“Oh, boy?” Bellow said. “Why oh, boy?”

“Statistically, you’ll croak within five or ten years of retirement,” Lionel said. “No reason to carry on the charade.”

“TV dinners and syndicated game shows,” I said.

“I might travel,” Bellow said.

“Cruise ship shuffleboard with complimentary dysentery,” Lionel said.

“We’ll cry for your exile to sunny beaches and pitchers of margaritas another day.” I inhaled and related my adventures with Mandibole and his ghoulish pals at the Redlick estate.

“The antenna was homing in on the good shit,” Lionel said.

“Ye gods,” Bellow said. “We’ve heard stories at the Bureau that beggar belief regarding the Redlicks and the Labradors. The Mares of Thrace never registered a blip on the screen, though that handle is as melodramatic as a Greek youth terrorist group.”

“Mandibole exercises a tyrannical degree of control over them,” I said. “He may as well crack a bullwhip.”

“Money and authority can be administered to erode one’s sense of self,” Bellow said.

“This is Jim Jones and cyanide punch. Bits of the conversation pointed toward a UFO cult. There may be a split personality component. It’s weird. I can’t explain what I saw, although it’s got to be an illusion combined with fanaticism. Feds have task forces devoted to this stuff, don’t they?”

“Fanatics and crazies are our bread and butter. UFO cults are gaining in popularity.” Bellow rubbed his chin and stared out the window. “You pick the interesting cases.”

“Mystery cults were the fad back when the Roman and Greek empires owned the world,” I said. “Who could conceive of one arising from a high school in Jerkwater, USA? And there’s more. Seems that about two years ago, Adeyemi hired another detective to manage the case. The detective didn’t make it far before ‘somebody’ ran him down in the street.”

“Do tell.” He tapped the screen of his phone and listened as I gave him a blow-by-blow of my fracas with the three men in the pickup and how I met them again, or their costumed doppelgangers, at the Redlick estate. “Sometimes the classic methods work best,” he said, continuing to search his phone. “Stage events to mimic a run-of-the-mill altercation that leads to a hit-and-run, or a golf club to the kneecap, and some private dick can’t walk without a limp anymore.”

“Much less be in the mood to ask awkward questions,” I said. “Bellow, I’ve mixed it up with hired muscle. The Mares are exotic. I saw two more traditional contractors at the house.” The Corsican Brothers, Mandibole called the pair of lugs who guarded the door. “Nothing special, nothing as sinister as the Mares. Any corporate flack with two pennies to rub together retains a few mercs on staff.”

“The Mares might be specialists Mandibole trusts with personal errands the regular security detail won’t touch,” he said. “They likely did the honors with that other detective.”

“These cosplay dudes see you coming and figure once was nice, why not do it twice?” Lionel said. “Their mistake was not running you over with the truck. And then backing up.”