The law dictated that an NFA weapon be registered once and maintain that registration forever. At the same time, the law prohibited registration of existing unregistered guns. Taken together, these two constraints reversed the doctrine of "innocent until proven guilty." When a machine gun dealer or collector possessed a gun that ATF did not show in its records, it was up to the individual to prove prior registration. If he, like ATF, had misplaced his paperwork, ATF would confiscate the weapon and have it destroyed. If the individual was lucky, that was all that would happen. In many cases, however, ATF would bring charges and the person would go to prison. There were many people in the gun culture serving time because they had learned this lesson too late. Orville Crocker was acutely aware of the rules of the game, and kept all his paperwork in a locked safe.

Crocker saw that the compliance inspector was going to be a while, and he was about to go out to the kitchen when the telephone rang. He reached over and picked up the receiver.

"Hello? Hey, Doug." Crocker smiled when he heard his friend's question. "Funny you should ask, I'm right in the middle of my ATF compliance inspection. No, that's okay, they just need to check my records and make sure all the paperwork's right. Theirs, mostly," Crocker added with another laugh. Vonetta Ecks glared at his back. "Should be up at your place tomorrow."

There was a lengthy pause while Crocker listened, and Vonetta Ecks noticed the lone pistol sitting on the table of machine guns. She picked it up and held it at chest level to look at the German markings on the top of the gun. Like almost all ATF inspectors, Ecks had absolutely no experience with firearms other than writing down their serial numbers. It did not cross her mind that she should keep her finger off the trigger, point the muzzle in a safe direction, and check the action to see if the gun was loaded. She was not part of the gun culture.

Crocker listened to the man on the other end of the line, then snorted with amusement. "Doug, I promise I won't machine-gun any of your cattle. I haven't yet, have I?" he asked with a grin. "And I don't think I'll need to go in your house, but I'll put the key back if I do." He listened some more. "Good deal. Okay. Bye." He hung up the phone and started to turn around.

"If you need license copies for the dealers thatJESUS!" Crocker yelled in horror when he saw the machine pistol that was pointed straight at his heart. Then reflex took over. He lunged forward, swung his right arm in an arc from right to left, slapping away the weapon. At the same time, he grabbed the barrel and violently twisted the gun away from his body in one instinctive motion. The move bent the compliance inspector's hand backwards, and she released the Mauser. Her index finger on the trigger was also bent back, and the gun would have fired into the wall if it had been cocked and loaded. As the machine pistol's trigger guard slid off the tip of Ecks' index finger, the only thing left blocking the gun was the two-inch artificial fingernail. The synthetic nail was epoxied to Vonetta Ecks' natural growth, and both the plastic and the epoxy were stronger and more durable than Mother Nature's best effort.

Vonetta Ecks screamed as part of her real nail was torn to the quick in the fraction of a second before the gun was ripped free. Orville Crocker went down on one knee clutching the Mauser 712 as momentum carried him off-balance.

"Ofay mothafucka!" Ecks bellowed.

"Look, goddammit," he said, breathing hard and with a violently elevated heart rate,

"you were-"

"You mothafuckin white devil!" Ecks screamed in a dialect entirely unlike the one she had used at the front door. Tears filled her eyes and she was literally shaking with pain and rage. Then her face changed with a sudden internal recognition, and something that might have been a smile flashed briefly across her face. "See what happens now," she said triumphantly. Vonetta Ecks grabbed her briefcase and rushed out of the house without another word.

"You believe CNN showed that tape?" Stokely Meier asked of no one in particular.

"That Blair guy, you think he's really the one behind all this?" one of the men in the St. Louis gun shop asked.

"Doesn't really matter, does it?" asked another.

"Guess not."

"Liked to piss myself, when that peckerneck started pulling stuff out of his briefcase. Cocaine, counterfeit hundreds, newspaper clippings-shit, he had everything there but a map of Dealey friggin' Plaza."

"Feds left one thing out." The others in the gun shop turned to look at Thomas J. Fleming, who was examining a 1937 National Match Government Model. They did not notice the large bearded man standing two aisles away behind a rack of graphite fly rods. "When I saw that tape of Blair and his briefcase full of goodies," Fleming said, "next thing I expected him to say was that they'd gotten the Postmaster General to hand over some child pornography the Post Office had confiscated." Arthur Bedderson, standing by the fly rods, cocked his head to listen to the lawyer.

"Feds seize kiddie porn all the time," Fleming explained. He shrugged. "Maybe the ATF Director didn't think of it." The others grunted agreement. Bedderson smiled tightly and turned away. He had just had an idea.

"We'll see some serious resignations now," one of the men suggested. "You get the Wall Street Journal here in the store, Stoke? I wonder what their advance time is for classifieds?"

"There's one in the back," he answered. "Lead time's only a day or two, I think, but maybe they got a special deal for feds. Got a couple more in yesterday's paper, but my favorite was today." "What was that? I must've missed it." Everyone had been watching the 'Jobs Wanted' section, following the dozens of resignations and early retirements.

"Some ATF guy's wife," Stokely answered.

"What?"

"Yeah. Took out an ad to say she'd filed for divorce and moved out of the house. Thought everyone should know. I guess she was afraid Blair and company might decide to include her, like the Colombians do in the drug wars."

"That's not what she was worried about," Tom Fleming said immediately. "More likely she was afraid her husband would pop her, and try to make it look like the ATF execution squad did it. That's what she wanted to head off. His alibi." Two of the men present laughed uproariously at Fleming's comment.

"You got problems at home, Tom?" one of them said after he had calmed down a bit.

"Not at all. Used to do a lot of divorces, though." The men laughed some more.

None of them paid any attention as Arthur 'B.I.' Bedderson slipped out of the store and walked around the corner. At the end of the next block was both a camera store and a newsstand with a large adult section.

"Sir, you said to bring to your attention anything irregular concerning NFA dealers and manufacturers." "What is it?" Dwight Greenwell snapped.

"One of our people says she was assaulted during a compliance check this morning. Out in Laramie, Wyoming. Apparently it happened when she discovered a discrepancy in the dealer's records. She thinks he may be, uh, connected to...what's been going on," the man said finally. He was uncomfortable mentioning anything related to the day's newscasts. Greenwell closed his eyes.

"This shit is going to stop right goddamn now," he said in what was almost a whisper. "Is the woman all right?"

"Yes, sir. I believe so."

"Thank God for that. How many tactical people can we put on the ground?"

"Two, from the Cheyenne area. We can get more if we bring them up from Denver."

"Do it. Every man we can muster. It's time to turn this thing around." Greenwell looked up as he thought of something. "Cheyenne's where Alex Neumann came from. Call the FBI office out there and have them give us some backup. Get back with me if they give you any shit."

"Yessir."

"You can still fly an ultralight, sweetheart," Jenny Lowell said with a sad smile when she heard the news. "I checked, and they've got some now that are acrobatic." From another person, the comment might have brought a sarcastic response, but Taylor Lowell hugged his wife and kissed the top of her head. She knew exactly how miserable he was.

"Maybe it'll come to that," he said. His most recent attempt to get his pilot's license reinstated had failed, just like the others.

Jenny Lowell's suggestion was now the one remaining way that Taylor Lowell could stay in the air. Singleseat aircraft weighing less than 254 pounds with level-flight top speeds of less than 60 miles per hour could be legally flown without a pilot's license. These $15,000-$20,000 powered hang gliders were the refuge of those who did not have the money to buy a 'real' airplane, did not want to submit to ever-increasing stacks of equipment regulations, or who, like Taylor Lowell, had been grounded by the FAA despite every attempt to remain in compliance.

"Would you like me to fix you a drink?"

"Thanks, babe," he said as he patted his wife's bottom. "Just a Coke. I think I'll go veg out in front of the tube for a bit." He picked up the newspaper from the kitchen counter and walked into the living room.

The projection television was already on and tuned to CNN. The Blair tape was running again, and the newsman then gave an update about reactions from around the country. Outrage at the government was high on the list. Lowell sat in his armchair and scanned the paper's headlines. The lead story in the Kansas City Star was on the killings, but not the Blair tape. That story had broken too late for that day's deadline. Lowell listened to the news report as he skimmed the Star article.

The paper mentioned how closed-mouthed the government was being about leads in the case. The author had thrown in a few quotes about the evil nature of the killers, and Taylor Lowell thought these comments sounded tired and obligatory. In light of the Blair tape on CNN, they were almost embarrassing. The last part of the article addressed the rumors surrounding the recent violent deaths of two Congressmen. Each of the dead legislators had a record of vigorously advocating gun bans.

"They don't have shit," Lowell said under his breath, then smiled, stood up quickly, and headed for the back of the house.

"Where are you going?" his wife asked as he entered the kitchen. "Here's your Coke."

"Thanks," he said, gulping it. "I'm heading over to the library. Just remembered some things I want to look up." He grinned and thought of something else that would divert further questions. "And I want to run by the newsstand, get one of those ultralight magazines. Moping won't put me back in the air, and I might as well find out about those acrobatic jobs you mentioned, right?" He kissed his wife and headed for the door before she could respond.

Jenny Lowell's spirits lifted as she watched her husband depart. It was the first time she had seen him looking happy since his Pitts had been grounded and his airman's medical certificate revoked.

The drive to the library took less than ten minutes, and Taylor Lowell found what he was looking for sooner than he had expected. Several aviation magazines had discussed the four most recent bills which had expanded the FAA's power, and listed how every U.S. Congressman and Senator had voted on each of them. One of the U.S. legislators from the Phoenix area, Congressman Heebner, had supported all four.

The pilot was about to leave when he thought of something else. It took a little longer than it should have because Taylor Lowell was not initially sure how to find what he was looking for. In about twenty minutes, however, Taylor Lowell learned that Congressman Heebner had also supported a number of proposed federal bans on guns and ammunition, and had vocally opposed the state-level concealed-carry legislation which had recently passed in Arizona.

When Taylor Lowell discovered this, his initial reaction was to marvel at his good fortune. He did not own a gun and had no interest in shooting sports, but Taylor Lowell did not want the police department's list of suspects to be entirely composed of private pilots. Then, on impulse, the aviator cross-checked the list of legislators who favored more restrictions on pilots with the list of those who had voted to further restrict gunowners. The tallies were very close to identical.

"Hey, little boo," Arthur Bedderson said as his two-year-old daughter pushed open the door to his study. He turned away from the computer keyboard and pushed his chair back from the desk.

"Daddeee," the little girl said happily, reaching out her arms towards her father's beard as he bent over to pick her up. "Whatchoo doin, Daddy?"

"Playing political spin doctor, little thrasher," he answered.

"Doc-tor?" she asked.

"That's right," he said, as he clicked the mouse button and saved his work that was on the screen. "Want to see the new camera your old man just got?" Bedderson said as she let go of his whiskers. He unfolded the ten-year-old Polaroid single lens reflex he had bought for $90 and held it backwards at arm's length. "Watch this-big flashy thing, boo," he said, making a face. Bedderson pressed the button with his thumb and the electronic strobe discharged. Then the camera whirred and ejected the print. "Wait a minute, and you'll see it," he told the little girl. She stared for a few seconds at the shiny surface of the undeveloped photo.

"Oy?" the girl said quizzically.

"Unh huh," Bedderson answered agreeably. "Now let's do one of you. Squint your eyes shut tight," he told her, demonstrating. The little girl giggled happily and imitated her father. The big man snapped another photo and laid the print on the table next to the first.

"Daddy," she giggled. Then the image of her father in the first photo started to appear, and the little girl opened her mouth in wonder. "More, Daddy," she said insistently, pointing at the camera.

"You want more? Take more pictures?" Bedderson asked.

"Yes!"

"Okay, we'll take some more," 'B.I.' Bedderson assured his daughter, who was making faces for the camera. She was used to having people take pictures of her, but instant results were something new. Soon Bedderson had used up all of the ten-shot film pack, and he replaced it with a new one as his daughter Rachel looked back and forth in fascination at the images laid out on the coffee table.

"Uh-oh," Bedderson said in mock horror. "Do I smell a poopy diaper?" He scooped her up in his arms. "You are my poopy diaper, poopy diaper baby of mine, diaper baby, ooooh, diaper baby," he sang, doing an excellent imitation of a song on a children's tape Rachel liked.

"More, Daddy," she said insistently.