Chapter 24. Conversion
We find Kevin at age thirty in his apartment staring into space. He had whipped together the ingredients for oatmeal cookies. The forgotten eggs sat uncracked on the cutting board. Stacked napkins with the corners arranged in the form of a fluffy star waited on the coffee table. Coasters sat on the arms of the sofa nearby. The afternoon sun shone through the white vellum curtains that floated over his windows. His guest of recent weeks would arrive shortly. These touches of ambiance were the remnants of a catering job he had acquired and lost a year ago.
Now he’s sweeping the floor, sweeping through his mind. Trying to remember every job he has had. ‘Why couldn’t he keep them?’ he asked himself. He lifted the broom over his head and pledged like a knight from Camelot to complete the floor. He would start “Right here and now!” He bit himself to make it stick. His palms hurt from the grip he had on the broom handle. “Let them bleed,” he told himself. He would finish that floor. Cockroaches scurried into hotels, or more, over them.
He dug the straw into the linoleum lying before him like his brain. He would scrape away all of the obstacles; make the grooves clear so he could begin again. “Clear it out so the ideas and motivations can flow through like Pine-Sol,” he thought. He poured this cleaner on the floor as he spoke. The bucket he hoisted under the running sink, the mop he dipped into it and scrub, scrub, “scrub a dub-dub,” he said. The green ooze pushed its way across the floor and wafted up his nose. He sniffed, sniffed, and sniffed again and scrubbed. “Blood, so be it,” he said and squeezed his hands harder around the handle of his concentration.
But somewhere between the upstroke and the downstroke the scent of the cookies in the oven piggybacked the Pine-Sol odor without his knowing. He was carried away by the forgotten eggs on the cutting board. He spooned the next dough portions onto a greased pan. Then the realism of Emergency 911 on the TV disintegrated the firm grip he had on success. It transformed into an open hand-over-mouth gesture of care-filled surprise at the horribleness of a horse hanging upside-down from a bridge, twenty feet above the water, with its hind leg caught in a gap in the planks.
The pain it was experiencing seemed relaxing yet nerve racking. The anxiety of when it was going to plunge into the river was too intense for Kevin. Questions ached in his mind: “Was it true that a broken leg on a horse meant death by shooting and the fantastical trip to the glue factory? Could a horse be only worth the glue on its back?”
The reduction in this last question thrust Kevin into a spiritual state, “Now, there must be a god. How can an accident on a bridge end everything the horse has done and existed for? There must be another place for it.” The question launched Kevin into Heaven and threw him into Hell. All of this travel made him dizzy. He looked at where he’d been in his life. Had he done all he could to be a good person?
Then, timed like something that only happens in books, movies, and psychic readings, a three minute preview for America’s Most Wanted came on TV. He was staring at an old photograph of himself from the soup party. He thought for sure God had put it there.
He realized that a world existed totally outside of him. He had forgotten who he was. The move had effectively erased his memory and it wasn’t until recently that he remembered Miss Pumpernickel Bread. He had often seen soup labels in stores and cardboard advertisements of Miss Pumpernickel Bread, or at least of an actor playing the role, but he’d seen them so often he no longer recognized them. In the same way his name, Kevin, got lost in the crowd of Kevins, the advertisements had vanished.
The announcer began speaking. He introduced the story showing clips of a reenactment of the party. The eight hundred number appeared on the bottom of the screen as it would every thirty seconds. “Unlike the people we usually search for on this show, Kevin is not dangerous. Quite the opposite, his return would only be helpful. In fact, it may be more dangerous not knowing where he is. We need Miss Pumpernickel Bread back in our lives. And he has her.”
Kevin felt a mound of flesh settle in his stomach. “Am I guilty of kidnapping?”
“And Kevin, if you’re watching right now, please turn yourself in. You represent our town and the world. We want to adopt you as our son.”
He began shaking like he’d seen a ghost.
Next they introduced scholars and university professors. First they told a story about a man who died while hunting for Kevin on the peak of Mt. Everest. “Kevin’s disappearance led me to the heights of the great mountain,” his diary notes read. “Kevin sought solitude and entered a life of hermitage. At the top of the mountain, Kevin would gather wisdom like a bee, and when he had gotten too much honey, he would return to the world to distribute his sweet wisdom so men could again find joy in their folly.” The climber had been caught in an avalanche, lived in the cold for several days drinking his own urine but peacefully froze in his sleep. His body was found days later with the accompanying diary, the final words of which read, “My work is unfinished but all I hope is that I have been a contributing member in the search. God be with those who pick up where I have fallen. My spirit will be with you.”
The next man interviewed claimed he had been on Kevin’s trail for several years. When asked if he’d ever seen Kevin he responded, “I’ve seen him over a hundred times but only from behind. He’s a fast one, an imp, a chameleon. But I’m detecting patterns in his movements.” He claimed to have seen him in Switzerland, Tibet, the streets of Madagascar and on the peaks of Medjugorje. “The little rascal outsmarts me every time. Just when I think I’ve got him, he disappears or turns into a cat or a bird and flies away.”
A third man, a physicist from Japan, had come up with an equation to calculate his present address. First he multiplied Miss Pumpernickel Bread’s birthday by her death day (he added Day plus Month plus Year), then multiplied by the total number of years since the party, and divided that figure by her age. To that he added an estimate of Kevin’s birthday. Then he subtracted that total from half of Miss Pumpernickel Bread’s zip code divided by her house address, minus the current date divided by the day Kevin disappeared. He came up with a ten digit figure — 10347.75053. This gave him two possible zip codes for Kevin’s present location. Of the ten digits, the five that weren’t the zip code were the street name, address and apartment number. He found the name of the street, or initials for it, by transcribing the remaining numbers with their corresponding letters in the alphabet based on the telephone number/letter ratio. The ten numbers could be in any combination, so, he explained, his work was still ahead of him.
Kevin’s guilt weighed heavy. He hadn’t realized the energy people were expending. He was not only guilty of kidnapping, but also murder. In addition, he realized his absence had cost people thousands of dollars. That amounted to stealing. They called him a rascal, “an imp!” His entire life was a lie. By not revealing his identity, he was actually injuring the world.
The preview ended. The TV itself seemed to scream. The horse returned. Now heavier from the weight of Kevin’s guilt, it dropped end over end and smashed onto the rocks below. The current picked up its mangled body and thrust it down, with the force of a waterfall, straight into the pit of eternity. Kevin could only envision his spiritual cavern.
From here forward he started to read the Bible from beginning to end. He attended Church on a regular basis and found himself dedicated to Jesus and on good speaking terms with the trinity and the Virgin Mary. He picked up Christianity quickly and felt the workings of it instantly. He could easily follow along in church: when everyone stood, he stood; when everyone knelt, he knelt; when everyone said, “It is right to give him thanks and praise,” he repeated; when everyone ate communion, he did too. “I could get good at this,” he told himself with satisfaction.
He was able to feel the effects as he had never felt before. He had goals he could look up if he forgot them. If he strayed away, he knew where to find them. He could even return just as welcome as when he left. His lack of focus didn’t make him feel inadequate anymore. He wasn’t meant to focus, he concluded. He could do only what he was capable of doing. Whatever happened would be seen by the eyes of his lord, and that’s what mattered. He could succeed in front of this audience. If someone tried to take advantage of him, hurt him, embarrass him, steal from him, he would accept his loss. In his mind, he transformed it to spiritual gain. He felt safe on this bridge.
He had context. He could see kindness in bringing this knowledge to other people. He could see how suffering people could recognize their torment as inconsequential. If their land was invaded, their food stolen, their children raped and eaten, they would find comfort in this new light, this guiding light. Their pains were earthly — mere mosquito bites in the face of eternity.
A few weeks into his conversion he realized that confession was the passage to a new beginning. He took the careful step.
Behind the screen Kevin told the priest, Father Paisley, “I am a sinner. I am guilty of kidnapping, stealing, murder, selfishness and the list goes on.” He felt like crying but couldn’t.
Father Paisley on the other side remained calm and told him to continue. “The lord will forgive any sin.”
Then Kevin confessed his identity. “I realize that if I tell people who I really am I could make them very happy and be a great help. But I am causing a wave of destruction by not helping. My life is a lie!” Having finally spoken these words, he felt relieved to the gills.
Father Paisley calmly reminded him that his confession was confidential. “I am just a messenger between you and God. Now tell me, how are you guilty of murder?” Kevin explained the story of the climber. “And how are you guilty of kidnapping?” Kevin explained how Miss Pumpernickel Bread was inside him. “How are you guilty of stealing?” Kevin explained about the expeditions, travel expenses and research hours.
Father Paisley told him not tell anyone else his secret. “These sins are not yours alone. What you’re doing is being careful. Your secret is not a sin until you know exactly what you’re refusing to give people. You have to know what you can say. When you know what you want to say, then you can help people. At that time, if you don’t say it, God may deem it sinful.” Father Paisley paused. Then he continued in a relaxed voice. “In the same way a gun can be in the right hands or the wrong hands, you have to handle your tool with caution. There may be an opportunity to use it, but it must be righteous.”
Father Paisley, after giving Kevin his penance, said “I can show you the way to righteousness.” Then he peeked through the screen at the face of the person he spoke to. He would remember it.
A week after they had created this bond in private, Kevin asked Father Paisley to meet him once a week. They never talked about Kevin’s identity, but Kevin trusted him because it was understood. Kevin had a lot of questions about Christianity and Father Paisley had designs for what Kevin should learn before he went public.
“I shall no longer be in search of answers because they have already been found.” Kevin looked up at his guest. “This teacher has them for me. How blessed and gentle he is for carrying this knowledge to me from miles. You are welcome here, friend, what is mine is yours. I will trade my life for what you can teach me.”
Father Paisley stood in the doorway with a thirty-six-inch by eighteen-inch by eighteen-inch trunk sitting next to him. This was his tenth visit in ten weeks.
Father Paisley was a young, ambitious Catholic priest who had accepted his first assistant to the head pastor position at age thirty: the youngest in his class to succeed in his trade. He was now in his late forties. His jet black hair had only recently sprouted stylish looking feathers of gray. His shyness became him, and his modesty was translucent. His most domineering quality was his trust in patience. He handled every situation with dead calm.
“Are you traveling?” Kevin asked and tried to help him with the luggage.
Father Paisley forcibly but politely took the handle from Kevin and said, “No. Sometimes God asks me to carry his briefcase for him. I am, after all, his servant.”
“I, too, someday hope to carry God’s briefcase for him,” Kevin said swelling with envy as Father Paisley hoisted the trunk off the ground. Then he asked, “Wouldn’t it be easier to leave it in the foyer by the door?”
Father Paisley explained that he had accepted a responsibility far greater than any other. “I wouldn’t want to lose sight of it.” Kevin, not one to question a wise man, led him down the foyer to the sofa.
“I will guide you through my house if you guide me through the Lord’s.” Kevin pointed to the sofa. “Let these greedy mongers have my life, my goods,” he waved his arm around the room. “They will be dealt with later. I will see them punished, and I will laugh.” He laughed. “I will laugh at them now, provide them with horror, give them anything they request because I will laugh later.” He laughed again. “I need not judge. Isn’t that right, sir? A more powerful judge will take care of them later.”
“Yes,” Father Paisley spoke softly. “You remember well. Time will bring justice.”
Kevin plopped himself down on the sofa and relaxed. “Ahhh,” he expressed. “The waiting and suffering are pleasurable. I’m glad to starve for you sir.” Then he remembered.
“Teacher, please, wait just a moment. I have tea and cookies prepared for you.” In the moment Kevin was gone, Father Paisley set his trunk next to the sofa arm so it wouldn’t draw attention away from the conversation. Kevin returned with an aluminum tray of warm Oatmeal cookies, a tea pot and two cups with saucers. As he was pouring tea, and as Father Paisley was helping himself to the cookies I-don’t-mind-if-I-do style, Kevin said, “Now, last week you were telling me about honesty and generosity. Tell me again about vulnerability, sacrifice and martyrdom.”
At that moment the door bell rang. Kevin told Father Paisley to hold that thought. He’d only be a minute. “And of course, help yourself to whatever you like.”
As Kevin went to the door, Father Paisley did just that. He finished a cup of tea. He poured another. He stuffed two Oatmeal cookies in his mouth. His work could now begin. He pulled the trunk out in front of him and unsnapped the buckles. A quarter of a cookie fell on the floor. He was familiar with the layout of the room. He’d been there several times. The points he’d marked on the map of Kevin’s home were now clear in his memory. He had gone through the motions of his carefully orchestrated plan many times before. Now he was ready to execute it:
Out from the suitcase he took some books:
a Bible, a hymnal, and private Pope notes.
To the bookshelf in a planned reversal
he swapped with Kevin’s he thought controversial.
Into the suitcase the books he stuffed
and out with some icons of the Virgin Mary he loved.
To Kevin’s walls and the posters of Madonna
switched these with the mother of Hosanna.
Into the suitcase the posters he rolled
and out from the depths a photo album he pulled,
identical to Kevin’s, the one on the shelf
that contained pictures of friends and some of himself.
Into the suitcase the exchange was made
then followed mementoes of Miss Pumpernickel Bread, the things Kevin saved:
the famous soup bowl, sticky and unwashed,
and flakes of skin from Miss Pumpernickel Bread’s buttocks.
Just the ingredients Father P. would need
to make Kevin the prophet of the world he would lead.
Tickled pink and pickled to think,
Father Paisley hopped like a tiddly-wink.
Next he grabbed a Frisbee she’d taught Kevin to use
and shoelaces from an early pair of shoes,
photos of her in shopping malls and parks
and birthday cards she’d sent with clever remarks,
a collection of quotes saved for years,
and Paul Anderssen’s collection worn and dog-eared.
All of these in a final flurry
Father Paisley stuffed in the suitcase rather awkwardly.
Lastly he noticed roller blades he’d never seen,
“a symbol of escape” is how they were deemed.
Into the suitcase with a final thunk,
Father Paisley clicked the buckle and locked the trunk.
Next to his seat where it previously sat,
he threw the suitcase and sat back.
Then on the floor the quarter cookie he spied,
snatched it up and nibbled and sighed.
When Kevin came back, all he could see
was Father Paisley chewing nonchalantly.
Kevin wore an ecstatic smile. An old woman held onto his elbow. Father Paisley turned in surprise feigning he hadn’t heard them coming.
Chapter 25a. Introduction: Father Paisley
“Father Paisley, I would like to introduce you to a dear friend of mine whom I haven’t seen in a very long time.” Kevin pulled the woman before him. “Miss Sarah FoldEconomy, this is Father Paisley...”
Father Paisley stifled his surprise. He recognized her name but, out of respect, pretended her identity didn’t faze him. He trusted that time would bring her to mention it and therefore they could talk about it on her terms. Father Paisley had never been to Soup Town, as it was colloquially referred to, but he was familiar with the story before he met Kevin. He recognized the enviable position he was in but remained silent. His acquaintances were getting more and more interesting.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Since the confession, Father Paisley knew Kevin’s character was mixed with the good qualities of Miss Pumpernickel Bread. He took Kevin to be an absorber. He trusted that the same way he had ingested Miss Pumpernickel Bread, he could also absorb God’s presence. Father Paisley knew the potential Kevin had — the number of ears that would be open to his words, simply because of his namesake. These he didn’t want to waste on ignorance or an oppositional point of view. So he began stewing a broth that would lead Kevin on the way to righteousness. After Kevin had arrived, he could serve this to all mankind. The first step in his recipe was to surround Kevin with the ingredients of Christianity so they could begin soaking into his body.
Likewise, Sarah had heard of Father Paisley, although through a slightly thinner grapevine. She also kept her knowledge to herself.
Father Paisley’s faith had often gotten him into controversy. This time it had begun in the church parking lot. Cars entered from one end and exited through the other, thus avoiding the problem of having to turn around to park or backing out. The first cars in would be the first cars out. The cars in back had to wait for the cars in front before they could move. The church and the city building commission dually designed the parking lot. Father Paisley’s part in it came from his feeling that once people were at mass they should stay till the end, regardless of other arrangements. He believed no reason could be important enough to leave mass for.
That particular day, Father Paisley set up mass at the exit of the parking lot so that cars had to now pull in and stop at the point where the metal fold up chairs began. So the disturbance would be great if a car had to get out. At least six rows would have to move to allow it to pass. Then the car would have to drive in front of and next to the altar and suffer the glaring eyes of Father Paisley.
Most people sat through the mass. Yet being trapped was the only thing on their minds. The evidence of the circumstances broke any concentration they might have had. They didn’t discuss it until the next day. Then they remembered feeling awkward and honestly couldn’t remember the songs or the sermon.
Everyone was uncomfortable to begin with, so it was no surprise that when it started to rain many people ran to their cars and tried to drive away. Father Paisley remained at the pulpit to finish the service. But as people were leaving, the general commotion dominated his voice. Then he yelled out, “I will pray for you who are leaving and not assisting in helping us put chairs away, for that is all I can do for you. Your souls are out of my hands.” He slapped his hands together and held them in the air like he had seen Pontius Pilate do in the movies.
Many people heeded his words believing: “I am turning my back.” These helped put chairs away. Others would simply repent tomorrow and drove over the chairs. When those putting chairs away saw the others drive off, when it was their cars that now blocked several cars, when the horns and lightning became not worth a few crappy chairs, they dropped them where they stood and ran to their cars for shelter. After everyone had gone, the parking lot looked like a landfill glistening with bent and twisted metal chairs. Father Paisley had stood under a roof edge with the back of his gown pulled over his head looking out at the steaming parking lot.
Chapter 25b. Introduction: Sarah FoldEconomy
“. . . Father Paisley — Miss Sarah FoldEconomy.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
This afternoon, Sarah FoldEconomy had been out shopping. The bags of goods she carried in with her were filled with trinkets and larger items which she bought in order to return the following week. That morning she had had two full bags of things she bought last week. She exchanged those things for what she had now. Next week she would retrace her steps and again rotate the things in her bags. She waited one week for the stores to tabulate their sales. After they ordered more supplies, then she would return her items. She would giggle in the aisles at the overfilled shelves and the expiration dates on juices. Most stores trusted her more than suspected her. This was one advantage of her age.
She was in the habit of collecting all of her receipts and picking up extra ones from garbage cans, cashier counters and parking lots. When the format matched, she printed up her own. A two-ring binder like police officers carry kept the most useful ones together and available at a moment’s notice.
Lately, she had been traveling to different chain stores, buying products in one city and exchanging them in the next. This is one motivation that brought her to Kevin’s town. She had traveled several hundred miles by train, had been there one week and would possibly leave the next. Overall, this was a business trip.
She was eighty-two years old and still independently minded and mobile. In the past few years she had been up to her other tricks as well, like ordering clothes, food and washing machines on false credit card numbers. But by this time her crude methods had gotten slightly more sophisticated. From an article in the local newspaper she discovered that the creation of a credit card number was not random as many people believed. She found that of the thirteen to sixteen digits on a card, the first group of numbers was a bank code and that the following numbers were largely random. But the last number, which was called a “checksum,” was the result of a mathematical equation using all the preceding digits.
By comparing several cards from the same bank, she came up with a ballpark figure for the codes. And then, more slyly, by feigning senility and farsightedness, she asked a newly hired teller to verify that she had the correct card issued from that bank. To this, the boy recited from memory the first group of digits and asked her if these were on her card. In fact they were, she told him. Then in a fit of helpless flabbergastation she said, “Oh I don’t know anything about these newfangled systems. It’s all so complicated.” To this, the boy impressed her with more of his knowledge and revealed the simple formula.
“Even a high school student could figure it out,” he said. “Take care.”
Although this technique was scientifically based, it only proved three to five percent effective. She could create numbers of her own but they would be without names, expiration dates and often wouldn’t correspond to active accounts. And she hadn’t yet devised a program on her computer that would randomly create numbers for her. So her process was slow. She relished in having the knowledge anyway.
With all of her activities, she kept elaborate records. The most surprising were the listed amounts of money made shortchanging people in stores, on both the initial purchase and on the return. Over the years it had added up. She had created deficits in many store and personal lives with only her interests in mind.
This was the first time she had seen Kevin since the move. Then, she had wanted to keep in touch with him to help him develop. She had gotten so carried away with her project, though, that she forgot. Now she thought of a way to unite the two.
Up until this point she’d heard nothing about him. She only knew where his pay checks came from and the amount. She’d essentially lost track of him. This was good. She was glad he hadn’t surfaced in public — splattered over the front page or sidelining a late night talk show. She knew that sometime his existence would have the power to influence a large number of people. These would be the same people Miss Pumpernickel Bread’s death influenced. Like them, she had been waiting for Kevin to emerge. She was relieved to catch him before they did.
Her decision to visit him came from her understanding that he was the recipient of a generous gift from Miss Pumpernickel Bread. Sarah wanted to see him in his own habitat on a regular day without warning in order to check how that gift had manifested itself naturally. She didn’t want to interfere with the process. So she didn’t regret not having seen him for several years. But if he disappointed her, Sarah would try to alter the results in her favor. Even though she loved Kevin, she now saw him as an operative tool. His public exposure could serve her purposes.
Like all of Sarah’s other activities, this one was directed toward a larger scheme. She secretly hoped and diligently worked for the complete disfigurement of Capitalism. She wanted her country to go bankrupt and be bought out by another economic system — a new economic system. Her understanding that communism had died of natural causes, left her believing that Capitalism itself was the only thing that didn’t have a competitor. In this way she saw it as self-serving. She demonized it to the point that if Good and Evil existed in her world, Capitalism was Evil. She couldn’t come up with a concrete manifestation of Good, but that didn’t matter. She saw the elimination of Evil as a positive step in the direction of Good.
She knew her actions alone wouldn’t bring about this end. She considered herself a laborer, a miner, working the ground for a demolition and reconstruction that would occur years, even centuries after her death. She knew she probably wouldn’t see her grand revolution take place during her life time, so she set herself the goal of simply making a contribution. Whether her contribution were recognized after the fall or not she would always accredit herself as having made it.
One job assignment she gave herself was in increasing the debt. Her actions seemed haphazard yet they were strategic. Without a doubt, she was feeding the system she hated. She knew Capitalism to be a vortex that used everything to serve its own purpose, and that it mocked any attempt at subversion. Debt and deficits, she understood, eventually led to the maintenance and permanence of the power of Capitalism: “The debt keeps people working; it keeps people competing; it keeps the machine churning,” she repeated to herself. But like any machine, Sarah believed that this one too would wear with age. She knew the debt also suppressed and controlled individuality and community, dictated decision making, eliminated spontaneity, divided desires and, above all, created borders. Eventually, the debt would take a toll on itself. She tried to speed up its wearing down.
She prophesied the day that the lender would demand retribution. Companies then countries would seek payback from others they had lent to. Finding empty pocketbooks in all directions, the lender would seize control of the estate, enslave the citizens, and execute the leaders. In a domino effect where in one situation lender is borrower and in another borrower is lender, the entire world would destroy itself in a futile attempt to acquire unpaid debts.
The increasing debts she created worked toward this imminent World War. She pined for the day when the economy and country she lived in became the culprit rather than the hero. She dreamed of the celebration:
The head of the president would be amputated and sliced into chunks of confetti that helicopters would apologetically sprinkle over the crowds of onlookers as the leaders of large corporations and congressional officials were being publicly executed — all would be broadcast live on national television.
“‘Well, that’s it. It’s over,” the announcer would say, and then turn to the new leader of this country who would look distinctly similar to Sarah. A silver platter would be carried into the path of the camera by a soldier with stage fright but high hopes. He would lift the lid on the platter to reveal the head of the Speaker of the House. Then this new leader would poke a forkful of cheek meat and say, “This is the last chapter in the story of a ruined empire.” She would chew, and chew, and chew. The camera would pan in to her features. She would swallow hard and say, “Freedom of thought no longer has a reference point.” This would be hardly audible between chews but her viewers would understand. Then the camera would pan back, music would start, and she would close by saying, “See you after the executions.”
Eventually, everyone who had been enrolled in this country would be enslaved or executed: some tied to telephone poles with their eyelids sliced off, others burned at the stake, some in an open fire, still others lined up to be shot with automatic weapons, others sent to gas chambers, and others put in atomic bomb test rooms. Their remains would remain as evidence. Plague would kill the waiting. But the dying and those about to die would repentantly recognize their guilt and cheer, singing to their death, “We triumph the fire to build the new empire.” La Fin.
Essentially Sarah was setting up her own execution. She was one of them. It was impossible to be otherwise. She felt the tingle of rebellion in the base of her tongue. It made her excited. “Kill the bastards and bitches!” she would yell. “And then kill me!”
From these ideas, one would think Sarah FoldEconomy was mad or self-destructive. But since this is privileged information to readers only, no one thought that. Of course she couldn’t reveal her purpose to anyone. She feared being tried for treason and locked up in an institution where she would be sliced open for chemical weapon experiments and silenced. Eventually THEY would quietly execute her in an electric chair. If she were captured, her giant scheme would be set back several years. So she remained silent about her motives. |
