Moss put on his reading glasses and perused the blog. It was all about the First Lady’s gala and his wife’s attending the event with the Director of the FBI. Noticeably absent was the beautiful model’s husband, Lincoln Moss. I also want to report that the lady’s husband, who has had 24/7 access to the White House from day one, has not been seen in over a week at the famous address. Which raises speculation that the rumors of a mass resignation of President Knight’s advisers are all true, as first reported here on the Sludge Blog. Calls to Moss’s home were not returned before press time.

Moss clenched his fists as he read the report several more times until he had it committed to memory. No sense getting upset, he knew this was coming. Now it was payback time. Moss pressed keys, clicked an arrow here, and pressed more keys until he was satisfied he was on a secure server in Bucharest that could never be traced to him. Then he started to type, copying all the pages from his black book. It took him an hour before he was done. Only one entry remained, the one about Gabriel Knight. He stared down at the printed words with narrowed eyes. Spare his best friend? Well, that really wasn’t an option anymore since Gabe was no longer his best friend. He started to type.

When he was finished, he looked at the long narrative. His finger hovered over the SEND key. Instead, he moved his fingers, selected the final entry, and hit the DELETE button. “You’re off the hook, Gabe,” he murmured to himself as he hit the SEND key, turned off the computer, and took it apart. Carrying the computer hard drive and the rest of the guts of the computer in a plastic bag, he made his way out to the yard, where just days ago he had been mixing cement for his new flower beds.

He worked like a beaver, sweating out all the toxins in his body as he mixed fresh cement and poured it into the molds he’d made weeks ago. The computer parts were at the bottom of the cement, where no one would ever find them. When everything was set to his liking, he proceeded to break up the chunks of cement he’d let dry the day the Post reporters had come to call. He loaded the cement into a wheelbarrow and trundled them off to a rock pile behind a small fence where the gardeners kept a compost pile. Let them cart it away.