Therefore ____________.

Herman's Six Reasons

Reason Number Six

"A blueberry muffin," Zandra says when Darryl asks what she wants for breakfast. She sits on a bench by the sidewalk outside of the Portage County Courthouse. No room in the jail.

"Coffee and cigarettes, too?" Darryl says.

"I'm still breathing, aren't I?" Zandra says.

Just barely.

"I'm sure I can find those," Darryl says before retreating into the courthouse. There's always a muffin tray somewhere on the third floor. Whether the muffins are fresh isn't as certain.

A muffin, coffee and cigarettes won't be enough to pass the time until the court appointment in the afternoon. It's still morning. The local newspaper, still printed daily, could help burn the hours off like the dew on the grass.

Zandra finds a few errant coins on the sidewalk, scraping them into her palm. She shuffles to a gas station across the street from the courthouse. Her ankle begs for a soak in a hot tub, but the best it'll get is a travel-sized tube of ibuprofen and an equally undersized copy of the Stevens Point Journal from the gas station.

This newspaper gets smaller every week. Maybe they'll sell more copies once the new owner comes in. They're going to need one.

The lead story above the fold of the newspaper is as fresh as the morning sun. Zandra reads the headline thrice to make sure she sees it correctly. She hurries back to the bench to read more in private. Even then, Zandra mouths the words to herself to make sure she doesn't miss a single syllable.

I can't believe they printed that. And you know it's true, because they were allowed to print it at all. No more Gene getting in the way.

Zandra reads, "Gene Carey, the Stevens Point man best known as a titan of the insurance industry, died last night of an accidental gunshot wound. The body of Carey, 79, was found on one of his properties, although which one cannot be confirmed as of press time.

"In a media statement to the Stevens Point Journal, the Stevens Point Police Department said it does not suspect foul play or an intentional injury. Carey apparently engaged in target practice with a friend. The friend, who has not yet been identified, was also injured in the arm during the same accident. The injuries to the friend were not life threatening.

"Memorial services will take place in private before a public ceremony is announced."

I won't be attending.

Still glued to the newspaper, Zandra doesn't notice a van slow to a rolling creep alongside the sidewalk. A sliding door opens on the side of the van. Zandra doesn't get a chance to react as dark cloth is wrapped over her eyes. Rough hands cajole her into the van. The sliding door closes, and the van accelerates away from the courthouse.

The hell?

"Glenn? That you?" Zandra says through a cough. Her eyes may be wrapped, but it's her neck that feels squeezed. Her nose still works, though, and she detects the lingering sting of bleach.

That's not alarming at all.

Zandra goes for the knife up her sleeve, but two strong sets of fingers lock her hands against her sides.

"No need to fight, Zandra," comes a voice from behind her. It's far enough behind her that it can't be from the person holding her hands. Zandra smells a recent cigarette on his breath.

"I remember you," Zandra says. "You left your fancy shoes at the hospital. Not too bright. I mean you. The shoes, they were plenty bright."

"Yes. You have a good memory," the man says. "Would you care for a cigarette?"

"I could care for two."

Someone places a cigarette between Zandra's lips and lights the end for her. She puffs, sans hands. The ashes roll down her purple gown.

Not like I was going to show up in court in anything else.

"Isil don no who yar," Zandra says in a mumble, trying to balance the cigarette in her lips while talking.

"It's better if you don't know who I am. I just wanted to personally congratulate you. I heard about Gene. Knowing you are who you are, I can't accept the story about an accident during target practice. There must be more. Tell me," the man says.

I don't owe him anything. That's the thing with people with money. They show up, write a check, or flip over a debit card, and expect a front row seat to the show. He wasn't the one nearly killed last night.

That doesn't mean I plan on getting killed now, either.

"I put your debit card to good use," Zandra says.

"You spent it all?" the man says.

"I gave it away. I had to."

"Then it was $500 well spent."

Oops. Darryl is going to be pissed.

"So you spent all your money on shoes," Zandra says.

"Hardly. Why spend any more than needed when I know you're so resourceful?" the man says.

I bet he's shitty tipper, too.

"Gene is done. Whatever collusion he and his friends did, that's done, too," Zandra says.

"About Gene and these shitheads, as you call them, I'll need more than your word. They rigged the economy of an entire state, and likely much more. If what you say is true, it's going to have ripple effects. Businesses propped up by their fraud will dissolve, and like dominos one will fall after another. That means real people get hurt," the man says.

When corruption becomes the status quo, it becomes almost impossible to root out, for exactly that reason.

"Remind me. What do I get out of this?" Zandra says.

"A legal team worthy of your defense. They're waiting in a car outside the courthouse, ready to go on my say so," the man says.

Yeah, I'll probably need that when Darryl finds out about the debit card.

"It's hard to show you proof when I can't move my hands," Zandra says. She feels the pressure release over one of her hands. She digs the video camera out of its deep pocket and holds it up. "This should be all you need."

"It looks damaged. Does it still work?" the man says as someone takes the video camera from Zandra.

"I watched it myself," Zandra says.

That's not a lie. Even more disgusting in retrospect.

"Good work," the man says.

"Promise me you'll destroy them," Zandra says.

"I promise, but know that if I destroy them, I destroy everyone. It will be done, but it will be done delicately. Slowly. In phases."

"How do I know you're not one of Gene's?"

"You don't, but one day, you'll understand. You'll know I can be trusted."

Never trust someone who says they can be trusted.

"I think we've spoken enough. Time for you to bring me back," Zandra says. "Clock's ticking."

Darryl doesn't greet Zandra at the bench, but her breakfast does. The birds spared the blueberry muffin, the coffee didn't spill and the pack of cigarettes didn't walk on their own. Zandra doesn't get a good look at the van, since they practically pushed her out. She numbs the pain with more ibuprofen.

After the muffin disappears and she runs out of articles to read in the newspaper, Zandra slips out the 3x5 recipe card for blueberry muffins. She reads over the ingredients and steps Herman wrote out. "Consider the muffins" is the third to last step, right before "enjoy and eat."

While "consider the muffins" is puzzling, it's the "enjoy" before the "eat" that catches Zandra's eye.

Wouldn't "enjoy" come after "eat?" That can't be a mistake. This is Herman's recipe. It means something.

"Consider the muffins. Herman, you are so annoying, even when you're dead," Zandra says out loud, figuring the more she talks this through publicly, the lower the chance of anyone sitting next to her on the bench. "The muffins are a product of the recipe. So what?"

Zandra lights a fresh cigarette.

If Herman were here, he'd tell me something like, "Go upstream."

"OK, I'll think about the order. I'll go upstream, I'll work backward. Start with the muffin, then go to the recipe, and then go to...," Zandra says. She wiggles her index finger at the sky. "Ah, Herman. I see what you're doing there. Muffin, to recipe, to information, to mind. The symbols on the recipe card, the writing, operate as the bridge between the material and immaterial worlds."

Yeah, I'd say no one is going to sit next to me.

Zandra tears the recipe card into small pieces, letting them fall to the sidewalk. "And that means that even if the recipe card goes away, the recipe still exists immaterially. It's still out there, somewhere."

Kind of like when people go away.

Zandra stares at the pieces of the recipe card at her feet for a long time, silent. When she finally looks up, Darryl tells her that it's time to go inside the courthouse.

"I don't know how you afforded them, but you've got some serious help in there," Darryl says on the way to the doors.

Zandra doesn't respond. She follows Darryl to the courtroom, checks in and takes her seat. The man in the van didn't lie. The lawyers work a miracle, and Zandra is free to leave once again.

But to where?

Zandra wanders the downtown area, full of bars and cars lining the streets. She finds a parked car with the doors unlocked. It rests outside a bar with an aggressive discount on beer, even by Wisconsin standards.

Maybe to a front row seat to the slow destruction of Stevens Point.

The End

***

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