DANCING WITH SCORPIONS
By
George M. Scott

I shuddered in the hot August sun. There was something sinister in the drab simplicity of the small structure across the street. Maybe it was because I knew the police were interested in it. But there seemed to be something else.

Alex, my wife and partner, gazed with her hand over her eyes in the same direction. "So this must be it."

"Yep, that's the one," Detective Jesus Garcia replied.

"The Glorified Church of Jesus Christ with Signs Following" was spelled out in red plastic letters pressed on a white plastic background, with "Rev. R. J. Hurley" underneath. The sign hung above the front doors of a rectangular clapboard building with a peaked roof and battered composite shingles. White paint peeled from its walls and trim, revealing bare wood underneath. An air conditioner drooped out of a side window, and a too-small steeple perched tentatively on the front edge of the roof. The weeds in the front yard were dead. It was like a little piece of Appalachia had been transported to southern California.

"Now, what exactly happened to this woman?" I asked.

Detective Jewel Taylor put her hands on her hips and squinted toward the church. "She was stung by scorpions several times on the bottoms of her feet and died in the hospital before they could treat her with antivenin. Name of Corrine Teague. Happened last Sunday night. She was all of seventeen." She sighed and looked down, kicking at the street.

Taylor was black and beautiful. Garcia looked like an aging homeboy-crew-cut; goatee; sad, droopy eyes; and an earring. Both were in their early thirties.

"It must not have been an accident since you two are involved," Alex said, putting on her sunglasses.

Garcia mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. "Well, the suspect claimed it was."

"Yeah, the victim's boyfriend, Randy Bevins," Taylor said, contempt dripping from her words.

"Why don't we get in the car and turn on the air-conditioning?" Alex asked, fanning herself with her notebook. "You can fill us in on the rest there."

We got into the detectives' big Ford. Garcia started the engine and turned on the air. It wasn't long before I'd gone from sweating to freezing.

He turned around to face us in the back seat. "The minister, Reverend Hurley, called 911 that night and said one of his congregation had stepped on some scorpions, went into convulsions, and passed out. The paramedics did CPR but couldn't revive her."

"They use scorpions to test their worthiness with the Lord," I said. "They dump a bunch on the floor and then dance over them, barefooted. Those who aren't stung are considered blessed; those who are, know they still have some work to do toward salvation."

Garcia blinked and nodded. "Oh right, you're an anthropologist."

Taylor added, grinning, "They had sore feet too. If you ask me, these folks are just plain crazy."

Garcia continued, "Corrine's accident occurred after the dancing was over and she was putting her shoes back on. The lights were still off, and she didn't know scorpions were inside until she slipped them on and stood up."

"Eeuuw," Alex exclaimed, her eyes wide with revulsion.

"What about the boyfriend?" I asked.

"According to the Reverend, Corrine had recently broken up with Randy, and he was pretty pissed about it," Taylor answered. "Now the Reverend didn't exactly accuse him but told us to take a look in his house. So we got a search warrant and made the visit. Randy was in the back, trying to slink away. Skinny, pimply faced kid. Nineteen. Claimed he didn't know we were cops." She chuckled and shook her head.

"We found a bunch of little boxes in his bedroom with scorpions in them," Garcia said. "Randy was the church's supplier. He liked to go out to the desert at night and collect them himself."

Taylor pitched in again. "Randy told us the chair Corrine's shoes were on must've gotten knocked over in the dancing, and the scorpions must've just waltzed into her shoes all on their own. But we didn't buy it. Lyin' little cracker."

Garcia grinned nervously. "We took Randy in and leaned on him some more, but all he admitted to was bearing a grudge toward Corrine. With no witnesses and no other evidence, the D.A. cut him loose and told us to keep looking. So here we are."

"How many stings did she have on her feet?" I asked.

"Three on one foot, and four on the other," Taylor replied.

That made me think of another question. "Would that many scorpions crawl into her shoes on their own?"

Everyone shrugged.

"So have you looked into the behavior of scorpions?" I asked.

Taylor sighed and turned around, shaking her head. Garcia stared out the window.

I kept at it. "Have you even collected any of them?"

"Uh, no, no we haven't." Garcia looked sheepishly over at his partner.

There was mirth in her big brown eyes. "Jesus is afraid of scorpions."

"Yes, yes, I am," he said quickly. "I was stung several times when I was a kid in Texas."

"I don't care for 'em either," Alex said, wrinkling her nose.

I cleared my throat. "Exactly why are we here? Are we supposed to meet the Reverend or what?"

"Well to start with, we were hoping you would help us find some scorpions," Garcia answered, saying exactly what I didn't want him to say.

"I'm an anthropologist, not an entomologist. I don't know anything about scorpions."

"But I've heard you're the adventurous type, Wesley," Garcia said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Yeah, right!" my good wife answered for me.

I took her hand and squeezed it to show no hard feelings.

* * *

"Christ, here they are!" I couldn't believe my eyes.

"Be careful, Wesley," Alex urged, grabbing my arm.

"Don't worry, they're dead." I was looking into the bottom of a trash can behind the church. What had attracted me to it were several columns of ants streaming up and down its side. As soon as I took off the lid the usual bitter-sweet odor of rotten garbage wafted upwards. I looked away, took a deep breath, put on a pair of vinyl gloves, and dove right in. Mixed in with paper, plastic, and cans were chicken bones, ribs, beans, pieces of bread, and salad remains. Fortunately, most of the food rested on paper plates, so it hadn't been a matter of removing bone by bone, or bean by bean.

The pungent odor of bug spray had hit me as I neared the bottom. And there it was-an immobile mass of legs, pinchers, and tails.

"You guys got a box or something?" I asked the detectives.

* * *

No one was home at either Reverend Hurley's or the Bevins', so we drove to the Teague's place to talk to Corrine's sister. Same kind of boxy, dirty-stucco affair as the other two houses. The heat lay on the neighborhood like a fuzzy wool blanket.

Garcia knocked, rattling the screen door.

"Can I help y'all?" The voice came from a specter of a woman peering out through a rip in the screen. Her lifeless blue eyes blinked from the haggard darkness of their cave-like sockets, and her stringy brown hair crawled down the side of her face. She wore no makeup. Her skin was sallow, and her pale lips were curved in a downward spiral of quivering grief. She looked fifty, but being the victim's sister, she must've been much younger.

"You may remember us from last week, Ms. Cox," Garcia said.

"Yeah I do," she drawled.

"This is Wesley Owen and Alex Smith. They're helping us to investigate your sister's death. May we come in?"

"Yeah, I suppose." She opened the screen door.

We followed her into the tiny, dark living room, where we sat on thread-bare furniture. Nadine Cox's listless gaze immediately fixed itself on some talk show on the TV. Two bony knees peeked, knob like, from beneath her thin, faded print dress. The curtains were drawn, and the hot, stagnant air was stirred by a quivering pedestal fan.

"I'm very sorry about your sister," I said. "Is it Mrs. Cox?"

Without taking her eyes off the TV, she replied, "Yes. My husband's in prison. Killed a feller."

I didn't know what to say to that. "Anyone else live here with you?"

"Nope. It's just me now that Corrine's gone." Tears welled up in her eyes and her bottom lip quivered. "Parents were killed inna car crash two years ago and everybody else is back in Alabama." She pulled a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

I asked as softly as I could, "Can you tell us anything about your sister's death?"

She studied her lap. "Not any more'n what I already told the police."

"You didn't see anything?" Alex added.

Nadine slowly turned toward her and said, "No, I didn't." But the pain that washed across her face as she spoke gave me an idea.

"She was only seventeen," I said, slowly shaking my head. "A real shame for someone so young to die so horribly."

A single tear wound its way down the crags of her cheek. She started to speak when someone knocked on the door.

"Nadine? You here?" a man's voice asked.

Joy awakened on her bedraggled face, making her seem almost attractive. "It's the Rev'rend," she chirped, like a new day had dawned. She dashed to the door. "I'm comin', Rev'rend."

The screen door opened and slammed, and a large, pink-faced man appeared, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and turquoise-fastened bolo tie. Nadine beamed from behind.

He looked to be in his early fifties. Black hair peppered with grey was slicked straight back in a futile attempt to cover a bald pate. Eyes the color of polished slate bespoke a friendly kindness. The Reverend marched straight over to me, his hand thrust outward. I barely had time to stand up.

"Howdy, friend, I'm Reverend Robert Joseph Hurley. My friends call me Bobby Joe." Behind him, Nadine turned off the TV set and stood smiling sweetly, her hands clasped in front of her.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Wesley Owen, and I'm helping the police investigate the death of Corrine Teague."

As he pumped my hand and grinned, I nodded toward Alex. "And this is my wife, Alex Smith. She's also helping with the investigation."

The Reverend released my hand and grabbed Alex's.

"My, my, sir, may I say you have a very attractive wife?"

Alex smiled uncertainly.

"Didn't mean to ignore y'all, Detectives Garcia and Taylor. How you two doin'?"

"Fine," Taylor answered for both of them.

"Good. That's good. And you, Mr. Owen, may I inquire as to your particular occupation?"

"I'm an anthropologist by training, but now Alex and I help the police solve culturally complex crimes. Alex is a retired homicide detective; used to work for LA County." I took one of our cards out of my wallet and gave it to him.

He studied it closely, sucking on his teeth. "Are you one of them bone specialists? What'd you call 'em?"

"Forensic anthropologists. No, they're physical anthropologists. I'm a cultural anthropologist."

"Oh, I see. I bet you two make a formidable team. 'The Four C's-Consultants for Culturally Complex Crimes.' Very impressive." He stuffed the card in his coat pocket.

"Well . . ." I felt myself blush.

"Here, Rev'rend, you sit here." Nadine had moved the chair she'd been sitting in to the center of the room.

"Why, thank you, Nadine. Now where're you gonna sit?"

"I'll get me a chair outta the kitchen."

"You wait here, darlin', I'll get it for you." He went to the kitchen and returned carrying a chair.

"Now, sit yourself down, and tell these good people 'bout your sister and Randy Bevins. Don't worry, Randy won't hurt you. He's run off."

She looked at him, mesmerized with a mixture of awe and adoration. "Wha-what?" she stammered.

"Tell 'em 'bout Corrine and Randy. Go ahead. It's all right." He reached over and patted her shoulder.

She smiled weakly and bit a nail. "Uh, Nadine and Randy, they were, uh . . . sinnin'."

"They were having sex?" I asked.

She shot a nervous glance at me. "Uh huh. They was." She went back to biting her nails.

"What else, Nadine?" the Reverend urged, looking at her with the beneficence of the good shepherd.

"He-he was mean to her, so she broke up with him." She glanced at the Reverend, and he nodded. "He got purty angry 'bout that."

"Did Randy kill her, Nadine?" Alex asked softly.

She looked nervously back and forth between the Reverend and me. "I-I think he did. I seen him put her shoes on the floor when everybody was dancin' and do somethin' with 'em." She sobbed in her hands while the Reverend rubbed her shoulders, saying, "There, there."

"Now, I know y'all suspected Randy," he said, looking toward Garcia and Taylor. "But I just wasn't sure. This mornin' I went to talk to him 'bout it. But his momma said he was headed back to Kentucky. So I come over here to see what Nadine knew."

Garcia and Taylor stood up. "We'll get Randy," Taylor said. "Mrs. Cox, you have to come with us and make a statement. You too, Reverend."

"Do I have to?" she sobbed, looking forlornly at the Reverend.

"Yes, darlin', you do. Don't worry, I'll be with you. And so will the good Lord. Say, Mr. Owen, why don't you come to our service tonight? I think you might be interested in seein' what we do. You know, as an anthropologist."

"Uh, well, yes, I'd like to. Thank you, Reverend Hurley." I felt myself warming towards him, even though I couldn't stomach his style of religion.

"Come by 'bout eight. And please call me Bobby Joe."

"Fine. See you then, uh, Bobby Joe. You can call me Wesley."

"You betcha, Wesley," he laughed, sticking out his big pink hand.

Back at our cars, we decided to split up. Alex went with the others to headquarters, and I headed to my old university to show our scorpion specimens to an entomologist in the Biology Department.

* * *

"Most of them appear to be local Vaejovidae. Here's flavus, and here's spinigerus." Professor Harry Tobias had spread the dead scorpions out on a laboratory table and was picking over them with a pair of forceps. Florescent lights buzzed above and stainless steel refrigerators hummed against the wall. Water was dripping in a sink somewhere. "They're all relatively harmless. Their sting is deadly to a cockroach but no worse than a bee sting to us . . . Hello, what do we have here? Ah yes, Buthidae. See this guy here? He's Centruoides sculpturatus. Lives in Arizona. A much more potent neurotoxin in this fellow."

"Kill a man, or woman?" I asked.

"Probably not one sting; just hurt like hell."

"What about five or six stings?"

He turned and peered at me, owl like, through his thick glasses. "Most definitely. Two or three would kill a child or an adult with a weak heart, but five or six would kill a professional football player."

"Whew! How many times can a scorpion sting at one time?"

"As many times as it wants to, although its venom will decrease rapidly after the first sting."

"How many of the deadly kind do we have here?"

He went back to the scorpions with his forceps. "Well, let's see . . . Seven, I believe."

"Now, if a bunch of scorpions were let loose in a dark room, how many would you expect to find their way into a pair of shoes on the floor? In, say, around a hour?"

"Only one in each, if any crawled in at all. Scorpions are solitary, territorial creatures. The first ones there would have repelled any others. But then it's quite likely none would have even found the shoes, especially if the room was large. They can't see at night any better than we can."

"And one scorpion in each shoe could sting only once, right?"

"Yes, since they would be dead after the first sting." He grinned. "You know, squashed by the person's foot."

I cleared my throat. "So someone would have to intentionally drop seven in a person's shoes for her to receive seven stings."

"Yes, that's about it."

I thanked him and left, feeling reassured by the logic I'd used to figure out the scorpion angle. In the formula of murder, we now had the how. And thanks to Reverend Hurley and Nadine, we probably had the who and why.

* * *

I could've been sitting in any ordinary meeting hall, except for the presence of a white pulpit with a gold cross painted on the front. Particle board peeked through both coats of paint. Four rows of mismatched chairs stretched the length of the room on one side. Across from the chairs the pulpit stood on a raised platform. Behind the pulpit sat an old upright piano, a drum set, and an electric guitar leaning against a chair. There was a door in the wall behind the platform. To the left of the platform lay the kitchen-serving area. Small air-conditioners hung in two windows, both turned on full blast, but the room still felt like a sauna. Three ceiling fans only circulated the heat.

Alex was outside, watching for anything suspicious out there. I wished she were inside with me. The desire to hold her, to feel her cool touch, lay tumescent in my hot body.

It didn't take long for all the chairs to be taken, and latecomers had to stand against the wall. All the church members were white-an odd sight here in the land of maximum ethnic diversity-and they looked more than plain. None of the women wore any makeup or jewelry, and their hair was simple and long. The men were all clean shaven, and their hair was cut short. The expressions on their faces were as dull as their clothing. Except for their eyes. There was something in their eyes. I supposed it was spirituality.

I sat at the end of the last row, feeling like a weed in a manicured lawn and trying to fight the panic that was rising inside. I looked back at the front door, glad it was close by.

A little rooster of a man calling himself Deacon Jones stepped up to the pulpit and flapped his arms up and down. "Y'all be quiet now," he cackled. "Hush y'all. Please hush."

They obeyed, and he puffed himself up even more. "I'd like to welcome you all to the Glorified Church of Jesus Christ with Signs Following of Bellflower, California. I know we're a long way from the hills'a Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia, but we brung the Spirit here with us, an' that's all that matters."

Shouts of "Amen" erupted from the congregation.

The little man looked over his shoulder. "You all ready to play us some music?"

The musicians immediately started in on some rollicking hymn. I was surprised that such lively sounds could be produced by such stiff movements. Another man had distributed tambourines to the congregation, and now they joined in, banging and jingling, and stomping and clapping, and swaying and singing along. In spite of my paranoia, I soon got caught up in the frenetic energy, moving my feet and clapping along with the others. This was nothing like the sedate Methodist services I'd attended as a child.

Reverend Hurley took the pulpit and put up his hands. The music and singing dissolved into shouts of "Praise the Lord!," "Hallelujah!," and "Sweet Jesus!," and then the room fell silent.

"Brothers and sisters, we have a visitor with us tonight. Stand up, Mr. Owen." I stood up and nodded to the many eyes fixed on me. "He's here to observe our service. I want y'all to make him feel welcome." I was glad to sit back down.

The Reverend grabbed the front edges of the pulpit and bowed his head. I looked around, wondering if he was leading a silent prayer. But the members had their eyes on him, watching with mouths open and eyes shining with expectation. The Reverend slowly looked up, his expression transformed to other-worldly revelation.

"Brothers and Sisters, look to Jesus for truth, look to Jesus for guidance, look to Jesus for salvaaation!"

"Amen!"

He held up a tattered Bible. "Let this be your guide." He thumped it. "Let this show you the way."

"Amen!"

"In this book of books, Mark tells us about signs. Signs, brothers and sisters. But signs of what?" He jumped off the platform, stretching his arms out wide, his Bible still in one hand and his eyes cast upward. "Signs that the Holy Ghost is on us!" His whole body quivered.

"Praise Jesus!"

"Now, some folks use snakes as signs. Others use poison. But our sign is unique. Our sign is specially blessed!"

"Amen!"

"In Luke, chapter 10, verse 19, our Lord Jesus says, 'Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; and nothing shall by any means hurt you.'"

"Praise be unto Him!"

"If you have the power, nothing shall hurt you!"

"Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!"

More music, more preaching, more music, people dancing around with the pain of ecstasy on their faces, people babbling strange words in strange tones, more preaching, more music. Words of assurance that dear departed sister Corrine Teague rested with Jesus. The laying of hands on Nadine Cox to ease her pain. I found myself struggling to keep from being pulled completely into the hypnotic vortex. I had to remain detached; I had to keep watching. But for what?

Then the part arrived that I dreaded the most. All the chairs were stacked next to the walls, and people took off their shoes and socks. I'd never seen so many white feet in my life. They put them on the chairs and moved toward the back of the church. Two men placed devotional candles around the room and lighted them. I thought about joining the crowd, but I couldn't move. My feet were still securely planted inside my boots.

From in front of the congregation, Reverend Hurley spoke calmly, almost serenely. "Deacon Jones, you may empty the box."

The deacon appeared in the middle of the room holding a large cardboard box. The band started playing again. The congregation began singing and clapping as he knelt, holding the box out from him and quickly turning it upside down. He jumped back as scorpions rained down on the floor and began skittering this way and that, their tails up and their pinchers forward, little soldiers of Satan ready to test the power of God.

Then the lights went out, and Reverend Hurley's voice boomed above the music and singing. "We have the power! We have the power! We have the power!"

The singing, punctuated by shouts of "Praise the Lord!," "Hallelujah!," "Glory be to Jesus!," approached me in the dim flickering light, like some amorphous creature in a nightmare. I resisted the temptation to head for the door, knowing I had to go out on the floor to watch for anything strange. Anything strange? I mused, as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, and shadowy shapes danced and gyrated before them. Now and again out of the singing arose a sharp cry of pain-whether from a scorpion sting or a jolt of religious ecstasy I couldn't tell.

Suddenly, like an apparition, Hurley's sweating pink face loomed in front of me. "Why don't you join us, Wesley? Don't fret none 'bout the scorpions. If you step on one, it'll only hurt a little bit. No more'n a bee sting."

"I-I don't know."

"Come on, man. You wanna know 'bout us, you have to join us."

"Well . . . okay." Time to play anthropologist, er, police consultant, I told myself.

"Good."

He took a chair off a stack for me, and I sat down and took off my boots and socks.

"Here, give 'em to me. I'll put 'em over there behind the platform next to mine. Don't worry, they'll be safe.”

I waited a few minutes, hoping all the scorpions had either scurried away or had been squashed, and walked out among the dancers. Holding my hands up and swaying like the others, I began moving to the music and trying not to feel totally stupid.

"Mr. Owen! Mr. Owen!" It was Nadine. I could barely hear her above the din. She grabbed my arm. "I seen Randy! He's here! You gotta come. Please hurry," she urged, breathlessly.

She headed across the room, through the dancers, looking back to see if I was behind her. I was. After a short distance, I stepped on something that wiggled and crunched. Before I could jump away, a hot needle of pain shot into the ball of my foot. I stumbled to my hands and knees, hoping it'd been the "bee-sting" kind of scorpion. It must have been because after a few seconds I could tolerate the pain enough to limp toward Nadine. I wondered if my scorpion knew he'd stung an atheist.

She crouched in front of the pulpit, pulling me down next to her. "Look," she whispered, peeking around the pulpit. I looked, and my heart thumped and stomach churned. Someone kneeled over my boots, emptying what looked like a small box into one of them. I thought I saw a second figure move away from the one kneeling, but I wasn't sure.

"It's Randy," Nadine whispered.

I leapt forward, limping through the startled musicians and across the platform. Randy stood up and faced me just before I barreled into him. We both hit the floor and started wrestling. I heard Nadine yell, "Turn on the lights!" I landed a couple of blows, and he started screaming, "He made me do it! He made me do it!"

"Who?" I asked between clenched teeth. He pushed me away and headed for the back door. A shot rang out and Randy crumpled to the floor. The lights went on, people screamed, and Reverend Hurley was standing next to me holding a gun. I didn't know what the hell to think. Or to do. Except to keep the weight off my stung foot.

Alex burst through the back door. "What happened?" Keeping her eyes on Hurley, she squatted down and checked Randy's pulse.

The Reverend squinted at her, then turned to face me, smiling nervously. "He was gonna get away. I had to shoot 'im."

"What did Randy mean by 'He made me do it?'"

"Why, I'm sure he was talkin' 'bout his master, Satan himself."

Alex stood up, holding her gun at her side. "He's dead.”

"He was judged," Hurley proclaimed.

"Like Corrine was judged?" I asked, trying to control my breathing.

He reared up, eyes flashing and nostrils flaring. "She was a harlot, a painted temptress. She caused me to lust after her. She drew me into fornication. The Lord judged her and took her." Gone was the kind look of the good shepherd.

Nadine rushed up, shaking her finger at him. "You, you killed 'em both. All Randy did was bring the scorpions. You are tha sinner!" Loud murmuring from the crowd followed her accusation.

Hurley reached out and yanked her toward him. The crowd gasped. He swung her around and locked his arm across her throat. She let out a little squeal, and her eyes bulged out. He pointed his gun at her temple.

Alex pointed her gun at him and yelled, "Drop it and let her go!"

"No, you drop yours. Better still, bring it to me. Do it, now, or I'll kill 'er."

Alex glared at him for a few seconds, then walked toward him.

"Turn it around, butt first, an' put it in my coat pocket."

Her eyes crackled with green fire, but she did as told.

"Now get back."

Alex put her hands out and moved away.

I was about to say something-I didn't know what-when Hurley started looking back and forth over his shoulder. "We're gonna be leavin' now. Don't none'a you follow us, or I'll shoot 'er. You know I will."

The murmuring crowd responded like a Greek chorus. As he started to back away, Hurley took the gun away from Nadine's head and relaxed his grip around her neck. Just enough for her to grab his meaty arm and sink her teeth into it. Screaming, he flung her away from him. She scrambled to her feet, and he pointed his gun at her. He put his arm in his mouth, sucked on it, and spat out blood. "You slut! You'll be judged just like your sister."

"No!" I moved and stood in front of her. Others quickly followed, forming a human shield.

"Y'all stay back, now. I'll shoot the first one'a ya to make a move." He started backing away. "Anyone who tries to stop me will be judged."

Then two things happened. Detective Garcia appeared in the door behind Hurley at the exact same time a scorpion crawled onto the top of his head. Gripped with terror, his eyes slowly rolled upward. His whole body started quaking. He slapped the top of his head with his gun hand and just as quickly flung it outward. Both the pistol and the scorpion flew to the floor, landing right next to each other. He shrieked and frantically shook his hand, while I pounced on the gun and Alex stomped on the fleeing scorpion. Garcia rushed forward, and Alex told him to call the paramedics.

Groaning, sweating, and holding his hand, the good Reverend backed to the wall and slid down to the floor, eyes glazed with fear.

I kneeled down next to him. "Judge not lest ye be judged," I said softly.

He stared vacantly from the depths of his shriveled soul.

I suddenly felt the need to hold my wife.

***

George teaches cultural anthropology at California State University, Long Beach, and lives with his wife and daughter in nearby Lakewood. Two years ago, burned-out on academic writing, George sought restoration through crime fiction. "Dancing with Scorpions" is his first story to appear in Nefarious, and he is currently polishing his novel, A Fearful Symmetry, in hopes of finding an agent. All of George's fiction is based on his experience as an academic anthropologist, with mystery, murder, and mayhem thrown in. He can be reached at LAfictionwriter@aol.com