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By the time I got back to the apartment, it was around 6:30 p.m.. I took the elevator from the garage and pressed the first floor button, intending to pick up whatever mail might have arrived earlier in the day.

Stepping out of the elevator, I headed for the mail area. Nick, part of the building's security staff, saw me step off the elevator.

Somewhat nervously, he informed me there were a couple of men who wanted to talk with me. I was told that the men were waiting for me in the manager's office.

"Who are they, Nick?" I asked in a puzzled tone of voice.

He answered with three letters: "FBI."

Now, I was really puzzled. What could they possibly want with me?

"Is the building manager with them?" I inquired.

"No, he's gone for the day. They just got here a short while ago, so I let them into his office.

"They said they intended to wait a little bit to see if you would show up. They wanted some place where they wouldn't be conspicuous and also which was private so they could talk with you in case you came."

I thanked Nick, although thanks was not what I was feeling. I made my way to the manager's office and opened the door.

I was greeted with: "Are you David Phelps?" by the shorter of the two men.

"That's right," I acknowledged.

The shorter of the two flashed a badge and announced: "I 'm Special Agent Williams." Turning slightly toward the other man, he added: "This is Special Agent Bradley."

He started to put his identification away. "Excuse me," I said, more calmly then I felt, "Could I see your identification again please Mr. Williams. I would like to see your identification as well Mr... is it Brady?"

"It's Special Agent Bradley," he said, as he handed me his identification.

Agent Williams seemed a little irritated as I collected his identification from him. Agent Bradley seemed slightly amused.

I looked at their identification papers and badges as if I knew what I was doing. I handed the documents back to the agents and said: "Well, everything looks to be in order, but, of course, with technology being what it is today, they could be forgeries."

"I assure you they are not," Agent Williams said. However, you are welcome to phone our Boston office if you wish to confirm the authenticity of our identifications."

"That won't be necessary," I indicated. "What can I do for you?" I sat down.

Agent Bradley was the designated observer. He stayed in the background and studied my reactions, while his partner posed the questions.

Agent Williams began: "Federal records indicate you recently visited Brian Idaho at the federal penitentiary? Is that correct?"

"Do you feel your records are in need of my confirmation in order to become official?" I asked. I continued on with: "Why do you people always ask questions to which you already know the answer?"

Agent Williams was fast becoming annoyed with my manner. Agent Bradley remained cool and expressionless.

"Just answer the question, Mr. Phelps," said Agent Williams.

"Doctor," I said.

"I don't understand your response," Agent Williams remarked.

"It's Dr. Phelps, Agent Williams, not Mr.. I worked hard for the degree. And, the answer to your question is: yes, I did visit with Brian Idaho at the federal penitentiary."

"What did you speak about with Mr. Idaho?" Agent Williams asked.

"Why don't you ask him?" I retorted. "He's your guest."

"We would love to do that, Dr. Phelps," Agent Williams said, with a slight emphasis on 'Dr.'. "The problem is, Brian Idaho escaped from prison two days ago."

Somewhat sarcastically, he added: "Naturally, we take exception to that sort of thing. It's against the rules.

"We feel you may know something about the matter. You see, you were the last person to visit him. The information we have is that you spoke with Mr. Idaho for a very long time.

"A few days later, he disappears. I'm sure you can guess how the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to fit together for us.

"You could be in a lot of trouble, Dr. Phelps. Helping a felon to escape, or giving aid to an escaped felon, are federal offenses.

"Consequently, I highly recommend parking your attitude and beginning to co-operate with us. Do you think you could accomplish that?"

"Why don't you lighten up, Agent Williams," I shot back. "If you people have evidence I helped Brian Idaho escape, then arrest me and let's go to court."

I glared at him for a moment, doing my best to convey a sense of dignified defiance. I took a deep breath, seeking to gain some degree of emotional equilibrium, and, then, proceeded in a different direction.

"I met Brian Idaho. I talked with him for several hours, mostly about history and Native spirituality. End of story. There's nothing more to say."

Almost immediately, Agent Williams inquired: "Where did you first meet Mr. Idaho?"

I was silent for a few seconds. On the one hand, I could continue on with my wise-guy routine and enjoy whatever forms of irritation and frustration I could introduce into the lives of Agents Williams and Bradley. On the other hand, I could try to get through the interview as quickly and as non-problematically as possible.

The draft-dodging aspect of my personality was partial to the former possibility. My professional side was leaning toward the latter course of action. I decided, on this occasion, that, perhaps: "discretion was the better part of valor" and chose to cooperate as best I could.

"The one and only time I met Brian Idaho was during the prison visit," I replied.

Agent Williams followed up with: "So, how did you come to visit him in prison?"

"Brian's sister Beth asked me to visit him," I said

"How long have you known Beth Idaho?" he asked.

I thought briefly and told him: "About ten days. She came into my office seeking help. I tried to help her out by going to the prison and speaking with Brian as she asked me to."

"Why did she want you speak with her brother?" he probed.

"She was worried about Brian," I informed him.

"What was she worried about?" he wanted to know.

"I'm afraid you'll have to get that information in some other way, Agent Williams. It falls under the protective privilege of the therapist and patient relationship."

"She was a client of yours?" he asked.

"Isn't that what I just told you?" I stated rhetorically. I realized I was dancing a fine line between truth and fiction in saying Beth was my client. However, I wasn't about to start talking to the FBI about spiritual visions and the symbolism of owls.

Ignoring my retort, he pressed on: "How did she believe you could help her brother?"

"There was no definite plan," I remarked. "Going to visit her brother was very much of an exploratory venture. Neither Beth nor I had any specific idea in mind except that something might turn up if I spoke with Brian."

"Did anything turn up in your conversation with Mr. Idaho?" he inquired.

"Nothing that I recognized as such," I answered.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means 'N' 'O' Agent Williams," I blurted out.

Returning to the attack, he said: "Do you know where Beth Idaho is?"

"To the best of my knowledge, she is on vacation," I informed him. "I have no idea where she is spending her time.

"I've tried to contact her on several occasions and left messages for her. I've yet to receive any return reply from her."

Pressing relentlessly on, he asked: "Do you know the present whereabouts of Warren Idaho?"

"Not really," I responded. "Beth mentioned something about him being in South America working with various indigenous peoples. She didn't specify a particular location. I don't even know if she knows, for sure, where he is."

Agent Williams looked over at Agent Bradley. "Do you have any questions

Paul?"

Agent Bradley shook his head in the negative and rose from his chair. Agent Williams stood up as well.

He reached into the inside, left breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a wallet. He took out a card and handed it to me.

As he did this, he said: "If you make contact with Beth Idaho before we do, I suggest you tell her we would like very much to question her about this matter. Furthermore, its conceivable we may have some more questions to ask you as our investigation develops, so don't wander too far Dr. Phelps, if you get my drift."

The draft-dodging side of me bubbled to the surface, having broken free from its tether. "Agent Williams I read you five by five. It's always a joyous occasion to spend time with such dedicated servants of democracy as yourselves."

We all left the building manager's office. They went about their business, and I went about mine.

The next day was Tuesday. I decided to go to my off-campus office, check for mail there and pick up a few books I had bought to read during the summer months. I also wanted to make a phone call.

There was nothing of importance in the mail. I reached for the phone and dialed the desired number.

A few seconds later I heard: "Hello?"

"Ken," I said, "its David Phelps. How are you and the Justice Department doing these days?"

"Dave, its nice to hear from you. I was beginning to think you had fallen off the face of the earth.

"I'm doing fine," he answered in response to my query, "but I'm not convinced the Justice Department is in such good shape. A lot of strange things are going on these days."

"That sounds intriguing," I offered. "It's just the kind of thing an old lion like me longs to sink his feeble fangs into in order to jump start his life."

"Naw," said Ken, "this stuff is too fast for an old geezer like you. You'd have a heart attack the first time you chased it around the block."

I chuckled and broached the main purpose of my call. "Ken, I'm hoping you might be able to help me with something."

"What, are you under federal indictment again?" he teased. "I thought you had left your draft-dodging days behind you long ago."

"Well," I remarked, "strange things happen in more places than Washington. However, the answer to your question is: no, I am not under federal indictment." I paused for a few moments and, then, mumbled: "Not yet anyway."

Ken said: "Oh, oh! This is beginning to sound serious and complicated. What's up, Dave?"

"It's a long story that I would rather not get into at the present time. I may be talking to you about it soon enough. I was thinking of visiting you in a few days...that is, if you were going to be available."

"Come on down. Pam and the kids would love to see you again. Its been too long. I might even be willing to talk with you."

"Is this coming weekend O.K.?" I inquired

"I don't think there will be a problem, but I'll check with Pam. If you don't hear from me by tonight, it means the coast is clear."

"Ah...Ken, there's one more thing," I indicated. Have you ever heard of an organization known as the Bettinger Foundation?"

Ken was silent for brief period. "The name rings a vague bell, Dave, but its all kind of hazy. Why?"

"Do me a favor and see what you can find out about them," I requested. "They have offered me a very lucrative external consulting position, but, for some reason, I have a funny feeling about the whole thing. Maybe you can help me allay my anxieties or put a concrete face on them so that I know what I'm dealing with."

"Done," Ken said. "And, Dave, if we are on for this weekend, give me a call before you come so we can make arrangements to pick you up at the airport."

"I will," I assured him. "I hope to see you all in a few days. Bye, for now, Ken."

"Roger that," he responded and hung up.

I put the phone down on its cradle and sat back in my chair. I closed my eyes and began thinking about my relationship with Ken.

We had known each other for more than thirty years. We had met while going to college.

We were both rebels, and this had been the bond which drew us together initially. But, we were very different kinds of rebel.

Ken was a Vietnam veteran, yet he was the one who had counseled me to go to Canada. He referred to us as Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside.

We each wanted to change things. He used to joke about how Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside would catch the system in a pincer movement and roll on to victory over injustice and stupidity.

I was pulled back to the here and now by a knock on the door. "Come in, please," I said as I cleared the last remnants of reminiscence from my consciousness.

The door opened and in walked Beth Idaho. She looked different somehow, but in a way that I couldn't identify.

I jumped up. "Beth, where have you been," I cried, partly in relief, partly with happiness, and partly out of curiosity."

She gave me a mournful and frightened look. Finally, she said: "I don't know...I don't know where I've been."

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| Next - The Masked Marvel |