The Treehouse E-Book

Steven Meyers

• Herausgeber: Spines
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In the gray hues of Seattle, two men, Steven and Scott, are locked in a perilous journey beyond the law's reach. Entangled in a world of bank heists and fleeting loyalties, they chase redemption in a society relentless in pursuit. Amid adrenaline-fueled escapades and moral dilemmas, their kinship deepens, culminating in an unexpected bond. The tale traces their odyssey against the unforgiving backdrop of the law, culminating in the tragic end of Hollywood, a man who lived and died on his own terms, leaving a legacy entwined with the lives he touched.

Leseprobe

Steven Meyers

The Treehouse

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2025 by Steven Meyers

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by Spines

ISBN: 979-8-89950-986-5

THE TREEHOUSE

THE TRUE STORY OF HOLLYWOOD THE BANK ROBBER

STEVEN MEYERS

CONTENTS

The Treehouse

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

THE TREEHOUSE

ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT WRITTEN BY STEVEN MEYERS

“Almost every criminal is subject to a failure of Will and reasoning power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant when prudence and caution are most essential.

It was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and failure of will power attacked man like a disease…”

Dostoyevsky

PROLOGUE

…his compound was rare and singular and many came to this Northwest forest in all seasons of the year to give hand in the undertakings of his ventures and in the surmising of his ways. And out of this undefiled forest came this dwelling, and through the passing of many seasons and years it grew elementally bold and courageous, like some courier in haste imported from the unfailing arms of nature. A vessel alive unto itself and to all others, floating high under the fickle clouds and swaying in rhythm to the giant trees it became a part and partial thereof. An argosy marooned around and about seven giant cedar trees and with walkways meandering out from the dwelling proper into and throughout the forest toward the hidden sanctuaries where lay the forest’s power and secret. It was refuge for the many vagrant fauna of the forest, knowing this shelter was but a part of the all that they themselves were most familiar. Flying squirrels audaciously invaded the warm interior for their morning repast and for jocular misdeeds and misdemeanors and thought naught of how this marvel came to be or why, only that it was. Throughout the summers hummingbirds gathered, teasing the hanging flora of its nectar like tribal agents in conveyance from blossom to blossom, their sustenance which was always there and nowhere else found in this forest. And through the falling mist of dawn the vanquished ravens stalked the windless sky over this cedar dwelling, and their cawing was like a chorus of untoward scryers or marauding migrants in quest of a territory unknown to all save themselves. And as to its ways, it was seen as a graven shelter for the soul and as hospice for wayfarers from the hazards of the failing ways of the world, a home that mirrored little of the world outside, for it was a world like no other but was a world of its own making…

It is propheted and scribed in time that the forces of chance and fate are but the preoccupations of men engaged in daring and rash undertakings, and it was in this signature that he built his treehouse, and in like manner he ventured forward and traveled his trailsmarking his untoward deeds of which became his self-made undoing. And as it was with him, so shall it be told in this story.

CHAPTER1

“Curse on the man who took the cruel bonds from off my legs, as I lay in the field. He stole me from death and saved me, No kindly service. Had I died then I would not be so burdensome to friends.”

Sophocles

Thanksgiving Eve…November 27, 1996…Seattle

Our van came to a skidding and abrupt thumping crash. It was lodged against a tree, spinning its wheels and rutting the front lawn of a neighborhood house. The wheels whined like the screech of diving seagulls before the engine stressed to a stop. The wiper blades continued back and forth with their rhythmical drone. The hissing of the scanner, except for the interrupting voices of the dispatch, had become the carrier of my fate…voices, voices, always the same voices! I somehow lifted my blood-smeared body and looked forward to see the driver’s door open with Scott gone. He was gone…chaotic flashes of my life were appearing in my mind—gone, gone, all was gone! A dark, rain-soaked fir limb was blanketing the windshield; the wiper blades were still futilely swishing back and forth. Metallic patterns of rain sounded like hollow chimes drumming upon the van. The rain fell in cold, steely blades, and a howling wind groaned like a furious courier of fate. To my right, the sliding side door was still open from Scott’s last attempt at stopping the pursuing onslaught and barrage of gunfire coming from the Seattle Police (SPD) and FBI. They had hit their target.

Mark lay face down amidst a copious pile of money. Blood, smoke, and guns littered the interior of the van. His 240-pound body was motionless and mute. A body filled with years of bourbon, cigarettes, and drugs. After the last several days of his anxious apprehension, trying to convince himself that such a fate as this could never happen, he now lay inert and perhaps breathless. I glanced and saw blood pooled abstractly upon his torso and streaks of warm red across the mound of money. The image of this scene was reminiscent of a dark medieval painting, something Hieronymus Bosch would have conjured up for one of his ghoulish portrayals of man entering hell. His six-foot-five-inch body resembled an inert, stretched-out python—a motionless mass succumbed to the waiting hands of the law.

Still crouched and swaying on my knees, my left arm hanging and flopping limply from side to side, I tried futilely to balance myself. My right hand was clawed and tightly closed, sinew and bloody flesh protruded from my lower right arm. Both arms had been shot and left inoperable. My blood spilled over the chaos of scattered hundred-dollar bills everywhere about me. I was driven into a cold sense of abandon, like a hammer slamming upon an unforgiving anvil. All that I was had now been altered; all was over. Death seemed so natural now.

Numbness and confusion left me swimming in a sea of uncertainty. The smell of cold rain and fir trees began tempting my senses; strange thoughts of survival began to caress me even in this moment of death. Somehow, somehow, it was all so confusing, though. I could hear the echoes of faraway staccato sounds. There was still gunfire, but fading. The scanner was hissing with interrupted breaks of calls from the police dispatch. People yelling, all so far, far away, as if from a deep pit where sounds are scattered and hollow and their origin never discerned. Frantic voices echoing from all directions; muted and muffled voices that kept repeating incoherently. My vision became filmy and glassy from the billowing smoke-filled van. Light was suddenly all around me, beautiful streams of light piercing through the van—the blood, the blood, and pain from defeat. We were as two men entombed in the bowels of this van, with the relic of blood-smeared money left to us as our final symbol of demise.

Nothing could prepare for such encounters that befell us on that stormy night. All was over in a final, fleeting moment that resulted from four years of unencumbered success. All our planning and preparation in the end was for naught. Mistakes in the heat of the moment and bad tactical decisions led to this. We had become over confident from our successes and towards our opponents—the SPD and FBI. We had challenged ourselves to one last operation and had lost.

Lost dearly too. For four years we hammered the system and now it was their day of glory!

The stench of gunpowder and blood was looming like a cloud with the eyes of death. Often in such futile and defeated moments as this one finds a last surge of will to survive and fight for equal footing—but that wasn’t to be tonight. Death seemed to be calling with open arms, and I was more than willing to embrace its awaiting smile. The moments seemed timeless and strangely alien in this chaos of defeat.

I could hear faraway voices and noises encroaching ever closer. The approaching garrison of officers was on its way; they had finally captured their long-awaited prey; all but one, that is, that being Hollywood himself. Mark and I were now in their harsh and cold world of retribution. Their payback was overdue.

Through the open sliding door, the winds lifted the loose bills, and the moaning voice of rain slashed against my face. Mark was ever silent, fixed to his position. The harsh shrill from a far distant voice yelled out:

“There goes one…on the driver’s side…shoot him before he gets away…shoot his ass!” Harried voices were screaming through the stubborn winds, it seemed to me from all directions. Car lights were streaking through the darkness of the night. The helicopter overhead panned the area with its strobe, and its thumping whir felt like a flat, oppressive weight. Then the gunfire…pop pop pop…pop! They were firing at Hollywood—he was on the run. He was alone now with the cold, furious night as his protector. Will he make it out this time against the fury of gunfire and pursuing police on his heels? If anyone could, it would be Hollywood! Splashing footsteps running and passing close by, quickly fading in pursuit of Hollywood. This brittle night would favor Hollywood above the police; Hollywood knew the neighborhoods well, well enough to evade his pursuers and return himself back into Scott. Our fate was sealed—his was not. Suddenly, an officer outside the van yelled out with a commanding threat:

“Out of the van…get out of the fucking van…now mother fucker!”

I hesitated and looked sideways at Mark, who was still motionless. A corpse? I felt paralyzed in the moment—This can’t be happening, not to me, not after so much! I glanced through the side door onto the wet, black street—the cold elements awaited me.

“Out of the mother fucking van…on the ground…NOW!”

“I have two here!” he yelled again! “Out of the van…Down on the ground you mother fuckers…Now!”

I clambered out, bracing my left arm, and fell to my knees. From my side, I could see Mark sliding roughly out the door, almost slithering to the ground in a helpless and somewhat comical movement. He fell helplessly face down on the cold, wet asphalt. He again was silent and motionless, like some other life force was motioning him around. He seemed but a heavy, torpid carcass awaiting his fate. He was alive—but for how long?

“You, lie flat on the ground…hands behind your back!” he commanded, while waving his shotgun at me. “Now…Do It Now Mother Fucker…Now!”

Still perched on my knees and unable to maneuver myself into a lying position, I stared down the approaching Officer with his shotgun aimed at me and with his dog by his side.

“Flat on the ground…hands behind your back…Do It Now…Now Mother Fucker!”

“Shoot me, shoot me and finish what you started!” I cried out, challenging him. What did it matter to me, I no longer had any grip on my life, a failing purpose…meaningless beyond repair! It seemed in that moment so ludicrous that he not finish-off what he and the others had begun only moments ago. They opened on us with the barrage of bullets shooting aimlessly into the van to kill, and now, when faced man to man, he wouldn’t execute what he truly desired. If I would have had my arms, I would have swung forward motioning to shoot!

“The courts will finish you off…now get on the ground!”

“Chill out, man!” I shouted, “It’s over, calm the fuck down…you shot both my arms. I can’t get to the ground without arms!”

With Rin Tin Tin’s muzzle near my face and the detective sidling up to my side, I leaned forward and struck the asphalt hard on my right side. I turned my body face down onto the cold, wet street.

Courts he says, as I began thinking to myself. The courts I knew little about, but what little I did know I didn’t like. Gangsters and con men running that show, the whole lousy lot of them! I knew I was in a whole hell of a lot of hurt once I fall into their judicial pit of darkness.

“Hands behind your back!” he ordered.

“I can’t move my arms, don’t you fucking understand!”

“I have this one down…I need assistance over here!” he yelled to one of his partners. I could now see clearly the one proud shooter. He was a stocky, somewhat overweight, and impressive-looking man, full of energy and intent, no doubt from the success of this night. He looked strangely albino with curly white hair and pale-pinkish skin. His eyes were cobalt and hollow. He seemed wiry and edgy, like on meth or something. His focus was cold and sharpened like the breath of a killer. He began, with caution and edginess, walking around me with Beethoven, his dog (as I heard the albino call out his name in giving orders), fanning his shotgun over me. He was jittery and crazed from the blood of the night. He stood above me like a triumphant warrior displaying his kill. Beethoven stayed close to my side with his muzzle sizing me up. His ambush had achieved its purpose—two down and still one to kill or apprehend. Officer Mike Magan of the SPD Bank Robbery Task Force, as I would later discover, was the man who changed the course of my life.

Another Officer came running up and quickly twisted my arms and cuffed me from behind.

He moved to Mark and completed the containment.

“We have both contained…call the ambulance!” he ordered. “Two down with gunshot wounds…one is unconscious, it might be critical!” Officer Magan confirmed, yelling toward the patrol car.

I turned my head to look back at the van. Lights were everywhere, gleaming through the dark night. The helicopter was still overhead, panning the contained area with strobes of light. Police lights, flash lights, car lights, and the reflection of lights bouncing off the wet, black macadam. I looked over into the open side door of the van and was momentarily shuttled into a strange and bizarre reverie. Obviously, trauma and pain induced. It was as if there were halos of light around the mountain of money. Laser-like beams of light were bursting through the van and mixing with the cloud of smoke, appearing like some primitive dance in the making. Particles were fluttering and swirling with an incredible solemn beauty. I began to hear the most beautiful music, music from another world—a choir of angelic voices singing some unknown Aria with layers and layers of voices and harmonics. It was as if I felt love for the first time ever. I lay prone in just such a state, transported away from the gore and chaos surrounding me. But like a sudden thunderclap, the posted albino, Officer Magan, broke my trance.

“What’s it feel like to be left behind by your partner and end up taking the rap for everything, good friend, uh?” the albino chortled, while still standing over me.

How could I respond to such a cliché comment as that? Scott bailed out on his terms. As for friends…well, somehow I always imagined this exact scene. In the end, there are no rules in this game. One learns never to assume or expect a perfect outcome. A cold reality. Leaving us gunshot in the residue of this reality wasn’t the perfect outcome, but then what should he have done? Scott would never surrender himself to the life we now face. If he hadn’t been shot, it would be difficult for them to catch him; he’s in too good of shape for the likes of what I see here. Scott’s not the type to accept their options. In the end, they’ll have to face him with his options. Knowing him as I do, he’ll somehow win whatever final standoff there may be.

More and more vehicles were arriving. Cops everywhere, scattering throughout the neighborhood. Whomp whomp whomp whomp…the helicopter overhead was still making its flybys. Exiting hastily from an unmarked car was a tall, lanky young man in his early thirties, with lively, wide-open eyes, curly, short hair, and wearing a sky-blue rain jacket with FBI inscribed in bold letters across the back. The man had finally arrived—he looked the part, too! Even in my state, I immediately recognized him. Scott and I had for some time been acquainted with him, unbeknownst to him. He had been under our surveillance around a year ago.

He came running towards me with something waving in his hand.

“I’m Special FBI Agent Shawn Johnson, are you Hollywood? Which one of these two men are you?” he asked, stooping down by my side, all wide-eyed and excited, showing me a poster. “Have you seen this poster before?” With a broad smile spread across his face, he waved a Wanted

Poster of two male renderings for me to make a comment on. His excitement was almost contagious.

He had long last met up with at least one of the men he had been seeking for over four years. “No, I’m not Hollywood. It looks like he got away again, uh? I’ve never seen your poster before.”

“Who are they?” Agent Johnson coaxed.

“No idea, something you guys made up, I guess!” Here I was—blood soaked, wet and cold, my mind swirling in all directions and having no discernable mental stability about me and he’s asking me these fucking senseless questions! God, what a crew of professionals that protect our streets, no wonder our successes over the years were as it was.

“Who are you, what’s your name?”

“Steve,” I said reluctantly.

“Last name too!”

“Meyers.”

Johnson then began speaking nervously to the albino. Something about the ambulance was mumbled. They both stood over me now with an air of assurance and achievement. They had Mark and me, albeit their real concern was Hollywood. The failure of not having killed or captured their Hollywood was looming heavily upon their faces. Their night had only just begun. There was little chance of them returning home to enjoy America’s great turkey dinner, not with Hollywood on the loose!

I could hear the sound of a siren approaching now. Again, the helicopter returned, panning its light over me, with a harsh, blinding light and a downdraft pressing upon my cold, mutilated body.

“Meyers, what’s Hollywood’s name?” Johnson shouted out.

“No idea,” I said, pausing in slow motion.

“No idea, uh! Whose guns are these, are they yours?”

“Not mine,” I mumbled, “you’ll have to trace them, I guess!”

“Yeah, yeah, but it could take time and we need to avoid anyone else from getting hurt. The sooner we know his name the easier it will be to keep anyone from getting hurt!” Johnson continued, like a rabid investigator in charge now.

“You have the means to get the names you want.” I slowly remarked.

“What about Portland, did you guys rob those banks in Portland?”

“What banks, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He was definitely eager to grab as much information as possible from me, knowing my vulnerability, as I lay damaged across the cold, wet street. The bastards haven’t even mirandized me, and still they go on with their questions.

Johnson’s mood was beginning to grow on me, though. A good guy somehow. Probably just using the good cop ploy on me, though. He seemed so elated and inspired. I guess after four years of failures, he deserved this moment of elation. He kept turning from me to the albino and then hurrying away to another car and back to me again, always with a sort of smirk on his face, a kind of neophyte and nerdish smile. Could these really be the guys who caught us? I always imagined a much more formidable force of men. They seemed nearly kids to me—naïve and somehow immature. A crew of men working for a system run amok, in a country that lost its heart and soul decades ago, with zealously uber-liberals running things into the ground like a contagious virus.

“Hey Meyers, what do you think about this? Maybe when this is all over, we can work together on making a film!”

“Say what?”

“A film, we could collaborate together and make a film!” he proudly repeated. “Yeah, whatever…” I mumbled, not believing what I was hearing. This sudden spurt of inspiration from an FBI agent who just had us shot up, Hollywood running astray out there somewhere, Mark probably dying, and me so wearily incoherent, seemed totally out of place and utterly surreal. He must have been dreaming of this moment for a long time, but a film! This had become an occupational play for him, a performance to fulfill a role and hopefully climb the bureaucratic ladder to success. I guess he deserved this day of glory with all its blood and gore, though; he had definitely worked for it—but a film! Whatever his reasons were for approaching me with this offer weren’t easily understood.

The sirens abruptly ended. Two ambulances had finally arrived. Jumping quickly from the well-lighted vehicles were several EMTs with the paraphernalia needed in expectation of the worst. They were quick, efficient, and professional, a blessing after dealing with the likes of these crazed and imposingly ambitious cops.

Two medics knelt by my side and began their work on me. I relaxed, knowing these men were the beginning of whatever repairs I now faced. I was spiritually broken, floating, like in some dark and distant vacuum. Nothing remained of my past, nothing but memories of a life that had been suddenly amputated.

“Who’s the officer in charge here?” the medic demanded.

“I am, what’d you need?” the albino briskly responded, approaching the medic.

“Please, get these cuffs off and help us turn him onto the gurney.”

I closed my eyes, distrustful of the onslaught of thoughts rushing through my mind. There was far too much to comprehend and assimilate for me to make sense of. I needed to think clearly though, and soon. I was quickly carried to the ambulance, and once inside, an SPD Officer and two medics arranged themselves and fixed the gurney, radioing the driver to proceed—to where I had no idea.

Harborview Hospital Emergency Trauma Center - Fifteen Minutes Later…

The reardoors swung open with a cold, metallic clang. I was greeted with the chilling rain that I had left behind only a short time ago. Two white-coated men grabbed the gurney, and we were on our way toward the entrance of the Emergency Ward with the swishing sound of the swinging doors awakening me to a new reality, no longer the streets of Seattle. They rolled me down a long hallway where several SPD Officers and doctors were waiting, holding open the doors to a large room where they wheeled me in. The lighting was subdued and warm. They stopped the gurney in the center of the room. One light hung illuminating the entire area, making for an eerie and almost horror-like-sensory mood. The blood coating my arms was crusting and oozing, as I lay supine upon the gurney awaiting the next episode to unfold. To my surprise, the room was busy with SPD officers, Agent Johnson, and other doctors with their medical aids. I turned my head and panned cautiously the faces around the room, looking into the eyes of the persons gathered about and dreading what was to come next. Beside Agent Johnson stood another Agent, a new arrival, it seemed.

As the doctors and nurses took over, I closed my eyes in silence and began reflecting on what I would be facing moving forward. My thoughts were chaotic and uncertain. Flashes…

Falling into a near blackout, as I was being turned and twisted by the doctor's aids.

Was Scott still alive? Is he held up somewhere waiting for the heat to cool down, or had he made it through the neighborhood and found his way out? And Mark? I overheard them saying they had him in the operating room. Survival was on both of them now. As for me, my condition is under control.

Under control or not, I had problems enough here in this room to be worrying about them.

God, those dreams I had as of late. If only I had paid heed to them! Some portent warning me of just such a calamitous end…and then my denial. It was only fear surfacing I had said to myself!

And Sheila, she will soon be at the compound, at the treehouse…a disaster in the making!

Scott's fucking guns will be his ultimate demise and perhaps hers too. The FBI has control of them now and will take no time in tracing them to him and his address. Those fucking guns! How many times I confronted him on the logic of carrying his guns in the van. And Sheila, you couldn't delay her arrival, now could you! Well Scotty my boy, as professional as we played this out, this dumb-ass move brings everything down to an amateur level!

My clothes were being cut away and taken off me. Dried blood, muscle, and sinew were painted over my arms. My right hand was without feeling, a deformed claw. I saw now just how fucked I really was and their prognosis wasn't very reassuring. The eyes of the SPD officers were constantly fixed on me. Their glares. I could see Johnson was anxiously wanting to question me. His eyes were uneasy, jittery. He didn't like not being in control, what with the medical crew still busy. I still had time to think out what to say, somehow to cover our asses or minimize the damage. And as for Sheila, what to do! I needed to figure something out quickly to secure her from an undeserved trauma. But what?

"The surgery room won't be free for another two hours or so," informed a nurse who suddenly popped in and out again.

Agent Johnson followed her out and returned a few minutes later. He was like a caged cat pacing in circles.

The doctors explained what was to take place in the surgery and what I could expect. I signed liability waivers with my clawed hand. I was in pretty bad shape, was all they could say. The x-rays hadn't been completed, so anything was possible, he said. As soon as they left the room. Agent Johnson sidled quickly over to me with intent in his eyes and began his questioning.

"Meyers, is Hollywood a William Scott Scurlock, who lives in Olympia, Washington?"

"If you have the name, so why ask me?" I slowly said, wondering if it were Mark or the gun trace giving them his name. Must have been the gun trace, Mark’s in surgery…

"Work with me here, Meyers! We need to confirm for sure that the guns belong to Scurlock and that Scurlock is Hollywood! Are they his guns?" he hammered me hard for the answer.

One way or the other they would raid the compound, and with Sheila there now, god only knows what would happen. I needed to minimize the situation for her, now that Scott had allowed her to arrive tonight without a second thought of this happening. I told him, the bastard…Damn it Scott, why?

"Okay, okay! But we have a very big problem here. You have to assure me of one thing, or I'm finished here, you understand?" I said, forcing the issue.

"I'll do what I can do, no promises here!"

“Not good enough, there are no promises in this world!”

“You have my word, then, so long as it’s legal.”

“Okay then. His girlfriend arrived here tonight. She's not a part of this in any way, nor has she ever been! You have to promise me she won't be hurt or arrested! This won't be easy for her, you understand! But yeah, you have the man and his address. He won't be home, though, no way

will that ever happen!"

"I understand...we'11 work with you on that. She'll be fine if we see she's clean. Is his address in Olympia correct, on Overhulse Road?" he went on. "Yeah, that's correct."

"We always thought he lived somewhere in the Bellevue area." he said, looking a little suspicious at me.

"Why Bellevue?"

"Our profile of him led us there."

"I guess we did something right then, wouldn't you say!" He didn't answer but excused himself and said he'd be right back, breaking for the doors with his confirmed info. I glanced at the SPD officers, who were mulling about and mumbling back and forth. My thoughts went back to Sheila, she should be settled in by now at the treehouse. She's waiting for Scott, happy about her new life. She doesn't deserve what she'll soon be facing. Once they raid the compound, who the hell knows what the outcome will be. These officers are jittery and tired, tired of us after all these years! I have to press Johnson to keep her safe, probably not something that will happen, though.

Johnson banged in the room with an over-eager smile bubbling from his face. It was as if he had finally closed in on his man...but little did he know!

“Meyers, can you give me any more information about his home...is it a rental or is he the owner?" he hurriedly asked.

"He owns the property."

"Describe for me what we will be facing."

"He lives on 20 acres of forested land. The main house is up front, it's a bluish grey color, right off the road as you enter. There's a large barn and attached workshop fifty yards behind the house. About five hundred yards, following the path behind the barn, is where he lives...his treehouse. That's where his girlfriend will be, so be careful!"

"Treehouse! What'd you mean by treehouse?" Johnson skeptically asked.

"I mean, treehouse! It's a very large treehouse, about sixty, seventy feet up to the deck level.

Like I said, there's a path leading back through the forest to the treehouse. You’ll see other outbuildings scattered around as well."

"We need his girlfriend's name!"

"Sheila!"

"Her last name?"

"Don't know, or I mean I forgot. Doesn't really matter, does it, you'll get it!"

"Where did she arrive from, where does she live?"

"She just flew in from Arizona tonight, from her parents' home, I think. She lives now at Scott's, at least I think it was supposed to happen. She hasn't been here for months, though. From what I understand, it's a new arrangement." I said, trying to ensure that she doesn't appear at all as an accomplice in any way.

"Is the property clean?" Johnson asked.

He was on a roll now, asking feverishly as if time were a factor.

"What'd you mean, clean?"

"Are there bombs, traps, or is anyone else there waiting for us?"

"No, nothing like that! I guarantee you it's completely clean. She'll be the only one there, in back at the treehouse."

"Your partner, Patrick Flanagan, is that his correct name?"

"Patrick Flanagan! Is that what he told you?" I laughed.

"Yeah, that's not his name?"

I didn't understand why Mark would give false information like that, but I guess he had his reasons. He obviously hadn't thought things through very well, what with his gun registered in his name. Once they catch you in one lie, it's hard to be convincing on important matters. They either already had his name or would soon have it, whether I gave it to them or not. I had to find a balance of what to say and what not to say. Keeping my credibility with them was my immediate concern for now, a chess game which might help us down the legal road somehow.

"Good name, uh! He always liked the Irish! But no, his name is Mark Biggins." I said, half laughing.

"Where's he live?"

"Somewhere in California."

“Where in California?"

"Don't know...better ask him or get on the computer. Damn, you guys want everything to fall into your laps!" I said.

"Do you live in Olympia too?"

"No...I'm from New Orleans."

"New Orleans! What's your address and how and long have you lived there?" he asked, looking

suspiciously at his partner.

"About two years," I said. "I live at 1521 Constance Street in the Lower Garden District."

"What's your occupation?"

"I'm self-employed as a sculptor and designer, for most of my life, why?"

"Why rob banks then?"

"Banks! That sounds like more than one." I retorted.

"Come on Meyers, you know he's wanted for many bank robberies. How many have you done with him?"

"Just this one...he called me up a few months ago to do the job."

I knew I shouldn't be jeopardizing myself like this, but not having been mirandized yet, just maybe there might be some loopholes in the legal battle that awaits us. I was too anxious and not mentally awake. My injuries were raw, I was raw and beat! It all made me completely vulnerable to this interrogation. It was happening too quickly for me to think straight. Johnson continued, unwavering. I needed to maintain a fine line between cooperating and evading. Sheila was on my mind, too. She would have made a fire in the living room of the treehouse by now. Water is boiling for tea. Looking up from below, the treehouse would be a lighted shimmer, mysterious and ancient to unfamiliar eyes. Her touch on the treehouse always brought a well-received warmth. But tonight would be different for her, Scott would never arrive and life as she knew it was over.

"Why would you want to come here to rob a bank with him, never having done one before?"

"Because it could be done! A lot of money was there tonight. But to be honest, I didn't want to do this bank...the tags were too big of a problem with so much money to have to handle."

"Tags! How did you guys know of the tags!" he loudly cried, surprised.

"You know how we knew! You leaked the information to the papers back in September.

That bank robbery in Madison Park robbed by one of their employees." Little did he know that we had known long before the editorial leak of the FBI placing electronic tracers in all the bank vaults of the Sea First and First Interstate banks in Seattle. It had taken the banks years before they were willing to pay the money needed for that security.

Johnson glanced at me intriguingly and then lowered his head, shaking it from side to side, revealing to me that they indeed had fouled-up on that security breach. In his own way, he acknowledged to me what he had all along suspected that we were likely to retrieve this information from the papers. It didn't sit well with him either.

"You know you guys just lucked out on catching us tonight, don't you?" I said, looking at him with strange shadows casted across the floor from the hanging overhead light.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"I mean, if we would have found the other tags left in the money, the outcome would have been different." He looked at me, knowing what I said was most probably true.

"You think so, uh?"

"I know so, and you know that too! It was a race, and you guys finally won. You just got lucky, that's all!"

"Did Scurlock say where he would go or what he might do if things went bad for you tonight?"

"Not really. He did say he would come to the hospital to break us out if it happened like that.

Who knows where he would go, not home, that's for sure! Probably leave the country."

"Is there anyone else out there ready to help him?"

"Don't know, at least he never told me anything like that." I knew Scott would never have the ability to break us out, but I wanted to inject some good old paranoia into the mix. They deserve some added confusion and apprehension about what they needed to handle and cover regarding their protocol. As for leaving the country, let them watch the borders and airports, Scott would never leave before months of calm had passed.

Johnson continued, it seemed never-ending. I tried my best to answer the questions that I knew he would find out regardless and either play dumb, ignore, or out in out lie about matters I knew counted most. It wasn't easy staying focused under these circumstances. I was tired and slow and sluggish in my speech and thinking. Biggins was under the scalpel so it was all on me. Johnson looked up from his notes to the officers, gesturing he was leaving. He let me know he would be returning shortly with two SPD detectives.

With eyes closed, I tried assimilating all that had happened. Bad choices, bad luck, lack of preparation, or a rash mistake from either Biggins or Scott overlooking the tags in the money. We had chances to abort during the getaway, but kept steadfast. Our sense of overconfidence and the money involved had kept us from aborting. We began this job knowing our chances of success, even though the risk factors had escalated radically compared to all previous operations. Money plays havoc with rational thinking and astute decision making. Once one sets the motion of such activity into play, it seems that an unruly force takes over. Free will seems to be taken over by some overriding force of nature--a force that allows one neither free will nor discernment in the very act one embarked on.

Loss of spontaneity and the instinctual edge becomes retarded or weakened. This is crucial, when one lives and dares on the fringes of society as we did over these years.

And all this for money! Money was the principal motivator, but the reasons were many.

Albeit each of us for reasons of our own, but reasons which in the end seem now hollow and even naive. It matters little if one hordes money legally or illegally, the phenomenon is always the same.

Our whole society feeds and nourishes itself upon the trinity of politics, religion and money. This trinity marks our path forward into life. With eyes wide open we see it all, the good and the bad. Democracy's well-deserved lie: leaders as porno stars running the White House, political murders disguised as suicides, kids killing one another, dogs being given freedom of speech, abort the fetus but no electric chair for the murdering animals. The ACLU on its suicide mission, victims screaming their deceitful creed for ever more welfare for fairness' sake--we want our share! Then we have the perverts walking the halls of Congress and drugs oozing from the pockets of elected officials and growing street wide throughout the land. And bank robbers dare not touch their money, never mind they who rob us daily, of not only money but of our vitals as men! We've allowed a mockery of laws, rules and religious mumble-jumble to penetrate our very existence and convince us on how and why to live, and even on how and why to die!

Such was my adrenaline-induced thinking in this hour of insanity. No doubt a form of shock that had me in its grip. It's a difficult matter to justify actions when the outcome is so bleakly obvious. We knew what we were doing and why. Attack the carotid artery of the system, and it becomes life-threatening.

Nothing we could have done to have stopped them from saving the dignity and life of their system. Money and blood goes hand in hand when the survival of a system is at stake.

Shawn Johnson, along with two other men, came bursting through the door. Hollywood was still on the loose, or why else would there be such urgency? Detective Maning and Detective Mixsell were introduced to me. I was finally mirandized, but they still wanted answers, and fast. Maning began running the show. He was quick and terse. I had nothing more to say to them or anyone else, I was done with them all. I had been put through the ringer these last two hours, and I was spent and fed up.

Enough was enough! They looked pissed and annoyed from my lack of cooperation.

Breaking through the doors was the doctor with his assistants. They disengaged Maning's pleads, approaching me with consoling news that it was time for surgery and I was to be shuttled to the surgery room at once. Johnson and company gathered their notes and mumbled to one another and reluctantly left the room. I was finally being taken for surgery. If I had had my wits about me, I know now that I would have done many things differently. Tonight, was like shock therapy, thrusted instantly from one reality into another, with all sense of one's bearings lost.

The swishing doors and then the blinding lights of the corridor greeted me. I lay wondering of Sheila, of her fate. The lights above me were swirling as I rolled through the cold corridor. Doctors, nurses and the smell of the hospital! I was fading in and out of consciousness. I saw the treehouse and then a Greek Island...horizon's edge where sky meets sea, where blue meets blue…So perfect it was!

The Next Day

I awoke in a motionless state of exhaustion. The room was filled with a subdued haze, as I attempted to focus with amblyopic eyes while viewing my surroundings. The air was stale and quiescent with the smell of formaldehyde, that odor of the infirmed. Nearby, I could hear mumbling voices and the clanging of metal instruments. My senses were abnormally hypersensitive, especially to smells and sounds. I struggled to move my body but was thwarted by leg straps, which secured me to the bed, and a catheter taped to my arm intromitting the morphine. The pandemonium of last night was slowly returning to me with the force of a heavy hammer. It wasn't easy being in this limbo state of uncertainty, and with the initial shock of last night still running through me, I needed to refocus and begin planning whatever moves were necessary, if I had any moves left to even contemplate. Everything around me was fading in and out of focus. Foreign and alien images. I was depleted and used up. I knew I had better muster the necessary strength with what I would be facing. It was essential. The muttering of the two SPD officers osted outside my room made me very uneasy; my position seemed and was hopeless.

Abruptly entering the room, with a fresh and spirited energy, was the nurse in charge. A middle-aged woman with a plain but friendly face, with features that emulated sincere kindness. She brushed by me and darted for the window, raising the blinds, which suddenly emitted a soft grey midday light.

"Good morning, Mr. Meyers! How do you feel today?" asked me warmly and with a smile that had become unusual since our fall.

"Good morning," I said softly. "I feel horrible. Am I dead, or is this what they call living?"

"Well, it could have been worse, yeah, know!" she said, arranging the food tray attached to the bed. "You're lucky not to be dead! The operation went well, from what the doctor said. He'll be in sometime today to speak with you about what took place."

"Thanks. I'm sure he did the best he could...I was a mess last night. Sorry for all the trouble, owe you people for the rest of my life." I murmured in a barely audible tone, but with sincerity.

"You guys made quite a ruckus last night with all you did! A little crazy, don't you think?" she grinned at me like a mother scoffing at her child.

"Just a little," I said. "Unfortunate how things worked out, I'm sure for us all."

"Here's the remote if you want to watch TV," she laid it near my hand on the bed.

"Thank you. What time is it anyway?"

"Past noon, you've been asleep a long time!" She turned casually, looking at me with a calm and inquisitive expression running over her face, and stopped her busying about to ask. "Did you actually rob all

those banks like they say you did?"

"Who says all those banks?" I said, annoyed.

"The news, it's all over the TV."

"We know what the news is about, don't we? Why would you ask me such a question anyway?"

Most probably, she'd been asked by the FBI to try and find out more from me, strange as it seemed.

"Just curious, sorry. Your lunch will be arriving soon, so just press this button to call if you need help," she said, heading for the door to leave.

"Please, excuse me, but did Biggins come out alright in surgery? Is he going to be okay?"

"He's fine, it seems there were no complications. He's no longer in critical condition," she said, assuring me with a consoling smile, then turned to leave the room with the ease with which she had entered.

Thinking to myself how fortunate up till now, how things have worked out for us. With Biggins still breathing and kicking, meant I at least needn't fret further about murder charges caused by our albino friend, Magan, and the other SPD crew's ambush on us. Granted, we put ourselves there to be killed, but so far, their version of the facts doesn’t add up to the reality of what happened.

It became unnerving having to overhear the cacophony of the officers chatting in their discord outside the room. My bodyguards spieling off their opinions and false assumptions of what took place last night, who obviously weren't present in the final standoff. Funny how quickly information becomes distorted and tarnished when being carried through the ant farm. I slowly turned my head to glance their way, but the sight of police, with their haughty gawking and self-admiring way, only nauseated me more than I already was. I grabbed the remote, began scanning the stations, and reflected on Scott--was he still loose in the city or far away from their grip. With all the news coverage, it will be hard to find any permanent cover.

Our names and pictures were all over the news, I'm sure nationally, too. It was hard to accept that Scott actually ran out on us as he did, leaving us to last night's upending. The utter stress and confusion involved in such chaos as we faced was enough to make anyone behave in ways which are not necessarily normal though. Strange as it seems, we had discussed just this scenario and what we should do if something like this were ever to happen. Our conclusion was that we should do what each of us needs to do to resolve best our situation. We would all be on our own, and it would be foolish to think that if one of us were caught that any of the others wouldn't quickly be found out. Just too much evidence linking us all together. In any case, he left us to die or face the consequences of living under the raw hand of the law.

The next three days were filled with pain, morphine, and uncertainty. I was given no means of contacting a lawyer. But then, after what we had done that evening, it's a wonder I've been afforded all the help I've thus far received. I overheard one officer saying a lawyer came to speak with me and left paperwork and a business card. His partner made sure he understood that I was to see no one, for any reason whatsoever, legal or otherwise. When the changing of the guard took place, one or both would enter the room to chit-chat. Some asked innocuous questions, some complimented me on how brave we were to take on such an impossible mission as we had, and still others who tried to pry me for foolish information. Everything to them was as simple as black and white. But for me, it was anything but black and white. My life had crashed and crashed hard!

Through the news, I finally heard of what took place with Scott some twenty-four hours after he aborted. Hollywood was dead. I was hit both with sadness and relief alike. A sort of numbness of the mind took over, as if I'd never known him before. The game was up, life was up!

We had become close friends and worked well together over the years. However, this last year showed signs of fraying wear. Things were no longer as simple as they had once been between us.

The tension and frenzy of our lives had somehow taken a foothold in our behavior toward one another.

Unprepared as we were with the emotional change that took place in our lives, we still managed to bond together and surge forth toward this real and arcane goal, which led us to this end. Scott was complex man, a comet of a sort, and I lunged out to catch its tail and became a part of its burning light!

I was awakened early Sunday, only three days after my arrival, with the news that I was to be transported immediately to the County Jail. It seemed almost impossible this was happening, being that I was hardly able to walk and was drugged with no ability to manage myself alone. No matter though, I was quickly unstrapped from the bed and grabbed by each officer from under my arms to be delivered to the Federal Marshals downstairs. I gestured to the nurse goodbye and was slowly led away by the SPD Officers.

CHAPTER2

“Warrior, jailor, priest—the eternal trinity which symbolizes our fear of life.”

~Henry Miller

King County Jail

It was a typically wet winter day in Seattle. The drizzling rain fell cold and icy, leaving a dank chill to the bones. A day that one would never recall; it was just another winter smear across the face of Seattle. The monotony of the grey sky looked upon me with its usual indifference, with the gaunt and stark bareness of trees lining the abandoned streets like half-dead sentinels. A feeling of complete isolation wrapped me securely in its arms on this Sunday morning. I viewed the passing city with a broken disdain. It was no longer the Seattle I had for so many years came to like and enjoy. I was now its captive, a renegade in submission. Glassy-eyed and off-balance, I was being shuttled by two US Marshals to my new home—King County Jail.

Like all county jails across this country, King County was no different; some better, some worse. It's the processing and waiting which is the hallmark of these domiciles. The stench of decay and eyes of misery was everywhere. I followed orders and was led through the lengthy process, weak as I was, until they led me to my cell and bed.

The cell was empty of life, all life except for an old man dead asleep, his blanket covering him to his ears. A chilling cold and a foul, stagnate air filled the cell. I rolled into bed with the grace of a cripple, convincing myself; it doesn't get any better than this! With heavy eyelids, it took no time to fall into sleep—a heavy drugged drug-induced sleep. I needed a day of sleep and rest before dealing with the legal war I would be facing tomorrow. I was unarmed and ill-equipped to even imagine how to fight what faced me, but fight I must. It was payback time for my captors; my time of controlling my own fate in Seattle was over. Alone and weak, I left this day with its cold face and fell deeply into sleep.

Standing askew, alongside the foot of my bed, was a grizzly, stubble-faced old man, bent and crooked as a dried tree trunk, fingering nervously the knobs of the TV. An echoing din of canned laughter and inane garble spewed from the TV while he gazed upward with a gravelly smile. The scene could have been taken from a chapter out of any lunatic asylum. The old man was laughing at laughter, while jumping and clapping to Bob Barker and his bodacious Barbie-Doll models, who were doling out prizes to the fortunate on the Price Is Right Show. How wonderful, I'm thinking, to awake to this spectacle of enthusiastic celebration!

"Hey, Pops! Could you lower the volume a bit, please?” I pleaded, trying to be heard above the din of voices and music bouncing from wall to wall.

"Yeah, okay...but just a second, he's almost finished now," he yelled. His voice was a cross between a sizzling grilled peppered steak and the gurgling of the swirling and vacuolar sounds of some old bathtub drain. The old man is obviously used to being alone in this cage, I'm thinking to myself, so maybe it's best to ease into this world of his with a little diplomacy,after all, he seems jovial enough, so why spoil the fun!

"Ha ha ha, hohoho hee hee ... by Jesus, she's sure a swell lookin' dame, don't ya think so! Just a look at her, boy, if I were younger I'd show her whut the hell I was made of! Gall darn it anyways, whut I'd give to jump on her! How's this now...is it still too loud fur ya?" he gesticulated, lowering the volume, never averting his starry-eyed gaze from the screen at the smiling babes enticing his genitals into a frenzy.

"No, that's just fine, thank you." I slurred.

"Hey, by the way, they call me, Olaf! Be careful with these here nurses, they like to order ya around a lot, so don't let 'em give ya no shit, ya know whut I mean!"

"Yeah sure," I say, imagining all too well what he meant. He probably causes more ruckus than everyone else on this whole damn floor, and most likely he does everything he's told to do, just like a baby. Being in the Infirmary on the 4th floor of the jail must bring in all kinds of people, him being but one of the macabre assortments of characters.

"I'm Steve. I guess we're here together for a while, uh? Sorry, calling you Pops a minute ago, meant no disrespect by it." I say, looking at him in utter amazement.

"Oh hell, don't think nothin' of it, they call me everything in this here place. Call me Pops if ya like, that's fine by me!" he snarled, his grey whiskered and reddened face contorting with the look of an old gold miner lost in some time warp.

"Hell, what time and day is it anyway? I feel like I've been in a coma for years…did I ever wake up at all last night?" I asked in confusion.

"Damn, I need to call the lawyer, how do you use this phone?" I blurted out, without waiting on his answer.

"It's Monday mornin', Ol' boy. That there nurse comes in last night to gives ya a shot, ya don't remember nothin'?"

"No, not a thing," I said, with a curious disbelief.

"Yeah, damn it to hell!" he blurted out; pointing to the phone like it was some animate object. "I ain't never used the damn thing, no ones to call anymore. Ya can only call out collect, no way around that," he said, as he scratched the top of his balding head. He looked somehow pissed off about the phone box on the wall, as if it were some toy he had yet to figure out how to use.

"Hey, are ya one of them guys in that there bank robbery I been a seein' on TV these here days?" he asked, with a sheepish uncertainty as if maybe he shouldn't be questioning me. "Yeah, that's me alright," I uttered. I didn't have it in me right now to indulge any of it, not now at least. "Yeah, they fucked us up real bad...no getting around that," I said, hoping the conversation would end there.

"Hell, ya boys did real good...maybe not the other day, but ya boys shure had lots uh balls! Goddamnit anyway, I been a watchin' yar Hollywood friend really workin' over them sons of bitches for years now, ya betcha I have, goddamnit ya boys were a runnin' 'em crazy like for years! That Hollywood was no damn joke, one helluha guy, he was! He put them thar bastard cops in thar place, ya better believe that much!" he bantered on, while vigorously gleaming and jumping about, as if he had just won a prize from his TV show. "Yeah sur, ree bob, ya better believe ya made them bastard cops real unhappy. Really sorry though about what happened to yar partner. Them sons of bitches did him in! Don't believe whut they says, all them goddamn cops lies, they always lies, about everything! Take 'em all and line 'em up and shoot 'em, like the lyin' dogs they is! That's whut I says should be done!" he clamored on, as if Scott and I were somehow a part of his family and he had some personal attachment to our well-being.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is, they had a job to do and you can't blame them for that. They did what they needed to do, and we did what we had to do. Sides were drawn, and someone had to walk away on top. They're not all that bad, not all of them, that is. You have to give credit where credit is due; they had a lot against them, and they finally managed to end the story." I calmly said, although I felt a slice of defeat as I conveyed what sentiments seemed to be so confused and unnerving to me from the aftermath of a life gone astray.

"Betch yar bottum dollar, they do whut they can to make things more worse for ya, now that yar partner ain't here no more for 'ems to bury," he said, knowing how the wheels of justice work. "By God, I shure wished ya boys would uh gottin' away with all that there money... god damn 'em sons of bitches, shootin' ya all up like they done! I'm real sorry for ya, I just hopes ya goin' to be alright...that's whut I hope." He turned suddenly and walked back to his bed. As quickly as he began with his antics, he was just as quickly to himself, as if crawling into a mental shell of solitude, tranquil and at peace. A funny bird, this Pops, no doubt about it!

I was caught in a crossfire between exhaustion and the legal matters at hand. Tread withcaution into a world so unfamiliar and foreign to me, I said to myself, as I lay ruminating over my present dilemma. With no functioning arms and absent a soul, I would now have to accept the inevitable—what better position to be in. Bend over and let all and sundry take a poke at me—for justice's sake! No matter though, the pangs of one's life seem always to balance out in the end. It's another beginning, that's all. A new course, a curve in the road, a hill to climb before all is finally understood—just another stitch in time, so to speak. To get somewhere anew, one must stand at a point in time to discover that one is nowhere, nor never has been anywhere. To obtain chaos, the laws of order must be destroyed so that order once again may be borne anew. A madman once was sane until his saneness became mad! The formula is a secret, it began in year15,000 BC, or thereabouts. The stars are still in chaos, and so is man. The spurious notion that, we know,