It was nearly 2:00 PM by the time Brandon and the Brown's made their way wearily into Brandon’s house near the center of Wildwood. It stood at the southwestern end of a row of three buildings. The buildings all stood along the same side of Front Street, a short road running diagonally between Center and Seven Hill Roads. Across the street lay Diagonal Park, a small triangle of green with a gazebo in the center, formed by the three roads. Ben Brown gamely volunteered to carry the luggage into the house while his mom and dad cleaned up. Drafting his sister, Alexandria, into service he made sure that his parent's bags were carried up to his dad's old bedroom first.
Brandon Haye’s house was actually a restored and updated stagestop hotel, originally built in the mid-1800. At various times it had also served as a barbershop, a doctor's clinic, a general store, and the town's first post office. The building had a large front porch under a second floor balcony stretching across its entire front. The double front doors opened into a large room, which took up nearly half of the entire first floor. It had once been the front lobby. A broad chestnut paneled counter, dating back to the general store and post office days, stood toward the back of the room to the left of a wide balustrade staircase ascending gracefully to the second floor. Behind it was a modest sized room, which served as Brandon's office. The kitchen, pantry, and dining room were down a short hallway and, along with a small bathroom and an enclosed back porch, made up the rest of the first floor. Entry to the basement was off the back porch. The second floor had a narrow room along the front, which opened out onto the balcony. A central hallway provided entry to the six bedrooms and two baths upstairs. A smaller stairway at the end of the hall dropped down near the door to the back porch and provided access to the attic as well.
Brandon made for the kitchen where he put a kettle of water on to boil. While it began to heat he headed for the front room and turned up the thermostat to take the chill off the house as Ben brought in the last of the bags. His sister was laying on the floor trying to entice Brandon's calico cat, Sicillia, out from under the sofa. Brandon helped Ben take the remainder of the bags upstairs. He pointed out Ben's room, the same one that he had stayed in about two and a half years ago, and then took Alexandria's things into the room across the hall.
Heading back downstairs he noticed his little niece had fallen asleep on the floor by the couch. Reaching down he scooped her up and carried her gently up the steps to her room and laid her down on the bed. He opened a quilt and put it over her then headed out the door and down the hall. Knocking on Paul and Karen's door he called out, “I've got a pot of water on. Anybody want some tea?”
Back downstairs in the kitchen he turned the hot water on and selected a brown china teapot from a corner cupboard. It was larger than the one he usually used. When the tap water warmed up a bit he rinsed out the pot and then filled with hot tap water before setting it on a folded tea towel. He then removed an ornate, multi-color porcelain jar full of loose tea and filled a tea ball with it while he waited for the kettle on the stove to boil.
When the water came to a boil he emptied the now tepid tap water in the teapot and refilled it with the steaming water from the kettle before dropping the tea ball in. He placed the lid on the pot and then set it back on the towel. Taking another, slightly larger towel, he wrapped it around the teapot and turned to the phone while Sicillia wound about his feet meowing plaintively.
“Krankovich and Krankovich, Attorneys at Law. How may I help you?” answered Mrs. Frieda Krankovich. The firm was a family affair. “Oh, Brother Hayes. I am so sorry to hear about Pastor Williams. Such a tragedy... Yes, Chuck got the papers off to the hospital this morning and has also been in touch with his son, John, Jr., he's the executor you know... Yes, that's right... He and Hazel will be coming in tomorrow. He's making arrangements now for someone to cover for him at his church on Sunday. Bill and Jackie Bartlett will be picking them up. How are the Brown's doing?”
They chatted for a few more minutes and then Mrs. Krankovich put Brandon through to her husband, Chuck. Chuck Krankovich was seated at his desk studying Pastor Williams' will and the Wildwood Baptist Church constitution when his wife put Brandon through.
“Hello, Brandon,” said Chuck as he picked up the phone, “How are you and the Brown's doing...? Yes, yes, quite a shock to us all, too. John, Jr., and Jackie were devastated to hear about their father's sudden death. They are calling the rest of the family and most of them will be coming in over the weekend. My son, Curtis, and Willie Sykes have been contacting the church for me. I'm glad you called, I've been going over Pastor Williams' will and remembered something curious. A few weeks earlier Pastor Williams entrusted me with a key to a safety deposit box. He asked me to make arrangements so that in the event of his death the key and the box's contents would go directly to next pastor of the Wildwood Baptist Church, even if he was only an interim pastor... Yes, it is unlike him. Would you mind if Frieda and I come over this evening? Yeah... Don't worry, Frieda says we'll bring dinner. If you get a chance pull out your copy of the church constitution and take a look at it... Thanks... Yes, I'll see you about six then. Bye.”
Brandon hung up the phone and pulled a glass mug bearing a red dragon and the word “Cymru” off the shelf behind him. He poured a little hot water from the kettle on the stove into it to warm the glass. Unwrapping the teapot, he removed the tea ball, set it in the sink, and then poured himself a cup of tea. He sat down tiredly at the kitchen table and stared sadly into his tea while stirring in a spoonful of raw sugar. Sicillia hopped up in his lap. Stroking her absentmindedly he began to pray. Sipping the hot drink carefully, he prayed for Pastor Williams' family and the church. He also asked God's forgiveness for his foolhardiness resulting in the death of two men that morning, while possibly endangering his nephew and his family. He shook his head. “The LORD knoweth the thoughts of man, that they are vanity,” he reminded himself.
Sicillia purred quietly as he scratched behind her ears, mulling over the day's events. Karen Brown interrupted his thoughts as she came into the kitchen. A quick shower had cleaned the mud off but the strain and sorrow still showed in her eyes. “How are you doing?” she asked.
“Better,” replied Brandon, “I have been sitting here thinking about things and talking to God about what happened. I know He has forgiven me but I still feel responsible for the death of those two men. It's just, I mean, I just wanted to know why they were following us. I can't help feeling that they are tied in someway with Pastor Williams' death.”
“They are, “said Karen, “I mean it was the one man's umbrella that caused Pastor Williams' shoulder to become infected, though I have never known an infection to move that fast. Almost like there was some sort of toxin or poison involved.”
Karen turned to contemplate the mugs on the shelf behind Brandon. She picked out one with an intricate pattern of blue and green shapes and the word “TUNOA” emblazoned in bold gold letters on the side. Ben had given it to his uncle the first time they had come back from Tunoa. “Still have your collection of international mugs,” she observed. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down, looking at Brandon's cup. “Cymru? That's Wales, isn't it?”
“Yeah, I picked up while doing a feature on the slate quarries in central Wales.” He took a sip of tea and set his cup back down. “The dragon is their national symbol... Kind of fitting, don't you think? That old dragon, the serpent, sure was active today.”
“Listen, don't beat yourself up over it, Uncle Brandon. Remember, 'we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.' God is in control. We have to move on. Here let me get you another cup of tea, it'll make you feel better. After you drink it you should go upstairs and get out of those muddy clothes. When you get cleaned up you and Paul can decide what to do next.”
Brandon smiled as he handed her his cup. “You're right. Like Paul says, it doesn't do any good to argue with a nurse. Oh, by the way, the Krankoviches are coming over for dinner at six. Frieda's cooking so we don't need to fix anything.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes. The phone rang, breaking the silence and causing Sicillia to meow loudly before hopping down to the floor. It was a contact of Brandon's who worked for the Ohio State Patrol. He just wanted to let him know that they had identified the two dead men.
“Hey, you really did us a favor!” the man said, “Those were a couple of bad guys. The FBI boys are real interested in them. In fact, they'll probably be contacting you later. Seems both those guys were on their hit parade. Called them domestic terrorists. Sounds like you got yourself the makings of a good story there. I'll fax their rap sheets and the accident report your way as soon as I get a chance. You take care, you hear?”
Paul came down about the time Brandon hung up. “I looked in on the kids on the way down,” he said, “Ben's reading and Alex is asleep.” He went over to the shelf and selected a beige cup with “Cairo” imprinted on it in a flowing, cursive script resembling a series of sand dunes running around its base. He poured himself a cup of tea and then went to refrigerator for some milk. Returning to the table he sat down and stirred in a couple spoonfuls of sugar before taking a sip. “Mmmm... You always could make a great cup of tea. Just as good as any I ever had in England. What kind is it?”
“Its a special blend from a friend of mine in Sri Lanka.” answered his uncle. “He operates a tea plantation on Mt. Pidurutalagala, the tallest mountain on the island. I was covering the Tamil uprising in 1983 when I met a Sinhalese Christian, a Mr. Baud Degua. Stayed with him and his family for a couple of weeks. He sends me a kilo or two once or twice a year and I return the favor by sending him a couple pints of maple syrup each year. I showed his wife how to make buckwheat pancakes - they loved them.”
“Isn't that who the church sent those Sinhalese and Tamil Bibles and tracts to a few years ago?” asked Karen.
“Oh, yeah,” said Paul, “The church in Tunoa even helped out with a special offering. It was one of the first missions projects that we managed to get the whole church behind. Didn't he visit Wildwood once during a missions conference shortly afterward?”
“Yes, he did,” replied Brandon, finishing his tea and setting down his cup. “In fact, he stayed right in this house while he was here. I believe it was the 1999 missions conference, about a year before you came back from Tunoa for your first furlough.”
“Well, enough of this chit-chat,” interrupted Karen, noticing his empty cup. She pointed her finger at Brandon and continued, “You need to get upstairs and change those clothes!”
Brandon headed off upstairs, trailed by Sicillia, while Paul and Karen finished their tea. Karen was just telling her husband about dinner when the fax machine in Brandon's office came to life and began churning out several pages. “Check that, would you, Paul?” called Brandon from the top of the stairs, “It may be those papers from the State Patrol. If so, I'll look at them when I come back down.”
Paul headed into his uncle's office. He ducked involuntarily as he entered. Oak bookshelves and cupboards lined the wall, extending over the doorway. It was almost like entering through a short tunnel. The fax machine sat on a counter that ran across the back of the room next to an ornate antique globe. Even as a kid he had always found his uncle's office a fascinating place. Pictures and souvenirs from around the world, along with a number of awards and citations, were scattered throughout the room giving it an eclectic museum-like appearance.
Three pages had already emerged from the fax machine and a fourth was printing when Paul got to it. He picked up the finished pages and sat down at the long oak desk, flanked by two low filing cabinets in the center of the room. He glanced briefly at the first page, a generic cover sheet, before turning his attention to the next two. They were the first of several comprising the accident report. He was surprised to learn that the car was registered to Narsch Industries. Interestingly enough, the car had been reported as stolen this morning at 9:15, close to the time that Pastor Williams had died.
Karen came into Brandon's office as her husband finished looking over the accident report. He slid the papers across the desk to her and turned to get several more pages out of the fax machine as the final page churned out.
He studied the papers for a few moments. “Interesting,” Paul said, showing a picture to his wife. “Here's our friend from the airport.” He shuffled through the pages. “And, here is the driver.”
The driver's name was Donald Chattham. Originally from Portland, Oregon, Chattahm had been dishonorably discharged from the Marines about fifteen years ago due to involvement with several activist animal rights and extremist environmental groups. He had been involved in several scrapes with the law since then, mostly drug and alcohol violations as well as several counts of criminal trespass and property damage. Although an arson conviction landed him in the Oregon penitentiary with a 30-year sentence, he got out eighteen months later due to a technicality. Upon his release he disappeared for a year or so and was suspected by the FBI to have joined up with the Gaia Liberation Front (GLF), a little known domestic eco-terror group. He was strongly suspected of being involved in a recent string of refinery bombings in Texas and Louisiana.
The thin man, Carlton Chakal, was also a suspected member of GLF. Not as much was known about him though Interpol had named him a “person of interest” in the assassinations of several prominent industrialists in Belgium and Luxembourg. The FBI had been looking for him for similar reasons. They had reports that he had slipped into the country recently, probably through Canada, and suspected that he was somewhere in the Midwest. The accident report was the first hard lead they had gotten on him in over six months.
What little was known of Chakal showed him to be a shadowy figure with connections to a variety of leftist fringe groups. He was known to have contact with several Soviet-bloc intelligence services in the 1970's and '80's. He had funneled money for the KGB through a used bookstore in London to a variety of peace and disarmament groups in England and Europe in the 1980's. His longest lasting operation had apparently been the clandestine funding of a women's peace group in the British midlands. The money had enabled the women to camp outside of a United States Air Force base to obstruct training exercises for several years after Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher allowed the Americans to base mobile launched cruise missiles there.
Following the fall of the Soviet Union in the early 1990's, Chakal relocated to Belgium where he became involved with several leftist environmental groups. He dropped out of sight for a few years but a recent string of assassinations in Europe and America had brought him to both the FBI and Interpol's attention once more.
Paul whistled softly, “These guys were sure a couple of outstanding citizen's!”
“They sound like a couple of hitmen, to me,” frowned Karen after she had a chance to look over the rap sheets. “Why were they after you?'
“I dunno,” answered Paul, “But I have a hunch it has something to do with what Pastor Williams was trying to tell us.”
“Well, whatever it is, its going to have to wait until after supper. The Krankovich's will be over in about an hour. I need to go get Alex and Ben up and moving. I'll send them down to help get the table ready.”
Karen headed upstairs while Paul headed back into the front room. He set the papers down on the counter as he left the office and sat down on the couch. Picking up the remote control he tuned on the television set in the corner. The evening news was just coming on. The broadcast led off with a story about another suicide bombing in Israel, followed by an update on the situation in Iraq.
Paul found his eyes growing heavy as the newscast turned to an item concerning local peace protests in Cleveland. Several young people screamed at passerby’s as they held up signs decrying the United States involvement in Iraq and branding President Bush a terrorist. One of the protesters caught Paul's eye, causing him to sit up and take a closer look. It was a young man with dreadlocks and a variety of facial piercings. He held up a sign proclaiming “REVOLUTION NOW!” in angry, bold red letters. His black T-shirt bore a blood red silhouette of a man with an upraised fist. Underneath, “Revolutionary Communist Party of Amerika” was spelled out in the same blood red color.
“As much as things change, the more they remain the same,” thought Paul, remembering Carlton Chakal's rap sheet, as the station cut to a commercial.
Brandon Hayes came back downstairs as the news was coming back on. “This just in to the Action News Center,” announced the newscaster, “A tragic accident in Hinckley claimed the lives of two men earlier this morning. Identities of the men are being withheld at this time. A spokesman for the Medina County Sheriff's office said that the two were driving a 2002 gray Jaguar that had recently been stolen from Narsch Industries in nearby Wildwood. Narsch Industries had no comment when asked about the car. Cause of the accident is unknown at this time. It is not known whether alcohol or drugs were involved but we have confirmed that the FBI is investigating. No other cars were involved but several people stopped to render aid immediately following the accident.”
“What a day!” said Paul to his uncle. He stood up and retrieved the papers that he had left on the counter and handed them to Brandon. “Here's the fax from your buddy at the Sheriff's office. Seems like they managed to keep our names out of it, so far as the news is concerned.”
“Seems that way,” said Brandon, “Hey, I was thinking about something while upstairs. Who's going to preach on Sunday? John Junior is coming in tomorrow but I'd hate to impose on him. He'll have enough going on with making arrangements for his father's funeral. Do you feel up to it?”
“Yeah, I can do it. Instant in season and out of season, the Bible says. Hey, maybe Kevin and Rebecca will come if they know I'm preaching. Let me have the phone and I'll give them a call.”
Brandon handed the phone to his nephew. He turned off the TV and headed for his office while Paul called the Farnham's. Sitting down at his desk he reviewed the accident reports and rap sheets, shaking his head. Finishing the papers he sat silently for a few minutes. He made a mental note to call a contact at the FBI on Monday if he had not heard from them by then. Setting the papers aside, he then reached into the drawer of the filing cabinet to his right, withdrew a copy of the church constitution and opened it up.
Meanwhile, several miles away, Simon Narsch was raging at his son, Arnold. “What do you mean, 'they had an accident'? How can they have had an 'accident'?! Someone or something is interfering with our plans. There is no way that I am going to be denied this time! That church property is vital and Paul Brown is the only obstacle in my way. His father, Andrew, may have prevented my last attempt but it cost him his life, as well as the lives of his wife and sister. The son will not be so lucky!”
Arnold stared pensively out the floor to ceiling windows. The darkening clouds echoed his dark mood. “I am as frustrated as you are, Father,” he began, “But we must be careful and take our time. The FBI is already delving into Chattham and Chakal and their connections with the Gaia Liberation Front. Fortunately Mr. Pruzak was able to file a stolen vehicle report this morning when we learned that Williams died. We cannot be connected to them or the GLF so we are safe there. The closest connection that they can make between us is our affiliation with the Gaia Society, which is a perfectly legitimate pro-environmental organization. The Society boasts many well-known political, business, and entertainment figures among its members. We cannot be held responsible for those members that want to take more direct action and stray into involvement with the GLF, even if we do finance them. Not that anybody can prove it.”
“I still don't like it,” fumed his father, “You know we don't have possession of each of the other ten sites. Consequently that church property is essential to our plans. The shamballah opening, as you well know, is located behind the church. When Mars reaches it's closest point to the Earth in August we will have our best chance to establish an antakarana bridge through the shamballah opening since 1943. It will allow us to establish a direct line of contact with the Luciferean Council of the Twelve and tap into the very power and strength of Gaia – the heart and soul of this planet. If we had all eleven properties we could make the antakarana bridge permanent. Unfortunately, recent revelations have made it clear that the younger Brown is an even bigger obstacle to taking over the Wildwood Baptist Church property than his father was.”
“What if we cannot get the church property in time? Any chance that we could sneak onto the church property and open the shamballah point anyway?” asked Arnold.
“Sneak onto the property!” laughed his father derisively, “Ha! And just how would you sneak your incredible bulk around in the woods in the dark? You'd wind up stuck between two trees! Besides, you know the ritual. We need that property!”
Arnold's face darkened even more. “I just thought we should have a back up plan in case we do not acquire ownership of the property in time, Father.” he said indignantly.
“Yeah, that's your motto,” mocked Simon, “Always be prepared. What a Boy Scout! However, it may be worth planning for, just in case.”
Later on that evening, Paul Brown pushed himself back from the table. “That was a delicious meal, Mrs. Krankovich. I haven't had chicken paprikash in years.”
Karen began clearing the table and setting out desert plates with Alex and Ben's help while Mrs. Krankovich went into the kitchen for the desert. “Hope everybody likes cherry strudel, she said.
“That's one of my favorites, Mom,” said Curtis, who had accompanied his parents over to Brandon's house for dinner.
“They're all your favorites!” laughed his father, Chuck.
After everyone was done eating, the men adjourned into Brandon's office while the rest cleaned up. Paul marveled at how much Curtis looked like his dad. They were both short, stocky men with thin, precisely trimmed mustaches and round, wire-rimmed glasses. The could have passed for brothers except that Chuck Krankovich's face was more lined and his hair, what was left of it was thin and gray where his son's was thick and blond. Additionally, due to a close encounter with a land mine near the end of the Vietnam War, the elder Krankovich walked with a pronounced limp and often used a cane.
Paul and Curtis pulled a couple of folding chairs out of the closet while Chuck sunk into a comfortable chair across from Brandon. Brandon sat down behind his desk and pushed the fax report across to Chuck while the younger men arranged their chairs and sat down.
“Well, well, well,” observed Chuck “This is quite a pair you folks got tangled up with.” He quickly scanned the report before handing the papers to his son. “Any idea what they were after?”
“It seems they were after Paul here,” answered Brandon.
“Yeah,” interjected Paul, “The one guy, Chakal, is the guy who hit Pastor Williams with the umbrella at the airport. When he was dying he made some comment about me being the one who was supposed to die today. What do you make of that?”
“I think I'd like to see that umbrella!” said Curtis, looking up from the report.
“What do mean?” asked Paul.
“Well, from what your wife said about how Pastor Williams died,” Curtis explained, “I sounds like there was some sort of fast acting neuro-toxin rather than an infectious agent involved. I see here in Chakal's rap sheet that he was involved with the KGB in England in the 1980's—”
“Of course!” interrupted Brandon, “I remember a KGB agent carried out a hit in London in the 1980's with an umbrella. He walked up behind his target on a busy street and injected him with ricin. Had a needle in the umbrella tip. Poor chap died shortly after that.”
“But not as fast as Pastor Williams!” said Curtis, “I'd sure like to see the postmortem test results. Do you remember who the doctor was who saw him?”
“It was a Dr. Li Po,” answered Brandon, “But I don't think you'll be able to find much out from him. The new privacy laws barely allowed him to let us know that Pastor Williams died, and we brought him in!”
Chuck Krankovich spoke up, “You forget, Brandon. I am Pastor William's attorney, or rather his estate's attorney. I'll contact the hospital tomorrow morning and see what I can find out. If nothing else, John Jr. and I can pay them a visit next week. In the meantime, we need to consider the future of our little church.”
“Right you are,” agreed Brandon, reaching for his copy of the Wildwood Baptist Church constitution. “And, since all the deacons of the church, meaning Chuck and I, are present, I'd like to call an impromptu deacon's meeting.”
“Agreed,” said Chuck, “And the first order of business, after we pray, should be, who is going to preach on Sunday?”
“Already taken care of. I figured John Jr. would be too caught up with funeral and family arrangements so I asked Paul earlier, if that's okay with you.”
“Fine, fine. Let's pray then.”
All four men bowed their heads as Chuck Krankovich led them in prayer.
“Amen!” said Brandon “Now, on to the second order of business then.
“Right, as much as I hate to say it, we need to form a pulpit committee. We also need to appoint an interim pastor,” said Chuck, “Which is why I asked you to look over the church constitution. Our constitution is very clear about the pulpit committee.
“Article VII, Section 1, Subsection A, Paragraph 3 states, '...When the office of the Senior Pastor is vacant the pastors and deacons of this church shall constitute a pulpit committee whose function shall be to search for and investigate suitable candidates for the office of Senior Pastor and to present them to the church for consideration...’
“Obviously that would be Brandon and I, the deacons. It also includes Paul here. Remember, as a missionary and ordained preacher sent out of the church he is, according to Article VIII, Section 6, Paragraph B, an assistant pastor. Consequently, he should be on the pulpit committee as well.”
“Huh,” said Paul, reaching for his uncle's copy of the constitution, “I never thought about that. Let me see.”
As Paul studied the document closely, Brandon asked Chuck about the interim pastor. “That,” said Chuck, “Is a little more difficult. Article VII, Section 1, Subsection B, Paragraph 1 says that the Associate Pastor '...shall serve temporarily in the office of Senior Pastor when that office is vacant until it can be filled.' Unfortunately, John Jr. was our Associate Pastor until he took the pastorate at Calvary Baptist out in Eagleton, Colorado, last summer.”
“Wouldn't that mean Paul would become our interim pastor then?” asked Curtis.
“Not necessarily,” answered his father, “Paul is only an assistant pastor. Subsection C deals with assistant pastors but says nothing about any of them becoming interim pastors in the event that we have no associate pastor.”
Brandon thought for a moment. “What about this,” he said, “Our May business meeting is coming up in about a week and a half. Why not announce Sunday morning that we will discuss the issue and recommend making Paul, who is the only ordained pastor in the church, our interim pastor. We could put it up to a vote.”
“Hey!” protested Paul, “Don't I get a say in all this?”
“Naah,” smiled Curtis, “Dad and Bro. Brandon have it all sorted out. You've just been volunteered!”
“Yeah, military style!”
The men talked for a few more minutes, making plans for Sunday's services and the coming business meeting. Ben interrupted them a few minutes later to let them know that Mrs. Krankovich was ready to go. She and Karen had cleaned up the dishes and the kitchen and had a good long chat as well. However, it was getting late and she knew that they had a lot to do in the morning.
After the Krankovich’s where gone, Paul and Karen headed Ben and Alex up the stairs to get them ready for bed. They prayed with them and then joined Brandon back downstairs in the kitchen. Sicillia had come out of hiding and was impatiently waiting for Brandon to fill her food dish.
“I'd almost forgotten what a good cook Frieda is,” began Karen as she poured herself a glass of milk. “We had a good talk while you men were talking shop. She talked with Janet Bartlett on the phone earlier this afternoon for awhile. Janet took it pretty hard, I guess. Seems she had an awful dream a couple nights ago. She was in sitting in the parking lot behind the church when a dark, foreboding presence seemed to almost overpower her. About the same time six men wearing black, hooded robes shuffled by caring a coffin between them while a bluish haze seeped silently out of the woods like a malignant mist. In spite of her fear, she followed them into the woods and watched as they set the coffin down in a small clearing. The hooded figures left and, unable to restrain her curiosity, she found herself hurrying up to and opening the coffin. Horrified she looked down and saw her father lying there.”
Karen paused to take a small plastic bag out of her purse. She selected out several vitamin pills for herself and Paul before putting the bag back into her purse.
Paul and Brandon waited patiently while Karen swallowed her vitamins. Paul held his vitamins