The Final Chapter for Tasker Volt

W e had not intended to resolve our serial thriller this week, but law clerk Kenneth McLeod, 51, volunteered such a poignant final chapter that we couldn't pass up the chance. (Plus, we had no idea where this was going, and any other attempts to halt this speeding train would've proved untidy.) Alas, Volt and Lyla do not make it to Key Largo together, but something tells us that the good people of a certain fictional congressional district in Georgia are about to be served much better. If only some of our politicians could make such peace with themselves.

With our five-part thriller wrapped up, we shall title it "Tasker Volt and the Case of the Missing Plot." To read the full story, visit http://www.washingtonpost.com/taskervolt. Stay tuned: We're talking about doing a romance serial next. Hearts will be broken; bodices will be ripped. Start fantasizing. And now, get your hankies ready:

Part 5 The Sweet and Low Surrender of Sy Sugarman

By Kenneth McLeod, Washington

Volt dived for one of the graves, pushing Doberman down. Lyla was a good shot, but that wasn't why he was taking cover. He had seen the plug of tar in the barrel of the Kalashnikov and, as it exploded in her arms, there was enough flak in the air to fill a congressional hearing.

When the sound of metal embers sprinkling on marble died down, Volt rose from behind a headstone. Sy Sugarman was slowly approaching the top of the hill, stopping to stand over the bodies of Popeye and Lyla, who both lay smoking like U Street chili.

"That AK was a collector's item," he said. "I swore that anyone who pilfered it would be sorry. It's our anniversary, you know."

"You and Lyla?" Volt said.

"Me and Flicka, the AK. The '47 model is 60 years old this year."

"Looks like your game's over," the shamus shrugged.

"And see the consequences," Sugarman sighed. "I look upon my works and despair. I shall return to Washington and surrender myself to the Justice Department, ere my family plot's legacy be defamed any further."

"What about the ferrets?" said Doberman, blowing a wisp of charred red hair off his shoulder.

"I've opened all the pens and will use my fortune to convert the area into a natural preserve. A testament to man's folly. Vaya con Dios, gentlemen."

As the nicotined fingers of dawn struggled for a grip on the horizon, Volt and Doberman climbed into the banana-colored Hummer. Without looking back, they left Sugarman to dial the DOJ to place an order for penance, left the graveyard hill to its uninvited dead and left the open fields to the sound of ferrets, running wild, running free.

T HE END