Ten: The Right Car Comes Along

Agent Tomatilla Bygone ran along the shoulder of an unknown road just outside Goofy Ridge, Illinois. Her legs burned at first, then they went numb, but she kept moving as fast she could to generate as much heat as possible.

She had never before questioned Rapunzel Archback's judgment, but this seemed to her a hare-brained notion, one with unclear objectives and puzzling contingencies. Missions like this were typical of government work, of any kind of work, but Chief Archback had heretofore brought a kind of ruthless, narrow efficiency to espionage. Now she was pursuing the nebulous, the hypothetical. Granted, the case offered intrigue but Agent Bygone had never known intrigue alone to hook someone as cold and clinical as her superior. Perhaps Rapunzel Archback had grown sentimental, or maybe she didn't want to uncover too much, think too much, for fear of falling victim to TH. Agent Bygone also worried about tangible hubris, especially since she seemed to be investigating a disposal method for TH, but such risks came with the territory.

Only four cars had passed her, three of which had been headed in the wrong direction. The fourth blazed by too quickly for her to get in front of. At last, a late model sedan slowed alongside her and an elderly, brown-faced man lowered his window to address her.

"Need a ride, young lady?"

"If you're going to Goofy Ridge, I do."

"Not my final destination, as they say, but I'll be passing through," he said.

"Works for me," she said, abandoning immediately the notion of commandeering this kindly old man's car.

"What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?" he asked Agent Bygone as she climbed into the passenger side.

"It's a long story," she said, "Let's just say I'm in law enforcement."

The old brown man, whose race she could not quite determine, laughed.

"I remember a time when a woman as young and pretty as you couldn't be in law enforcement. More's the pity. We could have used your type as police officers."

Agent Bygone nodded politely. In spite of his age, the man seemed quick of both mind and body. He accelerated the car smoothly and drew up to eighty miles an hour, all the while appearing relaxed and in complete control.

"Were you a police officer?" she asked.

"I was a special investigator for the state of Missouri," he said, proudly, "First one who wasn't white, so they told me, though I never knew if that was officially true."

"Fascinating. When was this?"

"I started in Kansas City doing administration work for the police department. That was 1949, and about seven or eight years later I was doing fraud investigations. I retired in 1990."

"Sounds like a long, illustrious career," said Agent Bygone, and she meant it.

"I did good work," he agreed, "but nothing special or notable, nothing big. I miss it sometimes, cracking the case, you know."

"You said you weren't white, which I could kind of tell. I'm not quite white either, half Puerto Rican. What about you?"

"Oh, where do I start? Father was black and Cherokee, mother was Mexican and Irish and something else, so I guess that makes me a mutt like everyone else. Except in the old days, I wasn't the kind of mutt people wanted to associate with. Ain't so bad anymore, you know."

"No, not like it used to be."

She thought for a moment.

"What's your name, sir?"

"Nathanial Wildacre," he said, softly.

"Well, Mr. Wildacre, your abilities may help me quite a lot, if you're willing to share them. What do you know about the Monolithic Chemical Company?"

The man glanced toward her with a knowing grin and something in his eyes that could only be described as a gleam.