TAG

            “What is it?” Lieutenant Anderson asked as he approached a black man sitting on the curb, and a uniformed white male officer bending over him. The officer was writing in a small spiral notebook. Anderson looked around the area for clues to a crime, such as a car, broken glass, shell casings, or blood. The area was dirty, but clean of evidence.

            “It’s a simple robbery,” the uniform said, scratching his face with the back of his pen. “The watch officer left already. I don’t know why they called you, Lieutenant.”

            Anderson looked around the brightly-lit store area. The store was the last business in a dying neighborhood. It’s biggest seller was probably wine. It was an oasis of light, in a world of darkness and decay. It was the perfect place for a crime. The vacant eyes of broken windows reflected some of the store’s light from across the street in a huge abandoned warehouse. Next to that were an old clothing manufacturer and an ancient theater which had been closed for a century. These created a backdrop for stripped cars, trash, and sleeping homeless, littering the streets and doorways. The only things moving were blowing paper and rats. This area of North Chicago was a cemetery after 2:00 a.m..

            “The Watch Officer called me, said it was my field of expertise. Where’s the crime?” Anderson raised his hands.

            “Here,” he pointed at the black man sitting on the curb. The man raised his eyes, then flinched and looked away.

            “What crime?” Anderson asked suspiciously.

            “A 211. This man was robbed of something just over $3,500 dollars, he estimates.”

            “Three and a half grand?” Anderson scoffed. “Do you work here at the store?”

            “No man, I work at the car wash.”

            “And you’re telling me you made $3,500 drying cars at the car wash?” Anderson asked mockingly.

            “Yeah, I just cashed my paycheck,” he said, looking down and swallowing quickly. “The dude came out of the darkness and beat me half to death with a stick.”

            “A stick or a staff?” Anderson asked in dawning comprehension. “Was he a Tagger?”

            “He could have been,” the man admitted in a small voice.

            “He’s wasting your time, officer. There’s no crime here,” Anderson said, turning away.

            “But Lieutenant . . . ”

            “There is no crime here,” Lieutenant Anderson repeated. “Taggers only rob criminals. This man is probably a drug dealer. The Tagger should have killed his stupid butt. Get out of here before I call him back,” Anderson yelled. The man looked around at the surrounding darkness and ran. His footsteps disappeared into the blackness of the night.

            “Hey, Lieutenant, what the hell?” the patrol officer asked. “That’s not procedure.”

            “A Tagger, officer, he was attacked by a Tagger. Taggers only rob criminals. He was lucky, sometimes they beat them half to death before they rob them. They rob them and give the money to the poor, like Robin Hood. Taggers live like the scum of the Earth, impoverished and celibate. They rob these actors and give the money back to the poor people who need it; mothers who can’t feed their children, grandmothers who can’t pay their rent, homeless . . . that kind of thing. You’d better read some of those bulletins down at the precinct, officer. Taggers are your new best friends, so leave them alone. They are the reason you seldom see a crime.”

            “You seem to know an awful lot about them,” the officer paused at his car and flipped the book closed.

            “I should . . . my brother is one of them,” he said, surveying the darkened windows. He knew the Tagger was up there somewhere. They always stayed around in case the law wanted them. Was it Phillip? Taggers lived in the darkness. Like vampires they slept where they could during the day, and prowled the streets at night. Some ate in soup kitchens or missions to survive, but most ate what nature provided them, leaves, roots, berries.

            “Lieutenant, you seem to be in a hurry, but I’d appreciate it if you would explain what this is all about. I’m missing something here that seems important to my job.”

            Anderson turned and studied the officer for a moment, gauging his sincerity, then nodded. “Pull up by the store and buy me a coffee, large, cream no sugar, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

            Anderson pulled his unmarked sedan in beside the patrol unit. He took a seat at the white plastic table and waited for the officer’s return. He was young and eager, very similar to himself and Phillip, 15 long years ago.

            “So, can you tell me about these Taggers?” the young officer asked, sipping his coffee.

            “What’s your name?”

            “Baggio, Antonio Baggio.”

            “John Anderson,” they shook hands.

            “Let me start by telling you how it all started. For me it started when my brother joined them back in 2013. I’ve heard he became a master nine years ago. By all accounts the whole Tagger thing started in 2012, the year half the world destroyed itself. Scientists say that the world has tilted on its axis and it wobbles now. Maybe that’s screwing things up. Anyway, a lot of strange things happened to people back then. It has changed some irreparably.

            Stick fighting is nothing new. There were similar organizations dating clear back to the 20^th century. A “fight club” type of thing, nothing this elaborate. These Taggers; as in the game of tag, are different. They seem to live half in and half out of this world. There is something mystical and truly frightening about them. It’s more than people dressing up in costumes. I know, I have met many face to face. It’s like looking into the face of death itself.

            I am told there are mystical places in this world, some bright and some dark. You might have noticed a certain area where the sun is especially bright all the time, or a place where you are sure you can see people, but when you look they disappear. There are bright mystical places where there is usually a whist of fog, or the sun shines unusually bright. There are also opposing dark areas where it is always dark, dank, and musty, places where the sun never shines. They have just as much power, but it’s power of a different type. I’m told the old races understood and used these places. I personally don’t know what to think,” Anderson shrugged and sipped his coffee.

            “These are the areas inhabited by Taggers. For a while I sought out these areas when I tried to find my brother and talk him out of this foolishness. He was a cop too,” Anderson shrugged.

            “Was he?” Antonio was stunned.

            “Yeah, we joined the force together. That’s probably what makes it so disturbing. If it could happen to him . . . Well, let me start from the beginning.”

            The Burger Heaven was a run-down dirty restaurant originally built in the middle of the 20^th century. It had been remodeled in 1980, again fell into disrepair and was partially remodeled again in 2005. By 2012 it was a heath inspector’s nightmare. The employees of the Burger Barn never ate there, with the exception of Joshua Crane, the seventy-year-old bachelor who owned the restaurant. He had no choice, he was single and couldn’t cook. Workers came and went almost on a daily basis. At present there was one cook, a waitress, and Theo Bush, the dishwasher. When the dishes were washed, it was Theo’s job to mop the chipped and dirty floors of the Burger Heaven each night after it closed. He usually waited until all the customers were gone, but on this particular day he was in a hurry. Cindy Cole had agreed to meet him after work. There were approximately half a million people in Jackson, and Cindy Cole was the undisputed queen of the city. She had been the girl which most football players dated, but all Jackson boys fantasized about. This was especially true after she won the title of Miss Mississippi. Nobody made a date with Cindy Cole and showed up late. But, Theo was running late.

            Theo quickly sloshed foul-smelling water onto the ancient tiles and slapped the mop back and forth across the floor. He grunted in surprise when the mop suddenly stopped. He slid it forward and back once more, feeling the same loud, meaty smack. In horror he turned and looked at the man he had struck. He was a huge man with bushy sideburns and naturally curly hair surrounding a large round face. At the moment the man was blinking wildly and swaying on his chair. His upper lip was bleeding profusely. There was a darkening circle under his eye.

            “Oh God, I am so sorry,” Theo yelled, rushing over to help the man. The man didn’t want his help. He slapped repeatedly at Theo, then rested his face in his hands with his elbows on the table, groaning in pain.

            Old man Crane rushed from behind the counter, and bent over the beaten man.

            “Theo, what have you done?” Old man Crane asked breathlessly.

            “It was an accident,” Theo yelled, hovering around the wounded man.

            “Onth . . . Once is an accident,” the man said, spitting blood on the table. “Twice is an attack,” he stood and swept his food off the table. He lunged for the mop, but Theo jerked it away. The man looked around and found the open broom closet behind him. He spun and stumbled to the closet, pulling out a push broom. He stomped a foot down on the broom and unscrewed the handle, while glaring at Theo. Old man Crane tried to stop the man, but a piercing look of hatred stopped him in his track.

            Theo looked down at his mop in desperation, then slammed his own foot down, breaking the head off the mop. He held the mop handle gingerly, while the man advanced. Without warning the man lifted the handle and attacked. Theo blocked the downward blow and swung at the man’s head. The man ducked and jabbed the handle into Theo’s stomach. Theo backed up with a whoosh of expelled air. He felt himself slipping on the wet floor. As his feet went out from under him, the larger broom handle came down across his scull. The room exploded into blackness and stars. He awoke slowly, painfully aware of his bruises, and the wet floor beneath him. The foul-smelling water had soaked into his clothing. The man had stopped everyone from coming to his assistance. He held them at bay with the metal cap on the broom stick aimed at any face that moved.

            Theo started to sit up, but the butt end of the mop handle hit him in the face. He screamed and turned away. His face ran into the mop bucket and the broom handle banged into the bucket as he moved. In anger he swung blindly. His handled came into contact with the man’s arm, breaking the radius bone just above the wrist. The man screamed and backed away. There was a bulge in his arm from the compound fracture. Theo tried to get up, but slipped. His head slammed into the mop bucket, then into the floor. He felt a grating sound in the front of his head. He cried out again and rolled over on his hands and knees. He knew from the piercing, throbbing pain that something was wrong in his head. He would find out later that it was broken from ear to ear across his temples.

            He tried to stand and strike the man again, but several people grabbed him and pulled the handle from his hands. He glared as they both struggled. The man had intense hatred in his own eyes.

            “It takes three months for a broken arm to heal,” the man said between clenched teeth.

            “Three months is just about right. The Convention Center?” Theo asked, glaring his own hatred.

            “Sure. Midnight so there won’t be any witnesses.”

            “If you aren’t there, I will hunt you down and kill you like a dog,” Theo growled.

            “Same here, burger boy.”

            The police arrived. They questioned, they threatened, they lied. But in the end both men refused to press charges, claiming they had both slipped on the wet floor. Two ambulances took them to two different hospitals, to keep them from renewing their fall.

            Theo collected Workman’s Compensation as his shattered scull healed. Once he was able, he did some research into stick fighting. He was amazed to find that most nations had stick fighting of some sort. Filipino, Japanese, Asian Pacific Island, and many European nations had made it an art form. Theo checked a pile of books out of the library and began his studies. He settled on Filipino Kali and studied it intensively. When he was able to walk, he began practicing with the traditional bamboo pole. He soon realized that didn’t like the lightness of the bamboo, so he went to the home center and picked the largest, thickest handle he could find. It was a long handle made of a sturdy hickory wood which was easily cut down to a six-foot length. He began by cutting the rounded end off the handle and created a disk on the end similar to a hockey puck. He knew a flattened end would strike hard without breaking bones. With a soldiering iron, he burned the letter JM, for Jackson Mississippi, just below the hockey puck and a slash on the handle to signify the fight was a draw. If and when he won, he planned on adding an “X” to the symbols. He made the letters fancy so they looked like runes. Happy with his work, he polished the hickory handle until it took on a deep brown color, then began practicing with its greater weight. He liked this much better. He knew the handle would never break. Now he had to make sure it could never be taken from him. His house began taking accidental strikes. First the overhead light exploded, then the ceiling stucco, lamps, and furniture. Theo didn’t care about the house. It was a rental. But he needed more room. He emptied the garage and began practicing there.

            He practiced his exercises day after day. As the time for the fight grew closer, he began prowling the area where the fight would occur. He went out only at night, anticipating his impending victory. Taking the fire escape to a nearby roof, he sat four hours rocking and chanting, while lightly tapping his forehead with his staff.

            Although carrying a staff was legal, police looked at him suspiciously. To avoid detection he purchased a long brown cloak with a hood. It was actually a well-made Halloween costume. When he spotted police, he simply wrapped the staff in the folds of his cloak and pulled the hood up around his face. By stepping into the shadows, he could easily avoid detection.

            It was during one of these nightly excursions that he came upon two men beating another man to rob him. Without hesitation, Theo stepped forward and brutally beat both men senseless. His victory took four seconds. The victim thanked him and stumbled off with his wallet and his life intact. As Theo turned to leave, he suddenly realized that he should do to them what they were doing to the man. He took their weapons, drugs, and money. He ground the drugs into the pavement and swept the guns down the storm drain with his foot. When both men were thoroughly robbed, he blended into the shadows and simply disappeared, according to onlookers.

            A few minutes later, a homeless man felt a foot nudging him. He opened his eyes and saw a hooded figure standing over him. He gasped in horror, clutching his chest, but a human hand leaned down and handed him a wad of money.

            “Go home,” the voice said in a whisper. He nodded and watched as the figure disappeared into the shadows. His first worry was where to hide so much money. He next thought about how much alcohol or meth he could buy with the money in his hand. A vision of the ungodly face returned to his shattered mind, then a vision of Charles Dickens Christmas Past flashed into his eroded memory. Maybe he should do what he was told. Stumbling to his feet, he made his way to the nearest hotel and cleaned up, before taking the long bus ride home.

            As Theo sat in his home, adding a 2X to the JM/ carved into his fighting staff, he stopped and looked around himself. He suddenly realized how much his life had changed, and how little he cared about what had once been important to him. He had not turned on his TV for six days. Single people used the TV as a companion. A TV provided life, noise, and movement to an otherwise lonely existence. But for some reason he no longer needed a TV in his life. He also thought about his job differently. He had no intention of returning to the Burger Heaven. A man with a job was a man who could be found. He was going to disappear. America and law enforcement had forgotten that it was no crime to live anonymously. People were actually arrested for not providing proof of identity. Somehow America had slipped into a communistic, atheistic lifestyle. A godless existence demanding papers, permits, and passes. Over the years this had come to be considered normal. There were no constitutional laws against being whom a person wanted to be. There was no law against being nobody. He was about to become a nobody . . . after the fight in two days. The combination of fear and anticipation of the fight were intense. He had never lived so strongly as he was at this moment. Two more days.

            Theo grew better at using the shadows to hide himself. He grew adept at stalking, like any good hunter could. He froze and thought of blackness, while eyes were turned in his direction, then moved when they looked away. He used the wind, passers by, and traffic to hide his movements. He knew that the eye noticed movement more than anything else. Not only did he move differently, but he began feeling differently. He was more stealthy, more powerful in his own mind.

            Theo came upon a drug deal by accident. He struck and robbed the drug dealer before he was even seen. The buyer swore he had seen death strike the man down. A few hours later a homeless woman was told to go home. By morning there were five more robberies and five more recipients of money. The following day there were three. Word was spreading on the streets. Word of the crimes, and word of the upcoming fight.

            By the time that Theo met the other man for the rematch, there were a thousand people waiting in the confines of the courtyard. A little frightened by the crowd, Theo sat in the nearby shadows, chanting and relaxing until the other man appeared. As Theo stood and stepped into the light, a thousand people applauded his appearance. The other man looked around in confusion, then blinked at Theo as he approached.

            “You seem to have an audience,” the man snarled.

            “People like a winner,” Theo said with confidence. But he didn’t feel as confident as he tried to look. He had forgotten how big and burley the other man was. If anything, he was even bigger and shaggier than the last time that Theo had seen him. The other man still had a broom handle like that from the Burger Heaven. He spun it in his hands as he stepped closer to Theo. Theo spun his staff over and under his arm three times, then once around his neck. He stopped in a pose of attack, with the staff held under his arm, locked in place by his armpit and thumb, with his fingers raised and pointing at the man’s face. The man blinked and stepped back.

            “Ok,” the man said. “You’ve been practicing.”

            “Every waking minute of my life,” Theo said. “We can put off the fight if you wish.”

            “No,” the man said and slashed down with the handle. Theo brought the butt end of his own staff forward and gave the man’s handle a resounding smack. The man tried to strike again, but the forward end of Theo’s staff struck it up and aside. The man stepped back and shook his hand. The vibration was painful. Gathering himself for a sudden attack, the man took a deep breath and spun the stick one way and the other. The air was filled with the sound of his stick screaming through the air and striking Theo’s staff. Theo blocked each swing of the stick easily, then struck the man three times. He first brought his staff down across the man’s left shoulder, then struck his right hip with the opposite end, and the top of his scull with the butt end. The man dropped like an ox struck by an axe. Theo stepped back and smacked the butt end of his staff down on the cement. Several onlookers rushed over to assist the fallen man. He was soon helped to a sitting position.

            “Three more months?” Theo asked.

            “I think so,” the man groaned with his hand on his head. “I need to practice . . . a lot”

            “No problem. But let’s make it another city . . . say, New Orleans? I’m tired of this one.”

            “Sure. I’ll be there,” he said. “City park golf course at midnight. It’s right on the freeway.”

            “Can I come too?” A young man asked.

            “What?” Theo was surprised and a little angry.

            “I want to come along. I want to study with you,” the man said eagerly.

            “Study? This isn’t a damned school,” Theo said.

            “Please. My brother was just killed in a drive-by. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to be normal. I want to do what you’ve been doing.”

            “What’s he been doing?” the burley man asked as they helped him to his feet.

            “It’s nothing,” Theo scoffed.

            “Yeah, right,” the young man said. “Criminals are scared to death of him. They say he just appears and beats them to death. He’s become a superhero. He has the whole town running scared.”

            “That’s you?” the other man said thoughtfully. “Must be the cape.”

            “It hides a six-foot staff and my face,” Theo shook the hood.

            “I’ll get me one. Then the two of us will be striking the fear of God into them. But I’m still kicking your butt.”

            “It will be the three of us,” the young man reminded hopefully.

            “Four,” another voice said from the crowd.

            “Whatever,” Theo said, waving over his head. “If you show up, you can fight. Just don’t bother me until then,” he waved and disappeared into the darkness. “And don’t waste my time unless you’ve been training,” his voice echoed from the darkness.

            Theo left the freeway on the North side, crossed a street, and knelt at the edge of a pristine pond on the golf course. He studied it for a moment. The lights of the city were reflecting off the low-flying clouds. The pond was one of many on the golf course. Not a breath of wind furrowed its mirror-like surface. Deciding it was gator free, Theo stripped and bathed. It was 10:00 p.m. and the traffic on the freeway was intense. Its background roar blended with the crickets and frogs. The grass was wet with dew. The air smelled like ocean air. Fireflies blinked here and there all across the golf course. The entire golf course was surrounded by houses. He knew that Lake Pontchartrain was only two miles north. He had been living near it and fishing there just a few hours before.

            Theo liked to live off the land if possible. In the folds of his robe were many pockets containing fishing tackle, spices, a light plastic cape in case of rain, and a few niceties such as salt, tea, and eating utensils. If he needed to cook food, he simply found a can or container, washed it out and used it. There had been many times when he went to sleep with only a few dandelion greens, rose hips, or berries in his stomach. He was lean and strong. His eyes were sunken into his face and his cheeks were hollow. Even more than before, he looked like death to his victims.

            Theo slept with his cloak around him, with his back to a wall or tree. In the rain he used the thin waterproof cape. When it became cold he would find clothes where he could. So far that had not been necessary. He wore a tee shirt and sweat pants beneath his robes, which he washed as necessary.

            Theo sat with his staff grounded before him, rocking gently and chanting. He was in a dreamlike state similar to sleep. He grew aware of voices talking in a low tone. His eyes flew open. Two young men in hoodies with sticks strode by in front of him, unaware of his presence. They were standing against the lights of the city and easy to spot. He remained motionless until they moved off, then closed his eyes and lowered his face again. Once again he started the low “ma, ma, ma” which he had been chanting. He paused as three more men passed in the darkness. Theo looked over at the first two boys and found they had started a fire at the edge of the golf course. It was a welcoming sight. Theo stood and strode over to the pond. He took a collapsible aluminum cup from an inside pocket, flicked it open and dipped water from the pond, before making his way to the fire. Everyone froze as he stepped forward and placed the cup by the fire.

            “Good evening, Master,” one boy said with a bow. The other’s quickly followed his lead. Theo was about to correct them, his name was not master, but the more he thought about it the more he decided it was appropriate. He nodded silently to each and warmed his hands at the fire. When his water boiled he took a tea bag from an inner pocket and dropped it into the water. He sipped his tea slowly, while the conversation returned to normal.

            “There are hundreds in Jackson now,” a boy whispered. “They are all wearing hoodies. Somebody decided that only a master should wear a robe.”

            “That’s a very good idea,” Theo agreed. “You say there are hundreds?”

            “Yeah, men and women. Some fight with staffs, others with canes or short sticks in the European style. There has only been one casualty so far . . . a Tagger. Somebody caught him robbing a store so three others got together and beat him to death. There haven’t been any more crimes since then, master.”

            “Good. Spread the word, prey only on the criminals. Keep nothing, give it all to the people who need it. Nature will provide all we need. If you are still hungry, go to a soup kitchen or mission. They will feed you. If a Tagger dies, take care of his body yourself. We will live and die anonymously.”

            “Yeah,” one boy said to the other.

            “Will you ever go home, Master?”

            Theo looked at the middle-aged man who had asked the question. “I have no home. I may build one some day, but I have lived more in the past few months than I have ever lived before. There is so much going on around us that we miss. Three weeks ago I heard two hummingbirds fighting . . . or mating, I’m not sure which. I’ve heard alligators groaning in the darkness. I’ve seen gas rise up from swamps and burn like the angel of death, then disappear forever. I’ve heard a Lynx scream like a woman being stabbed to death. It made my hair stand on end. I’ve also listened to the wind whispering through a pine tree for the first time in my life. Have you ever listened to the varied calls of birds? I never knew there were so many birds in this world. I’ve never bothered to wake early and listen to them welcoming the sun each morning. This morning I watched a doe with two fawns come down and drink from a pond not more than fifteen feet from me. They took their time and left, completely unaware of my presence. Did you know that a doe talks to her fawns?”

            Everyone shook their heads.

            “They do. They have their very own language of grunts and squeals. I am more a part of this world than any man since our forefathers back in the 1600's. All through history this world has been an evil place because of men, and it will take men like us to fix it. We will start here in America, but I am hoping the principles will spread to every country. There has been no time in history when man was truly safe. But still he manages to be happy. Like the Monks of the old country, we can find contentment in our work. But if anyone wishes to quit, let him. There is no crime in wanting a warm home and loving family.”

            “I’m going to write this down,” another man said. Theo looked at him and nodded.

            “Tell them to make the world a safe place to live. Tell them to remain chaste, not because sex is bad, but because the desire for sex can overpower morals or ethics. I know, that’s what got me into this mess. Tell them to remain poor, because a man without property covets nothing. Rob the robbers and the scum, and help those who need it even at the risk of their own lives. For each of us who falls, six will take his place. For each of us who needs assistance, six will come to his aid. If it takes an army to defeat evil, assemble an army.”

            “Great speech,” the burley man said from over his shoulder. Theo smiled and stood, collapsing his cup and putting it back into his pocket.

            “Master . . . ” Theo left it an unanswered question.

            “Robert,” the burley man said with a smile. He wore the exact same robe as Theo. Theo smiled and fingered the warm cloak on Robert. “We may start a new fad.”

            “Undoubtedly. Shall we dance?”

            Theo stepped back and bowed. He struck as he began to straightening, but Robert blocked his stroke. Robert aimed at Theo’s knee and shoulder. Theo barely blocked each move.

            “Very good,” Theo said warmly. “Japanese?”

            “Yes. Very efficient, if I do say so myself.”

            “Maybe,” Theo said before striking again. He swung left and right seven times, then brought the butt up for a crotch stroke. Robert blocked each blow efficiently, then struck down and across the left side of Theo’s neck. The stick struck Theo and sent him rolling across the grass. 

            “One,” Robert said, grounding the end of his staff. “Best two out of three?”

            “First blood,” Theo amended. He held up a hand, holding off Robert for a slow count of one hundred. He did not want to strike in anger. Robert nodded and stepped back. When the count ended Theo tapped the ground three times with the staff and attacked. Robert blocked him easily, too easily.

            “This is going to be fun,” Theo smiled.

            “Don’t bet on it, burger boy.” The fight went on and on, almost to the point of monotony. Finally, Robert lunged and rapped Theo on the scull. Theo swung five more time, then tried to get Robert with a butt stroke. Robert blinked and held up a hand.

            “First blood,” he reminded gently, pointing at Theo’s face.

            “Whaaa . . . ” Theo put a hand to his head and found it red. “Well I’ll be darned. Congratulations, Robert. A damn good fight.”

            “Same to you, Theo. Now what’s this nonsense burned into your staff?”

            “Well the hockey puck is just decoration, but the rest is a record . . . ”

            They sat by the fire and Theo explained. It wasn’t long before a young man appeared with a piece of wire fence. Robert patiently burned the record of his victories into his staff. Apparently he had been a very busy man over the past month. They spent the rest of the night judging fights between the younger members of the group. They appointed fifteen new masters. It was a festive and eventual night. The next meeting was set for three months away in Dallas. The meeting was set for Bluebonnet Lake, off Interstate 30 near the airport. Seven hundred people showed up for that fight.

            Anderson squashed his coffee cup and tossed it into the trash can.

            “By 2013 there were more than seventeen thousand known Taggers, and many more who were not known. By 2015 crime rate had dropped by more than 93 percent. Most of the remaining crimes were crimes of passion, usually involving a domestic dispute. The face of the world had been changed. There was almost no crime, less hunger, and more freedom. The Taggers confidently predicted that one day they would be strong enough to prevent wars. Perhaps they will.”

            “So how did your brother get caught up in this?” Antonio asked as he finished his coffee.

            “We both joined the force together. We’d been on the force 17 months. He responded to a 245 call, assault with a deadly weapon. As it turned out it was a concentual fight between Taggers, all young members of the sect. Since there is no crime against Tagging, he simply watched. He talked to the group after the contest. Somewhere between responding and leaving, he got hooked. He said goodbye and walked out on me and the force a week later.”

            “My God,” Antonio whispered.

            “I tried to find him. For a while I rousted any man wearing a robe. I got into trouble for that and I stared into the face of death . . . I don’t know how many times. I still hope . . . If you go by my house you will find my garden hose poked through the fence, trickling water on the sidewalk. There is a can hanging on the outside of the fence, and a mailbox with stocked with food in a ziplock bag. I replace it as often as necessary, usually once a day. I am the Spam and egg man. I pass out a can of Spam, a tea bag, and two eggs, with a pinch of salt in the bag. It’s there for whoever needs it. Sometimes they stop by three times a day. That’s a lot of Spam. You might want to consider doing the same thing yourself.”

            “I live in a second story condo,” Antonio shrugged.

            “I need to go now,” Anderson said, climbing to his feet. “This is too damn painful.”

            “Thanks, Lieutenant,” the officer said quietly. Anderson paused at the car and looked off toward the darkened warehouse. On the second floor a hooded figure stepped into the light, nodded, and slowly raised a hidden hand. He remained for a moment, then stepped back out of sight. Anderson clutched at the top of the car as he stared at his brother, before slamming the door and driving off.