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important to tell you. This is not your normal Kaleidoscope…”
    The other policeman stepped over. “This man bothering you, sir?”
    “No officer. Not exactly.” Harold had an urge to hide the ’scope behind his back, but that would incite undue suspicion. “I dropped this, and he picked it up.” He held up the ’scope.
    The officer nodded, gesturing at the vagrant. “Move along, you know the rules. These people can help, so you don’t have to sleep outdoors.” He handed over a pre-printed slip of paper that disappeared inside a coverall pocket, and left Harold standing toe to toe with the guy while he assisted the others.
    “I’m trusting you.” A gush of stale breath curled Harold’s nose hairs. “It’s up to you now!” He leaned over to gather up his things to keep ahead of the officer’s commands to move along.
    Cool damp from the dewy grass penetrated through Harold’s thin trouser socks. The officers were making short work of clearing the area and in moments, he was standing alone. He tossed the greasy bag into a nearby trash bin, slid the ’scope into his breast pocket, and hurried across the park. “What a kook,” he muttered under his breath. “At least the city got my message about cleaning up the park. It’s about time.”

Chapter Five
    Walter huddled inside a carrel. The librarian had warned him, as she did every time he arrived, not to camp out in the stacks. As always, he’d grunted his assurance he’d be gone before closing. Flipping the ancient microfiche machine, he leaned in, then back. His vision was getting so bad, soon he’d no longer be able to see the print to read the newspaper articles at all. Just as well.
    At twenty minutes to five, Walter switched off the machine, returned the plastic cylinder to the circulation desk, and ambled over to the bus stop. Checking left and right, he made sure he wasn’t being followed as the airbrakes sounded and the bus door swooshed open.
    So far, the only thing that had gone right that week was successfully turning over the Kaleidoscope. Even though the handoff hadn’t gone as well as he’d planned, it was in the proper hands. Safe hands. Now he would have to find a way to communicate its import without tipping off the wrong people. With the cops nearby and the haste he’d had to turn it over, there had been no time to explain. Somehow, he had to find a way to get in touch with the ’scope’s new guardian before it was too late.
    Walter watched the buildings slide by, his own face reflected in the shop windows, peering out at him from the bus. The beard would have to go. The hair color would need to be changed. Again.
    After decades of trial and error, research, and fine-tuning, he was almost hopeful that before he died, he would be able to prove his innocence now that the work was finished.
    Unless they caught up with him first.
    At the church, he didn’t go inside right away, but used the last hour or so of daylight to work in the small vegetable garden Father Tucker had let him plant. For two summers, the kitchen that cooked meals for him, the priest and any visiting dignitaries, as well as the community free meals on Wednesdays, had enjoyed tomatoes that climbed cone trellises, radishes, squash and fingerling carrots he’d coaxed from the twelve by twelve foot allotment. From his dank, dark room, Walter cherished being outside, even if the LA basin smog filtered the sun’s rays on days the winds were stagnant.
    He yanked up a few weeds and tossed them in the compost, then went inside the small greenhouse that was more of a lean-to against the parking lot wall. He’d harvested seeds from the past year’s crops, and, added to his reserve of purchased and donated seeds, he had enough to plant an area two to three times larger than the current bed. His long-term plan had been to find someone willing to allow access to land behind their home or in a vacant city lot, but with the church’s closing, he didn’t know where he was