Governor Bedford Crimm IV knew nothing about the Trooper Truth website until his press secretary, Major Trader, came to see him at 1:00 P.M. and set the "Brief Explanation" on the governor's antique burlwood desk.

"Are you aware of this, Governor?" Trader asked.

Governor Crimm picked up the computer printout and squinted at it. "What is it, exactly?"

"Good question," Trader grimly answered. "We've all known it was coming, but there's been no way to check it out or anticipate its spin on things because Trooper Truth is a fake name. And there appears to be no way to trace this renegade trooper through the Internet."

"I see," the governor pondered as he strained blindly to pick out a word or two. "Am I to assume he's one of ours? Oh," he added, pleasantly surprised when Trader served him a chocolate brownie on a small Wedgwood plate. "Why, thank you."

"Made fresh this morning from only the finest Belgian chocolate. I'm afraid I ate far too many of them, myself."

"That wife of yours certainly can cook," the governor said as he ate half the brownie in two bites. "I bet she doesn't use mixes. Or did we already discuss that?" He ate the rest of the brownie, unable to resist anything chocolate.

"Everything from scratch."

"A strange phrase, I've always thought," the governor considered as he wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. "What is from scratch?"

"Ingredients. It has to do with-"

"Tsst, tsst." The governor made his familiar hissing noise, which meant he did not want an answer to the question, but simply was expressing curiosity. "On with things," he impatiently added.

"Yes," Trader said. "Trooper Truth. There's no one on the state police force with the last name of Truth, and no one over there claims to have any idea who Trooper Truth is. But prior to the posting of this first essay"-he indicated the printout-"there have been numerous promotions of the Trooper Truth website and when it was going to be launched. Whoever the person is, he's well versed enough in the Internet to make sure his marketing ploys and ads have shown up everywhere you can imagine."

Governor Crimm picked up his nineteenth-century magnifying glass, which was English and made of ivory. Peering through the lens, he made out enough of the essay's contents to get interested and slightly offended.

"It's been clear for a while that this Trooper Truth individual is based in Virginia or at least wants to point the finger at Virginia," Trader indignantly went on as the governor slowly read. "I've got a file on what he's posted on various bulletin boards and sent out in mass e-mailings. He seems to have access to every governmental e-mail address in the Commonwealth, which is one of the reasons I am sure he's an insider, a turncoat, and a troublemaker."

"Well, I like what he has to say about America starting in Jamestown and not Plymouth," remarked the governor, whose family had been in Virginia since the American Revolution. "I'm mighty tired of other states taking credit for what we've accomplished. But I don't approve of his implication that history is untrustworthy. That's going to step on some toes, now isn't it? And what's this about pirates?" He steadied the magnifying glass over Blackbeard's name.

"Very troublesome. I'm sure you heard the news this morning?"

"Yes, yes," the governor said, distracted. "Do we have any further information on that?"

"The victim, Moses Custer, was beaten severely and doesn't remember much and was babbling a lot about a unique experience with an angel whose car had broken down. But after continued questioning by the state police, he sobered up and seemed to recall a young white male with dreadlocks who shouted obscenities when he flung open the Peterbilt's tailgate and discovered thousands of pumpkins, which he and his gang no doubt had to unload quickly and in secret into the James River. The guy, uh, Custer, had the same weird cuts as some of the other victims."

"I thought we were doing our best to play down this pirate business," the governor seemed to remember. "Didn't I order Superintendent Hammer not to release any statements to the press about anything without our approving it first?"

"You certainly did. And so far, we're managing to keep the sensational details out of the media."

"You don't suppose Trooper Truth intends to keep blabbing about our pirate problem on the Internet, do you?"

"Yes, sir," Trader replied as if he knew this for a fact. "We can rest assured his website is going to open a can of worms, because by all appearances, it's an inside job and I fear your administration could be blamed if things really get ugly."

"You might be right. I get blamed for most things," the governor confessed as his stomach rumbled and his intestines lurched into activity like worms suddenly exposed to daylight. He wished Trader had not mentioned a can of worms.

Crimm's constitution just wasn't what it used to be, and very often he felt like hell. Last night he had endured yet another formal dinner at the executive mansion, and since he was hosting some of his biggest financial supporters, the mansion's director had decided it was important to serve Virginia food and wine. As usual, this had meant ham from Smithfield, baked apples from Winchester, biscuits made from an antebellum recipe, and wines from Virginia vineyards.

Crimm's digestion simply couldn't tolerate any of it, especially the apples, and most of the morning he had been seeking out the most convenient, secure toilet inside the Capitol, until he finally gave up on cabinet-level meetings and retreated to his office, which had thick walls and a private bathroom he could use without

Executive Protection Unit state troopers posted outside the door. As if all of that wasn't bad enough, the wine had given Crimm a sinus headache.

"It doesn't make sense why I have to serve, much less drink, inferior wine," the governor bitterly complained as he slowly moved the magnifying glass over the printout.

"I beg your pardon?" Trader looked confused. "What wine?"

"Oh, you weren't there last night, I guess." Crimm sighed. "We ought to serve French wines. Think about how much Thomas Jefferson loved French wine and all things French. So why would it be such an egregious break from tradition to serve French wines in the mansion?"

"You know how critical people are," Trader reminded him. "But I totally agree with you, Governor. French wines are much better, and you deserve them. However, someone will say something and no doubt it will be widely publicized and costly to your reputation. Which brings me back to Trooper Truth. This article is only the beginning. We have a loose cannon on our hands and somehow must stop whoever it is or at least have some say-so about it."

The governor could have done without the cannon reference, too, as he slowly made out words and scarcely listened to his press secretary, who was a meddler and an irritation. Crimm was not clear on why he had ever hired Major Trader or even if he had. But Trader certainly wasn't Crimm's cup of tea, at least not anymore, assuming he ever was. The press secretary was a fat slob who was far more interested in big meals, big stories, and big talk than he was in being honest about anything. The only good thing about Crimm's failing eyesight was he could scarcely see people like Trader at all anymore, even when he was in the same room with them, and thank God for small favors, because the sight of Trader with his fleshy jowls, ill-fitting suits, and long, greasy strands of hair combed over his bald pate was increasingly repulsive.

"… objects in the mirror are closer than they appear" the governor slowly read out loud as he peered through the magnifying glass. "So The Past rides our bumper along life's highways and may even be inside the car with MS…" He glanced up and gave Trader a huge eye. "Hmmm, now that's an interesting thing to consider."