Spacious skies lured entrepreneur Maxwell Larsen to the Land of the Midnight Sun. Posthaste, a whiskey sour, garnished with a cherry, arrived at the corner booth where the Whitewash Director seated himself.

"Compliments of the house, Mr. Larsen," the slender brunette informed him with a sly smile.

Larsen's keen eye noticed her blouse hung low and the firmness of her exposed bazookas. Two white, fluffy bunny appenditures adorned her head.

She asked, "You like? I prepared the drink just to your taste."

"You never cease to amaze me, Dianna," Larsen responded. "The view is always pleasant with a scenic wonder like you. Will you be escorting me to the presentation tonight?"

"It will be my pleasure," Dianna promised, then said with a wink, "afterwards, I have a special reward for my darling boy; myself."

Larsen liked the sound of that singular word.

"Since my arrival, Banwire has been so welcoming and full of friendly people. A treasured discovery," he stated with a sip from the coupe glass the bourbon was served in.

"And, the vast wealth your organization has poured into this community is much appreciated, Mr. Larsen," a third party offered joining them.

An obvious glad-hander, and rotund slaphead, Mayor Douglas McIntosh was a long time political pillar of the community. Larsen thought the societal hobnobber important only because of the bureaucratic position he held no one else desired. He further considered the bumbling doofus wasn't much more than a muckety-muck, and one who delighted in roasting his marshmallows.

"It is going to be quite an honor, Mr. Larsen, to present you with the Humanitarian of the Year Award," Mayor McIntosh stated. "The black tie affair will be well remembered for generations to come. You sir, will take your place among the preeminent."

Larsen smiled. He enjoyed the aristarchy. He finished his inebriant, tipped his bowler to Dianna, and bid them adieu. The afternoon sun shone bright as Larsen stepped outside and his mind focused on the pleasure awaiting him at home.

Leisurely, he strolled down the sidewalk past the Beretta Baked Goods Store and the stone fountain in the middle of Banwire Park. The grass surrounding the concourse was well manicured. Nonchalantly, Larsen twirled his umbrella in his fingers as his route carried him to the corner of Forsythe Street and Belleview Boulevard. A car horn honked as he crossed against the red light and waved to the uniformed police officer who directed traffic through the construction area.

Turning left on Abercrombie Street, Larsen observed a chirping jay fly overhead. His residence was the third estate on the right. In search of a fallen acorn, a bushy-tailed squirrel scurried down the majestic oak that stood in the middle of the front piazza. Removing the key from his pocket, Larsen opened the door and descended the spiral, alabaster staircase into the cellar where he flicked on the overhead light.

Much to his chagrin the treat he coveted was not to be found. How was this possible? Hadn't he secured the youngster he'd kept chained to the bed for the last four months when he departed the house that morning? Larsen prided himself on his steadfastness in doing all things meticulously. He checked the window that led out to Merle Drive. The casement remained padlocked and the chains secured to the four posters of the bed.

Beads of perspiration dotted Larsen's forehead. He'd forked over ten thousand greenbacks for the prime specimen, more than he'd paid for any other prototype and the syndicate would frown heavily on this unfortunate development. He'd never misplaced a package before. Errors were not tolerated. The consortium's policy was lose a package...become a package. Worse still, if the boy was discovered the secret would destroy everything Maxwell Larsen had spent his entire lifetime building.

A nauseating wave of panic overcame Larsen. He bolted upstairs and out the door. This quandary simply could not prevail.

(To Be Continued:)