“Of course nothing’s happened to me, sweetie,” she said. “I just this minute got up.”

Bubba stepped back from her, his mood suddenly skipping discs. He was enraged.

“How the hell could you sleep through someone breaking into the workshop?” he yelled.

“What?” Honey was dazed. “The workshop?”

“The garage door’s wide open! You leave it open for some reason, like the awful Jell-O and room temperature Tang? Is this the final blow to hurt me? Is that how they got in?”

“I don’t go near that door,” said Honey, who knew better than to ever set foot inside his workshop. “Would rather take the Lord’s name in vain and be a Mormon or a queer or a feminist than dare to get near your shop!” exclaimed Honey, who was Southern Baptist and knew the party line by heart. “I don’t want to go near your tools, much less touch them. I never ask anything about them even if I can see them plain as day when you’re working on some project that never turns out quite right.”

Bubba ran back out the door. Honey held her robe together and followed. Bubba walked into the garage. He held his breath, hands clenched as he took in what had to be the biggest disaster of his life. Tools were scattered everywhere, and all of his handguns were gone. Someone had pissed all over Bubba’s electronic caliper and it would convert inches into metric dimensions no more. The dual sander and air hammer had been cruelly dropped into the ten-gallon drum of dirty oil that Bubba saved for Muskrat’s heater.

Bubba staggered back out into the sunlight. Honey grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Maybe I should call the police,” she said.

West and Brazil were close to The Forest when several things happened at once.

Brazil’s flip phone trilled. The police radio broadcast a possible B&E on Clarence Street, and WRVA played an ad for Hollywood Cemetery’s new Chapel Mausoleum, located in one of the oldest sections of the cemetery, adjacent to a convenient roadway and with no additional expenses for a vault or monument, one price covering everything including the inscription.

“Hello?” Brazil said into his phone.

“. . . Any unit in the area,” the police radio was repeating, “. . . possible B and E at 10946 Clarence Street.”

“. . . the Hollywood Cemetery Chapel Mausoleum reflects a combination of both beauty and dignity . . .” the ad continued, jazz playing in the background.

“Andy? It’s Hammer,” Chief Hammer said over the phone.

“Three,” West answered the radio.

“Our computer problem’s hit the national news. I guess you saw this morning’s paper,” Hammer said to Brazil.

“Go ahead, 3,” said Communications Officer Patty Passman, who was surprised that the head of investigations was answering the call.

“Actually, I didn’t know,” Brazil honestly replied to Hammer.

“Front page,” Hammer said. “They’re making fun of us, fun of COMSTAT, saying we’ve crashed around the world because of a virus called Fishsteria.”