Acid Rock

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The day before his flailing body met the Denver sidewalk, accelerating at thirty-two feet per second per second, William Blake lost his temper at the Los Angeles headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

It was not that his district supervisor had once again given him an assignment that might keep him away from home for weeks. It was not that Special Agent Blake had to cancel his family's vacation for the second year in a row. It was that the supervisor was so … so … well, supervisory.

«Damn it, what is Washington worried about?» asked Blake, referring to the place from whence all policy flowed. «I've successfully handled situations like this seven times. At this, I'm probably the best in the whole bureau.»

«That's why you're in charge,» said District Supervisor Watkins.

«Yeah. I'm in charge, but you're going over where we're going to keep her, who's going to be on duty with her at night, what's she going to eat, and who's going to prepare it.»

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