3~

Police cruisers cordoned off the cored-out hulk of the Mean Machine after fire teams practically flooded the street, making sure its fires and inky, choking smoke were eradicated.

Camera crews were kept back with the milling crowds that didn't panic and run to the four winds, but continued to get shots from every advantageous angle of the civil servants working around the dead man and ruined car. It may have been jaded, but death always made for great television.

Marcie peered over the shoulders of other people trying to get a clearer look at the forensic team from the police department carefully probe, swab, remove, tag, and bag every relevant piece of evidence they could find from the jetcar's innards, which was considerable, since the forward half of the car was in scattered, easy to collect parts all over the street. Only the engine section had survived relatively intact.

By the sidewalk, gathered into a tight little crowd of their own, were the remaining Racers, looking both pensive and dour.

Stomping around them, like a sheparding dog, keeping them in a passive group, Sheriff Stone barked.

"If you think you fender-freaks are going to put craters in my town, you are sorely mistaken!"

"But, Sheriff," Private Meekly spoke up, despite getting a thick, accusing finger pointed in his face for his troubles. "we don't know what's going on, either."

"No, you wouldn't," Bronson snapped. "You Hollywood types are all alike. You carry your emotional baggage around with you, and don't care who it destroys. One or more of you probably had it in for that guy out there. Well, I've got news for you. Until I get to the bottom of this, you are all considered suspects. You will not leave town, you will be interrogated, uh, I mean, questioned, and your stupid-looking cars will be staying in the nearest impound lot."

He walked away from the dismayed drivers, and was about to return to the crime scene, when he turned and gave the group a disdainful sneer.

"You may have noticed that I don't watch your stupid show," Bronson explained, then yelled out, "You don't have any cowboys in it!" He stormed off.

The forensic team leader waved the sheriff over when he saw him approach.

"What have we got?' Bronson asked.

"We'll be able to do a better job determining the cause of death when we get the evidence to our labs," the team leader explained. "but I'd say, due to the amount of debris in the street, and the fact that there is very little of the driver left, I'd say that this car...exploded."

"Good job. Keep me updated."

Bronson and the team leader were approaching the wreck of the Double Zero, when another, yet mercifully smaller blast roared from the top of the spherical engine section.

The crowds, cameramen, and forensic team stumbled back, gasping in sudden terror, and the two men were startled so badly, that they both fell to the ground, caught off-guard as to what to do, if the rest of the car detonated while they were so close to ground zero.

When they all collected their collective wits, and looked at the remains of the Mean Machine, they all, to a man, didn't know what to think anymore.

Clad in his now ethereally glowing, oversized cap, and customary dark blue racing duster, hovering clearly over what was left of his racer, was the very, very irate ghost of Dick Dastardly.

No wires. No projectors beaming from some hidden place on the block. No distortion or fade caused by the bright light of day. Everyone there had scanned with all the senses at their command, and could find nothing to suggest a hoax. Just the reactions of this phantom, turning his head angrily to every sound or movement that caught his attention.

The people held their noise down to hear what the ghost would say, if he could say anything, at all.

The ghost pointed to the group of Wacky Racers on the sidewalk, and from the specter came a voice, like a megaphone was strapped individually to every listener there.

"The Red Max has slain me!" the ghost howled in anguish. "The camera, and his car, will show his guilt! The Red Max destroyed meee!"

With that, Dick's ghost cried the wail of the damned, and, without preamble, buzzed and dove on, and around, the now panicked rubberneckers, film crew, and deputies in the area.

With what felt like a football player giving a blow from behind, Marcie was pushed away from Eleanor in the stampede, and in the confusing separation, fell on her backside amid stumbling, running, and crushing feet.

She could just barely hear Eleanor call out for her, as she gathered herself, and slowly stood with her legs spread in a wide stabilizing stance, and arms raised out to her sides in a defensive posture.

The crowds had thinned out quickly, and the street was almost deserted of patrons, most of whom either hid behind parked cars, took shelter in nearby buildings, or went home, all together.

Eleanor ran over to the still intact Marcie, and gave her a grateful hug.

"You okay, darlin'?"

Marcie gave a thankful sigh and looked around at the mess left behind in the chaotic wake. The ghost was gone, few had remained.

"I'm okay, Elle," the teen assured her friend.

"What in the name of pecan pie was going on there?" the woman asked, astonished. "Was that a real...ghost?"

"I don't what it was," Marcie told her, keeping her eyes on the German, worrying about what would happen to him in Bronson's tender, albeit incompetent mercies. "but I think things have gotten a little too wacky for their own good."

From his cowering spot on the ground, Bronson twisted around to look over at the Racers. All of them, he noticed, had surreptitiously given their professorial comrade a wide berth, so as to not be associated with him.

"Round up those wacky racers!" the sheriff roared.


The front half of police headquarters was full of deputies taking down statements from Wacky Racers, cameramen from the studio filming Wacky Racers, and Wacky Racers, themselves, wondering what in the world was going to happen to them, while they waited to be interrogated.

Litigation was nothing new to the series. Collateral damage and insurance claims were what came with the territory, both in front of, and behind the cameras. But an actual death in a production was expressively frowned upon. Not that Dick had never tried to win at the expense of another racer's life, but due to his self-destructive nature and bad tactical mind, he usually cause himself more harm that to anyone else.

But now, Dick was dead, possibly killed by someone who had never once retaliated against him in all the years that Dick had played very hardball against them.

Marcie, more out of curiosity that anything else, tried to blend in with the background, as she stood against a far wall, away from the circus this situation had made.

Sheriff Stone walked out his office with a clipboard, looking out at the crowd of worried drivers, mentally sizing them up, as though he were selecting a prime cut of beef.

"Okay," he instructed his nearest deputies, as he beckoned the first of the drivers with him into the interrogation room. "Let's get this cattle call on the way."


(The Gruesomes)

"Okay, you two," Bronson started, staring, flint-hard, across the desk at the two implausible monsters. "What did you have against Dick?"

The huge, Frankenstein's monster, named simply Big, regarded the sheriff through brown, mop-topped-covered eyes, and said in a voice sounding uncannily like Boris Karlof, "Why, nothing at all, officer. If anything, we admired him. He gave us monsters a reason to strive, and perfect our villainy."

"Yesss," hissed Little, his tiny, more tastefully dressed, vampire partner. "He wasss truly our type."

"By the way, Sssheriff," Little added, giving a fang-bearing smile, and locking hungry, golden eyes onto Bronson. "what isss your type?"

"Okay, next!" Stone yelled, sounding more than a little rattled.


(Penelope Pitstop)

Stone watched the young woman glide into the room and sit with her usual grace in the chair across from him.

"Alright, Ms. Pitstop. I'm going to ask you a few questions," Bronson told her, failing to keep the infatuation out of his voice. "Please answer them to the best of your knowledge."

Penelope demurred. "I'll try, Sheriff."

"Please, Bronson."

Penelope smiled shyly. "Alright, Bronson. Such a strong name, Bronson. Did your daddy name you that?"

"No," he said, proudly. "actually my mother did. Bronson's my middle name. My first name is...Sheriff."

His wife, Janet, appearing from the doorway behind him, gave him a warning glance.

"And his last name is mud," she finished for him.

"Poopie," squeaked Bronson.


(Luke and Blubber Bear)

Stone pointed to Luke, and growled. "Now, why would a hippy like you want to hurt this Dastardly guy?"

Luke, as per his custom, took the hard-nosed attitude in stride. He leaned back in the chair and said, calmly, "Hippy? I ain't no hippy, son, I'm a hillbilly, born 'n bred. An' I didn't hurt nobody, 'cept my dear old momma."

This was news to Stone. "What did you do?"

Luke gave a sad shrug. "I promised I'd get her some of that fancy chewin' tobacco I heard they got in Gatorsburg. But how often do I get a chance to go there? Probably never, that's all. It's so durn far away. I'm sorry, Momma, yor boy don let ya down."

Blubber Bear, standing in a corner of the room, broke down into tears, which made Bronson stare at the otherwise, dangerous beast, in bewilderment.

"Uh, Gatorsburg is three miles from here," the sheriff felt he had to point out.

Luke brightened. "Darnation! It is? Shoot! Nevermind, Momma!"


(Rufus Ruffcut and Sawtooth)

Stone settled in his chair and looked at his paperwork. "Okay, how long-Whoa!"

His wooden chair collapsed from underneath him. On the floor, the sheriff glared venomously at Sawtooth, who was nibbling on the remains of one of the chair legs.

"Zut alors, Sawtooth!" Rufus chastised the beaver. "How many times must I tell you not to fill up ze cheap American furniture, eh?"


(Blast and Meekly)

Stone, settling in a metal chair now, looked soberly at the two soldiers.

"Sergeant, Private, before I start, I want you to know how much I appreciate all you've done for this country. Now, first question. Which one of you is the sergeant?"

"Give me twenty, mister!" an insulted Sergeant Blast yelled in Stone's face.


(Slag Brothers w/ Dr. Spring)

Stone stood outside the interrogation room, watching the two cavemen open file cabinets, and throw papers around inside the interrogation room. It was like watching the antics in a zoo's primate house. He felt safer outside.

An elderly man in a suit and designer glasses walked over to the sheriff, offering his hand to shake.

"Good afternoon, Sheriff Stone. My name is Dr. Maynard Spring. I'm from Sundial."

"I don't need any soap, but thanks, anyway."

"Not soap, Sheriff," Marcie spoke up from her spot in the room. "It's the world's leading think tank on time travel."

"Correct, miss," the doctor addressed the girl, then turned back to the sheriff. "And I must inform you that as the liaison between HC Productions and Sundial, I will be present during your questioning of the Anachros."

Stone looked more befuddled than usual. "The what, now?"

"An Anachro," Spring explained. "is a person or object from the past or future accidentally stranded in our present. The Red Max, the Slag Brothers, and the Ant Hill Mob are all Anachros who were accidentally brought into the present during Sundial's experiments years ago."

Stone sighed. He was never science-savvy, and this smacked not only of science, but weird science. One more element of wackiness he would have to get used to while they were here.

He looked back into the now disheveled room, and the two hominids, making nests with the paperwork.

"Uh, are these two, at least, housebroken?" he asked the doctor.


(Peter Perfect)

"Okay, pal," Stone asked Peter after he sat down. "what your story?"

Peter looked at Bronson with a charming, practiced grin. "Well, if really must know. I am the son of Percival and Patricia Perfect of the Newport Perfects. My pater's pecuniary position is quite prodigious, as porcelain is our primary product. As the progeny of this portentous pair, I will one day procure my prerogative as president of the company. Until then, I shall pursue my pleasure, pitting my peerless, prestigious powers of piloting against piston-engined pupils, perhaps unto perpetuity. I hope my parlay pointed you in a positive path, policeman."

Stone stared at the man, stunned. "Uh, I think so?"

"Perfect," said Peter.


(The Ant Hill Mob w/ Dr. Spring)

The short-statured mob, as a whole, stood on the far end of the desk, eyeing the law enforcement officer with steady suspicion. Clyde stepped out of the protective grouping of his gang, and addressed Bronson.

"Hey, pal. Clyde Barrel. Got anyplace to eat around here?" the mobster asked in as civil a manner as he could convey, which was brusque.

"I'm asking the questions, jumbo," Stone answered back. Authority was challenged, by a hood, no less, and would not be tolerated.

He looked down at the clipboard. "Let's see here, last name, Barrel? Heh, is that because you're so small, a hundred of you could fit in one?"

Smiling easy, Clyde walked over the desktop to face Stone directly, his hard eyes glinting in the room's light with well-honed malice.

"Hey, dats funny!" he told him, jovially. "Y'know, da last funny guy who made jokes about my size, he fit inna barrel, too. 'Course me and da boys had to make some modifications for him ta do it. Wit a hacksaw. Funny, huh?"

As his criminal comrades chuckled menacingly, Stone fearfully hid his face behind his clipboard, and peered over it quietly.


(Prof. Pat Pending)

"I can already see the guilt in your eyes, Professor. If that really is your name," Stone said to the scientist.

"It isn't," Pat replied.

"I knew it!"

"It's my title," Pat told him patiently.

Stone gave the man a weary scowl. "Look, you. I've got enough to deal with from smarty-types, like her, there." He gestured to Marcie, who had slipped into the room earlier, and was now watching the proceedings beside a deputy acting as guard.

He checked his clipboard. "Now, uh, what do you call your car, a convertible?"

"Convert-a-Car," Marcie corrected him.

"Whatever."

Marcie, waving and blushing to Pat, reintroduced herself to him when he noticed her.

"Hi, sir. Biggest fan, here. Again."

"Hello, there, and thank you, again!" Pat said, giving her a pleasant smile for her troubles.

Troubles that Stone was prepared to bestow on them both.

"Okay, you two, that's enough," he groused loudly. "This is not some nerd tea party. This is a serious police investigation. Humph! Look at you, with your long gloves and your lab coat. You've got that Doctor Frankenstein vibe going on, big time, don'tcha? I don't trust you!"

"I DON'T TRUST HIM!" he shouted to the deputy in the room.

Pat looked at the man with the utmost pity, as though Stone was a failed biological experiment that nothing could have been done to save.

Reaching into his yellow, stylized lab coat, he retrieved a business card, and placed it on the desk in front of Bronson.

"Sheriff, I would like you to see this man," Pat said. "He's a doctor. He's very professional, and I think he can help you with your...issues."


(The Red Max w/ Dr. Spring)

This time, Stone simply paced slowly behind the Red Max's chair, while the German sat nervously.

"Okay, Red. Where were you, really, last night?" Stone asked. "That ghost gave us one sweet tip. We went through the hotel's security cameras in the parking lot. Someone that matches your appearance was recorded walking and crouching around Dastardly's car. C'mon. What's really going on, Red? You caught Dick getting into your wienerschnitzel stash, huh? Or maybe it was just payback for what happened in Nevada."

Red's nervousness was quickly stripped away by righteous, angry defensiveness. "Nein! What happened in Nevada was different. I acted only in self-defense by shooting his Drone down, and nothing more!"

Stone pressed the attack after seeing Red's reaction. "Face it! He tried to blow you up, so you decided to return the favor!"

Red lashed out in irate German.

Stone stepped back at the tirade, trusting neither the moment, or the pilot's speech, simply because he didn't understand it.

"HEY, SPEAK AMERICAN!" Bronson yelled back, more nervous, himself, than angry.

Red ignore him and continued in angry, machine-gun German.

Stone leaned out of the interrogation room, and asks anybody within earshot, outside, "Does anybody here speak German?"

Among the deputies and Racers milling about, Marcie raised her hand modestly.

"Ugh! What are you still doing here, Marjorie?"

"Marcie," she wearily corrected him. "I take German in high school. I could translate for everyone, to smooth things out."

"Fine! You do that." he conceded, as she returned to the room. "And if I don't like what I hear, he's gonna spend time in the pokey."

He glared at Red. "Got that? Lying to me is verboten."

"Dummkopf!" the pilot growled.

"Gesundheit," Stone answered back.

Red began to speak his mother tongue, again, but in a calmer, slower tone, for Marcie's benefit.

Marcie spoke up. "He says that if you will not respect him, he will not respect you by speaking English."

Stone smirked. "Ha! Shows what he knows, I've got you to translate, now." He addressed the pilot again. "Now, where were you last night?"

Red explained in German.

"He was with some of the Ant Hill Mob at a sports bar called Dugouts," Marcie interpreted. "The bar was showing highlights of past races on TV, and he and the Mob were telling tales to the patrons throughout the night."

"What time did they get home from the bar?"

"He says that he doesn't remember," she told him. "He lost track of time."

Stone answered for him. "The producer's assistant said that he dropped you and the short stacks off at the hotel at around eleven. The timestamp of the camera footage was twelve thirty-five."

Marcie translated. "He says that he was asleep by then."

Stone gave an annoyed sigh. "Well, the camera doesn't lie. Red Max, you are placed under arrest for the suspected killing of Dick Dastardly."

Red spat Teutonic curses at Stone, while the nearby deputy placed his wrists in handcuffs, and led him out of the room.

Stone looked at the German suspiciously. "What did he say?"

"Something I can't repeat in front of your kids," Marcie answered matter-of-factly. "Look, we all saw what happened to Dick Dastardly, Sheriff. But, why put the Red Max in jail with nothing more than circumstantial evidence, at best?"

Stone favored her a weary look of his own. "What are you, his lawyer? Look, when the ghost of the guy who just blew up, flies over, and points to another guy, saying "The Red Max destroyed me!", that's cause enough for an arrest, in my book. But, just so you don't think I'm a complete idiot,"

Too late, she thought with a smirk.

"I had this Red guy's car checked," he continued. "Sure enough, the lab boys discovered a radio detonator under the hood, with his fingerprints all over it."

"And you don't find this ghost telling you to check that one and only car, the least bit suspicious?" she asked. Stone leaned back in his chair and put his feet, noisily, on the desk.

"It's like I told the reporters," he told her. "the lab boys found chemical traces of an explosive, the remains of a radio receiver, and DNA matching what was left of that Dastardly guy in the car. Sound like an open-and-shut case to me."

Marcie gave up trying to convince the man to dig deeper into this case, so she tried a new tact. She sarcastically asked, "So, Sheriff, when you finish filling in your police report, will it have the word ghost in it?"

Stone bristled at that. The very notion that the sheriff of a large Californian town believed in the existence of the supernatural was just not manly.

"Let me ask you something, Molly."

"Marcie."

"If someone just came up and did all of your homework for you, would you complain about it? Or would you thank your lucky stars that somebody out there was thoughtful enough to make your job a whole lot easier for you, and asked for nothing in return?" he calmly asked.

Marcie raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Even if my homework turned out to be wrong?"

Stone dragged his feet, literally, this time, across the desk, and sat up, annoyed. "See that's the problem with you. You can't compare homework to police work. The two are completely different things!"

Marcie sighed, ignoring the man's facepalm-worthy lapse in memory, and stayed on topic. "Just don't close the case yet, Sheriff. I don't think camera footage alone is going to solve this."

"Thinking's got nothing to do with it," he said. "He's guilty."

"He might not be, Sheriff! He could very well be innocent," she argued. "And he'd probably tell you, himself, if you weren't being such a blowhard." Then she covered her big mouth, knowing that she was already too late.

The sheriff stood up, angrily, his full height and solidity of body, imposing.

"That's it, missy. You may be a fair-to-average babysitter, but you're not going to waltz in here, and tell me how to do my job. You wanna talk to him so much? I can arrange that."

"I'm pretty sure that's not lega-" Marcie quietly started to say, but was ignored.

Bronson looked down on her, like a king pronouncing sentence. "For being such a smarty-pants, you can be my guest in the cooler, with him, for a while, until I decide to either call your father, you learn to respect the authority of my station, or my wife yells at me to let you out because of wrongful arrest, WHICHEVER COMES FIRST!"


Above the otherwise beautiful skies over Crystal Cove, there was a patch of space where no birds flew. Unless one was a ornithologist and studied the flight patterns of such birds native to that area of the state, no one ever looked up and paid any attention.

Nevertheless, birds avoided it.

With the russet colors of sunset growing on the horizon, a small patch of sky, too far to be noticed, was sporting swirling, turbulent colors that actively clashed with the coming hues of dusk.

And only a lonely spy satellite in orbit took a passing interest in the fact that the patch sat stationary above the collective, geographical positions of the Rogers' and Blakes' mansions, and the Chiles' and Dinkleys' homes.


Marcie leaned against the bars of her holding cell, wondering how she was going to explain to her father that his only daughter was a jailbird, if, or when Bronson called him. She only hoped that this would first and last time she spent time in there.

"Vhat are you in for?" asked a thickly accented voice from the neighboring cell that she had no trouble recognizing.

"Impersonating a police officer," she quipped. That earned a welcome chuckle from the German pilot.

"I heard vhat you said in der room," he said. "Danke. Thank you."

Marcie smiled lopsidedly. "No problem," she said quietly. "The sheriff says that you put that detonator in your car."

Red sat in a slouch on his cot. "I promise you, I didn't."

Marcie slowed herself down. She was just bounced into jail for her belief in his innocence. Maybe it was based on her personal annoyance of the sheriff's blinding incompetence, but she jumped into the water with both feet, nonetheless.

And yet, it might not be for naught. She could use the time, and this access, to back up that belief, and maybe do what she could to help him.

Time to sink or swim, she told herself.

"Why don't you tell me what happened, say the last time you saw Dick," Marcie said, her mind ready to retain everything said. "Did he say anything, or do anything that seemed strange to you?"

"Vhy? Do you think you can figure out what happened?" he asked warily.

"I might."

"No," Red told her, soberly. "I don't vant you getting caught up in all of this."

Marcie shrugged off his caution. "Technically, I already am, since I'm in here. But, for the sake of conversation, just tell me what happened."

The German sighed at her stubbornness. "You're going to keep at it until I talk, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Alright," he sighed in defeat. What could it hurt? She couldn't possibly do anything about his mess, and it would pass the time well enough. "Der last time I talked to Dick was about a few veeks before ve came here."

"I vas in mein workshop, vorking elbow-deep in der Haybaler. Dick had come over, and I thought he vas going to give me grief about the Nevada race. I vas mistaken. He told me that there vas no hard feelings about it. That I acted in self-defense, as if I needed him to tell me that, and so forth. I thanked him for being understanding, but told him that I vas too busy to talk right then. He said all right, and he left."

"What were you working on?" asked Marcie.

"Standard installation of new equipment from Sundial. A signal booster for mein radio. Pretty routine."

"Do you work without gloves on?"

"When I'm working on der car."

"So, you weren't wearing them that day?"

"Nein, but I get so busy, that I sometimes lose track of what I put in mein car."

"That might have been what he or she wanted."

"Who? Der person who sought to discredit me?"

"Yep."

"But, vhy?"

"I haven't the foggiest. But, I'll ask around when I get out."

"One more thing," he added. "At the parade, after I talked to you, someone tried to contact me through mein radio. Vhen I tried to reply, that vas vhen der Mean Machine exploded."

"That could mean something," she mused.

Her attention was called away by the sound of heavy keys jangling outside the cells. A deputy walked into the holding area selecting the proper set to the cells. He came up to Marcie's.

"Okay, Fleach," the deputy said, opening the door, "You're free to go."

"So, the governor got my letter? I guess the sheriff had a change of heart," she surmised.

"Not really. You owe your early release to dinner."

Marcie looked quizzical. "Dinner?"

"Yep. Sheriff took off a little early today. Said the family's having pork chops, tonight, so, out you go."

Marcie stepped out and took a stretch. "Ah, parole, the other white meat."

"Take care, Marcie," Red said, watching her from his cot. "It vas nice talking to you."

Marcie turned to see him through the bars, and couldn't help seeing a poor, unwanted animal waiting for the euthanasia. It both depressed her, and strengthened her climbing resolve.

"We talk again, soon, sir. Count on it."


The block where City Hall stood was relatively quiet that sunset. It gave Marcie time and solitude to think while she walked along the sidewalk towards the spot of Dastardly's demise.

There was no true rhyme or reason for her returning to the crime scene, just a desire to see the spot again, hoping that it would stimulate some increased brain activity, and lead her to a answer.

But the street was still, with few people walking its length at this time of day. Apart from some telltale fragments of headlight and shattered windshield littering the curbs nearby, there was little to indicate that a car blew up in the streets. The police and forensic teams saw to that, even having the wreck towed to a lab facility, elsewhere.

Wishful thinking on my part, she thought, looking at the drought of clues before her. Nothing I would find that the forensic teams wouldn't have, already. Better go home.

She walked past City Hall, and when she reached the corner, Marcie saw a portly redheaded boy with huge glasses and bigger braces, coming in her direction from around the same corner.

"Hey, Marcie," the boy exclaimed, carrying what looked to be a metal detector across his sloped shoulder, like a hobo, its sensor high in the air behind him.

"Hi, Jason," Marcie waved half-heartedly. She was surprised to run into him, here, of all places, but she was focusing on the task of solving the problem that vexed her, with a frustrating tease.

"So, what brings you here?" Jason asked, meeting up with her on the corner. He tilted his head towards the detector. "I'm just bringing this old doodad home from my uncle's repair shop."

"I was following the Wacky Racers' procession route to figure things out," Marcie explained, just as simply.

"You heard what happened to the Double Zero?" Jason asked.

"Oh, yeah. I was right in the thick of it. Had a talk with the prime suspect, too. The Red Max."

Jason scrunched his nose in confusion. "The Red Max? Why would he try and do Dick Dastardly in?"

"Why, indeed?" she concurred. "You need any company?"

"Sure. The bus stop is just up the street."

They crossed the street, walking along the direction of the ill-fated route, the same direction the Mean Machine was attempting to go, before the end.

"Hopefully, sometime tomorrow, I will have passed my driver's test, and taking buses will be a thing of the past," said Marcie. Then, an electronic squeal startled her.

"What-Is that detector on, Jason?"

Jason stopped by one of the thin, decorative trees that were planted on the curb of the block, taking off the unwieldy device.

"Sorry, I guess I had it on the whole time," he said, just as the device began to make even more noise than before.

"Huh?" He waved the machine experimentally by the tree, and the noise increased somewhat. "What's up with this tree?"

Marcie could see nothing metallic hung on the tree's lean trunk, leaving only one possibility.

"Give me a boost up the tree," Marcie said to him.

"What? Do I have to?"

"I left my fork lift at home, otherwise I'd boost you." she reasoned.

"Okay," he said, putting the detector down and remaining bent over, grabbing the tree. Marcie carefully clambered on Jason's broad frame, then pulled herself up on one of the branches under the canopy.

Locking her thin legs around the trunk, she used one of her arms to reach blindly up into the canopy. After a few moments of probing, her hand bumped into something hard, but not wooden. Grabbing it, she carefully pulled out a badly twisted piece of electronics gear.

Letting it fall to the sidewalk, Marcie fished around the inside of the canopy again, this time, she was rewarded with another mangled component.

"Is that another one," huffed Jason. "Why is there junk in the tree?"

From her height, Marcie looked out onto the intersection, and could still see the discoloration from the bomb blast.

"Look where we are," she told him.

Craning his nonvisible neck towards the same intersection, he quickly understood.

"That's where the Mean Machine exploded," he said. "Are these parts from the car?"

"Looks like it," Marcie said from above, not believing her luck. "We better see if there are any more around."

After being let down, Marcie and Jason used the metal detector to sweep every foot of that side of the block, with methodical slowness. Once they were done, they crossed the street to the opposite block, and slowly swept that side, as well.

When all was said and done, the two teens had amassed enough pieces, that their commonality in appearance would suggest that they belonged to a larger whole. At least, a whole that could only be discerned by rough assembly.

"So what do we do with all of this?" Jason asked her, as he looked down at the pile of parts. "Take it to the police?"

"I don't think the police, or at least, its sheriff, would know what to do with this," Marcie said. "I think we should hold on to this stuff for a while. I heard in school that you're pretty good around electronics and machines."

Jason bowed his head in modesty. "Well, I don't want to brag..."

"Good," she said. "I'm going to get a bag and take these pieces home with me. I'll analyze them to see if they did, indeed, come from the Mean Machine."

"How?"

"I'll check them for traces of explosive on their surface. When I'm done, I'll bring them to you, so you can find out what they were, or what they were a part of."

"But, Marcie, why?" He whined. He certainly didn't remember volunteering for anything, and the last thing he wanted to do was get into something that would get him in trouble with his doting, overprotective mother.

"Because we have to solve this mystery," Marcie said simply, finally embracing her choice of action.

Jason couldn't believe what he was hearing from this weird girl. "What? We?"

And while they talked/argued, a figure, hidden in the shelter of City Hall's main entrance's archway, studied them quietly.