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use the list of chapter titles in the panel on the right side of every page.

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27 Yellow run

Hello, I'm Kindred. (chorus) Hello, Kindred. (K) I will be sober eleventeen years and 6,213 nanoseconds from now. (chorus) polite applause.

There was this song I always listened to, you know? When I was on my own, solving crimes and staying solvent but not sober so sue me. You?

Stand with the accused if you can't accept me, READ me, I'm a novelty, get it? No? Then stand with the accused, the ones who drove me here.

Here. Joy Motel. 1968, so I thought. But Bobby Kennedy is still alive and MacRant is just a kid and Culhane drives a '59 Chevy Biscayne.

ksshh. The first letter falls, the SC teeters over HI-FI, blurring the H. I thought I was real. The future was better, right? You were there

Baldo the Magnificent, one of my DTs DTs, my DTs were so bad. Then there's your pal, Hawkwind Bulleteye. Psycho cruise ship name, you ask me

The letters keep fizzling under your watch, Baldo. PRESCHOOL HIGH FIVE GEENPOOL CYANICE kish kish kish I'd like to vie a bowel? Aye aw why?

The parrot imploded and that was my wake up call, back in bed, room 223. I looked out the window. Dick Nixon was working on the turbines.

Woke up to find Culhane's box in my bathtub. Don't remember leaving it there. Hum of turbines rattling up through the drain, pipe vibrating.

Fire axe. Got it from the glass cabinet in the hall. Nice heft, redhead. Overhand swing, accelerating downward. Wristsnap chunk. Busted box.

Paper, scraps, notes, scrolls, pads, booklets, folders, receipts, maps, bills, IOU, marriage license, love letter, death notice, house deed.

Culhane is a squirrel, hoarding life snippets. Names all different. These are not Culhane's. Must be a dozen identities here. Motherlode.

Clues and leads for the Disciples. Culhane like some kind of club secretary. The wheres and whos and whys and whens and whats. Collated.

Thumbtacks pinning everything to the west wall of 223. Floor to ceiling, overlapping pages, curled edges, all colors. Grouped and sorted.

Danko Drout, he was easy. Number six. Lethal injection behind the ear, church in Sacramento. Deedle, tougher. Hard to trace. Number three.

Got him with a parcel bomb. Watched from a rental car parked in the shade across the street. Neat little pop bang did the deed, over easy.

Kindred memorizing the wall, eyes fixed from three feet away, scanning, scrolling, shuffling across the carpet on bare feet. Drinking it in.

Four and half hours, neck aching, brainthrobbing, synapses firing in neat sequence, CIA trained mnemonic techniques, numerical shortcuts.

Brainfull mindful soulful. One last deep breath, hold it, snap, yes. All the data in Culhane's box, ingested, congested, consumed, devoured.

Turbines powering down for slumber, earth sighing, disciples dying. Dick Overtone pushed a fork into a fried egg and watched the yellow run.


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