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attractive woman, nice, outgoing....” Just about the point where Tom received a blushing smile from Dylan, he erased it with more rambling. “Nice girl. Good heart. She’s also deeply involved here with....” Tom held out his hand toward Mick, “the Chief of Police. Mr. McCaffrey, meet Mick Owens, our Chief.”
    Dylan groaned and slumped.
    Mick stood up straight for the first time and extended his hand to Patrick. “Nice to meet you.”
    “Whoa.” Patrick looked up. “Remind me not to break the law in this town.”
    “Or the next,” Tom added. “And speaking of breaking the law, I have to work on those trial films I want in for Lars. Excuse me.” Tom waved and walked off toward the back of the store.
    “Well, I’ll see you tonight.” Just as Patrick started to leave, his eyes skimmed the return cart. “Wait.” He backtracked and pointed. “Is that the new horror flick?”
    Dylan looked. “Oh, yeah, just came back.” She lifted it. “Did you want to rent it?”
    “You know what?” Patrick said. “Yeah. I’ll watch it after the concert.”
    “Great.” Dylan smiled. “Any candy?”
    Mick moaned.
    “Um...sure. Chocolate covered peanuts.” Patrick pointed.
    Dylan snidely shifted her eyes to Mick then grabbed a box. “Four dollars.”
    Mick’s attention was caught. “Whoa. Wait. You didn’t ask for his video card.”
    “Don’t need to.” Dylan told him. “I know him.”
    “You know me and I have to show my card.” Mick argued.
    “You’re the worst customer we have.” Dylan returned to Patrick. “Four dollars, please.”
    “This isn’t right.” Mick lifted a finger. “And, busy with Lars’ films or not....” he took a step back, “I’m telling.” Turning, Mick walked in the direction Tom had gone.
    Patrick couldn’t help but laugh. “Can I ask you a question?”
    “Sure,” Dylan replied.
    “I’ve been in town a week,” Patrick said, “Everyone is going nuts, getting ready and making arrangements for someone named Lars. Who is this Lars guy?”
     
    * * *
    Andapa Village
    Madagascar, Africa
     
    Lars Rayburn’s shoulder-length hair was at one time considered his most attractive feature, but that was when Lars was under the age of forty. In his fifties, the long blonde hair had become stringy and grey, balding far back at the temples and crown. But Lars didn’t care. A thin man of average height, he never was vain, nor was he one to care what people thought of him. Perhaps that was what made Lars so likeable.
    In the humid heat, sweat formed heavily on his chest as Lars, wearing only a pair of tattered white pants, finished his examination of the five-year old boy. He lifted the child, adding a joke in the native language just before handing out candy that could only come from the United States of America.
    Pleased, the boy ran away, and the child’s mother stammered her gratitude after Lars told her the child would be just fine.
    Time for a quick break.
    He thought he caught a breeze through the window opening in the metal shed he generously called a clinic. Lars inhaled it, appreciating the momentary relief from the heat. More patients waited outside, as they always did. They traveled far for the free care he provided.
    One thing was true about Lars, and everyone knew it. He made his money from royalty checks he received from romance novels he penned under the name of Madeline Welsh. That was no secret.
    Outwardly and officially, Lars was a man, a doctor who fled the heaviness and evil of the United States to bask in the beautiful world of Madagascar. He donated his time, efforts, and knowledge to those who could not afford proper medical attention, thriving on the pleasure he received from helping others. He was nothing less than a saint to the natives and government of local communities.
    That was outwardly and officially.
    Unofficially, Lars was there for other reasons. An observer in Madagascar, a data, statistic and sample collector for the World Health