BOB SCHMEDLEY?

The phone rang.
I answered, "Keith Raymond, Cat Dentist."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. The sound of screaming was suddenly drowned out by the staccato of machine guns blazing in the near sunset of oblivion.
I sorted through my mail. Something caught my eye: a postcard. No stamp, bad handwriting. It all came back to me in a blind, overwhelming plea for help, in one rotten, sewage-soaked, festering second.
Years ago, I had been with The Agency, and I alone had solved the infamous “Hard Candy Vampire” case. Could it be? If so, how?
Some inner part of my eggnog consciousness prayed for toast that was evenly spread with real butter.
Oh my God. It was happening all over again!
28 DAYS LEFT.
Ever so carefully, I removed the wrapping paper. My cover was blown. I grabbed my overcoat. I grabbed the manila envelope. I was being thrown down the path I promised myself I would never go down again. I hailed a taxi. It was the desert. I had forgotten I wasn't in New York City. I had to retrace my steps. Somewhere there had to be a key to all of this.
27 DAYS LEFT.
It all seemed a blur as Bob Schmedley punched the accelerator of the $250,000 red Ferrari. The French Mediterranean had been an absolute bore. His contact had not shown. His credit cards were maxed out. He was angry, tired, dusty-- in between reality. He knew nothing. Period. He appeared to be an idiot.
The setting sun cast a somber blue shadow on the east side of the Pacific Princess. The 300-foot yacht was docked off the coast of Easter Island.
26 DAYS LEFT.
Bob Schmedley was under deep cover. The problem with this particular covert operation is that he did not recall who he was. Was he really Keith Raymond, Cat Dentist, who, under deep cover, was Bob Schmedley? Or was he Bob Schmedley, who had lived at 101 Elm Drive, Pamona, Nebraska for the last 15 years?
Was his ability to speak 19 languages relevant?
I had to think. Time was running out.
She was middle-aged. I recognized the sushi-colored nail polish-- she was my contact. I put the microfilm she had given me into the projector. Out came many mathematical equations. I fed everything into the computer. It came back from my computer as "Every Good Boy Does Fine." Bingo!
I knew from my musical training that “Every Good Boy Does Fine” is a simple way to read a musical scale.
I went to my piano and hit the keys. What did it mean?
The rifle bullet broke the plate glass window in an instant, shattering the calmness of the evening. The blazing noon sun was replaced by the stench of rotting entrails.
The glittering reflections of moonlight danced off the ocean spray as the Pacific Princess gunned her engines.
I was surprised at how easily I was able to gain access to the main deck of the yacht. It was too easy. It was almost as if someone expected me.
I felt a dull thud on the right rear side of my head. I had been hit with a rifle butt.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself tied up in a room, which I assumed to be the Command Post.
Suddenly it all came together.
"Kaboom!"
The explosive charges I had attached to the Pacific Princess before boarding her had exploded at precisely 6:00 Mountain/Daylight Time.
Fortunately, because of my previous education, I escaped from the explosion, healed my head, and am now living in a small foreign country.
In fact, I'm the king of this country.