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CHAPTER SEVEN:

Spiritual Danger Pay

These days Vickery’s trailer was at the far southwest corner of an immense trailer park off Rosecrans Avenue. On the south side, the trailer was shaded by tall eucalyptus trees that stood at the edge of a park, and on the west by a six-foot wall, beyond which lay a narrow stretch of dirt and a service lane and then the shallowly sloping cement bank of the Los Angeles River. The flat riverbed was a hundred yards across, but water flowed only in a thirty-yard wide channel down the middle of the expanse.

“You’re pretty well hidden back here,” said Castine after Vickery had driven down several lanes, past dozens of trailers.

“And if villains corner me,” he agreed as he braked to a halt in front of his trailer and switched off the engine, “my back door opens onto that fence or that wall.” He opened the door and stepped out. “Though until today there haven’t been any villains interested in me.”

Castine was already walking toward the trailer’s wooden steps. “I said I was sorry,” she said. “Didn’t I? Anyway, I didn’t send you out there.”

Vickery followed her up the steps to the narrow porch, and unlocked the trailer’s door and tugged it open. A puff of hot stale air ruffled Castine’s hair.

“I remember the way to the refrigerator,” she said, stepping past him into the narrow kitchen. He moved to the right, into the living room, and switched on the air conditioner.

Castine got out of her trench coat, hung it and her knitted cap on one of the kitchen chairs, and dropped her sunglasses on the table. A few moments later she carried two opened bottles of Budweiser into the living room and set them on an issue of the New Oxford Review on the coffee table.

She sat down in one of the two easy chairs and looked around at the standing lamps and the crowded bookshelves, then sighed and leaned down to pull off her hiking boots. “It’s nice to be back here, somehow,” she said, flexing her stockinged feet on the nearest rug, “in your little moving castle.” She lifted one of the bottles and took a long sip, watching wide-eyed as Vickery pulled from his pocket the sheaf of papers Plowman had given him and tossed them onto the table. “Fan mail from some flounder?” she asked breathlessly as she put the bottle down.

Vickery could see the tension in her hands, and he grinned in spite of himself at the bravely silly reference to the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons.

“Maps and lists, it looks like.”

He spread them out on the table. One was a circular map of the Earth with the north pole at the center and a white band indicating Antarctica around the circumference—clearly a map of the “flat Earth.” Another was a stapled booklet, half a dozen pages of typed latitude and longitude notations, with handwritten notes at the bottom of the last page. Paper-clipped to the list were two photocopied pages of a book. The edges of the papers were stained, and Vickery recalled Plowman saying that he had spilled coffee on them.

Vickery freed the copied book pages. The first sheet was a title page: Theogony, by Hesiod, translated from the Ionian Greek by Francis Notchett, published in 2018 by “Notchett Press, Los Angeles.” The second sheet was a copy of an inner page of the book—many lines of verse, in iambic pentameter, ten of them heavily underlined in the original book.

“Does this ring any bells?” he asked, passing the sheet to Castine.

She read the lines out loud:


“218.A - 218.J: And Night, chaste by necessity for this,

Birthed the Moirai who hold existence firm:

Clotho, who generates the thread that binds,

Lachesis, who spins out its tiny length,

And Atropos, who ties it in a knot

And clips it off. Ouranos, Gaia’s son,

Restrains the stranger hundred-handed ones

Who every season hope to steal the threads

And weave them into wings wherewith to fly

Even beyond the reach of Chaos . . .”


Below it, handwritten on the orginal, was the further line, But at what gelid, endothermic cost?


“Those last printed lines,” said Castine, holding the paper toward Vickery, “are what Notchett’s ghost recited, in the cemetery.”

“I guess that wasn’t just ghost gibberish,” Vickery said, “since Notchett underlined it and copied it while he was still alive.”

“And he added that line about jellied endosperms.” Castine tilted her bottle up again. “Your man Plowman,” she said as she lowered it, “what did he say again?”

“He said that UFOs are like splashes when somebody throws shoes into a pool, and when the somebody falls into the pool, he becomes a physical object, but he’s a ghost then.”

“And when I asked if the ghosts have huge hands, he said sometimes, and sometimes they’ve got a hundred hands.” She tapped the page. “So did Mr. Hesiod know about this stuff?”

Vickery shook his head. “Hundred-handed sounds like standard mythological stuff. That dog Cerberus had three heads, and Hydra the serpent had lots of heads.”

But he stood up and crossed to one of the bookshelves.

“Is that one of yours?” said Castine behind him. When he turned, he saw that she was pointing at an unframed painting leaning against another bookcase below the window.

The trailer was shaded against the late afternoon sun by the trees bordering the park, and Vickery switched on one of the standing lamps and looked at the painting.

It was a view of a desert, done in sepia tones with silvery highlights. The sky was black, with a rusty full moon hanging over distant mountains, but the sand and Joshua trees appeared luminous.

Vickery pulled out two volumes of an old encyclopedia and carried them back to his chair.

“Yes,” he said, setting the books on the table and sitting down. “Out by Amboy, off the 40.”

“It’s echo-vision,” she said. She got to her feet and crossed to the painting to crouch beside it. “You’ve almost got the color. At least it reminds me of the color.”

“Hesiod,” said Vickery, peering at a page in the encyclopedia, “was a Greek poet in 800 BC, and his long poem the Theogony is the first known history of the Greek gods. ” He closed that volume and opened the other. “And Moirai is Greek for the Fates—well, that’s Clotho and Lachesis and Atropos, like the poem said. One of them spins the thread of your life, the next measures it out, and the third cuts it off.”

“In the bit of the poem you’ve got there, it says Clotho generates the thread. And the thread binds—‘holds existence firm.’ Does this glow in the dark?”

Vickery looked up; Castine was still peering at the painting. “No,” he said, a bit nettled. “The desert did, that night, by that weird light.” He picked up the lists of latitudes and longitudes and flipped to the last page, then got up and went to a different bookshelf and pulled down a big atlas.

“According to the notes at the end of this lot,” he said, resuming his seat and flipping open the book’s cover, “crop circles have clustered most around three parallel lines—what he calls ‘the trinity of crash lines.’” He opened the atlas to a two-page map of the world, then pulled open a drawer in the table to fetch out a pencil.

“One of them,” he said, using the folded edge of the New Oxford Review as a ruler, “stretches from 116 degrees east longitude by 50 degrees north latitude—about here, in northern China— to 110 degrees longitude by 1 degree south latitude, down here, by Borneo.” He penciled a line between those points. “And he notes that it crosses Qinghe County in China. Okay.”

“A long crash,” commented Castine.

The next line led from a point 150 degrees west longitude by 50 degrees north latitude to a point 122 degrees west longitude by 19 degrees north longitude. Vickery penciled it in—it ran from a point in the north Pacific about 800 miles west of Vancouver to a point in the ocean about the same distance west of Mexico City.

“They’re not parallel,” said Castine, leaning over his shoulder now. “The first line was straight up and down, but the one by California is slanted.”

“Not only that,” said Vickery, “he says here that it passes just six hundred miles west of San Diego.” He added a bowed section to the line. “It curves.”

“And this is supposed to be patterns of crop circles? That line is entirely in the ocean.” She stood up straight and stretched. “I bet the ghost made these notes. Ghosts are idiots.”

“A ghost couldn’t handle all these numbers.” Vickery peered at the map. “And I think the third line is going to be even more slanted—he says it goes from England through Turkey and the Caspian Sea and the Arabian Sea to near Sri Lanka.”

He marked the end-points of the third line. The first pencil dot was at 51 degrees north latitude by 1 degree east longitude, on the south coast of England, and the second dot was at 7 degrees north latitude by 80 degrees east longitude, roughly the southern tip of India. It was sharply diagonal, and Vickery noted that it would have to bend quite a bit to cross any part of the Caspian Sea. He erased part of the line and re-drew it as a curve.

“Huh,” said Castine, returning to her chair. “They’re not even straight, never mind parallel.” A moment later she blinked and stood up again to lean over the map. “That third line crosses Salisbury, doesn’t it? In Wiltshire?”

Vickery glanced at the map, then looked up and spread his hands. “You tell me.”

“It does—and the upper tail of it slants northwest from there, and there are a lot of crop circle formations along that line, genuine ones.” She touched the map and traced the line southeast. “Germany, Romania, Poland, yes, lots—and more or less along this line, too. And here,” she said with an excited nod, “it’s not crop circles, but they’ve found a lot of stone circles in the deserts in Turkey, right around the line. We were told about them in the general overview of the Wiltshire assignment. They’re real old, but nobody even noticed them till the ’20s, when planes flew over them.” She looked up. “And I bet the name of that county in China was Qinghe,” She pronounced it kinjee, while Vickery had rendered it as Quinhee.

“Okay . . .”

“Well, they’ve found a lot of ancient stone circles there, too. So maybe ancient peoples preserved crop circles—or dirt circles, sand angels, crop circles without the crops—by outlining them with stones. Memorialized them, if they’re graves like Plowman said. And look, the China line extends across the South China Sea, down past Borneo to Java, and there’ve been a lot of crop circles around Yogyakarta. Which is there,” she added when Vickery gave her a blank look.

“Okay.” Vickery sat back and took a sip of his beer. “Even though they’re not parallel, they are in lines. Somewhat curved lines.”

“If he was honest in scatter-plotting location points to derive his lines . . . and if he didn’t just cherry-pick the locations.” She frowned and touched the line that ran through the blue area to the left of the American west coast. “But how could there be crop circles in the ocean? What would they look like?”

“They just about always happen at night, don’t they? Maybe the ocean glows.”

Castine shuddered and returned to her chair. She took several swallows from her beer bottle, then said, “Maybe the lines are parallel, on a globe. Have you got a globe?”

“Oh—yeah, I guess so.” Embarrassed, Vickery got up and went into the kitchen, and when he came back he was blowing into the valve of a slack plastic bag mottled in blue and tan, and there was a black felt-tip marker in his shirt pocket.

Castine smiled. “You keep the world in a kitchen drawer?”

“Easier to store, deflated.”

When Vickery had got the thing fully inflated, it was a respectable-enough globe, twelve inches across. He sat down and uncapped the marker.

Glancing from the atlas to the convex surface of the globe, he carefully copied the lines he had drawn on the map. It was soon obvious that the lines wouldn’t be in any sense parallel on the globe either, and when he was finished he held it up for Castine to see.

Castine shrugged. “You marked up your globe for nothing. What else have we got?”

Vickery shuffled through the papers again. “That’s it. The poem and the crop circle notes and the flat Earth map.”

“Wait a sec,” said Castine, “wait a sec.” She picked up Vickery’s pencil and slid the flat Earth map to her side of the table. Carefully, switching her attention from the map in the atlas to the circular one on the paper and back, she drew lines on the flat Earth map. When she was done she lifted the pencil and stared wide-eyed at Vickery.

The three lines were parallel, the China and America lines on one side of the central north pole, the Middle East one on the other.

“They are parallel,” Castine said softly, “on a flat Earth.”

“Well he cherry-picked his locations then,” said Vickery, “obviously, to make lines on his idiot map. These guys are—”

“Those spots I recognized were cluster spots. The lines are fairly implicit.”

“Okay, the Earth is actually flat. You and Plowman would have got along.” He leaned back and stretched. “Are you going to be hungry? There’s a couple of good Mexican places down Rosecrans.”

“I could use a shower, mainly. Though I hate to get back into these sweaty clothes. Do you have anything to eat here?”

“I’ve always got makings for a big omelette. And actually I still have some of your clothes from last time—jeans, a white blouse, a suede coat?”

“My La Brea Tar Pits wading outfit! I hope you didn’t just put them away the way they were? They’d have fermented.”

“I had them cleaned, though the coat is kind of funny-looking now.”

“An omelette sounds fine, but I’d like to take a shower and get into my old clothes first.” She gave him a critical look. “I won’t use up all the hot water.”

“Point taken.”


Joel Finehouse walked back across the shadow-streaked IHOP parking lot to the new Ford SUV, where Vilko Cendravenir waited in the passenger seat. When Agent Yoneda had not been in her motel room nor answered her phone, Finehouse had traced her phone and found it in a cardboard box behind this IHOP restaurant. The IHOP security camera had shown Rayette Yoneda dropping her phone in the box and getting into a white Honda, with every appearance of willingness. A quick phone call to Washington had revealed that the license plate on the Honda had been stolen from a twenty-year-old Ford registered to a dentist in Oxhard, and the image of the Honda’s bearded driver had been too oblique and obscured by reflection to be of any use in facial recognition analysis.

Finehouse was forty, of medium height and compactly muscled, with brown hair going to gray. He wore a dark blue business suit with his tie now loosened and the top two buttons of his white shirt undone. Cendravenir, peering at him through the SUV windshield, was casually dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck, and his pointed black goatee made him look like the magician he claimed to be.

Finehouse found the claim distasteful, but he had been in Commander Lubtiz’s Pentagon office last night when Lubitz had persuaded Cendravenir to demonstrate his peculiar ability. Lubitz had taken six golf balls from a desk drawer and laid three of them on the desk near where Cendravenir had been sitting; the other three Lubitz had commenced to juggle. After Cendravenir had stared for a few seconds at the three balls that remained on the desk, they had sprung into the air without his having touched them, circling one another above the desk in mimicry of the ones the Commander was juggling. The fact that they had shortly spun out of Cendravenir’s telekinetic control, one of them shattering the plexiglass panel over the ceiling fluorescent lights, had really only made the whole show more impressive. Lubitz’s secret Operation Pleiades had seemed actually remotely feasible, assuming that Sebastian Vickery and Ingrid Castine really did suffer from what Lubitz called distempor.

But someone had bombed Lubitz’s backup van, Agent Castine had gone AWOL, and now Agent Yoneda seemed to have done the same. The players, like the golf balls last night, were spinning out of control.

Before getting back into the SUV, Finehouse pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and tapped in Lubitz’s number, and when the Commander answered, he explained the current situation.

Then for nearly a minute he just listened; and when he pocketed his phone and got into the SUV, he told Cendravenir, “We’re going to L.A. It seems Commander Lubitz isn’t willing to write this off as a failure yet.”

“‘’Tis ill-advised to seek a newer world’,” said Cendravenir, refastening his seat-belt as Finehouse started the engine, “I want danger pay. Your Sensitive Assignment Specialists are broiled lizard snacks now, n’est-ce pas? I’m a fairly sensitive fellow myself, as it happens.” He pulled a pack of Djarum clove-flavored cigarettes from his leather satchel, but sighed and put it back when Finehouse scowled at him.

“I’ll note your request in my report,” said Finehouse, starting the engine and steering out of the parking lot. “But this next step looks like a cold trail.” When Cendravenir raised his eyebrows, Finehouse explained, “There’s a woman Sebastian Vickery used to work for, off-and-on, before he went dark in February of ’18. She runs an unlicensed santeria car service, and Lubitz thinks Vickery might try to contact her.”

“Very well, then I want spiritual danger pay.”

Finehouse considered what freeways to take in order to get to Eighth Street in the Koreatown area of Los Angeles. A santeria car service, he thought; and Castine and Yoneda have disappeared, and I’m traveling with a guy who can juggle golf balls without touching them, and the implausible goal of it all is to establish communication with a lot of silver balls that appear and disappear in the sky. We should all be getting insanity danger pay.

“I’ll note your request in my report,” he said stolidly.

Finehouse had joined the Office of Naval Research in 2005, right after graduating from MIT with an engineering degree, and at the Naval Research Laboratory in Washington D.C he had been developing one-piece aluminum-alloy armor for the undersides of military vehicles operating in foreign city streets, where improvised explosive devices often detonated under vehicles. A simplistic but high-priority interruption of his work had been to assist DARPA in designing the fake UFO that was dropped near Giant Rock last night, and he had shortly found himself reassigned to the Office of Naval Intelligence, working under Commander Jack Lubitz on Operation Pleiades.

Finehouse had grown up in a tiny east Tennessee town called Cosby, raised by his grandparents in a small clapboard house off U.S. Route 321, and his goal since childhood had been to find his way to the bright expansive world he saw on television—and that way was immersing himself in the crystalline logics of physics and mathematics. Over the years he had shed his accent and the naïve beliefs of his grandparents, and prided himself on his coldly rational world view—and he was annoyed with himself when the old Appalachian superstitions occasionally intruded, and he found himself momentarily worrying that an accidentally swallowed watermelon seed would grow inside him, or that closing a pocket knife that someone else had opened would bring bad luck.

Operation Pleiades was in many ways uncomfortably reminiscent of those superstitions, and he longed to get back to developing alloys for vehicle armor.

He drove out of the IHOP parking lot and turned onto Twentynine Palms Highway, and after a few moments he realized that he was driving too fast, as if to get sooner to the end of this crazy operation, this distasteful interruption of his life.


Vickery, now in faded black jeans and a Death Records T-shirt, had checked the coolant and oil levels in the truck, and crouched by all four tires to measure the air pressure, and finally stood up and stretched. The sun had gone down beyond the L.A. River, and the sky was dimming. He walked up the trailer steps and opened the door.

Castine had turned on two of the standing lamps in the living room, and she looked up from the old science fiction paperback she had found on one of his bookshelves. Her hair was dry now and haphazardly brushed, and she wore the fresh jeans and the white cotton blouse.

“Do we go to a Mexican restaurant or eat here?” Vickery asked, closing the door.

“You said big omelette.”

“Coming up.”

He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, then hauled out a cutting board and cut an onion and a red bell pepper into narrow strips. He tipped a splash of olive oil into a cast-iron pan and turned the heat on under it, and after a moment rocked the pan back and forth to coat the bottom. He scraped the onion and bell pepper strips off the cutting board into the pan and stirred them around with the knife blade.

There was a fresh carton of eggs in the refrigerator, and when he had pulled it out, he called, “Are you very hungry, or just somewhat?”

“Well,” came her voice from the living room, “the onions smell wonderful, and it’s been a long time since lunch at Cole’s.”

“Ages,” Vickery agreed. He broke eight eggs into a glass bowl, assessed the floating yolks, then broke the last four in as well and began stirring them all with a fork.

He had just begun pouring the beaten eggs from the bowl into the pan when a flare of white light from the window dazzled him, and he lost his balance; he caught the refrigerator handle with one hand, and then pressed strongly upward on it, for his feet were lifting from the linoleum. He tossed the bowl into the sink, where it shattered, throwing long strings of beaten egg toward the ceiling, and he gripped the handle tightly with both hands. His face was hot, and though he wasn’t able to take a deep breath, his nose stung with the smell of burning plastic.

Castine half-fell into the kitchen, bracing herself in the doorway; her face appeared to be stretched back toward the living room, as if she had moved too fast for her right cheek and eye to fully catch up. Then gravity came back on, hard, tugging her slack face downward.

Her mouth twisted open, and over a sudden trilling sound like mechanical birds she choked, “Crop circle. Run.”

Then she had warped around and pulled open the front door and disappeared down the steps, with Vickery stumbling along right behind her. Down on the pavement, he found it easier to run if he took a look at the rippling lane between the undulating trailers and then just closed his eyes.

After a dozen pounding steps the tightness in his chest loosened, and he opened his eyes.

Castine was two yards away, crouching with her palms flat on the asphalt, gasping for air in the chilly fresh breeze. She looked up at him and panted, “We’re out of it, or it’s over.” She straightened, and Vickery was glad to see that the visual distortions had stopped.

Dust and scraps of paper were being blown up the lane; some of the papers were scorched and smoldering. Trailer doors were banging open and people were hurrying outside.

“You said crop circle?” said Vickery hoarsely, and when Castine nodded he said, “In a trailer park?”

Castine had stood up and was pointing over the roof of the trailer. Vickery looked around and saw a narrow, perfectly regular column of dust against the darkening sky; it appeared to be a few hundred yards away.

“What’s past that wall behind your trailer?” Castine asked, stepping in that direction.

Vickery caught her elbow. “Whoa, don’t go back into that!” he said, but she shook him off and sprinted toward the wall. He followed, calling, “The L.A. River!”


Tacitus had consulted Google Maps on a laptop in his car, and he had insisted that he and Yoneda approach the trailer from the riverbed side. He had parked in a cul-de-sac south of the trailer park, and the two of them had trudged through the brush along the riverside chain-link fence until they had found and stepped through a gap where a car had apparently once driven through it.

They had crossed a service road and then hopped and slid down the cement slope to the broad, flat pavement of the riverbed, and walked north. The evening breeze was at their backs. To their left was the narrow band of rushing water in the middle of the gray expanse, and then more pavement and the western slope with trees along its crest, and far ahead of them were the pillars of a freeway overpass; the only other figures visible on the geometric landscape were a couple of skateboarders flitting like gnats around the distant pillars.

During the long drive west Tacitus had stuck to his obviously improvised story about a Zeta Reticuli Chess Club. Whatever might be the truth about this Tacitus fellow, Yoneda was sure that the object denting the back of his jacket as he walked was a handgun in a waistband holster.

For several minutes Yoneda had been mentally rehearsing how she would disable old Tacitus if he should draw the gun or in any way exhibit insanity; she had made him stop at a 7-Eleven for cigarettes during the long drive, but she had not insisted on finding a pay phone and calling Lubitz, since this pilgrimage had every likelihood of being a misindentification or an outright fantasy.

And there was still the chance that she might be able to find Vickery and report his license plate number and street address to Lubitz, which would salvage a big part of the day’s assignment. She would have to make some mention of Tacitus in her report, too—after ditching him.

She had been watching the trees visible at the top of the near embankment, and stopped. “It should be right up here.”

Tacitus had stopped too, and blotted his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. He had stared up the cement slope, his glasses misty with exertion, and it was clear that he wasn’t at all sure of what he intended to do if they should find Vickery. When Yoneda began walking up the incline, he shrugged and followed her.

“Well,” he said, breathlessly, “let us go see Mr. Ardmore.”

Yoneda halted and looked back. “Ardmore? Isn’t there—dammit, isn’t the name Vickery involved?”

Tacitus had taken two stretching steps past her, but now abruptly hunched forward to brace his hands on the rough cement surface of the slope. He opened his mouth, but produced only a grating whine.

The sun had gone down, and a moment ago the riverbed had been in dimming twilight, but now a sudden bright light from above cast the man’s shadow starkly on the cement under him.

Yoneda crouched and spun, squinting up, then dove to the side and rolled diagonally back down the incline to the flat surface.

A brightly incandescent sphere, perhaps several yards in diameter, hung a hundred feet over the upper slope of the embankment, and it was either growing larger or descending.

Tacitus had roused himself and now came tumbling after her. In the moment when he crawled past her toward the channel of water she saw that his clothes and beard were dotted with red sparks.

Yoneda scrambled to her feet and ran away from the light, but after only a few steps her shoes were barely brushing the pavement; her course was diverging upward from the riverbed surface. Reflexively she began making swimming motions with her arms, and she expelled her breath as if she were in water and wanted to sink. The erratic wind was full of leaves like schools of fish.

Her momentum carried her farther away from the descending bright sphere, and her shoes and then her knees collided with the cement surface; she slid on her hands and one hip, and then she was up and limping, trying desperately to move in a straight line southward in spite of the apparent warping of the brightly lit riverbed and her own shadow twisting fantastically in a hail of leaves in front of her. The broad watercourse echoed with shrill staccato noise like a rapidly spinning wheel with a bad bearing.

A few seconds later she was panting in a steady cold wind and sudden darkness, batting at embers now visible on her pants. She looked back—the sphere was gone, and for a few seconds the shrill metallic twittering was accompanied by choppy back-and-forth gusts in that direction, and then the air was still and silent. Her nostrils twitched at the oily smell of ozone. When she tried to take a deep breath, and could do it only in hitching gasps, she realized that she was crying.

She heard splashing and then wetly slapping footsteps to her left, and saw the bulky silhouette of Tacitus, his arms held out to the side for balance, plodding in her direction from the water channel. Yoneda forced her breathing to be steady.

When Tacitus had come to within a few feet of her he stopped, and for several seconds they simply stood silently, staring at the dark, empty riverbed. Tacitus inhaled and audibly opened his mouth, then shut it.

Yoneda could hear scuffling now from the service road up the slope to their right, and a woman’s voice that she believed she recognized called, “Are you two all right?” It was Agent Castine at the crest of the bank, looking away from Yoneda and Tacitus now to scan the broad riverbed.

Yoneda followed Castine’s gaze, and saw that dust and water formed patterns across the stretches of cement; the streaks of water were evaporating and the dust was dispersing, but she could see an intricate curved line of connected circles and coils of dots.

Castine and a companion—Vickery? Someone named Ardmore?—were making their way down the slanted surface in a semi-skating gait, and when they reached the level expanse Castine’s eyes widened at the sight of Yoneda.

Before either of them could speak, Tacitus spoke hoarsely to the man. “Excuse me—do you own a 1952 Chevrolet pickup truck?”


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