makes a brief attempt to inform the public about Abner.  The missing man's identity has not yet blossomed in folklore.

        "No one cares about Mr. Deeves," the journalist remarks, "or cares about anyone like him."

        "And you think it's his own fault."

        "I didn't say it's his own fault.  I'm not trying to help him based on his attitude.  For me it's a question of what some people have done to him."

        Kevin says, "He's helped it along, I admit.  He's gloating at the mishaps of the people in management.  He brags about desecrating everything they stand for.  I wish he wasn't being such a prick about it."

        "You mean he's true to form, always bashing the executives, getting more personal than he needs to.  He has a real history of that, in case you didn't know."

        "I don't know much about his reputation," Kevin confesses.

        "He goes after people besides administrators.  He made a stink on the campus in Eugene, maybe ten years ago.  A couple of professors complained about him disrupting their lectures."

        The mention of this is almost a jolt for Kevin.  "I remember," he says.  He's heard the story once before, not from Jill.

        The reporter himself looks as if something has just now occurred to him.  After a moment he promises, "I'll do what I can for him, no matter what." 

        "And the likely outcome?"

        The man quietly answers, "They'll get him, Kevin."

        This conversation happens in Kevin's Battle Ground business office, a place where he spends about ten percent of his working schedule.  He's found time for a chat before he gets to his clients.  After hearing the man's pessimistic opinion, his own thinking is confirmed about a vicious detail: Jill has refrained, out of scruple or terror, from telling him the Subject's name.  He knows better than to try wringing it from her.

        This is also the day when one of Kevin's acquaintances pays a visit to a remote place in Cowlitz County.  In most things he does he has a methodic approach that can seem threatening to people, even to those who observe the law.  His professional work resembles Kevin's, but there's a difference in the scope of expertise.  Today he finds what turns out to be a minor stretch of open terrain adjoining the characteristic forest.  He learns that a mobile home has been removed from the site.  On the southern edge of the property can be seen a refuse heap that gives an impression of timelessness.  He talks to the landowner, a sagging, former warehouseman who admits he doesn't know what became of the residence.  Information gained at this place is meager.  At the end of the search Kevin's colleague stands next to his van, pondering the view for twenty minutes.

        He gives Kevin his assessment, recorded as voice mail.  After going into lengthy detail about the location, he offers his judgement:

        "I'm sorry to say there isn't much to work with if you're trying to blame something on a former occupant.  There's one little place where they must have been burning some garbage, with slight remains of cardboard and wood.  Otherwise traces of the residence or work activity don't seem to exist, though a skilled person might find some clues.  I for one can't see any potential, and the landowner's no help.  Good luck, anyway."

        Some time later Sydney and Jill have a phone conversation in which they discuss, not for the first time, a girlfriend of the Subject.  Kevin told Jill, at their first meeting, the best way to reach Mr. Fabron.  By now she's had several talks with Sydney, her contempt for him having yielded to a practical insight: communication brings benefits.

        The official points out, "Edna doesn't know where he is, Abner doesn't know where he is.  We can't help the Subject."

        Jill answers, "I haven't seen Edna within the past year.  She did send some emails that seemed paranoid until I heard from you and some other people."

        "She knows quite a bit, but I'd like to know how she knows."

        "You say you talked to her this morning.  What did she tell you?"

        "She told me about her latest efforts," the man replies.  "Edna's more active than we thought.  She's talking to various kinds of officials, but she's not doing your brother any good." 

        Sydney's making some remarkable inferences from different sources.  Edna's relationship with the Subject was actually surreptitious and would be thought of by many people as illicit.  Jill was implausibly privileged in the degree to which Edna confided.  Now for Sydney the refusal of both women to tell him the Subject's name is an astonishing roadblock.  In this they conform to a stipulation of Abner's.

        Jill says, "I'd like to see her again if that can possibly help."

        "Have you told Kevin about her?"

        "Not enough to make him ask questions.  I'm not sure what he would do."

        Despite Sydney's misgivings, Edna's attempts to gain the assistance of the right officials have been selective in a way that's fortunate.  She's learned some things but she can only do so much.

        Sydney's impatient with Jill's attitude.  He says, "Don't worry, just tell him about the 'paranoia.'  Kevin's the sort of guy who might provoke more official response than the rest of us can."

        "In that case I'll tell him all about Edna."

        "And he'll take the heat," Sydney promises.  "You won't."

        Craig's allies have been as unscrupulous as their enemies.  After his pathetic submission to Sydney's nemesis, the young man had begun to despair of his chances at surviving.  His dirty work at the mobile home - whatever it was - filled a brief interval.  He might seem to have had a change of heart, even if its first motive was expedience.  Some of the group's actions have been at his expense.  He's given up his Chesapeake Bay condo, returned to the West Coast and begun to enjoy the new arrangement.  Kevin rightly believes that it's not a complete break.  To other people it would seem to be a new life, but from his superiors' point of view he's being held in reserve.  Whether he likes it or not they plan to use him in the future.  It's unfair to say that he maliciously deceives Kevin Mullis.

        A few more days go by.  Kevin's final session with Craig provides a bit of understanding.  This time there's no ashtray, because they're strolling along the top of a nearby ridge. 

        Craig says, "Did you get the smartphone images I received?  These pictures aren't very clear as to the morbid state of the person in view, and you can't tell who it is.  The captions make it seem pretty nasty."

        "We're getting the same images," Kevin replies a minute later. 

        He mentions a couple of details he's heard this week from Jill Deeves.  This prompts the younger man to admit something.

        Craig declares, "I can do more than speculate.  That political prisoner whose name you don't know - he sounds like an officer my people were describing when I was still in the surveillance and action business."

        "Did they mention his name?"

        "Not when I was listening.  It wasn't something they assigned me to.  One thing's for sure - that slob in the pictures can't be healthy."

        "If he's abused," Kevin says, "it's the victorious faction that's doing this.  I imagine some of your people defected."

        "I'm afraid so."

        The man Kevin's talking to doesn't resemble Sydney in terms of his physique.  But there's a resemblance in manners, especially a way of expressing comical skepticism by changing posture and sometimes, the tone of voice.  Now Kevin and the younger man come through a thicket, emerging to stand steady on a ledge overlooking the stream.

        Kevin suggests, "You must know something about the corporation policies that apply to these things." 

        "Applying to espionage?"  At this point Craig seems abrasive.  "Even now my position is too sensitive.  Look, I've already given you some information."

        The other man asks, "Are you telling anyone much more than you're telling me?"

        "Not enough to help someone piece together a picture.  I've got a right to play it safe."

        Kevin comments, "I can see what's been going on.  You and Sydney suspect each other's involvement in those affairs.  But you don't know anything very specific.  In a way you consciously followed his career path."  Now Kevin speaks louder.  "The only thing you two have in common with Abner Deeves is the fact that you failed.  You've been ousted."

        Craig suddenly appears crestfallen.

        Kevin had begun to think he might find a useful application - even useful to his job - for what he'd been learning from Fabron and these other people.  But now it seems the possibility is slipping away.  Everyone's been withholding vital information.  He thinks he'll have serious problems if he removes or somehow penetrates the wrapping of secrecy.  For all that, a new picture begins to emerge.  He'll do his professional work as before, without brooding about its efficacy or lack of same.  His quest for information hasn't led to the hoped-for breakthrough, but it's been worthwhile.  Now his research 'hobby' is almost over with.

        A week later Kevin and Sydney attend a conference on Long Island.  They take a break and have their own private discussion as they rest on a park bench.

        Sydney states, "I've gotten word from someone I know who lives in Boston.  He says the Subject was released to a hospital there.  They received a cell phone message that claims a certain group has 'no further use for the study.'  Recovery for the victim is only a matter of time.  But right now he's in terrible condition.  Identity will soon be announced."

        Kevin isn't really taken aback by this news.  He's always inclined to consider the different things that can happen.

        He suggests, "It's possible they learned what they wanted to learn and it's possible they're just giving up."

        Sydney has a different view.  "It's clear what those people are like.  They'll take more victims, even if it's only one at a time.  They believe in the acquisition of knowledge.  And they somehow relate their curiosity to the well-being of the republic."

        "Anything more to the story from Boston?"

        "They also mention a psychotic person of interest, Edna Trill - basket case."

        Kevin knows the Subject's release doesn't mean Abner will be coming to the surface.  Maybe it does mean that those concerned will gain some understanding about people's motives.

        Sydney has a look of satisfied vindication.  The weather's gorgeous and there's a charming flourish by the fowls in the park.

        "That's enough for one day," Kevin replies.  He inhales deeply.  Then he expresses the complex of doubts and fears that he's felt recently.  He leans forward to whisper his conclusion:

        "The things I've been spared."

The  Crimes  In  Fortune

        The durable, majestic door can be readily opened by someone like Tim Nosler.  As he enters the room he finds a scene that contrasts with his previous visit.  The bold identification 'LONNIE  CECIL  PARVIN' tells of a new presence.  The room has, in addition to the grave, plenty of new ornaments.  These are finely-wrought emblems that are supposed to mean something of consequence.  After examining what he's found, he arranges the gear that he's brought.  What makes him take notice, along with the presence of the tomb, is the fact that another man's tomb isn't here.  Supposedly a man named Roger Wells had been declared dead - the victim of intentional poisoning, the victim of conspiracy.  Though his remains were to be brought here it turns out that Tim, along with almost everyone, was kept in the dark for several days about Roger's actual condition.  The man is recovering from the poison.  

        His acceptance in the families of Lonnie and Lawrence Parvin has been downright embarrassing.  That's because of his public statements as well as his work history.  Did he do something to provoke the assault?  The question's intriguing, but Tim tries to concentrate on his work here, and he succeeds. 

        A couple of hours later he stands outside the enclosure.  He's looking towards the diminutive lake that can be seen from here, and right now he's thinking about something besides the job.  He tries to remember some odd remarks about the businessman who gained acceptance with the wealthier family by marrying Lonnie's daughter.  He heard the remarks long before the businessman was poisoned, and he can believe what he heard.  Roger makes a strong impression without offending most of the people he meets.

        Families are not impervious to novelties.  That Roger's connections are a bit shady doesn't keep him from espousing some leftist opinions.  Those opinions are tolerated by his wife and they won't mitigate because of his close call.

        Naturally Tim continues to wonder about the people involved.  One Saturday morning he confers with a not so famous Parvin - this one named Scott.  He's a distant relative of Lawrence.  He and Tim are standing in the driveway at Tim's house.  The weather's reasonable and Kelso's quiet, the way they like it to be. 

        Scott begins, "You say it was a clumsy attempt at murder."

        Tim replies, "Definitely unsuccessful.  You could call it clumsy, I guess."

        "And I can see that he'd fear some sort of attack."

        "He did.  I was there when he claimed it would happen."

        "You've talked to this guy?"

        "I was introduced to him.  The talk was pretty one-sided." 

        Tim describes the social occasion of his meeting with Roger.  He also describes the neighborhood, and especially the building, where the attack happened the following week.  It's a forty-five minute drive to the east.  He's learned more about the situation than he wants to.

        "I've seen that place," his friend says.  "Not close up, just from the top of the ridge out there.  It really could be a thriving business.  Not something you'd expect to find."

        "What took you in that direction?"

        "I was building some houses, like I have to keep doing."

        Tim says, "You've never built anything like that hotel, have you?"

        The two men discuss the victim, deriving observations mostly from Tim's knowledge of the man and his moderately successful company.  They consider him and some other newcomers to the area.

        There's almost nothing to conclude.  Besides that subject, Tim knows that his friend wants to hear about a curious feature of the mausoleum's design - the symbols on the walls.  He describes the sepulcher.

        "Yeah, you'd like the interior," he assures him.  "There's a definite form of private language."

        "Extravagance - all that stuff we talked about?"

        "It's got plenty of it."

        They both elaborate.  Some of the ornaments that Tim has found in the burial place correspond to a published literature.  Scott has explored the topic in recent years.  On this he does most of the talking, and it takes a while.  He wants to say everything about it.

        Finally Tim remarks, "You don't seem offended by Paula's opinion of Lonnie Parvin."

        Tim's wife can be excessively outspoken, whether she's talking to Scott, his wife Debbie or anyone else.

        "There's no reason it would bother me," Scott answers.  "We've never met the wealthy ones.  Debbie and Paula continue to be at odds about this, I guess.  Maybe it doesn't have much to do with party politics."

        His wife isn't defending Lonnie Parvin.  She's already made known her estimate of certain social types, and it's Paula Nosler who's been striking back, using Lonnie as an example target.  She deplored his manifestation of capitalism.  Debbie has her own reasons for being unimpressed, but it's just as well that the wives almost never see each other.  Tim and Scott manage to keep company intermittently without bringing the relatives along.

        Tim says, "Paula can find any form of underground hatred on the Web."  He means it as a tribute to her skill with information tech.

        "The more communication, the more hatred," Scott surmises.

        Tim has it pretty well summed up.  The quest can lead anywhere.  A blog maintained by the well-known sociologist Aaron Pergamit is a kind of gateway to the progressive literature that Tim's wife enjoys.  Aaron's blog has occasional references to Casey Brimley, a person described as the nephew of a billionaire.  Though the website never identifies the billionaire by name, journalists know who it is.  For some reason they continue to be uninterested in Casey Brimley.  They should be interested, because Casey has knowledge that seems impossible for a mere human.  Though he doesn't suspect his uncle's involvement, he has otherwise a tolerably accurate sense of what happened in the conspiracy to poison Roger Wells.  He informed an official who has influence with prosecutors.  But nothing is yet brewing in those terms.  Meanwhile Aaron's been looking at Roger's history of public statements.  He tells everyone that Roger-as-progressive is a sham.  Aaron himself has a surprisingly low view of the established working class.  He compensates with a fanatically vigorous promotion of women, exotic minorities and gays. 

        Paula Nosler's father, who lives in Sacramento, sometimes hits her with a diatribe from his even-further-left standpoint.  He does this in his latest phone call.  He's like Aaron, believing that Roger feigns a social conscience.  Somehow the father's views were easier for the daughter to take when she was Paula Channing.  As Tim's wife her mentality is different.  This call is about a Bay area homicide.  Her dad is very earnest, like always, but he has to cover a lot of ground before she finds it interesting.

        At one point she complains, "I still don't see what this has to do with anyone in the Northwest."

        He raises his voice just a bit.  "That man must have provoked Wells and Company.  It's a proven fact that he interacted with someone at headquarters, and they didn't like him."

        "Didn't like him so much, they killed him."

        "That's right."

        Paula comments, "I know you're gonna say there's something different about this one.  Well, I'm listening.  What's different about it?"

        He replies, "The number of people looking into it.  Someone very important is trying to make a case against Wells and against his hypothetical associates."

        "Hypothetical - you mean secret."

        "Okay, some are secret, some are known about.  But it's obvious that the officials going after him this time are people who can actually do something about him."  Mr. Channing has a second reason, the one he prefers, for thinking this case is more interesting.  "And the killing looks different, this time, a very special motive.  That point's unofficial, but I believe it."  He cites evidence that doesn't mean much to Paula.

        Discourse takes a different path when he mentions the wealthier brother.  Lawrence Parvin, with his concern for different species of birds, has been able to establish a sanctuary not far from the coast.  Mr. Channing begins to talk about capitalists more generally.  He claims that the sanctuary is a token effort.  Lawrence doesn't really care about the environment.  But it's true that there's been a clamor about the sanctuary.  Besides the purpose of conservation, the land is desired for incompatible reasons by other interests.  One group is pushing development, another group cares about research.  Then there's the environmental pantheism expressed by a less affluent kind.  Those persons have consecrated - or desecrated - the area by means of notices in print publications and by secretive incursions onto the land.

        "Do they talk about it in California?" his daughter inquires.

        "Not just California, not just the Northwest."  Mr. Channing doesn't trust your typical do-gooder.  "The scariest thing is how they've taken it to the States Development Authority.  If those people could interfere, it would be the first time they've touched the Pacific Coast."

        "That does sound unfortunate," Paula says.

        "Everyone thinks the Authority is just a bunch of urban planners."  Mr. Channing seems to despair.  "It's obscene what they can do."

        "And you think they're responsible for the homicide."

        "It all comes together," he asserts.  "They can silence anyone with a different point of view.  They silenced a man last week in San Francisco."

        He expects an answer, and she makes a suggestion that she's made before.  It's a diagnosis.

        Paula says, "The use of homicidal violence becomes more frequent.  It happens for reasons that no one on the left can explain.  It continues until everything blows up."  A fascinating bit of pessimism.

        "Society," her father adds, "moves further and further towards resolution."

        The suggested philosophy of history is heartfelt, if nothing else.  It's true that Paula's capable of thinking.  Her liberation dogma does not emphasize feminism.  She doesn't buy the cliche about how society mistreats women more severely than it mistreats men.  Now she and her father make some personal remarks, acknowledging that their views have changed over the years.  Paula's views have become more moderate.

        She tells him, "I didn't hate Lonnie Parvin the way you hate Roger Wells."

        The old man considers this point.  "Fair enough," he answers.

        Before long she finishes with a question.  "Are you coming for the holiday?"

        He grunts.  "If people can tolerate me."  

        Her dad's much more the agitator than she is.  He gained some notoriety in the days of Occupy Everything.  It's only because he knows the right people, as it were.  He brags about being on a first name basis with a man said to have done work as a corporate spy.  This man teaches political science at Stanford.  His days and nights of intrigue are history.  If you're fortunate he'll tell you some stories about the mysterious operatives in high society.  At Stanford he sometimes gives lectures about the sovereign authorities, a few of whom he's met.  The operatives are closer to his league.  At any rate Mr. Channing has reason to be impressed.  Now and then the reputed spy gives him authentic information. 

        Though he can mislead Paula's father if he chooses to, he's definitely given him a valuable shred of information - the essential facts about the earlier generations in the line of Casey's uncle.  There was a crime described as unspeakable.  The first of the prominent generations brought it to pass, the first and second obscured it.  But the Stanford professor doesn't know what specific outrage he should ascribe to a given person.

        Sometimes Mr. Channing recalls a bit of dialogue about this early event:

        The prof says, "It wasn't just a matter of homicide.  Some de facto alliance was established, and several firms made a commitment.  The action was criminal."

        Mr. Channing replies, "And you're saying this purpose continues in our own time?"

        "We can prove that it does, but we can't get a judicial remedy."

        "Another victory for capitalism."

        The same day that Paula hears from her dad, Roger takes up a lot of time at home resting on a sofa.  He's had to go along with the nonsense of misleading the public about his refusal to die.  He knows that Tim was initially told to expect a second grave at the mausoleum.

        Today Roger talks to an adviser.  They've spent more than an hour describing and assessing the resort community where the poisoning took place.  Roger's theory about what happened strikes the adviser as paranoid.  What really happened was bad enough without making it seem so clever.  Still, the victim is tempted to say that being at the resort was worth it, because the place is a splendid, well-kept secret.  He'll go back someday.

        They're done with that subject, and for ten minutes they've been considering some details of public relations.  Roger's attitude on these tends, of course, to be negative.  The adviser is glad he's reached the last item on the list.

        He says, "You've got a request from one group to speak at their convention on human potential."

        Roger answers, "The fact that I supported Bernie Sanders doesn't mean I'm one of those boobs who believe in astrology."  His irritation is palpable.

        There's an uncomfortable silence.  Fortunately it's time to change the subject.  The man tells him, "On the question of recruitment.  We tried to bring Nosler in on this.  He won't give us anything."

        Roger likes the challenge.  "Then we sweeten it up for him.  We can afford to."

        "All right.  We'll get Nosler, and we'll confirm the program."

        "And that guy from the TV station - Dela Vega - keep him away from me."

        "I promise." 

        The adviser has it sized up.  Despite the absurdity, this is by no means his most difficult client.  Roger's a burly man making a rapid return to the good health he's had in late middle age.  He seems like a normal person, but he's treated a certain way in the press.  He's fair game for anyone on the right.  The worst problem, though, is the fact that his employees have been demoralized, especially since the murder attempt.

        He keeps talking about how to entice Tim and some others.  Roger's methods of organizing have never been conventional.  His confidence has never been shaken.

        "I'll be talking to Lawrence tomorrow," he informs the man.  "He'll put us back together.  That's the beauty of it.  He's such a straight guy, and he knows so much.  After his brother passed away Lawrence taught me some things."

        That last statement is misleading.  Several years before Lonnie's death Roger began learning from Lawrence.  It wasn't long before some of the wealthiest people around the nation started seeing Roger as highly objectionable.  One man seemed to mobilize their discontent, but even for him the anger took time to gather steam.  The Parvin fortune has more than one basis, and one of them is nothing to tell the world about.

        As he talks to this organization man, Roger avoids a discussion of the eccentric orthographic system.  It's a tradition passing from one great family to another, always in the process of adjustment.  It's less than two centuries old.  He had his own text ready for installment at the burial place, but he's having thoughts about a restatement.  He's told some people what he thinks of the orthographic system.  Among the great families his ideas will be controversial at best.  Roger has ambitions for changing the beliefs habitually expressed by the symbolic system. 

        Now his wife calls to him from one of the other rooms.  He tells the visitor to hang on, goes back there to see what she wants, and hears a pleasing announcement.  It's about Mrs. Parvin.

        His wife tells him, "She's making an offer.  She's going into a conference this afternoon with some news reporters.  If you're willing to cooperate, she'll give them a story more to your liking."

        This information comes as a relief.  After Lonnie's death Mrs. Parvin began to treat Roger differently.

        "Fine," he says, "we'll do things her way."

        He knows his wife was hoping he'd say this.  Domestic tension here might be resolved because of it, though he's made some decisions that can't be reversed. 

        "She wants me to be there," his wife tells him.  "So I'll be there."

        He can live with that.  When he returns to the front room the adviser mentions a couple of journalists who keep making adverse declarations.

        "They're taking their chances," Roger says.

        "We keep track of those people," the other man assures him.

        Suddenly Roger's much less comfortable.  He states, "I feel about the same as I felt when I broke some ribs ten years ago."

        The visitor declares, "Everyone says you're looking pretty good, sir."

        "You mean in spite of the damned quacks at the hospital."

        Scott has begun to read some articles about the famous Parvins.  He finds allegations that are fascinating but considered unreliable.  In these accounts Lawrence gets tied in with corporate espionage and very strange terminology.  Scott has met Mr. Channing and he reads about the Stanford professor, but he has no idea those two men are acquainted.  Another of Scott's own acquaintances, a man named Kevin Mullis, provides a few insights.  In his work he travels widely and meets remarkable people.  He's promised to give Scott some information that's more enlightening.  He hasn't specified a deadline.

        Of course Lonnie's most decisive actions won't be revealed to Scott.  When the old man knew that he had less than a year to live, he gave a hefty sum for a peculiar - in his case desperate - purpose.  He thought he was buying a miracle cure.  It was supposed to be cutting edge medical science, and he managed to keep his wife uninformed about his condition.  That was no trivial achievement.  His granting of revenues inadvertently brought to light the fraudulent and pseudoscientific.  This became obvious after he died.  Since then his repute is what you'd expect, being similar to the nice things people say about you at your funeral.

        Compared to Scott, Casey Brimley has more direct knowledge of the wealthy family.  But he tries to discourage the idea that his own understanding is parapsychological.  He denies the rumors that there was something miraculous about Roger's recovery.  In fact he's uniquely well-situated to see what's going on in the struggle for power.  He's well-versed in the esoteric script.  Along with his position in the advantaged family, the script and its comments are what give him such remarkable awareness of high society.  He still has his limits.  There's a social ripple he might be expected to mention but doesn't : a suddenly intensified harangue against the Parvins and a few other families.  The claim is that they're directing a white nationalist power grab.  Casey's uncle has encouraged this accusation. 

        Scott labels himself merely a builder of houses, not someone given to controversy.  As for the renovation expert named Tim Nosler, he can sound as if he feels guilty about the social prominence of white men, and he can sound as if he cares about black sports.  He actually thinks very little about either concern.  If he ever denounces abortion his wife and his siblings don't know it.  It's also true that he's never encouraged women to have abortions.  It isn't obvious which political party he'd vote for.

        One day during the lunch hour he and his wife consider the mausoleum.  She's gotten an email from her father, who's fascinated by Tim's association with high Parvins and low Parvins.  And because of the latest developments Mr. Channing feels vindicated for believing the San Francisco resident was killed by Roger's people.  It isn't the only information he gives Paula.

        She says to her husband, "Apparently some professor keeps up with the burial practices that rich people have.  He tells dad that Roger was putting occult inscriptions at the gravesite.  He thinks that someone took exception and that's why they tried to kill him."

        This is too interesting.  Her husband remarks, "I was there three weeks ago.  I saw the inscriptions, but they're for Lonnie, not Roger.  And why would anyone outside the family care what they put in?"

        He actually believes that someone outside the family might care, and he has his ideas about that, but the question is for Paula's benefit.

        She's indifferent.  "Something about high society politics."

        "That's right," he says.  "Competition among the families.  It might get nasty at times."

        Paula's concentrating on something that's too familiar.  "Dad believes the corporate culture is against the likes of Roger Wells, for some reason.  It's about a way of doing things, not about families or personalities."

        "I disagree," Tim says.  He starts giving a kind of lecture.

        "Too academic," she complains, after three minutes of dreary talk.

        "It's easy enough to understand," he insists.

        Though not very intellectual, he's formed his peculiar social views from a modest amount of reading and rereading.  His view approaches the truth, namely that each family compares itself to the other families and claims to be more beneficial for the common laborer.  This doesn't mean rich people as a class can be expected to vote a certain way.  For each person the voting preference could be an arbitrary choice.  Of course Tim doesn't express this the way a scholar might.  But he has a kind of realism about it.

        Through the week he keeps fending off the approaches made by criminal agents.  He's surprised to be getting this attention from the dull character he spent fifteen minutes with several weeks ago.  Now Tim gives his friend some hints of the situation.  Scott can believe what he's told, and the allegation brings to mind some comments made by people at a roundtable discussion he recently attended.  The meeting took place at a community college.  One person there, a freelance author, is hard to forget.  He accused various prominent citizens of being involved with organized crime.  He has tremendous nerve, and he clearly savored the opportunity for attack.  The most improbable concerns raised at the meeting have to do with militia groups.  This can't be taken seriously.  If there was an imminent, critical change in how they're dealt with by the patricians, would someone here know about it?  Eventually, when he's lying in a hammock, Scott recalls the meeting's acrimony.  He's glad he attended.  Soon Debbie returns home from doing some errands and he tells her for the first time about the meeting.  He'd been trying to decide how much to say.  Debbie takes the little that he says now and skillfully relates it to her preconceptions.  But she's mistaken, and Scott gives up.  He decides to leave Tim some voice mail about this.  After leaving the message he considers his activities planned for the next day - his movements through the streets of Kelso.

        At about the same time there's a medical specialist comparing notes with a police detective.  Questions asked by the detective suggest a partially formed theory and the profile of a suspect - ideas pertaining to the recent murder attempt.  He knows about Roger's illicit behavior, seeing it as a possible motivation for the conspiracy.  Statements made by the doctor convince him that he needs to start over.  The doctor in turn specifies a different character profile.  He doesn't explain how he would know the scenario : that Mrs. Parvin is blaming Lonnie's death on a conspiracy directed by Roger.  The plot involved some charlatans who deceived Lonnie about a miracle cure.  This was the motivation for Mrs. Parvin directing a conspiracy right back at him.  The cop is quickly taken with the idea.  But at the moment he doesn't demand evidence for the hypothesis.  He likes to think he'll find evidence if he works at it.  He knows he won't solve every question, and for this matter a key question is why the would-be killers haven't tried to finish the job.

        From the standpoint of the real culprits Mrs. Parvin's attitude towards Roger is a godsend.  But the culprits also depend on other factors, including Mr. Channing's professor at Stanford.  The academic man has expert knowledge of the fanciful notation - as much knowledge as Casey has.  He's been kept apprised of Roger's meddlesome interest in the symbols.  The glyphs are never used for conveying directives in secret messages.  They're strictly devotional.  At times they refer to the primordial offense that was committed by Casey's relatives, but they try to excuse it.  The offense was a criminal act in the system of competition among the leading business firms.  When he sees fit the professor sends a message relating the unwholesome past to the unwholesome present.  He lets the dangerous group know something of Roger's intentions.  Another plan is formulated.   

        Various persons have their own ideas about Lonnie's survivors.  When Casey learns of his uncle's recent tactics he's perplexed.  It's awkward because of Casey's declared opinions about the murder attempt against Roger.  Working in his office, he's approached by a municipal VIP who claims to be speaking for the billionaire.  They talk for several minutes.   

        Then the official promises, "There's no harm done, and no hard feelings - if you back off right now.  He's careful and he's tolerant."

        Casey says, "I've only mentioned what people are talking about already.  I haven't named anyone else.  He knows that."

        "The point is, he doesn't like it."

        "Yes, but why does he care?  We both know what happened at that forest lodge in Skamania County.  Roger Wells thought he had it made.  But he was mixing with the wrong sort of people.  That was the opening."

        The visitor says, "That's right, he brought it on himself.  That's obvious from what the public has been told.  He has a gambling addiction."

        Casey agrees, or pretends to agree, concerning the specific vice.

        The public servant makes a suggestion about the uncle.  "He'd like you to meet someone.  Why don't you come to the house on Friday?"

        Casey replies, "Tell me what's involved in this."

        The official's a little embarrassed.  "Remember him telling you about the special 'weapon' he wasn't going to use?  Well, he's changed his mind."

        "That's all I need to hear," Casey answers, grimacing.

        The official hesitates, then says, "Look, he's already got support for this thing.  We took a position on this at the conclave.  You know how he gets his way at the meetings.  In fact you might gain something yourself if you attended."

        "Sure, if I become just like my dear old uncle."

        Speaking of his uncle, guess who calls just two minutes before the VIP is leaving the office!  The VIP has it well timed.  Casey puts his phone to his ear and listens.

        "A mini-conclave?" he says at last.  "That sounds awfully serious."  He looks at the visitor.  "Yes, he's right here, doing what he's supposed to."  After a pause he tells the uncle, "I know those people, of course.  I can come see them if you want."  He'll be able to say he cooperated.

        It's easy to give the billionaire uncle his due, because he's quite boring.  His massive inheritance made it seem natural that his holdings would increase by sensible investment.  The increase is gradual.  No one talks about his achievements.  His personality's no big deal and he's not much to look at.

        His major development project is on track because of his fellow investors.  The facilities under construction are usually misdescribed and misunderstood by the public.  They've already been used to train a security brigade.  Members of the brigade are men hired from other groups, including the frowned upon militias.  If some responsible persons look askance at the facilities and their use, they're not saying so publicly.

        The billionaire makes contrite statements about the population's ancestors broadly speaking, but not about his own.  He's very self-assured, considering his family's actual stigma.  Somehow the bad reputation almost never gets mentioned.

        Information technology has a great consequence here, as it does most places.  In the last three days a lengthy narrative has appeared on a website created by one of Aaron's partners in criticism.  The website lets us know about an up and coming revolutionary felon.  He's an activist with a very distinctive ideal of the proletariat.  Still, he's unimpressive in some ways in addition to being a felon.  Perhaps this makes the account more convincing.  The man described has already made his mark, but not like he will.  He belongs to the family that was especially victimized long ago by Casey's kin.  It seems odd that he would claim purity of lineage.  Not that the claim bothers or impresses anyone.  Since when has revolution had to be reasonable?  The author of the narrative warns his readers by ascribing some future provocations to the firebrand.  These crimes will be extraordinary.  But law enforcement officers won't give the warning much attention.  So far the narrative runs to fifty thousand words, devoted rapturously to the troublemaker.  Aaron's enthusiasm for this man of action is very limited.  He makes his first and final proclamation about him.   

        In Seattle there's a relevant, unfriendly occurrence later that week.  Some anti-Trump demonstrators throw beer bottles at the limousine that's carrying two grandchildren of Lawrence Parvin on their way to a scheduled social event.  Understandably the passengers continue along the route, instead of trying to subdue the offenders.

        Eventually  they pass through a gate, entering a neighborhood that has five large houses.  They stop at the fourth house along the curving road.  The Parvins emerging from the limousine are young adults whose parents live in Oregon.  In the house they join a group of about two dozen acquaintances.  Some serious decisions will be made here today.

        Lawrence Parvin occupies a chair in one corner of the largest room.  He's talking to a considerably younger man.

        "It's true about the sepulcher," Lawrence announces.  "We've had to give it more thought."

        He describes the attitudes of several family members, including Roger's.  There are some statements about being 'frugal' and 'willing to start over.'

        The young man says, "I think you mentioned something about the change of notation."

        Lawrence replies, "The change in glyphs and letters.  Our symbols are a basic part of the memorial."  He compares the artwork at the two gravesites, but there's something he won't say about the change in plans for the 'other' site.  He declares, "With Roger's permission we're having a new arrangement.  He won't be using Lonnie's place.  We're giving him some room in the mausoleum that's here on the property."

        The young man, employed as an aide, keys his boss's remarks into his own smartphone.

        Standing to one side of Lawrence, with his wine glass placed on a countertop, is a man about the same age as Lawrence - in fact his oldest friend, Bertram.  He likes the discussion.

        He says, "You think you know what to make of this attempt on his life."  He's prodding for a candid statement.   

        "I hate to think what I make of it," Lawrence tells him.  "It's nothing new - the typical citizen's hatred of wealthy people.  I have no great remedy for the problem."  In a different tone of voice he adds, "None of that has to do with the mortuary decision."

        Bertram says, referring to the victim, "What about the way he runs his business?"

        "That's a factor," Lawrence admits. 

        Bertram says, "The talk we had with Roger seemed to start out well enough.  Then he surprised me.  I thought he'd listen to reason."

        Lawrence answers, "We told him what he needed to hear."  Turning to the young man, he continues with his thoughts about the artwork.  "We've covered the changes for the inscriptions and paintings.  Then there's the stand alone sculpture, and that's it."

        "How complicated are the changes?" Bertram asks.

        "I can achieve that immediately," the aide replies.  That is, he can hire the right workers immediately.

        Lawrence finishes explaining the new arrangement without having to mention the suspicion that Lonnie's widow has about Roger.  It's as if no one else in this group senses a character problem with the son-in-law.  It's interesting that Lonnie kept his mouth shut about his daughter's marriage.  Lawrence, though, couldn't care about Roger's personality and longtime associations.  The point has been to make use of him in ways that seem honorable.  Despite his gloomy reference to the masses, the patriarch is content.

        His youngest brother - two years younger than Lonnie - is listening as he enjoys the comfort of an armchair.  He's been silent for most of twenty minutes.  Now he joins the discussion.

        "I like to think we're keeping these customs adequately.  There's nothing offensive in the symbols.  It's only the super-patriots and the other degenerates who have a problem with it."  He adds a few similar comments.  

        Lawrence agrees.  He's always believed that the baffling emblems, whether inscribed or painted, express the highest value of the human spirit.  The symbols are especially important for the architechture.  Here he makes a final commendation of the artwork.  Then he goes on to other subjects.

        Before long Bertram tells them he's concerned about the 'national temper.'  Can they ignore political developments?

        Lawrence declares, "We do the expedient thing, and there's nothing wrong with that."

        His brother keeps grinding the axe.  He'd love to put people in cages.  He says, "We're too conciliatory.  Stop talking about the opinion surveys.  Let's make with the propaganda, let's make the party leaders uncomfortable.  Our propaganda's legit.  I don't care if they call it disinformation."

        The older brother disarms the belligerence with a calm retort.  As of now such irrelevancies must be discarded.

        He continues, but speaks of a man that Aaron Pergamit has referred to.  He skips the reports available to the public.

        "What we've learned about this man," he says, "may not be an indication we can use.  Things don't add up.  The fact is we're talking about a person that knows us better than the others do.  All right, we can say it - he's a louse.  That doesn't mean he has to be bloodthirsty to be dangerous.  We know that he's made statements about our family and our business.  We have security people who were hired for this problem."

        Bertram says, "Give me a better idea how to learn about this character.  Pergamit seems to think he's harmless."

        Lawrence looks over at his friend.  "Sure, we can talk about that."

        He tells the small group on this side of the room what to expect from the greatest agitator.  His grandchildren wait until he's done with the discussion before they approach him to get his opinion of the street incident.  The grandson has become aware in recent weeks of playful but malicious remarks in the social media - content relating to the Parvins.  There's an especially bizarre point about a militia group.  According to social media the Parvins and other 'power brokers' have bolstered this group for a sinister project.  The grandson gets advice from people who know some things but haven't mentioned it to Lawrence.  He hasn't told his sister.  He suspects that Lawrence would never take action about such things, but he wants to be sure.  As the grandchildren wait to inform Lawrence of the demonstrators, they converse with an attorney the Parvins don't see very often.  He makes a fine addition to the gathering.  He has a better than average phony British accent.

        When Lawrence finally hears about the incident he asks a few questions, but doesn't seem disturbed.

        At last he says, "We have to let their tribalism run its course.  They're consumers, wasted on drugs."

        The group here in the room concentrates for a half hour on a person who usually escapes attention: the only son of Lawrence Parvin.  He's been talking to the younger people, but now he moves across the room and closer to his dad.  The two men are establishing a sort of covenant.  The son agrees to play a formative, unique role in the corporation.  He'll develop the culture even more than Lawrence will.  Part of the purpose is to allay the accusations of high-handedness at headquarters.  There's a sense of having to thwart the leftist mob.  After conducting a formality the chief executive praises the heir. 

        They've done what they came here to do.  Right before someone gets up to leave the gathering the youngest brother makes another point.

        He tells Lawrence, "I have to admit, you've never wavered."

        Nine days later something drastic happens at the other sepulcher - the one Lonnie established in Clark County.  Someone sets off explosives that wrench the main door and shatter the barricade surrounding the entire structure.  Those responsible send Lawrence a message no one can decipher.  Understood or not, the message won't be forgotten.  Lonnie's widow moves to another state. 

        Roger gets word of the demolition within five minutes.  Over the following several days he spends most of his time in a lawn chair which is placed at different times here and there close to the garden behind his house.  He's meditating or sometimes reading.  He can see the same lake that you see from the mausoleum.  He's rather smug about having already been assigned a different posthumous resting place.  He won't be complaining.  Lawrence and his children are still on speaking terms with him.  Roger could be satisfied living the rest of his days at this location, with minions coming and going like he tells them to.  Right now he's dimly conscious, in the sunlight, of the nearby cornstalks including ones that are trampled.  In a different direction is a separate, larger space - an acre of typical produce.  He's pretty good as an amateur farmer.

        The assumption that the highest levels of power cannot be known to the public is belied by disclosures now made on the Internet.  Casey tries to ignore these.  A few of Aaron's fellow critics, though, make available their interpretations.  They're pretty sure they know the reason for the attempted murder-by-toxin.  Roger's professed beliefs about society have nothing to do with the attempt.  The problem is that Roger was careless, and perhaps a little selfish, in his use of the notation.

        Mr. Channing is another person who responds to the disclosures.  He already knows about a social element now being described in detail for the public: a type of well-compensated provocateur.  It's alleged that one or more of these persons tried to kill Roger Wells.  This was an operation supposed to have much wider consequences.  The firebrand is having it both ways - denouncing the oligarchs but also getting paid to serve them in a special violent act against the Parvins.  Mr. Channing tells his daughter something about the relevant history.  In turn she sends an email to a website that's run by Roger's wife.  She has a question that's discretely worded. 

        A return email gives the startling viewpoint of Mrs. Wells.  The woman tells about her mother's peculiar suspicion.  It's understandable that Roger's wife would publicize the family trauma.  She feels that law enforcement officers made no serious attempt to learn the truth.

        Eventually a concerned young man tells his girlfriend something she doesn't need to know.  He tells her after they've taken some stimulants and adopted a friendly posture.  The information has to do with his uncle, some enforcers and the attempt to kill Roger. 

        Casey whispers, "When the attempt failed he changed his plans.  I'm not sure why, but the original target no longer mattered.  Then they vandalized the mausoleum.  So it's not like he made some deal with Lawrence Parvin.  I hate the sound of what's going on - this new sociopath he and his people are turning loose - "

        Casey does well to trust his girlfriend.

        One strand of propaganda shows up with all the talk about organized crime.  Someone tries to relate this talk to the cyber displays of heraldry.  It starts in response to a less than serious reference made by Aaron Pergamit.  He ridicules the wealthy families and their strikebusters.  The notion gets inflated.  People say the criminal barons are served by militia groups that prey upon the most marginal - and therefore most innocent - social elements.  The right wing devils are enamored of the insignia favored by such people as Lonnie Parvin.

        Two solid middle class achievers think about this possibility as they have lunch at a fast food place.  They've heard stories about roving bands of armed men.

        "Everyone calls it a lowlife element," Scott declares.

        "They could be a problem," Tim admits.  "Trouble is, you can hardly get anything factual when you look into it.  You keep asking yourself what really happened."

        "It's no sin to speculate."

        "I can speculate," Tim agrees, "but I'm not one who empathizes.  It's too easy to say there's a militia group that's associated with someone's insignia - coat of arms, whatever - and that because of this you can tell what's going on in secret.  All I know is, the militias draw from certain types, men of a certain family background, or lack of background.  A week after they get some recruits they have aggressive training formations in the open fields."

        "Militia tactics where anyone can see?" Scott wonders.

        Tim says, "There's a place up in the hills that's notorious."

        "And it's more than hearsay."

        "I've been told by people I respect.  Some reporters are dependable."

        "Militias working for a billionaire," Scott continues.  He doesn't believe it.  "Say what you want about the misfits, you can't accuse them of the worst things in society.  They're uneducated.  They don't have political potential.  Who's afraid of 'em?"

        "You might be if they found you," Tim says.  "I can picture Wall Street or Silicon Valley making use of those guys."

        "It's too much like sedition to be plausible.  Nobody's that stupid or desperate."

        "Their desperation might have been a secret up to now."

        Perhaps a few dozen gravesites in several states feature the vivid symbolism.  Sometimes a text in the notation is especially intricate, accompanied by a caption in English.  A few of the emblems are thought to identify real operatives of some government or corporate agency.  Where the operatives are assassins the text identifies their employers.  It's believed the information could never be effectively used by prosecutors.  The most prominent families are not afraid to be named.

        Scott points out, "On the Web now there's all this talk about pictorial signs of honor for wealthy families.  I saw the example they ascribe to the Koch brothers, and it seems like a stretch.  Whoever's putting these things out there is either demented or he's getting paid.  Probably both."

        "You assume too much," Tim says. 

        It isn't that Scott dismisses every arcanum.  Far from it.  As a builder he revels in a kind of lore that's picked up from his associate, Kevin Mullis.  The lore attaches meaningfulness to this feature and that feature of construction.  But he hasn't been satisfied in regard to how it's exemplified by his own house.  He's compelled to read some qualities in that just don't fit.  One problem is the flat rooftop, another is the large basement.  The worst thing is the artificial position of his residence as demanded by the nearby wooded slope, the nearby houses and the space they call the park.  But it's a problem only on the basis of the lore.  He likes the house and the neighborhood.  He and Kevin recently had another talk on the subject, spending time here on a sweltering day in late July.

        Kevin's connections with esoteric groups have been loose but useful.  He tells Scott every thing he knows about Casey Brimley.  It's more than his friend would ever get from news reports, magazines or any website he'd find.  One morning just before dawn Scott has the most incoherent thoughts about this.  He lies in bed and hears the whistle from a freight train across town.  Then he hears the rustling of leaves in some sycamores close to the house.

        Now it's clear to him that Kevin is a top expert on the unofficial and the unpublicized.  After Scott gets up he spends a half hour in the backyard and the sideyard before breakfast.  Days off are opportunities.  He could do some serious work outside for what he considers beautification instead of maintenance.  He studies the fence and the hedge.  After breakfast he's in the workshop for two hours.

        He repeats Kevin's ideas at lunchtime, talking to Debbie.  But there's something else to mention.

        "Vandals of the Parvin memorial," he says, in reference to breaking news.  He's got an old style radio set atop the counter.  He's been listening as Debbie was in the other room for a few minutes.  The vandalism was previously reported, and what's new is all this information he's hearing about the perpetrators.  He wouldn't have expected such elaborate disclosure.

        "They've been apprehended by federal agents," he tells her.  "That was quick."  He summarizes the other details.

        "We'll be hearing from Paula," his wife says.

        The damage at the cemetery must be spectacular, Scott imagines.  He thinks about the perpetrators. 

        "They're being matched with family insignia," he declares, and marvels.  "Looks like the vandals are paramilitary."

        Then he seems morose because of it.  Something is obvious from what Kevin has told him.  He says, "There's a part of the story that isn't made public.  Some agency or some person is having these characters locked away, for keeps."  He closes his eyes, concentrating.  "But it's not the judicial system that's doing it.  I don't see how that works."  He fears he's reached the depths of the unknown.

        Debbie replies, "And Wells is untouched."

        "For now."

        The couple enjoy passing judgment on Roger, without having attempted to correct him or to prevent him from reaching his goals.  They're only human.

        "He says the right things about equality," Debbie adds.  "Whatever he's like."

        Scott answers, "His extortions have been reported, but nobody seems to care."

        Debbie begins to provide skeptical reasons against the idea that Lonnie himself had much integrity.  Not so strident as Paula, she may be more convincing.  Instructive references are available in the mass media sources, and she's learned some things that are new to Scott.  He thinks this might be worth pursuing.

        But now he has to answer his cell phone.  He listens for a couple of minutes and then speaks.

        "Working there steady until next spring?  That's what you need right now, I guess... Awfully hard to work for, they would be.  I kind of figured you wouldn't be put off by the mind games... That's right, I was listening to the news reports.  Really something, isn't it?"  He lets the other person talk for a bit more and then says, "Well, good luck."  He puts the phone back in his pocket.

        "Tim's keeping the job," he tells Debbie.

        Casey's been cooperating with his uncle.  In less than a week his understanding of the Roger Wells episode has been altered substantially.  Just now the reigning powers have taught him something about a way of doing business.  That way has been practiced ever since the primordial offense committed by Casey's relatives.  Some of the incidental features have changed over time, of course.  One change involves the use of a private militia.  People begin to discuss a strange, gruesome homicide that happened on Wall Street in 1926.  His relatives might not live it down.  There's one more point he's beginning to appreciate.  The firebrand isn't such a bad person once you get to know him.

        Lawrence Parvin's adjustment of the mausoleum essentially vindicates Roger Wells.  The younger man is about to gain a high place in the corporation.  Maybe he won't become a better person.  But he'll keep dabbling in the system of emblems.  Whatever he does with that, he's no longer a target.  As for Mr. Channing, he's wrong about the San Francisco homicide that he spoke of.  No prosecutor in that city has a case against Roger.  Other charges are fended off by his attorneys.  The message of the artwork in the tombs will continue to be protected by its recondite nature.  It's deep enough to elude someone like Scott Parvin. 

        But it fails to elude Casey Brimley.  The tombs' artwork identifies the supreme family or families.  It's about the sovereign authorities, the militias and agitators.  It relates everyone to the culmination crimes - the felonies that bring in the new social order.  Those felonies are happening. 

        Aaron Pergamit's blog finally declares an opinion that's been gestating for years: "Karl Marx esteemed the working class because he never had to associate with it."

        Scott and his wife spend an afternoon at the Nosler's for a barbecue.  The women confirm that they're still on speaking terms, and Paula's dad arrives from Sacramento.  The gossip gets more fascinating.  Rumors about the primordial offense may just be rumors, but they're worth hearing.

        The next day the renovation worker spends twelve hours clearing away rubble from the damaged mausoleum.  Now and then he glances at the stone receptacle that has Lonnie's remains.  The tomb looks perfectly intact.

                                                          Executive   Reprisal

        The name Lou Dennison was one I hadn't seen prior to the winter's morning when I met him at the cafe.  This was our first of only two encounters, and he got there a couple of minutes after I did - about 11:30.  My name, John Howsley, didn't figure to mean much in the opposite direction either.  Lou's boss was a very successful author who resided somewhere within twenty miles.  It never has been clear to me why the author sent this man my way.  For me, though, the first encounter was worthwhile.   

        As we sat at our table by a window in the cafe our conversation was on-again, off-again as talk should be when you're dining.  Lou told me what his job was but described it in a peculiar way, and I didn't grasp the category.  I didn't mind if he did most of the talking.  I knew the name of his employer, but it was a while before he confirmed it : Marvin Platte.  On two occasions Lou had been to Marvin's house.  Any subordinates invited to the place were given inspirational messages when they arrived.  Platte would express his version of the idea that much travel makes for much refinement as well as humane sympathy.  His books tell the reader implicitly that the best people are the ones who have been almost everywhere.  He wouldn't be able to do much preaching along those lines when a prominent businessman eventually filed suit against him.  Today I talked here with Lou amid the normal selection of the restaurant's patrons and workers.  The customers were quiet.  Over at one table across the room Sandra the waitress kept speaking to the same person, a middle-aged woman.  Sandra made caustic remarks about people's dietary scruples.  The workers I could see in the kitchen appeared grimy. 

        I soon had doubts about the man I shared the table with.  I'm not saying that he drinks too much or tells every kid to get lost.  But there might be a certain on-the-job fanaticism that victimizes the fellow employees.  Though his boss was an author, the man in front of me wouldn't be much of a reader.

        I was still at the table with Lou when I noticed a man walking by on the other side of the street.  I'd already seen him a couple of times here in town.  The season's brisk weather had him roaming about with a vivid, multi-colored stocking cap.  Now for the first time it seemed to me that I should know his name.

        It's usually good that a meal doesn't last an hour.  After parting with Lou, there was nothing downtown that seemed imperative.  At least I didn't have my frequent experience of seeming to be surrounded by common and sub-common humanity.  I strolled about for a while and then came across the man with the memorable cap.  I finally recognized him, and for that purpose it helped when he pulled back the cap to scratch his head.  Nowadays the hair is kept very short, and the mustache is gone.  He's heavier.  A decade in the past he'd been a celebrated component of show business, living, of course, in Southern California.  His TV series had done very well, but that life came to an end when he was compensated for playing a villainous role.  Some investigators made accusations against Clark Norman the real person - as distinguished from his fictional TV character.  But the scandal was merely part of the entertainment profession, something scripted.  The thing was of such magnitude that one could hardly imagine, let alone believe, what was behind it.  Various parties had converged for a deal.  The man who played the part of the nation's worst offender would have to be paid grandiosely for getting stuck with such a reputation in the real world.  According to the script his offenses included human trafficking, but that wasn't the most hideous.  Law enforcement officials were somehow induced to refrain from prosecuting.  The thing proceeded as planned, with the actor immediately elevated to the billionaire class.  The idea that he still resided somewhere in California was a clever, permissible fiction.  It deceived everyone but the most pertinent authorities.

        It takes a while to see how these facts about Marvin Platte and Clark Norman can be related to a story that seems more important.  The story features a secret installation referred to as Delcourt Place, and it mentions the struggle of two businessmen: Reed Mitchell and one of his associates.  I wanted to ask the former TV star what he knew about the story.

        Another question was obvious, too.  Why had Clark chosen this part of the country?

        I caught up to him on the sidewalk and I spoke his name.  I usually convince people that I'm not against their best interests.  It was as if he trusted me.

        "Yes," he admitted, "I'm THAT Clark Norman."

        I dared to ask the second burning question.  "You live around here?"

        He answered, "Believe it or not."

        I asked, a bit awkwardly, "What do you think of life on the Willamette?"

        He replied, "I'm fine with it.  But I don't see the river, much."  He added, "I do talk to strangers, and that's okay.  No one bothers me."

        I told him I was recruiting for a citizens group.  He was willing to listen.

        Along the sidewalk I spoke for about a minute before we turned and went through a door.  At this point we were inside a public building where we could lounge for twenty minutes.  There were people here with serious business, but we sat down and managed to converse without disturbing anyone.  I put the 'citizens group' aside so I could let him reminisce about his days in show business.  He loosely described the decision makers, including a man from Portland, who had changed his life in the previous decade.     

        He also mentioned a very pathetic person - a man who was introduced to the audience in Clark's final season on the air.  This person had only been shown in two still photos.  From what I was being told now, they understated his condition.  I was surprised to learn that he lived about five miles outside McMinnville, and a ten minute drive from my own neighborhood.

        "It's a place called the Beichman Home," Clark told me.  After he described the place I wasn't going to ask about the credentials needed for admittance.

        I did acknowledge, "I seem to recall something about that guy."

        "Our producers thought he was great for the show.  It was their sensationalism and low-life binge."  Clark seemed thoughtful.  "Yeah, there was a place for the sad stories."

        He could go on about that, but I changed the subject.  "Do people avoid you and curse you?"  

        His change of expression was approriate.  "I never had much to do with them in the first place," he answered.  "I mean celebrities, if that's what you're getting at."

        "That's who I mean."

        He stated, "As for my wife, she met me after my fall from grace.  She likes my money and the fact that I'm nice to her.  Why would she care about the other stuff?"

        It was a reasonable point.

        I didn't get around to mentioning Delcourt Place, a top secret facility serving some purpose of upper echelons.  I did ask him about Reed Mitchell, a wealthy man you haven't heard of.  Clark had heard of him, but nothing up to date. 

        Then I said, "This nabob from Portland who took part in the deal - he showed you this man in the home, right?  Then he helped you get established around here.  What's his name?"

        Clark refused to identify him.

        That was all I could get this time.  With our conversation at an end, I returned to my normal activities.  And somehow my thoughts about the elite managerial class were sharpened.  That social element had left one more mark by inventing the monster designated 'Clark Norman.'  I think its reasons for doing so included something besides entertainment.

        My position in life is such that, even if I do nothing I still meet people worth knowing.  These have included one of the ten wealthiest persons in the metropolitan area.  I was regarding him as the one most likely to be Clark's great promoter from the Northwest.  Years ago he and I had a short but significant conference.  My associates have kept their eyes on him because our interest group is a pressure group.  No, you can't be told very much about it.  We're so devious!  I admit that my position in the circle was greatly favored by my parents' activities and references.  I don't have to keep proving myself.  In fact I'm accepted despite my peculiar - some would say flighty - postulates about the kinds of experience that human life includes.  I like to elicit umbrage from those who boast of their own realism.  Whether I do or don't seem unreasonable, the nature of our group is exaggerated by the press.  

        Another person worth knowing is a woman named Agnes Birkrem, who belongs to the Society of Cascadia Lore.  She knew that I had published a paper about the issues relating to Mitchell's concerns.  I received an invitation to meet for a discussion.  The next morning I found her office, which is near the public library.  She seemed to be thriving in her new schedule.  Having retired from her administrative job with the county, she could work full time on something she found more interesting.  She was fascinated by the rationale of managers at the higher levels of business.  For Agnes it meant most of all Reed Mitchell.  She told me a bit of what she had learned about his connections in the Portland area, especially the unfortunate circumstance that involved one of his associates.  

        Well-informed in terms of the business world, she claimed to know nothing about Delcourt Place.  I'm sure she didn't, and probably still doesn't.  Mitchell had spent some time there before he began his latest venture - a legal assault on Platte.  I'm tempted to think he gained some resource at the great installation, and that the resource helped him decisively against the famous author.  But what I know about the facility belies my suspicion.  Think of a fabulous building with a remote location - southeast Montana says one rumor, foothills of the Rocky Mountains according to another.  I've been there myself, but a special protocol keeps me from helping others who would like to visit.  And I can't imagine the construction project.  Some workers built the immense retreat, then went home.  I don't think the place is an archive or some other main component of the NSA.  I don't think it's about national security or law enforcement measures.  I like the idea that it's for a devotional purpose, expressing a spiritual commitment of the patricians. 

        The woman wasn't too reserved.  Comments about Mitchell continued, with what I had noticed from the start was a grating monotone. 

        "He's your dynamic, middle-aged manager," she told me.  "There's a book about 'shadowy business relations' that gives Mitchell as an example, but it doesn't identify his cronies or his confederates."  Agnes looked over at a bookshelf.  "I've still got that one, for some reason."

        I asked her if Mitchell worked in Portland.

        "No," she replied, "he's down there in Fremont, California.  But he comes this way, or sends a person this way, more often than you'd expect."

        She kept going with her summary about the CEO.  "He had a rather expensive ornament that made its way into a huge collection maintained by several businessmen.  You've heard of the Stokesbary Collection?"

        I told her I had.

        She said, "The ornament's a resin product with six legs, or you could say supports instead of legs if it doesn't represent some animal.  It's from a workshop in Vermont, and the artist died more than twenty years ago.  The object was in Marvin Platte's possession at one point.  He liked to display it when he gave lectures and booksignings.  There's a daft controversy about that thing.  Platte claims the artist was a person who lived in Brazil.  No one seems to agree with him."

        "Religious keepsake of some kind," I judged, when the woman showed me its image in a photograph.  "Germane to a sacrament, probably." 

        I was thinking mainstream theism.  On the other hand it could be a devotion that was beyond the pale.  For a few minutes I listened patiently to the expert.  I won't sugarcoat it.  If all you knew about her was the sound of her voice, you might think you were walking the plank. 

        She liked the term 'keepsake' because it's vague enough.  She continued, "After about ten years Mitchell sold it to the Stokesbary Collection.  Marvin Platte must have bought it from the collection, but he gave it or sold it back.  I don't know why."  

        It was clear that Agnes had considerable respect for Mitchell.

        "You should talk to Nina Solis and her people," she declared eventually.  "She teaches at Lewis and Clark College.  Reed Mitchell made a guest appearance at a conference organized by Professor Solis.  Probably five years ago."

        It turned out that Mitchell's associate, a man named Jeff Auerbach, had been one of the first people taking the medicine Pulmogel.  His use of the drug had been occasioned by his victimization, something done to him by Marvin.  Soon afterwards Nina Solis was brought into the picture.  She knows quite a bit about pharmaceutical breakthroughs.

        Agnes told me her opinion of Nina.  Then, just before I left, she referred me to the owner of a second hand bookstore.  That afternoon I spoke to him for ten minutes.  In his appearance and manner of speech he could have been working class.  It wasn't that I had to have someone who resembled Kingman Brewster.  And there was no reason to assume he was part of Platte's life to speak of.  But he had met the man and he knew some things about him.  He also mentioned the poor, suffering wretch who lived in the Beichman Home.  The bookseller was able to recall a great many things that could be useful.  There was an allegation about Marvin Platte's father, who supposedly had made a trip to Thrace and returned with dangerous wares, even some dangerous knowledge.  One of these imports had caused the Beichman resident's malformation.

        Before long I got to visit the Stokesbary Collection.  I received a phone call from the man who was the curator.  I'd already told his people that I wanted to stop by, but perhaps he'd received a message from Agnes or the professor, because he was none other than Jeff Auerbach.  He said he'd be unavailable in the coming week, but there would be someone to show me through the collection.  He gave me some advice about the tour.

        The building at the site has always been a museum, a warehouse or some sort of gallery.  Inside the place a miscellany of products can be seen exhibited on shelves and countertops.  The products include ceramic figurines, ivory artifacts and paperweights made of porcelain, or in some cases, fiberglass.  You see some exotic musical instruments.  I was told the most interesting items are usually kept in a special compartment, hidden from all but the most privileged visitors.  That makes sense, and I wasn't allowed to have a look, with the exception of a few images on the computer catalog and registry that's available to everyone.

        These collectors tend to be underrated.  One of the artifacts that seemed improbable was an elite instrument for geophysical research.  This one was made in California circa 1935.  The catalog referred to "Perry Byerly's resounding development of seismological technique."

        It was hard to see a unifying category in this group of objects, except for suggesting a cult of travel.  Apparently the collectors disagree with Marvin Platte's brand of internationalism.

        Two days after my first visit to the gallery, news media reports began describing Marvin's demeanor and his attorney's tactics as they appeared in court.  The charges were pretty serious.  Marvin and his father had allegedly made use of a weaponized chemical agent.  There had been victims besides the ones I'd already heard about. 

        Reed Mitchell's belated suit against Platte was clever enough.  Reed and his lawyers enjoy managerial privilege the commoners have no inkling of.  The juristic principles can be recondite.  There was a general expectation that Reed would prevail in court.  His desire to strike back was quite evident.

        News about this trial dominated our talk the next week when I spoke with Agnes and the professor.  We were together at a table in the faculty lounge of Nina's department.  We had the room to ourselves. 

        Nina told us, "It's been confirmed by another person that Jeff began using Pulmogel because Marvin did something to him.  He applied some sort of noxious compound.  Talk about being subtle.  It was a week before the symptoms began to appear."

        "The guy's finally being prosecuted," Agnes marveled.  "It took long enough, didn't it?"

        "You could say that," the professor agreed.

        The women began to make statements that were fanciful, but I admit their imaginations had charm.  Nina liked to give Agnes the dirt on academic people.  As a professional she didn't see a need to defend the honor of her own kind.  On the other hand Agnes craved the juicy stories about university administrators, not so much the stories about professors. 

        I never heard either woman refer to Lou Dennison.  I tried to understand something about him - whether he took part in the physical assault on Jeff Auerbach.  But I lacked evidence.

        The next morning I drove to a cottage that's used on occasion by one of my friends from Seattle.  I had known since January that he'd be in this region, attending a conference of high-ranking managers.  After he did, he came to the cottage.  His few acres meet the edge of productive farmland.  A gravel path leads from a county road to the cottage.  That morning I enjoyed his company for three hours, listening and responding to his declarations.  He made these comments in between drafts of a beverage from his blue tyg.  He convinced me that the administrators were dealing with serious changes to the profession.  There would be some new tactics, and they would be used immediately.  My interest was definite, because I had in mind one current legal proceeding.  Did the people at the conference discuss the kind of method or authority that Reed might use against Marvin?  I told him about it, expecting all sorts of opinions to be voiced before I left his presence.  He surprised me with the extent of his knowledge regarding the accused.  After several statements about Marvin's writings and reputation, he gave some advice. 

        "Don't worry about Dennison," he said.

        "You mean Marvin wasn't using him to find my weakest link?"

        He laughed softly, then told me, "Dennison's the errand boy without a cause.  He makes money in harmless ways.  I'd say it's his fault, his incompetence, that you didn't learn much at that meeting."

        As he took another drink, I waited for more advice.  The blue tyg was returned to the table.

        "Platte has the reputation of an author who's very successful, but not held to account."  My friend cleared his throat.  "He never pays for his blunders."

        I said, "Tell me something about his philosophy."  I still wasn't thinking there'd be much to relate.

        "The Platte philosophy," he murmurred.  He removed his glasses, placing them on the table.  He stroked his chin.

        "It's cosmopolitanism, of course," he said, "but it's an eccentric form of it.  He advocates intermarriage between certain kinds of families from different countries.  He places conditions on the practice.  Because of the way it's restricted, it's not what people consider miscegenation.  He won't call it eugenics, either, but it really is eugenics."

        I replied, "Not necessarily criminal behavior, from what you say."

        "Not in itself criminal," he admitted.  "The most interesting part is the fact that he sees various regions around the world as having the most concentrated vitality, but not always the economic advantage that people talk about.  You're supposed to visit those places frequently.  That means you travel as much as you can."

        He enjoys sounding off.  He gave me his opinions along with some more factual points, and it was another twenty minutes before I left.  As always with him the talk was definitely a mixed bag.  He has tremendous knowledge but his opinions are annoying.

        That afternoon I found an envelope in my roadside mailbox.  Its 'return address' had been fabricated by the sender - as it seemed to me later when I tried to find the place.  The letter's contents weren't meant to be completely understood.  The sender was making a statement about Delcourt Place.  The namesake was identified for me : Travis Delcourt, a man whose claim to fame was the work he'd done as a developer in the Midwest.  I wasn't told why he deserved this honor in particular.  It was obvious that the person sending me the letter had been at the retreat sometime and that he knew I had been there, too.  The letter said nothing about the civil suit.  The comments were meant to be a broad-based reflection on the social system, expressed with a jargon that could have been, for all I know, third hand Scientology.

        The letter ended with the initials R. M.

        The location for my next appointment had been beautified with an unusual group of trees, mostly conifer.  A dozen species were displayed along my path as I approached the Beichman Home.  Nowhere did I see two examples of the same kind adjacent.  The selection was for an off-beat, specialized purpose, and it was all right for me to notice these things.  I had arrived early enough that I could even spend some time quite a ways from the sidewalk, reading a lengthy inscription that was posted next to a conifer.  It was historical narrative.  The people it described were pioneers, but they didn't belong to the family this care center was named after.  I read the narrative twice, without being intrigued.  Then, finished with the inscription, I contemplated a pear tree.  Finally I moved along to the building's entrance.  The main part of the house dates from the 1930's, with a recent, sizable extension.  As I entered the house the woman at the front desk turned off the big screen soap opera. 

        I've never had to exaggerate the nature of my reaction to seeing the man I went to see at the Beichman Home.  I've never been able to quite express it, either.  The other members of our group had no concept of the situation, but they wanted me to size it up.  So I called on him.  A male staff member led me to the room that showed the name 'Polk' above the door.  Having said nothing, the employee left me there.

        T. G. Polk would be remembered by anyone for the abomination described by medical specialists.  His malady was a unique dysplasia.  The interview lasted two minutes.

        I'm not squeamish in regard to it.  But the experience was one of my reasons for another visit to Delcourt Place.  My involvement with those who maintain the unpublicized, immense building is optional and as casual as it could possibly be.  Those people take precautions that make sure I can't learn the location just by being there a few times.  We're not blabbermouths.  It's true that I'm allowed to describe some of its activities, ones that don't set it apart from many organizations.  This time I had a friendly encounter with a group of high-level officials - the purpose of the discourse being my gaining of enlightenment.  I wasn't even assuming they'd be surprised if I asked about the dysplasia victim.  Surprised or not, their answer made sense.  Anyway the session with these administrators lasted less than half an hour.  When it was done they told me something very encouraging.  Then I traversed many rooms in a structure that might be called a stockade.  Huge, metallic posts occur in many places to supplement the impressive masonry.  The piped-in music was quite serene as a background, but not exactly pleasant.

        In my conversation with the nabob years ago I was told some things about Delcourt Place.  I hadn't forgotten anything I was told.  But I had to be skeptical about the description he gave until I made my first visit there.  He was right about one thing - the metaphysical slant.  On my first visit I met someone who explained the purpose of the founders, and he knew what he was talking about.  From the way he tells it, the founders' mentality is hard to relate to the politics you've ever heard of.  The ideal sojourner at the site is the individual occupied in meditation.  Just how many of these persons are on site at a given time is not revealed, even to most of us who have been there.  The other, apparently lesser, use of the building is for small groups in conference. 

        My mind was drastically transformed by the second brief stay at the installation.  Yes, I know how that sounds.  Please tolerate it.  The change wasn't a matter of hypnotism, drug-produced hallucination, brainwashing or any form of mind control that's been written about.  New Age mush had nothing to do with it.  For personal reasons I can't be very specific.  Old as I am, it's absurd to think a basic change in mindset could have happened so recently.  Besides this, Delcourt Place fascinates me mostly because of its isolation.  Though so much money has been spent for the facility, the people coming and going must be a trickle.

        One of the nifty things about this whole affair was my discovery that someone working with Cascadia Lore had been informed of Mitchell's relation to the overseers of the grand sanctum.  Someone, but not Agnes.  This well-informed person relayed the knowledge to yours truly.  As in some other examples the message came to me without my looking in the right direction.  It's clear that the overseers thought Reed had a valid grievance against Marvin Platte. 

        In any case there's mischief at the higher levels.  A widespread occurrence of experimental abuse might be cited by scholars to suggest what injured the Beichman resident.  This kind of abuse may be less extensive than before, but now it's taken a different direction, and people don't know that.  We've heard about the bureaucratic mechanism that keeps the top officials from learning of their subordinates' worst actions.

        I'd already told Agnes about my discovery of the low profile Oregon citizen who used to be high profile show business : Clark Norman.  The man continued to be accessible for me.  Agnes agreed to talk with us in her office.

        I began the serious observations by asserting, "The main problem these days would be the publicity system.  You agree?"  The response was laggard, so I continued.  "Show business can always be a part of it, but a small part.  What happened to Clark was a fringe episode.  We can only guess what goes on - "  Suddenly Agnes had a question.

        "This wealthy benefactor of yours who lives around here," she said to Clark, " - we all know his name, don't we?"

        I didn't see him squirming at the announcement.

        He replied, "As long as we don't keep saying it."  He always came across as a sensible person, if not very imaginative.

        In fact the previous evening Agnes had informed me who the VIP is.  The way she talked about it, she must have thought that only a dangerous underground journalism could do justice to the fabulous organization man from Portland.  What I've since learned about the parties to the agreement suggests it was ostensibly a billion dollar prank.  In the eyes of a few media pundits it was entertainment, nothing deeper.  But the sociology of it seems unprecedented.  My mind's transformation resulting from my stay at Delcourt Place was a transformation of allegiance.  I used to think the mysterious VIP was a constructive influence.  Now he's earned my hostility.  I can see his true feelings toward the group I'm in with.  If the psychology of my awakening is spooky, that's too bad. 

        In Agnes Birkrem's office the revelations kept coming. 

        Clark said, "He invited me to this town.  Seriously.  He gave me all kinds of reasons for living here, mostly reasons of convenience.  I can understand, partly, that he'd take an interest."  Still, Clark seemed bewildered.  "I actually heard him talking to one of his public relations men.  But he gave up on me.  He knows I can't stomach his type of politics."

        I asked, "Why does he give so much attention to that man at the Beichman Home?"

        It was the woman who answered.  "He's anti-Platte," she said.  "He's probably helping Mitchell's attorneys."

        "He gets his way, no matter what," Clark stated. 

        "I wonder if it's true," I said, "that he's the only reason Jeff Auerbach had early access to Pulmogel."

        Agnes replied, "Nina confirms that idea.  He went to that conference where he spoke to Jeff and Reed.  Nina gave them some information."

        My cell phone made its noise.  It was a call from my wife, and our talk lasted almost a minute.

        "The ball and chain?" Agnes wanted to know, when I finished the call.  I hadn't said much into the phone, but apparently enough to suggest who it was.

        I explained, "She told the organizers at Cascadia Lore that she can't take part in the group that studies conspiracies.  Her excuse is jury duty."

        "Works every damn time!" Agnes gloated.

        I wasn't annoyed by the call.  After more opinions were expressed by Clark and Agnes, I returned to a question previously discussed by Nina Solis. 

        I said, "About the figurine that went from Reed to the Stokesbary Collection and from the collection to Marvin.  We're told that Auerbach was looking at the figurine when he felt the impact of the noxious compound.  Does he believe the keepsake is inherently dangerous?"

        "I'm sure he does," Agnes replied.  "And it's nothing but mysticism." 

        "Jeff and Marvin both looking at the keepsake," I surmised, "as if Jeff was deciding to buy it."  I waited for confirmation.

        "Jeff wanted to bring it back to Stokesbary," Agnes agreed.  "And it came back, even though he was in the emergency room and Marvin was charged with assault.  Why Marvin did that - "  She couldn't guess.

        The woman decided it was time to show us a popular video that she'd found on the Internet.  We saw the image of Marvin Platte walking along a storefront in downtown big city, somewhere.  He was being followed by FOX News reporters.  He suddenly showed them his middle finger.  Some unseen bystanders began throwing solid objects at him.

        "He's beyond anti-social," Clark said.

        Agnes observed, "And he wonders why they burn him in effigy."

        "We could run that a few times," I suggested.  It was even better as an encore.

        Recently it's been disclosed that Marvin had written, but not published, an essay on the subject of teratism.  This was more evidence for the prosecution.  Marvin's obsessed, but the funny thing's how his body language in the video made me think of a friend's uncle who'd had serious problems years before.  He'd flipped out and begun telling everyone he was married to Shirley McClaine.  Now after the three of us watched the video we made some cute comments, but the meeting was more or less finished.

        Clark was aware that one of his TV series' episodes had been produced in response to the Platte family's emphasis on a Thracian connection.  He and his team had gone to that region and conducted some interviews.  A group of experts introduced them to an astonishing medical tradition.  His team was horrified by certain details.  Though his eventual broadcast pulled its punches he was convinced the episode offended Marvin.  I've thought about this notion - with no sense of being enlightened by it - on these balmy spring afternoons. 

        I was able to learn one thing, though.  The nabob introduced Mr. Polk to Clark's TV audience because he wanted the public to have one more reason for thinking the entertainer was unfortunate.  He had nothing personal against Clark.  It was just more business, but on a larger scale.  And the actor adjusted.  I won't forget his narrative about becoming used to life in this part of the country.

        An extravagant fictional reference is worthy of inclusion here.  You'll know which film I'm talking about when I describe a scene that occurs near the end of it - where some CEO relishes an execution he's ordered.  The mayhem takes place almost at the top of a ridge.  You see the spacious, untended surface of grass that starts at the ridge, extending all the way to a river in the distance.  The story line that comes to this turning point is well-crafted.  The big shot gloats for a while in the presence of his victim.  Several gunmen are standing close by, ready to perform their task.  Then the executive argues, not with his victim, but with a man who seems to be another CEO.  It's very personal between these two executives and their families.  At last it happens - the gunshots are numerous in a quick volley.  The corpse goes into the river.  It's the only movie I like with an Oregon setting.  And it's almost beside the point that executives don't operate this way.

        Another fictional approach takes the form of polemics in journalism.  Mitchell has been the target of these partisans.  Aside from the Platte case he tries to avoid controversy.  He still has an absurd Machiavellian image.

        The aforementioned friend from Seattle comes to mind.  I remember statements he made on a previous visit.  The social context was outdoor dining, a much larger than average barbecue event.  For fifteen minutes we had a table to ourselves.  We talked about propaganda.

        "Manipulation doesn't have to leave scars," he told me.  "But the results are usually described as vain consumerism.  Political ads are a similar, if less interesting form of it."  My friend had the most knowing look.

        "But sometimes it's definite mind control," I replied.

        "Anything very significant like that is hard to track," he said.

        "It sounds like the greatest form of oppression."

        My friend's knowing look was in abeyance as he considered this.  It didn't take long.  "Not even close," he finally asserted.  "Oppression is more street-level than that."

        I learned that he had read some things by or about Marvin Platte.  I also knew he had studied several examples of Wall Street dignitaries getting into trouble.

        "Mitchell's a tame example," I suggested.

        "Of what?" he replied.

        I added, "Compared to other situations in corporate law, situations of purging or just getting even.  There must be more extreme stories."

        "You'd think so.  Then again there might be some feature of the Marvin Platte case that we won't hear about."

        "An even more gruesome atrocity?"

        "It's possible."

        We debated the subject of equality versus privilege.  Neither of us would convince many persons, but by the end of the meal he had regained his posture suggesting the dignity of wisdom.  He kept glancing at the less physically elegant citizens.

        Tabloid fantasy production can even be aimed at someone like Mitchell.  I reject the idea that the publicity system is manipulated by the oligarchs in a way calculated to change your philosopy of life.  But when the modern system was first formulated it presupposed a philosophy that most people don't share.  Apart from that I do think the system is manipulated to stigmatize persons for nonphilosophical reasons - personal reasons or some reasons of business competition. 

        Reed called me a few days after the causerie with Agnes and Clark.  We talked about the subject of Jeff's professional interest.  Reed was blunt, in a way that was never unpleasant.

        "I see Jeff quite often," he said.  "The guy's pretty good at what he does, but he's part of an organization that needs all the help it can get."

        I told Reed I thought the curator was impressive in conversation.  Reed made several comments about him, even saying something about the medicine he was taking.  He seemed to disapprove of something there.  This might be too personal for my own questions, otherwise I'd try to learn. 

        "Do you like the collection?" he asked.

        I replied with several statements.  It was an honest answer, expressing admiration.

        He said, "It may have stopped evolving by now."  He was being satirical for some reason.  I'd already been told the collection had come a long way.

        "Considering the different sources," he added, "I thought it might not be very meaningful to someone who writes about Northwest regionalism."

        "It's a worthwhile collection," I acknowledged, redundantly.

        But there was a serious problem.  He got to the heart of the matter by saying, "It's really true - they have to investigate allegations of a pest.  When I say pest I mean some examples of impossible vandalism, like something supernatural.  It's embarrassing, of course, that they can't explain it.  A problem even if nobody dies from it."

        "Some invisible nuisance at the gallery," I said.  "So the people who work there complain about a kind of interference, and it's caused by something they can't see."

        "Maybe they've told you," he answered.  "I heard such things when I first got involved with it."  He sounded as if he might be puzzled instead of amused or offended.  He said, "There's more of it now."

        He related various anecdotes.  Two of the mishaps were so intricate and baffling that the Stokesbary people brought in some high-powered specialists for their interpretation.  Reed thought the findings were positive, but the Stokesbary employees were expecting more problems.  In describing his colleagues he often gave the impression he was trying hard not to say something nasty about so-and-so. 

        "I wouldn't be discouraged by those allegations," I said.  "Of course, if I went there nothing like that would happen.  But I listen to the stories that people tell."

        So far he liked my attitude.  "Some of the directors we have now are saps," he complained.  He wanted to make sure about the attitude.  "I can have you replace one of them if you're willing."

        "I might prove to be a heretic," I warned him.

        "That might not be a problem."

        He certainly was recruiting.  The opportunity he mentioned was one I could appreciate.  I responded, "Sure, we can give it a try."

        Then it was my turn to get a warning.  He said, "Some academic people would take it in a different direction.  We have to be vigilant.  They've tried to get rid of me more than once."  He groaned and then declared, "When I propose changes they dig in their heels."

        I made some statement about the collection, and for some reason he thought of a videotape that was held in the inmost vault.  Considering its nature, it seemed impossible that Stokesbary would have it. 

        His disclosure was worth hearing.  "They made that one years ago to use against Clark Norman.  It's the one purporting to show him in the middle of a sadistic procedure.  You see the legs of his victim, presumably female."  Reed had a brusque manner, as if he didn't consider the 'evidence' a serious topic.

        "Was this a tape the prosecutors had supposedly looked at?"

        On this point he confessed his ignorance.

        "What's the quality of the image?  Does it look like Norman?"  He had me with 'purporting to show.'

        "The image isn't horrible, but not exactly professional either.  I'd say it's Clark Norman, but I don't know who his partner is, or whether she's suffering."  Reed claimed he had only viewed it once.

        Before long he mentioned the hapless T. G. Polk.  Reed clearly thought that gratuitous travel was exemplified by a weapon being brought here from Southeastern Europe - a weapon used to inflict biological disgrace.  He made this point without naming other names, not even Marvin Platte's. 

        Some questions didn't come up in this discussion.  We said many things without referring to the usual public opinions expressed against Mitchell's firm.  A certain undesignated faction was the main point of interest.  I think I can claim to know more about it than Reed does.  He's limited to his company and its headquarters in California.  The secret faction has no great interest in the firm that Reed works for, and I hope he doesn't feel threatened.  On the other hand the faction is pretty good at tracking the unconventional weapons that are brought into this country from other parts of the world.  They have some awareness of the Platte story.  At the end of our phone conversation the executive sounded cheerful.

        It's worth noting that Delcourt Place is another thing the secret faction doesn't have much to do with.  Of course you could speak of other secret factions.  There's no way I could provide a list of the social types that are excluded from the retreat, assuming that some law abiding people are.  My knowledge of the building's defined purpose is very limited.  In the letter that Reed had sent me he made known his beliefs about the facility, but he didn't say why he had been there.  I do know the building's an unrivaled expression of the managerial culture.  It may be esoteric, but that doesn't mean it's negligible.  In any case the people responsible for the great installation were the people who could provide crucial evidence against Marvin Platte if they chose to. 

        Despite our climate's reputation, we don't get many honest to goodness downpours.  In the following week, on a day of drizzle giving way to sunlight on gleaming pavements, Jeff Auerbach finally came to my office.  He was accompanied by two middle-aged men, his colleagues.  The situation would be decisive in a way, and awkward.

        He began, "Reed Mitchell had a lot to do with the collection for several years.  He's less involved now, but he still has a say in determining policy."

        "I've talked to him," I replied.

        Jeff made some statements about the purpose they had at Stokesbary.  For me it was a severe distraction when I became aware that one of his colleagues  was talking into his cell phone with a person who must have been Clark's mysterious VIP.  The dialogue's content made this clear.  I tried to finish my own dialogue with Jeff.

        "Will I get to see the keepsake?" I asked.

        "Of course," he said.  But the look on his face gave a hint of reluctance.  "We've had some visitors asking pretty strange questions about it.  Asking especially about Mitchell.  We've talked to everyone who's handled it.  The greatest doubt we have is regarding the man we got it from two years ago.  That's Marvin Platte."

        He suddenly had a look of jubilation, ready to make a damning remark about Marvin.  I'm sure of it.

        But then he tottered, evidently on the verge of collapse.  The other two men reacted quickly, grabbing him and easing him to the floor.  A woman who has an office close to mine saw what happened.  She came in to see if she could help.  Jeff's eyes were closed and he wasn't moving.  The jubilant expression had become something different - a frozen and freakish look of stillness.  One of Jeff's colleagues, a muscular man with red hair, was using his cell phone and summoning paramedics.

        We'd been standing over the prone body for a couple of minutes when I noticed a strange object on the floor.  It was the resin ornament with six legs.  He'd been carrying the thing in his briefcase.

        Amazingly - so I thought, when I noticed - the less rugged of the two colleagues was still talking to the wealthy man.  It stunned me when he put his cell phone to my ear so I could get the word straight from his boss.  The word was the most horrifying thing I'd ever been told.  Imagine the worst possibilities of Pulmogel : its increasing use, and what side effects the medicine has for the most vulnerable patients.  Consider the frightening prospects of dysplasia - the bleak future we'll soon be hearing about.  Whether such alarm was realistic or not, the man talking to me on the phone seemed authentically paranoid or harshly manipulative.  I slumped into a nearby chair. 

        Later, when I saw Jeff in the hospital, our conversation was better than I expected.  The medical people weren't sure what had happened.

        It was entertaining when a doctor came into the room and said to Jeff, "Don't worry, you're not gonna be like T. G. Polk."

        After Jeff got out of the hospital I repeated the message from the VIP so I could get his reaction.  He told me he'd already heard, and said he was pessimistic.  Then he referred me to another man of his profession, and between those two I learned much about a curious intrigue.  I was told that Lou Dennison, emissary for the Platte crowd, had spent three weeks in Brazil.  It made sense to think he would have failed in his mission if he was seeking evidence to confirm the beliefs of Platte.  Those beliefs are a delusion.  I told him as much the second time I saw him.  You're correct if you suppose I failed to correct him.

        The group I belong to has a philosophical belief that repels Marvin Platte.  Our historians refute the arguments that say we should be more like New York City, or for that matter, Houston.  With all due respect to the largest communities, we're bound to be different.  We're not embarrassed.  It's interesting that Platte has continued living in this area.  His best known sympathizer visited the gallery a few years ago and made some noise about the 'inferior nature' of the collection.  Our people insist that the Platte mentality is the one lacking empiricism.  His ideal provides a vain surface, and his cosmopolitanism doesn't take.  We can find what we look for closer to home.

        I'll state my reconstruction of events.  Marvin purchased the keepsake from the collection.  Sometime after that he visited one of the leading merchants in Brazil.  I don't know exactly how, but he came to believe the artifact was crafted by a citizen of that nation, and that the object has occult power.  His belief in the latter point was strengthened by uncanny occurrences.  These frightened him.  He suspected the numinous danger to himself would only be increased if the keepsake was destroyed, buried or submerged.  There would be complications if he sold it.  The safest plan came to this : donate the artifact to the gallery.  The act of donating was complicated, but not prevented, by the violence done to Jeff.  He already despised the group that maintained the collection.  Anything like a 'curse' that stemmed from the artifact would be their problem. 

        The trial concluded favorably for the plaintiff.  Mr. Mitchell had the satisfaction of learning that Platte's business relations, domestic and social arrangements had all become a shambles.  In addition Mitchell has peace of mind, since he knows that I possess the keepsake.  He has his own funny notions about the object, and he trusts me more than he trusts others who might have gained it.  I have peace of mind as well.  I bought the keepsake at a ridiculously low price.  If the object pestered a famous author, it doesn't pester me.