The darkened meeting room's subtle, high-tech interior was incongruous with the rest of Douglas Whitechapel's preserved and reserved English estate.
The nine places on the wide, oval table each had a small monitor, keypad and USB hub built in, so that the guests seated therein could control and input images or data onto the large flat screen monitor that hung on a far wall, flanked with rare tapestries.
So far, only eight bodies were seated, some of the most influential movers and shakers in Europe and the United Kingdom. They were also some of the most influential neo-pagans and neo-druids in Europe and the United Kingdom.
Mr. Whitechapel sat in his seat at the head of the table, watching the seconds until the meeting started tick down, until...
"It seems our ninth member felt he had something more important to do that grace us with his presence," said Whitechapel, smoothly, sipping hot Chamomile tea. "Very well. This meeting will now commence."
The oak double doors parted and a tall man strode into the room, his visage and hair mirroring that of an owl.
"The meeting already started, Greenman," Whitechapel informed the man, who took his seat anyway.
"I shant stay long, Whitey," Greenman informed him, not caring to be casually insouciant to the host. "I have to return to the States in a bit. I just swung by to give you a proposal. One I think all at present will want to hear."
Whitechapel sat back, ignoring Greenman's flippancy, and considered for a moment, then sighed, giving his permission.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the dream will soon become true," Greenman said with cryptic pride.
"What are you talking about, Greenman?" one woman asked across from him.
"The dream that shaped this meeting," he answered. "The dream that forged this secret group, that it may not be secret much longer."
"The Druid World Order?" gasped a man further from Greenman. "It's actually going to happen?"
"Yes," Greenman answered again, sounding solemn. "A return to the perfect, earthly paradigm of the Old Ways. A true, harmonious balance of god, nature, and man. And all by my hand."
Whitechapel stiffened a little at that admission. "By your hand, you say? Then how will you go about this renaissance, future champion of the Old Ways?"
Greenman ignored the man's jibe and addressed the members again. "I have already invested considerable sums from my own personal fortune to see this through, that's how confident I am in this endeavor. All I ask is that is that when the time comes for your support, you will offer it to me willing, gladly, as I would do if the situation was reversed, so that we can change the world."
The eight murmured in deep thought, either alone or amongst themselves, trying to digest this sudden news. He didn't ask for anything at the moment, which was comforting to the more penurious among them, but if what he was saying was true, if it was possible to bring this holy return of Druidism...
"What kind of support will you want from us?" another woman asked carefully.
Greenman gave her a satisfied, yet placating grin. "For now, just your emotional support to see me through this first hurdle. Later, I may* need your financial support, of which I will pay back in full, with the completion of my task."
Again, Greenman heard grumbles and private conversations once more. This time, something more concrete came of it.
A small number of members slowly, grudgingly gave their support, and the larger group, seemingly led by Whitechapel, quietly, yet politely, refused. Greenman expected as much.
Satisfied with his group's solidarity, Whitechapel leaned forward in his seat and looked at Greenman with the attitude of a annoyed teacher tolerating the tedious antics of some wayward student.
"Since all decisions in the group are made by vote, and the apparent nays outnumber the yeas by measurable degree, all you have managed to do, Greenman, is waste this body's time," he said, flatly.
Greenman calmly reached into the handkerchief pocket of his silk suit and pulled out a flash drive.
"No, Whitey," he said. "All I've managed to do is not fully convince you."
He slid the drive into the USB hub in his station on the table and pressed a button next to it, the light from his table monitor giving his under lit face a sinister glow. The wide screen monitor on the far wall flickered as he got up and walked over to it.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Greenman said with proud certainty. "I give you the key that will open the gates of our pagan Promised Land."
On the screen, for every believer and doubter to see, was the interior of a warehouse. In the center of the shot, zoomed in for clarity, was the wrecked Hour Tower of the erstwhile T.H.R.O.B.A.C.
The heavy-set, balding man walked through his dark lobby, clad in all his tacky glory, in a plaid suit that proudly displayed peach and pink patterns in garish combinations, with a touch of blue necktie, for bad measure.
Sam "Glad-hand" Mackey gave a weary wave to the security guard that stood by the main entrance and waited for him to pass so he could lock the doors and arm the security system.
The cool air of the night hit him. It was invigorating after hours of phone calls, meetings and paperwork.
He gave the handle on his briefcase a reassuring grip and smiled to himself. This kind of work was part and parcel for someone who was the owner of the largest car dealership in Crystal Cove.
An even more pleasant thought eased his mind as he walked past the other cars in the employees' parking lot. The thought that his competition, Steve Powers, was probably going home right about now, as well, musing and, no doubt, fuming about his position as number two in town.
He gave a proud glance over towards the used car lot in the distance. Every car sold was a badge of honor to his prowess as a consummate salesman.
He thought of the groundwork and financing he laid down during his years working in the sales department of the very dealership he now owned, planning and honing his craft, gathering all the capital he needed through years of sweat and gift of gab, until, finally, he had successfully bought the dealership from the older businessman who manned it.
It was his earthly triumph, his legacy to pass on, in time, and it was the seat of his automotive kingdom. So long as he breathed, it would not fall.
Beelining through the few employees' car that were left in the lot, Mackey was so engrossed with his own musings that he barely paid attention to the low-frequency thrum that seemed to come from everywhere, growing in volume.
Mackey turned his head to where he surmised the sound was coming from, once he noticed the noise, and saw something that stunned him to the core, coming out of the night sky.
A UFO.
It was a large, flat, disk-shaped craft, rimmed with iridescent lights of various shapes and widths along the bottom of the ship. And, to the man's deep concern, was heading in his general direction with slow purpose.
Mackey's brain debated with itself at lightning speed. There was only himself and the security guard here, the only witnesses to this strange happening. Were they hostile? He was logically unsure how to proceed, and was prepared to return to the relative safety of the offices to call the police, when something happened that set him on his chosen path.
The starcraft stopped over the used cars and hovered there for several moments. Then a single beam of intense light spot lit a car that was directly underneath. Mackey didn't need to think twice about what was becoming apparent. One of his cars was about to be stolen.
The security guard who had waved to Mackey earlier, unlocked the doors and stepped outside in response to the activity and sounds, just in time to see his Mackey drop his briefcase to the ground and run towards the theft that was occurring.
"Mr. Mackey!" the guard yelled. "Where are you going?"
Mackey, hearing the guard, yelled back to him what he supposed would be his last words on Earth, "To save my babies!"
The businessman had to stop just short of the bottom of the spaceship. Due to the lighting of the craft, he had to shield his eyes with his hands, while a downward, miniature storm blew under the ship, rocking the targeted car and forcing Mackey back a few paces.
Moving his hands away from his face, Mackey could make out movement through the glowing haze of the unbearable lights, and then saw a figure walk, unaffected, to him and stop just shy of the lightbeam obscuring the car.
Hearing the guard run up to him, Mackey felt confident to ask over the din of the hovering ship, "Who are you? What are you doing to my cars?"
The figure, greenish-gray in pallor and bulbous of head, stared at the Humans with cool patience through black, wide eyes. In its hand, it held a gun-like object to its side. Mackey and the guard had noticed it, and hoped it wasn't a weapon.
From all around the immediate area, a voice of halting speech called forth in response to Mackey's queries.
"We are the Voxellan. We require your vehicles to repair our great warship. Although we are not at war with your species, do not interfere and you will not be harmed."
Even though the aliens had made their intentions known in perfect English, Mackey hadn't a clue what was going on. All he understood was that his precious cars were about to abducted. To Mackey, that simply would not do.
"Get away from my inventory, you bowling pin-headed freakshow!" he yelled at the figure standing between him and his property. "I just got 'em fresh from the factory last month!"
Mackey girded his loins and was prepared to step forward to challenge the thieves, then he noticed that the guard was keeping his distance, fearfully.
"C'mon!" Mackey yelled to him. "Help me beat these whatchamawhosits back!"
"Sorry, Mr. Mackey! My company doesn't pay me that well!"
"Fine," Mackey growled. "Remind me tomorrow to get you replaced with someone with a spine."
"First thing, sir!" the guard gladly assured him as he watched Mackey march up to the alien, fists balled.
"And as for you, if you're not here to buy a car, then you better leave 'em alone," the businessman warned, mentally preparing himself for, perhaps, history's first interspecies fistfight, "or I'm going to drop-kick you back to Jupiter, you gray-skinned-"
The alien raised the gun shaped device before Mackey took another step, squeezed the trigger, and both Mackey and the reluctant guard's world exploded in a blast of unbearably, painfully, bright light.
Between the ponderously heavy hum of the spacecraft above them, and being struck blind, the two men cried out, and rolled on the asphalt in pain and sensory confusion for what felt like hours.
The guard eventually was the first to recover, starting with hearing. He gradually heard only the sounds of light, nighttime traffic, and the soft distant melody of cricket chirps.
He opened his eyes, and, remembering the last thing he saw, was grateful he could see the dark undercarriage of the nearby car he crawled in agony beside.
The guard rose unsteadily, leaning against the car for support, and upon standing fully, looked around. He then heard Mr. Mackey gather his wits and slowly stand a few feet from him.
"Mr. Mackey," the guard said quietly, in the hopes of cushioning the shock of what was to come.
Mackey turned his clearing head, surveying his used car lot for damage. He saw something far worse in his eyes.
A chunk of his inventory was taken from his parked formation of used cars, about ten, from his panicked, horrified count. He didn't know whether to spit curses or cry. So he simply screamed, instead.
"My babies!"
The pervasive, work-a-day attitude of the various and myriad employees was successfully transmuted to uncertainty and outright panic that Saturday afternoon, when the Clue Cruiser tore up and down the formerly bustling streets of Crystal Cove's CC Studios.
"Where do they keep getting those Tesla coils from?" Marcie asked herself, exasperated, through gritted teeth as she wrenched the steering wheel of her car to the side, avoiding an arc of portable, man-made lightning from the left gauntlet of the futuristic-looking bounty hunter who kept his aerial distance from her via jet pack.
"Where else?" Jason spoke up from the back seat. "SmartyMart."
Next to the rotund boy sat distraught studio owner, Albrect J. Schwartz, who gritted his teeth every time a wayward bolt struck a stage door, a prop man, or worse, a union worker.
"I don't care where he's getting his gear!" he yelled. "Just stop him from wrecking my studio!"
"Hang on!" Marcie said.
She dodged another bolt as the bounty man made a sharp bank around the corner of a studio building, hoping to lose her in the chaos of the last minute attack.
The bounty man, in question, was Hunter X, the hero of the now defunct sci-fi TV show of the same name. Cornered by Marcie and her friends after deducing his plan to destroy CC Studios, where it was produced, and so, take it out on Schwartz for the show's cancellation, the fictional bounty hunter literally took off on a swath of destruction.
Sitting beside Marcie, Daisy Blake was thankful for wearing her seat belt while she hung onto the front passenger seat's cushion and passenger side door handle in order to keep from getting thrown this way and that in the chase through the studio's backlots.
"Guess he wants go out in a blaze of glory, huh?" she asked Marcie.
"Looks that way," said Marcie, her eyes fixed on both the quickly emptying streets and the fleeing culprit. "Let's hope Professor Pending's jammer works at this range."
Marcie took a second to look at her car's small dashboard and the even smaller bank of switches and colored buttons that was installed close to the radio.
Her hand flashed over to press hard at one of the buttons, then her attention jumped back to Hunter X.
From the driver's side fender, a tiny hatch, that was closed flush against the top of the fender, popped open, and a miniature radar dish rose, rotated, and fixed itself on Hunter X's position up ahead.
Hunter X turned his armored head to favor his pursuers for a moment.
"You wasting your time, scrags! I'm Hunter X, and you're dogmeat!" he crowed, finishing with his catchphrase. Then his attitude changed, and not for the better.
The bounty hunter shuddered and fluttered in mid-air, and, knowing how high up he was, gave an uncharacteristically panicky scream.
Components built into his armor began trailing wisps of smoke, and what started as descent, became a full-blown plummet, as the jammer worked to scramble the signals sent from the control pad on the high-tech armor's right-hand bracer to the ignition and steering systems of the now sputtering and failing jet pack.
His momentum, direction, and remaining speed, however, was unabated, as he fell into a bouncing, rolling crash into the side of an unlucky catering cart.
The Clue Cruiser stopped just short of the food-covered criminal and the wreckage of the food cart. A potato salad-smeared arm unsteadily shot up to deliver another devastating blast of electricity from close range, but the signal to activate the gauntlet's Tesla coil died in its transmitter, due to the jammer still blanketing the Hunter X with potent waves of car battery-powered RF interference.
Two security carts caught up with the Cruiser, zooming out from side streets in the backlot. They quickly flanked the neutralized Hunter X and the upturned cart, and two guards from each cart disembarked and subdue him.
Marcie, Daisy, Jason and Albrect stepped out of the convertible and walked over to the television character.
Boldly taking hold of Hunter X's helm, Daisy pulled it free from the rest of him. An irate, big-nosed, squinty-eyed man in tousled brown hair glared at the assembly.
"You're not Robert Endicott, the actor," Albrect J. Schwartz exclaimed in disbelief.
"Who is he?" asked Daisy. Jason perked up in recognition.
"He's Harvard Dole, creator and head writer of Hunter X," he explained to her.
"That's right," Harvard said with a sneer. "I came up with the idea of the show. Hunter X was my creation. It should have never been cancelled, and it wouldn't have been cancelled, if it weren't for that no-talent hack Endicott making a mockery of my character."
"So you were disgruntled and wanted to ruin Robert's reputation and Albrect's studio," Marcie surmised.
"Yes," the writer admitted. "They both needed to pay. Robert would have been framed for Albrect's studio going up, and I would've gotten away with it, as well, if it weren't for you meddlesome walk-ons."
Albrect straightened his red, coke-bottle glasses, pointed to Dole, and said to his guards, "Take him to the station. I'll call the sheriff to have him picked up."
He then turned to the detectives as Dole was driven away. "I have to say, I had no idea that you kids could solve this mystery," he said. "Thank you for saving my studio."
Marcie slid back into her car and started the engine while the other teens stepped in again.
"Not a problem, Mr. Schwartz," she told him. "I'm glad we could help. You have a nice day."
As she pulled away from the returning crowds, curious to see the end of Hunter X's rampage, Marcie asked her friends, "Thanks for helping me with this case, guys. Where would you like me to drop you off?"
"Well, I gotta go home," Jason said. "I want to go online to see if my Hunter X merchandise has gone up in value, now that the creator of the show is going to jail."
"Daisy?" Marcie asked the woman next to her.
"I don't know. I figured we could hang out, unless you're heading home, too."
"Nope," Marcie said with something of a weary sigh. "Someone needs me to solve another mystery. It looks like I'm starting to get a bit of a reputation in this town."
"Don't sweat it, Marcie," Daisy consoled her, cheerfully. "It's the price you pay for being good at what you're do."
"I guess so," Marcie said, brightening with a lopsided smile. She merged with the weekend traffic, and absently thought about Velma, wondering about what kind of sleuthing machine the memory of her friend was slowly making her.