Don ducked down behind the Suburban. Another bullet whistled past his head, all but putting a part in his hair where it shouldn't be. "Call for back up!" he yelled to David.

"Already on their way. Them and the LAPD SWAT team."

"Think it'll be enough?"

David considered. There was lead coming out of every orifice in the house, more than should be in a quiet suburban home in one of the prettier sections of town. Not only was it illegal, it just wasn't nice! "How many shooters do you think they have?"

"I counted at least six, maybe more. I know I knocked off two."

"Me, too. That makes a minimum of ten, when we started. What do you think she's got in there, that she's so eager that we not find out?"

"Drugs, maybe? Meth lab?"

"Possibly." David ducked again in reflex when a long nosed barrel poked out an upstairs window in a crash of glass shards, seeking another spot to aim at the two FBI agents. "I sure hope that back-up gets here soon. You want to think about a strategic retreat?"

Don chanced looking around the corner of the Suburban. "Believe me, I'm considering it." Another bullet arrowed past. "There's only two of us, and too many of them. Think they know it's just you and me?"

"Nope. If they did, they'd be all over us."

"Yeah." Don took a deep breath, held it, and flashed around the Suburban again to fire off a couple. Not expecting to hit anything, just enough to remind the people on the inside that there were Federal agents on the outside. "Who the hell is Melinda Matouska and why is she and her friends giving us such a hot reception?"

"What say we wait for our friends to arrive and help us ask? Damn!" David finished as a bullet dug a hole in the concrete beside him. A shower of dust and shrapnel shattered into the air. David pulled his hand back to his side, shaking it. "Damn, that was close."

Don spared him a glance. "You're bleeding. You okay?"

"Yeah. Just a scratch."

"Don't go getting any more scratches," Don advised. "I can't afford to give anyone any time off, not with Megan on vacation. Wait your turn."

"Excellent. I'll ask those people inside to stop shooting until she comes back."

How the hell did this get so out of control? With Colby stuck on the computer, trying to track down the various techno-toys used to break into the art museum, Don had taken David along for a nice little quiet chat with one Ms. Melinda Matouska. It was only supposed to be a chat, nothing more. There hadn't been a clue. A quick computer scan had turned up nothing more than a parking violation six years ago. Even the house that Ms. Matouska lived in didn't warrant this sort of warfare. It was one of those tiny suburban households with a white picket fence along one side that did nothing to block anything or anyone in or out, the fence just there for decoration. There was a rose bush on the corner of the house, for cripes' sake! It was covered with yellow-orange flowers! People just didn't shoot around a rose bush in bloom!

Six windows in the front, and each of 'em held a man with a gun. Well, maybe one or two of the shooters were women, but Don was making his point: they were in trouble. "I hear sirens," he said, hoping it wasn't just the ringing in his ears. No, it really was a symphony of sirens, all headed in this direction.

The people inside heard the sirens, too. Don and David knew that, because the quantity of bullets being aimed at them took a sharp increase and the amount of shouting inside the house rose exponentially. Damn, I didn't think I remembered what 'exponentially' meant. See what kind of effect my brother has on me, even when he's not around?

"I think they're trying to get out the back door," he said, keeping his back against the Suburban for protection. "I think they're going to try to run."

"We can't question them if they run, Don."

"That was my thought, too."

"I suppose you want to try to stop them, right?"

"You're reading my mind, David."

"Our back-up won't get here in time. There's just two of us."

"You're reading the next chapter in my mind."

"I don't like the ending, Don. The climax is where one of us goes around to the back to convince the antagonists not to leave. If they decide to leave in a rush, they'll mow one of us down."

"If they escape, we may lose our only clue to the stolen Michelette," Don pointed out.

"Don, it's a really ugly painting."

"Yeah, but it's a really expensive ugly painting," Don replied. "You want the front or the back?"

"They're both bad."

"I'll flip you for it. Heads, I take the back. Tails, it's all yours." Don reached into his pocket, wincing as another bullet ended its life on the pavement not six inches from his shoes. "This is my lucky penny." He tossed the bronze colored coin into the air, watching it tumble its way down to arrive next to the now flattened and spent bullet. "Damn. Heads." He snatched up the penny, slipping it back into his pocket. "Not so lucky, I guess," he grumbled. "Cover me, on three."

Deep breath. Wait for David to jump up, handgun blazing for all its puny worth. Run like he was heading home, trying to beat the ball to home plate when the outfielder was throwing it in at ninety miles per hour and Don was pushing for fifteen mph.

Bullets following him, dodging, shoulder-rolling into that damn rose bush and coming up with thorns but safe against the side wall of the house. At least it smelled good, was Don's thought. Am I crazy, or what?

Half way there to the back yard. Don eased himself to the corner of the house, peering cautiously around the edge, pulling back after a quick glimpse of what was there. Good points: there was fence around the back yard, something that would delay Matouska and the rest until help arrived. Bad points: the fence wasn't that tall. One good leap, and a bunch of suspects would be fleeing into the adjoining back yard and off into the next street over and from there into the wilds of urban Los Angeles. Gotta keep 'em inside. Don risked another glimpse, looking for cover.

And found it. Any port in a storm, he thought. But anyone who laughs gets the next all night surveillance detail. Without a coffee budget!

Don ran to the cover he'd identified: a young girl's playhouse, all pink and frilly with plastic flowers. There was an open window to look through, walls to hide behind. There was even a dolly sitting in a miniature highchair, waiting for some little girl to come in and feed her and brush out the bugs hiding in her ratty blonde hair. It wasn't much to hide behind, but it would do. He fired off another round.

It worked. The body that came to the back door of the house drew back in a hurry, and the shouts from inside grew louder and angrier. The easy escape route wasn't looking quite so easy any more for the suspects inside.

Don took a moment to shove in another round of bullets into his gun. Damn, last clip. Better make it last. He squeezed off another single shot, took out the lantern-like light hanging by the door, making the glass shatter and scatter all around. Where's the back-up?

Shit, where is the back-up? That thought was tinged with terror as a crowd of large and armed people surged from the back door. Beat 'em back, Eppes, if you want to walk away from this shoot out!

He aimed carefully. Didn't want to shoot anybody, not unless he had to. Dead people were really tough to interrogate. And it was looking more and more like he had to.

Some kid, scarcely out of his teens, was the first to burst out from the back door, screaming and waving a handgun around like it was supposed to impress someone. Bullets were moving in almost every direction; none of which, fortunately, were Don's. Broad side of a barn, went through Don's mind. A single bullet parted the kid's dreds and sent him scurrying to the ground. Don decided on the spot to let someone else handle the kid. He'd probably wet his pants in fear.

Don spared a moment for a call for help. "David, I've got company back here, and they're bringing lovely parting gifts!"

"Got my own party in front, Don! Where's the damn back up we called for? They down-loading from MapQuest?"

Number two emerging from the house was scarier. His weapon of choice was an automatic something-or-other. Don didn't bother to try to identify it. It was big and it was throwing a lot of lead and Don needed it shut down now. He took careful aim, pretending that it was one of the bull-eyes sliding across the line at the firing range; moving target. Don't think about the flesh and blood holding onto the gun. Sight onto the weapon, fasten onto the dark metal in your sights.. Aim, squeeze gently. Feel your finger caress the trigger.

Scream from the man behind the target. Throw the weapon onto the ground. Shriek in pain, holding onto a damaged hand now dripping scary red stuff. Don didn't have time to admire his handiwork. A woman was barreling out, her own weapon solid in her fist. Where was that back-up? The sirens were loud enough.

Time to use up the clip. It was either that, or use up whatever was left of his nine lives. Don huddled down behind the pink fake petunia in the little plastic flower box hooked onto the edge of the 'windowsill' of the playhouse, hoping that the bullets wouldn't tear through the plastic like a hot knife through butter in a cheap detective novel. He popped up to put out three shots, trying to force them back into the house—

"FBI! Throw down your weapons!"

Damn, but that SWAT team looked good coming around the corner of the house.


"Exploring," Charlie insisted. "That's what we came up here for, isn't it? To investigate Larry's new home?"

"Inheritance, Charles, inheritance. I shudder to consider this as a 'home'."

"And it's dark, and the flashlight batteries won't last forever," Megan pointed out. "I vote we wait until morning."

"We're wasting time," was Charlie's reply. "We've only got a few days here before we have to get back to CalSci. Don't you want to find out what's here?"

"Frankly, no—"

"Charlie's right," Amita had to admit. "And I really do have a lecture to pull together before Monday. We should take advantage of the time that we have. We can get more flashlight batteries in the morning if we need to. The road should dry out by mid-morning. The rain is supposed to stop some time during the night." She stood up, taking Charlie's hand. "There were some really neat things upstairs when Megan and I checked out the bedrooms earlier."

"We should stay together," was Megan's thought.

"This is a 'haunted house'," Charlie teased. "Afraid?"

"Cautious. That was a face that I saw at the window, Charlie, even if you don't want to believe me. We should stay together," Megan repeated.

"We'll stay in voice contact. We won't be that far apart," Charlie said. "We can still shout. Amita and I will explore upstairs, and we'll leave the two of you down here." He grinned. "I'll make a concession. We'll all stay together when we hit the basement. A house this old, out here? I'll bet the bugs are as big as wolves. Then we'll definitely need your gun!" Grinning, he followed Amita up the stairs, avoiding the tread that threatened to collapse beneath his weight.

Larry looked at Megan. Megan looked at Larry, and shrugged. She patted her waistband, the handgun securely held by the fabric. "Let's go."

Larry sighed. "Would mademoiselle care to join me in the solarium?" he asked, offering his arm.

Megan slipped her hand through his, and laughed. If the sound was a trifle brittle, no one commented. "I thought you'd never ask."

The solarium had long since been overgrown with weeds, those weeds growing out of necessity from the planters still placed haphazardly around the large room. It was colder there than the rest of the fireplace-warmed house, with a corner of one window cracked and the limb of a spider plant creeping out toward daylight and freedom. A large cactus in the corner had died a slow death from dehydration—a remarkable feat, Larry noted, considering that cacti were noted for their ability to withstand long periods of drought. It seemed that Larry's late cousin had been determined to put that ability to the test. There were several intimate loveseats tucked indiscriminately around the exterior of the room but the flashlight discovered that some of the local field mice had realized the superior insulation qualities of the cushion stuffing and had re-located the material to places best known only to exterminators.

"A cat," Megan said. "This place needs a cat, to get rid of the mice."

"Perhaps two or three," Larry agreed, and sneezed at the mere thought of the allergy-provoking creatures. "I suspect reclaiming this area for human habitation will be a long term project. I've known whole galaxies to be discovered in less amount of time," he added darkly.

"This would be nice in the moonlight," Megan offered, trying to turn the mood around. "Probably pretty in the day time."

"Which this clearly is not, despite what our timepieces insist." Larry looked around, seeking something of value in this remote area of the house, something to suggest that demolition wasn't the only option. "As far as restoration, I suspect wholesale defoliage would be the optimal solution prior to any serious undertaking in this greenhouse."

Megan had to agree. "I wonder if there's a horticultural society in the area? I bet they'd be excited to show their orchids and such in a place like this once it was cleaned up a bit."

Crash!

A window shattered. Rain and sticks blew in. Megan jumped back—and closer into Larry's arms.

"Faugh!" Larry pulled back from the mess, but kept his arms around Megan. One of the benches prevented him from moving back any further, and he debated drawing her down to sit beside him. The sheer quantity of dirt and disrepair dissuaded him. "What a time for this to occur! And winter will be coming on within a matter of weeks!"

"Larry, look out there!" Megan suddenly yelled.

This time Larry saw it, too.

Glowing yellow, malevolent eyes. A large, gorilla-shaped body looming in the trees, black against the forest. Large teeth that somehow managed to be seen distinctly in the dim light of the storm-drenched afternoon.

And it was altogether terrifying.


Holding hands, for Professors Eppes and Ramajuan, was not an action that they commonly performed, given their respective positions. While it was quite appropriate for undergraduates to indulge in such displays of affection at any and/or all times—before, during, and after class—Distinguished Scholars were clearly above such Mundane Acts.

Not only that, Charlie wasn't quite sure of how Amita would take it.

On the other hand—pun not intended—this wasn't CalSci and they weren't here as professors and nobody was around to tell on them and Charlie could always say it was because some of the treads on the staircase were a little rickety and he wanted to prevent Amita from a misstep that would plunge her and maybe him to the basement and dammit he would really like to feel her hand tucked into his. Deep breath after a run on sentence without any commas.

Yeah, that would work.

Next problem: how to do it? Underhand or overhand approach? There didn't seem to be any appropriate theories on which method, statistically, was the best option. Charlie was more than ready to admit—privately, to himself, and not to anyone else—that his experience in this arena was somewhat limited. Witness the fact that your dates all seem to end up discussing how Low Flow Theory applies to the latest FBI case, Eppes. You gotta get a life. That's what Dad is always saying. That, and then griping about the lack of grandkids.

Try for smooth. "Watch that step," Charlie said, picking any one of the steps with multiple cracks at random, and—big moment, here!—holding out his hand. Let Amita decide how to hold on. Offer her the choice. Dodge the problem entirely.

Amita came through. Clearly her post-graduate education had included the topic of How To Make the Geek Math Professor Feel Good. She took his hand. Yes! Charlie had the distinct impression that she didn't really need to, but that 'need' wasn't the operative word. 'Want' did just fine. And Charlie really wanted to hold Amita's hand. He grinned.

"This is a really cool place," she commented, looking around, not taking her fingers from his grasp once the—ahem!—dangerous staircase had been successfully negotiated. "I still can't believe that Larry just 'inherited' it. Things like that only happen in movies." She used her free hand to rub a finger along the edge of a large portrait. The fat old man with the Elizabethan collar leered down at her through the dust and cobwebs, his orange clothing making him seem like a pumpkin hoisted out of the patch just in time for Halloween. The gilt on the frame shone out once the covering dirt had been removed, glinting in the light of the flash. "All right, I have to admit," she said. "This may be an ancestor of Larry's, but this is a truly ugly painting."

Charlie had to agree. "Looks nothing like Larry," he said. He gestured to the next portrait down the hall. "This one, on the other hand, has a more similar look." He smirked. "Ever see those 'Ghost-Buster' movies? This painting looks like one of the demons." He put the flashlight to his chin, to make the shadows appear on his face. "The guy in the painting could be 'Fleinhardt the Evil One', luring us to his lair for unspeakable purposes."

"The only time Larry's purpose is unspeakable is when he hasn't thought of it yet," Amita returned, unimpressed by Charlie's theatrics. "Larry can say something about anything and in a way that makes you wonder if he said anything at all." She looked up and down the hall on the second floor. Not only were there paintings, but here and there a sculpture sat propped on a table in a corner or a niche. "His cousin must have had a thing for paintings and art. I wonder if any of this is worth anything. There's a lot of it."

"Hm. Maybe." Charlie paused to examine the small white porcelain figure in front of him, his attention caught. It too was dusty, but the dirt easily blew off to leave a glistening sheen behind. The girl in a flowing Grecian garb seemed to almost dance with stone-encased life, her eyes twinkling though there was no color beyond white to mar the tiny perfection of the figure. "I'm no expert, but this really looks well done. A local artist, maybe?"

"Maybe." Amita leaned over to inspect it. She picked it up, looking at the bottom for any identifying marks. "There's something here. Bring the flash closer." They both peered at it. Charlie could smell the faint scent of something floral in her hair, something nice that he associated with Amita. He inhaled, trying to keep his attention on the statue that she held and failing utterly.

Amita almost had her nose to the piece. "There's something here, but I can't make it out in the dark. Maybe tomorrow we can look again. Or persuade Larry to take it back to L.A. for a serious appraisal. This looks really nice, as in really expensive." She glanced back up at the line of art before them. "A lot of these things look fine. Larry may have stumbled into something a lot more interesting than we thought."

"Um." Charlie thought that Amita was a lot more interesting than any old painting of a dead guy. Or a statue of a dead dancer.

"There was another piece in here, one that looked nicer," Amita said. She led Charlie into one of the bedrooms, and lit one of the fat candles that seemed to dot the entire house, tucking the matchbook back into her pocket and holding up the candle. The flickering light added a warm glow to Charlie's flashlight beam. "Megan and I found it when we were tidying up a couple of rooms to sleep in tonight." She pushed open the door to the bedroom, showing Charlie a large canopied bed. Most of the cobwebs had been swept away, leaving only a few unreachable ones in the upper corners of the tall ceiling. Some of the remaining spiders seemed to smirk at Amita: see? You missed us.

Amita had unrolled the blankets from a chest in the corner, shaking them out earlier and tossing them onto the bed. She set the candle down onto the stand beside the bed. "Thank goodness that the mice didn't get to these linens," she mentioned. "They attacked the things downstairs in the Great Room, but they seemed to leave the upstairs alone. It's only been two years since Larry's cousin passed away, and I shudder to think how much damage would have been done if he hadn't come up now. As it is, this place really stinks." She handed him a candle. "Here, light some more of these. It will drive away the odor, so we can sleep without waking up thinking that we've landed in a garbage dump."

"This is looking almost cozy," Charlie told her, lighting another couple of the fat white candles that he found. Larry's cousin must have had the same idea; if it smelled, light a candle to mask the smell. She certainly had enough of them. To his surprise, Charlie found himself almost liking the scent. It smells a bit like Amita's hair, he realized, deciding that that was why he liked it.

Crash!

Scream!

"That was Megan!" Amita spun around.

"Maybe Larry."

"Maybe Larry," Amita admitted, her eyes big with fear.

"Stay here," Charlie told her. "I'll go and investigate." He handed her the flashlight, picking up a smaller candle and lighting it from the first for his own source of photons. "I'll be right back."

"I'm going with you," she told him.

"Something probably just dropped. I'm sure they're okay," Charlie said, trying to put reassurance into his voice. "With all these candles lit, you should stay here to make sure that nothing falls over and sets Larry's new mansion on fire. Besides, Megan's got her gun. Nothing is going to try anything serious with her."

"But did she pack silver bullets?" Amita was only half-joking.

"Silver bullets? Like for were-wolves? Superstition, Amita."

"Right. I'm coming with you, Charlie. Something bad might have happened to them." New decision, based on irrational fear of creatures that go bump-in-the-night. It had nothing to do with Larry and Megan. If I stay here alone, something bad might happen to me!

"It's probably nothing," Charlie tried to convince her. "Maybe something fell over, something that they weren't expecting. You can't leave a lit candle up here," he pointed out. "I'll be right back. Or I'll call if there's anything serious," he told her. "Really. Stay right here. It's safe here."

"Right." The half-smile Amita produced was more unhappy than effective. "I'll see if I can't clear away a few more of the cobwebs."

"Really liking that idea," Charlie grinned. "The thought of waking up with a spider dangling over my head…"

Amita shuddered. "Hand me that broom. The one with the long handle."


"You," and Don was too irate and upset and adrenalin-ized to sit on the metal chair in the interrogation chamber, "are in a hell of a lot of trouble."

Melinda Matouska was sitting on a metal chair, mostly because the female guard, who was now standing grimly just outside in the hall, had slammed her there with a stern admonition not to get up unless told to do so. Don found himself automatically taking notes on the suspect: mid-twenties, redhead out of a bottle because the color didn't match either her eyebrows or her skin tone with a streak of green dye painted along one strip of hair over her ear. There was only one dangling safety pin through the hole in her ear; the other had presumably been lost in the scuffle of applying handcuffs while listening to her scream filthy names at them. Smaller silver studs dotted the four other holes in her ears, and the ring through her nose boasted a cheap black upside down cross. Don chose not to bother looking for the stud through her tongue. Gotta leave something for the prison guards to go after. Unless they want to let the local Big Bertha of San Quentin rip it out of her tongue. Ouch!

The rest of Melinda's get-up was artfully classic: leather jacket now covered with backyard dirt, torn jeans, tee shirt with the words 'Bite Me' across her chest. Another thing that I'm not gonna touch with a ten foot pole. Heavy black army boots that didn't fit particularly well. Black mascara, pretending to be Goth. Remnants of red lipstick that mostly disappeared after eating a left-over slice of pizza that came from the thrown away boxes in the trash at the scene of the shoot out. Real pillar of society type, here.

Melinda looked at him, striving for boredom. It didn't quite come off. "So put me in jail and throw away the key," she sneered.

"Oh, I'm going to do that," Don assured her. "Question is, who else is the jail cell going to hold? Somebody your own size, maybe a little smaller, little bit weaker? Or somebody who gets off on a little S&M? Somebody, say, with like about two hundred pounds of muscle that she works on during exercise period in the gym at San Quentin? You're not much to look at, doll, and you're as skinny as a stick, but some of the mommas there like that sort of thing. Like to hear 'em squeal," he added, watching for a reaction.

It was there. Covered, but a flicker of fear came and went. Little Ms. Melinda wasn't as tough as she looked.

"I chew up bitches like that and spit 'em out." Melinda spit on the floor for emphasis.

Definitely not as tough. A real street bitch would have looked mildly interested at the possibility of a little under the cover fun and enjoyed the pain that came along with it. Melinda's defiance suggested that underneath the black mascara lay a kid ready to crack. Don moved in for the kill.

"Of course," he mused, turning away just enough so that he could still see her face but not appear as though he was looking, "a little cooperation would go a long way. Not too far," he cautioned. "Judges aren't likely to be all that lenient with chicks shooting at Federal agents. Gives the wrong impression," he added slowly, as if thinking it over. "But, on the other hand, the warden over there is a friend of mine." The warden is a friend of every local cop and federal agent. "He might be inclined to listen to me. If I had a reason to have a conversation with him."

He had just handed her a way out. But she had to make it look good. "Didn't think you had any friends."

"Just goes to show you how wrong you are." Don plunged in. "What were you and the Scooby Doo gang doing in there? Meth?"

"You gonna get me probation?"

Don snorted. "Your record? Shooting at me? Girly, count your blessings that I'm willing to talk to the warden." He leaned over the table for looming purposes. "You don't talk to me, I talk to the judge. And he isn't gonna like what I have to say. Hear me?" He dragged the chair around and dropped onto it. "Talk. What were you doing in that house?"

Melinda looked away, sullen. "Meth. Cooking it."

"You?"

"I flunked chemistry in high school," she sneered, as if that disqualified her on the grounds of stupidity. "Morrie and Jake, they're the cookers. The rest were just street bums that I hired to keep Morrie and Jake working."

"Who do you sell to?"

"Bosco."

That didn't please Don. Bosco had been put down supposedly for five to ten. Guess my friend the warden forgot to tell me that Donnie Bosco got out on parole for good behavior. Or, to be honest, the memo could have crossed my desk and been buried under an avalanche of Charlie-math. "He's back in business? Didn't think he was stupid enough to go back to his old ways."

"Stupid enough to make me enough money to hire a fancy lawyer to get me off."

Oops. Little Melinda was trying to grow a spine. Back-breaking time. "Nothing's gonna get you off, doll. You bought some heavy-duty electronics. What did you need it for?"

"Morrie and Jake used it for the cookers."

"Try again, Melinda. You don't use wireless bugs to cook meth. Why did you buy the Chromantic and the Wrachet 2000?"

Melinda blinked, and Don knew without a shadow of a doubt that Melinda was not the end user of the electronic toys. Someone with real tech-lust would always remember those names. Her face stayed carefully blank, with just a touch of defiance. This defiance, however, seemed less directed at Don and more at whoever had persuaded her to buy the toys and get her into this mess. " Bosco."

It had the ring of truth. "Why did he want them?"

"How should I know? He paid me to buy 'em."

"Make a guess."

"Sorry. All out of guesses."

"Guess I'm all out of kind words for the warden, too," Don reminded her.

She flushed. Wow! She's still capable of a blush? Gives me faith that miracles can happen. But she gave it up. "He's got this chick that he's bouncing, thinks she's doing some other guys on the side. He wanted to check on her. See what she's doing when he's not around."

Unfortunately, from what Don remembered of Bosco, that made sense. Bosco had gone down because his previous girlfriend had rolled on him, and she had rolled because he drove her crazy with his baseless accusations of infidelity. The moments came back to Don's memory: the previous girlfriend, terrified that Bosco would kill her, walking into FBI headquarters demanding protection and witness relocation in return for testimony. Win-win deal, with Bosco behind bars, the girl now living in South Dakota, and another commendation on Don's record books. But, right now, Don would have liked to have been able to tie Bosco to the theft of the museum painting.

He finished up the interview, trying for the tough guy act, but his heart wasn't really in it. Sure, it was good to shut down another meth lab and the kids over in the D.A.'s office would be pleased as punch with the unexpected gift as well as the opportunity to demonstrate yet again to the judge and society at large what a wonderful and upstanding citizen Bosco wasn't. But Don's current job was to find that damn ugly painting and return it to the museum. And this little slice of life hadn't helped.

David greeted him with an understanding sigh as he trudged back to his office. He lifted his shoulders. "One more lead left, Don: that Duckett woman, the one who lives up on the mountain."

Don plopped down into his chair. "Let's check it out."