The forest, still sodden from the morning's rain, was alive with the sounds of life beginning and of life coming to an end. This cycle had repeated itself in the rainforest for as long as anyone could remember.

Although he weighed barely more than half a grown man and had the agility of a creature that swung from tree branches, Jose Felipe sank to his ankles in the reddish-brown mud. He took each step with great caution; one misstep could lead to a bottomless quagmire where escape would not be possible.

Standing motionless, his arms frozen at his sides, he waited. And waited. Slowly, methodically, as he had done many times before, he lifted one arm to ready the net as if it were a lasso. Fashioned of brown twine, it was caked with a thin film of dried mud. Jose squinted to the shallow waters ahead laden with green lily pads, above which hovered multicolored dragonflies flitting inquisitively from one pad to another. He studied the rainbow of colors, separating green from orange, yellow from red--colors an artist might gather on his palette before beginning to paint.

With a flick of his wrist, the net spread its wings and sailed through the moist air as if caught by a sudden gust of wind.

Stunned, the dart frog did not move, did not struggle to escape, as one would expect of a creature in the tropical rainforest. It was as if the amphibian knew its time had come.

Smiling with great satisfaction, Jose Felipe drew in the net a few inches at a time. Cautiously, he examined the colorful frog that lay snared in the net. Its eyes bulged from its moist, multicolored body. Handling it with thick, leather gloves that reached to his elbows, he removed it from the tangle of twine, placed the creature in a pail of warm, greenish water, and tightly secured the lid.

Then, Jose retraced his steps back to the village of Santa Maria, an hour's journey by foot on the gravel road. Once there, he hurried to the tin roof house of Carlos Gonzales that bordered near the market square.

Carlos gave him a chilled bottle of Mexican beer, which Jose pressed to his warm forehead. He received five American dollars for the treasure in the pail, one of the most poisonous of all creatures in the rainforest.

The following morning, just before sunrise when the mountains lay shrouded in mist, Jose made the sign of the cross three times as he trotted past the Church of the Holy Trinity. Then, as he had done so frequently, he veered north, returning to the rainforest, the ankle-deep mud, and the shallow steams and ponds with their lily pads and hovering dragonflies to try his luck once again.

Patrick "Irish" Holly, owner of the pet store just south of Interstate 65 in South Memphis, assured the mother that the brightly colored frog would be the ideal pet for her six-year-old twin boys. "Very low maintenance," he repeated in a serious and authoritative tone. If she purchased two of them, he'd include a ten-gallon terrarium, complete with a small plastic waterfall, real twigs and leaves, and enough dried insect parts for a week--all at half the regular price.

The twins grinned with anticipation and tugged at her skirt. Shaking her head with indecision, the woman studied the frogs in the exhibit. They were small and kind of pretty, at least for frogs--bright orange, green, and yellow with bulging eyes and suction-cup feet that made it possible for them to cling to the sides of the glass enclosure. As she pondered her decision, one of them seemed to be looking straight at her as if pleading for her to take him along.

"Are they safe?" she asked. "They don't bite, do they?"

The man tried not to laugh. "They are absolutely safe, madam," he said, again using that authoritative tone. "They're bred right here in the United States under strict government control," he added with an air of false authority. "I guarantee their survival for thirty days. No questions asked if you aren't completely satisfied."

The twins squealed with delight when their mother handed the merchant her credit card.

The transaction complete, Mr. Holly placed the two creatures the twins selected in a plastic container and deposited the container in the terrarium along with the twigs, leaves, dried insect food, and the green plastic waterfall.

"They like live ants and tiny insects for a change of pace," the shop owner instructed them as they prepared to leave. "Big red ants, especially. But be very careful. Never take the frogs out of the terrarium. They can be difficult to catch if they get loose." Smiling broadly at the twins, he added, "Make sure you give each of them a cute name."

The boys giggled, gibbering off a series of names that might be suitable. Little Godzilla. Super frog. King frog. They could hardly wait to get home and set up the terrarium in their bedroom. Best of all, the man in the pet store had told them that with good care and proper food, the frogs might live to be five or six years old.

Black ice and quicksand are two natural phenomena that can grab hold of the unwary, throwing them into harm's way without a moment's warning. Each can be deadly in its own way. In the nation's capital quicksand doesn't exist, but if the temperature hovers near freezing, and there is enough moisture in the nighttime clouds, black ice can happen--a transparent, slippery skin that coats the roadways like invisible slime.

Senator Samuel T. Jenkins, plain and awkward looking, seemed an uncanny likeness of Abraham Lincoln. His booming voice sounded an octave or two too low and as gravely as the road in Sussex that ran from his father's former construction company to the stone quarry a mile away. He was the first-born son of Michael and Martha Jenkins--a product of M and M as his classmates used to tease in high school.

He was the popular, two-time senator from Ohio, a key pivotal state in the up-coming presidential election. The electoral voices from Ohio could be enough to shift the election away from the President's favor. According to a consensus of political analysts, the election was destined to be one of the closest races ever, a real nail biter.

"Good morning, Senator," the limo driver of the black Town Car said, with a dutiful smile.

"And good morning to you, Mike," the husky, burley-voiced man of nearly six foot-four replied. He stepped down from the stoop of his Georgian-style town house onto the short walkway.

Refusing to use a cane, he tried not to limp or sway with unsteadiness. That, he knew, could be seen as a sign of weakness. Knee-high socks hid the annoying bruises on his lower legs. Recently, the dizziness had become worse than usual. For the advancing arthritis, he routinely took two gel caps that his wife lovingly insisted he take morning and night. They were hard to miss--bright orange in color, in a matching orange bottle with large white lettering--that she dutifully placed at his bedside table.

The door to the back seat snapped open, and Senator Jenkins slid onto the tan-colored, heated leather seat. He stretched his lanky legs and rubbed his right hip and thigh with the edge of his palm, as if that would increase the blood flow. On this chilly December morning, the pain was a grade eight out of ten, but he, Samuel T. Jenkins, two-term senator from the state of Ohio, wasn't going to let anyone see that. Privately, he recognized he wasn't a perfect, sixty-two year-old specimen.

"A bit nippy this morning, Mike," the senator commented.

"Yes sir," the driver replied. "Near freezing. Thirty-three degrees."

Senator Jenkins wasn't the type for idle talk. In fact, he could count on one hand those individuals whom he classified as true friends. That was what high-politics was all about: shaking hands, smiling, laughing at bad jokes, pretending that everyone was your dearest buddy, but all along keeping a suspicious eye and even more, a very suspicious mind.

"A full schedule today, Senator?"

Senator Jenkins nodded without looking up. The morning agenda consisted of the usual routine: a committee meeting at the Pentagon, and then back to his office on the Hill to put the finishing touches on Bill No. 3483, legislation that President Frank Cummings avidly opposed.

The vote in two weeks would be very close with one party pitted against the other, and one or two critical swing votes needed for its passage. Both the Senator's--the minority whip--and the President's reputation were at stake.

Sitting in the back, his thighs forming a table of sorts, he thumbed through the pages of the bill, skipping here and there and occasionally folding a corner of a page to mark an important area. The entire document measured nearly three inches thick and weighed almost three pounds, which would equate to one pound per inch of mumbo jumbo.

"Declaration of Dependence," the President's spin doctors had critically penned the bill. The President did not favor this proposal that would set aside pollution standards, allowing the factories of the rust belt to operate without constraints and thereby increase their profit margin.

Something had to be done. The rust belt was dying. Imports far outweighed exports, and jobs were being lost to Mexico and the Far East at an alarming rate. Senator Samuel T. Jenkins intended to reverse the trend and come next year, he would test the waters as a candidate for the presidency. "Senator Samuel T. Jenkins for President," he mumbled to himself as the car pulled away from the curb. The words sounded good, real good.

He glanced at his watch, tapped the face with his index finger to make sure the second hand was moving. "Better speed up, Mike." He wasn't a person to be late for any meeting. "Early bird Senator Sam Jenkins" he'd been pegged by some. To them he replied with the proverbial saying, "The early bird catches the worm."

The back end of the Town Car shimmied as the vehicle turned onto Fifth Street, the front wheels skidded a few feet before grabbing dry pavement. The sun, now just above the horizon, created a yellow glare on the windshield. Mike squinted, adjusted the front visor, and placed a searching hand into the center console to retrieve his sunglasses. Traffic was heavy and, as usual, the drivers impatient. Ahead, two cars exchanged honks and the drivers, middle fingers.

"How's Mrs. Jenkins?" Mike asked, not glancing at the Senator.

It was the usual morning small talk but nevertheless annoying. Senator Jenkins held back a grimace. "About the same," he murmured. Like most politicians, he was a master of the language--talk for an hour and say little, but on this subject, as little said the better.

Isabella Ann Jenkins, former Miss Georgia, first runner-up for Miss America, daughter of the now deceased former governor of the state of Georgia, was now a closet alcoholic. Drunk more than sober, she might be the wife of the next president of the United States. He sniffed as if he could smell the gossip.

It was always but.

The car spun full circle before striking the light post. Black ice, like a second skin, had turned the pavement into a skating rink. In the back seat, pages of Bill No. 3483 floated in the air like detached wings of paper butterflies and struck against the side windows and roof at impact.

The siren of an approaching ambulance pierced the silence. Then, minutes later, that same siren droned into the distance as the ambulance sped away toward Eastern Hospital.

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 www.jpmatsismysteries.com