Dancing Shoes |
Ranee McCombs currently seeks an education at Full Sail University. Aspiring to attain a bachelor's degree in Creative Writing for Entertainment of the Fine Arts. Currently, self-employed McCombs is an entrepreneur, she dabbles in content creation, affiliate sponsorship and web content creation. These led her to Full Sail University. Having practiced perfecting her writing since 7 years old, starting from poems and bleeding into novels and sagas. She graduated with her GED at the age of 17. Ranee McCombs is now 23 years old with two young children. Her son Jeremy is 23 months old and her daughter Ariya is 4 years old. |
Integrating Worlds
The island bar is high off the ground, a marbled white counter top, where he sits and wonders whether to open a mysterious box, he found this morning. The box is a little more than suspicious. He had found it before dawn, the box was there sitting half-on-half off of his stoop, it leaned into his bushes; which line both sides of his front steps. The clouds were heavy, and the sun was still rising
Fresh out of the shower in his robe, working his way around the kitchen; breakfast, coffee and the box. He still did not know what to do with it. Kevin decides to open the box. What’s the worst that can happen? Kevin retrieves a knife. He sits down his coffee and slashes through tape. Wrapping paper surrounds the only thing in the box. An ornate, gold, skeleton key. Kevin picks it up.
Suddenly hazes of light fill his peripheral. Blues and oranges almost like a swirling fire. Kevin shakes his head. His pulse is erratic, his breathing is short and choppy. He puts the key down. He examines his hands, the key reappears. The world continues to change in front of his eyes. Kevin tries to throw the key, he looks at his hand again, the key was still there!? He cannot see anything. The kitchen seems small and confining. It is completely dark, void of light, he is pressed and squeezed, caged in.
He moans in agony, Kevin whisperes in a small shaky voice, “I wish everything would go back to normal.” A great rushing wind howls past his ear, the key vibrates in his hand and slowly the world returns to normal. Except it isn’t, it is not his kitchen. Everything is now black themed. With cherry paneled walls instead of oak and black marbled counter tops. He looks at his surroundings carefully. Kevin is startled as he sees his reflection. He shakes his head abruptly and startles again when the reflection reaches for him. It’s not a mirror at all! An identical copy of himself in a dark brown terry robe instead of his usual terry cloth blue.
His copy smiles serenely, still offering his hand. “We’ve been waiting for you Kevin,” he says. His copy motions for him to follow. They walk through the halls toward the entrance. His copy opens the door and reveals a world polar opposite to his own. Everything in chaos. The lawns are ashen and burned, lines of flames run along the streets and yards. The sky is dark, cloudy, and thunderous. Planets loom over head and seem to be closer than the moon.
Kevin begins to tremble, “Why have you been waiting for me, I am not anyone special,” he says. His stomach churns and sweat runs down his temple. Slowly the world spins around him, he leans against the door frame. He inhales deeply, Kevin tries to calm himself. “What do you think I can help you with?”
Copy Kevin smiles, “Well, with the rebellion of course,” he says. Copy Kevin took his hand and pulls him around the house, to a backyard also polar opposite of his own. Virtually an army base, full of tents, weapons, and an obstacle course. Every person who runs here and there, are all copies of himself.
Kevin runs his hands over his face, he inhales deeply again. “Are these copies, or alternate versions of me?” he asks.
Copy Kevin grins wide and nods, “Now you’re catching on. Everyone you see here come from an alternate reality, a parallel world. You are the last piece of the puzzle, you have never known who you actually are, what you can do, how important you are. The powers you have, they were dormant until you touched the key, until we brought you here. You are the key to our success,” he says.
Kevin is running out of air, his lungs burn, and his world spins. His no-nonsense life far behind him. Powers, concentrate, they want you to lead… “What is it that you think, I can do, I am not anyone special from where I come from. I am just an average joe,” he says.
Copy Kevin gestures for Original Kevin to follow him. Through a winding maze of weapons was a lab, that sits far in the back behind all the chaos. They enter the structure, which is long and low to the ground. Inside everything is all stark steel and sterile beyond comprehension. Not after long they stop in front of a machine. It connects to a chair and a single device.
“Sit here, I will put this neural transmitter on your head and all the knowledge you need to know, all your abilities will be unlocked.”
“Wait, why can’t I go back home, I’m assuming after this that there is not going back.”
“There already is no going back, not unless we succeed. Your world will be last to endure the devastation ours has. But it does not matter that you were alone. You would eventually have kids, or friends who have kids, someone who you wouldn’t want to watch suffer. Knowing you could have stopped it all before it ever happened.”
“SO, there really is no going back,” he says. Kevin leans back in his seat and let his copy put the device on his head.
Florence Out of Time
Gripping my backpack straps tightly and taking deep, slow breaths I inch toward the planes front exit. Excitement, pulsing through me like jolts of electricity, sparks a smile onto my face.
"Ciao," I say pleasantly to the stewardess standing at the exit door, gazing blankly ahead. With great effort, she flashes a tight-lipped smile which vanishes almost immediately and with a heavy sigh returns to her empty stare.
Once off the plane I speed walk past the crowd of lethargic passengers. I'm one of the first to get into the customs line and get called up almost immediately. I slide my passport and customs ticket to the sleepy-eyed, droopy faced customs agent sitting at his desk behind a thin pane of glass. He looks them over silently, making eye contact only once to confirm that my face matches the one in the picture.
"What brings you to Italy?" He asks the words slithering out of his mouth.
“Well I’ve al –,“ I start.
“Just say business or pleasure,” he interrupts.
“Uh pleasure.”
“Great.” He stamps my passport and gestures for me to continue through the airport.
“Ciao, grazie," I say trying to stay friendly.
“Next,” he moans lazily to the line behind me.
“Alright," I whisper to myself slowly. I’m only here for eight days, so not wanting to waste a single moment I dash for the exit. Drawing strange looks from the slower crowd, ignoring baggage claim, it’s not until I’m through the large sliding front doors that I finally pause.
Taking a deep breath, I calm myself and close my eyes to feel the moment. The air is warm and moist, the smell of fresh rain singes my nostrils. My bag, stuffed with a weeks’ worth of clothes, rests heavy on my shoulders. I hear cars passing slowly in front of me and the dull sound of thunder in the distance. I can see a large, dark, anvil-shaped cumulonimbus cloud in the distance pouring its contents over the Tuscan hills.
I hop into one of the cabs parked outside the airport.
“Ciao,” the young driver says with a thick accent. “Where to?”
I pull out the crumpled piece of paper that has my hotel scribbled on it. “The Regazza hotel,” I read to him confidently.
“Which Regazza?”
“Um, I…” I trail off, turning the paper over in my hand searching for more information. “The Regazza,” I repeat confused.
“Si, which Regazza. There are three Regazza hotels in Firenze.” He says impatiently. I read the paper again, carefully looking for a more specific answer.
“The Regazza Centro, the Regazza Blanca or the Regazza Termini?” He asks waving his clasped hands.
Not finding the answer, I hand him the paper. “This is all I have about it.”
“Ci, the Regazzo Blanca.” He says after a short glance at the page. He puts his cab into gear and whips out of his parking spot so quickly that it shoves me into my seat. A ringing bell echoes through the car speakers and he presses a button on his earphones. “Ciao?” He says in Italian. “When I talked to her the other day she said everything was fine. If she had a problem she should have told me to my face.” He continues, in Italian.
My heart pounding, no longer from excitement but from the way the driver speedily weaves through traffic, tossing me from one side of the back seat to the other. His hands occasionally too busy waving through the air expressively to grip the wheel. Once off the highway, Vespas meander fearlessly between cars, missing bumpers by mere inches.
At the crest of a hill, I get a handful of seconds with a view of the dome, in the center of town, cresting the top of the Florence Cathedral before being tossed around the backseat again.
When we finally screech to a halt in front of my hotel I must pry my white-knuckled hands loose from the handles on the roof to pay.
No more cabs in Italy, I think as I enter my hotel. I approach the check-in counter, behind which are 3 girls talking. I wait patiently going completely unnoticed for minutes. “Scusa,” I say politely interrupting, now remembering my aim to put my fluent Italian to good use and speak as little English as possible. The girls turn, see me and one of them slowly approaches as she finds a stopping point in their conversation.
“Name?” she asks without eye contact.
“Eh, Jarred,” I say dryly. “Jarred Snell.”
“ID?” I slide my passport across the desk to her. She typed into her computer and slid a card key with my passport back across the desk finishing with a bored sigh. “Room 313,” she says with a fake smile and immediately turns back to her friend, continuing their conversation.
“You have a nice day to,” I say bitterly.
As a person who works in customer service, I deeply despise rude people, but nothing is going to get me down today because today I am in Florence. I’m mad for only a moment, but the elevator ride to my floor is enough time for my imagination to run wild. I picture the cities immaculate, ancient architecture, the smell of handmade pasta wafting down the streets, sculptures and street artists on every corner. Excitement surges through me again and I can no longer keep the smile from my face. “Ahhhh," I yell once the hotel door clicks behind me. I throw my bag on the bed, plug my phone in to charge its nearly dead battery and leave with nothing but my room key, wallet and a vague sense of where anything in the city is. There will be plenty of time for pictures and maps later, but right now I just need to see it.
Once outside I pause momentarily to channel my excitement; to focus my senses, feeling them all at once. “Don’t freak out,” I whisper to myself. “You’re just walking through the same streets that Michelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci walked on, no big deal.”
As I walk though, I find myself drastically underwhelmed. Every street, every alley, every gutter is unnaturally filthy. Piles of trash flow over garbage cans and collect near curbs, strange liquids ooze down chipped, cracked walls of nearby houses and an open dumpster smell follows me everywhere I go. And the graffiti. Oh, does Florence appear to love its graffiti. It’s on every storefront, wall, window and even on the streets themselves. I’m not talking Banksy’s either, these are crude, colorless, mostly unintelligible tags of cuss words or the perpetrators street name.
I am disappointed, I finally admit. This can’t be where it all happened. It can’t be the city that I have studied for years. Can’t be, can’t be, can’t be.
It’s got to be better closer to the center, I reason, trying to stay encouraged. Still, the luster is lost. The glee I had inside only moments ago has transformed into a mix of disdain and judgment. I've heard meeting your heroes can be a disappointment, I guess it applies to cities also.
Minutes later I enter the crowded courtyard of the Basilica Santa Croce, buzzing with the murmurs of passing tourists. This seven-hundred-year-old building is the largest Franciscan church in the world. This is one of the reasons I’m here. I’m ready to gaze at the ivory walls highlighted by river green of one of Italy’s oldest churches. Ready to enter and see the graves of Machiavelli, Michelangelo, and Galileo. Instead, I get to stare at scaffolding, with construction men working to restore the ancient church. Tape around the entrance alerts approaching tourists of its closure for the summer.
"It's not fair," I mumble to myself with a heavy sigh. "I swear if the rest of the city is like this – ". Frustration boiling to the surface, I imagine every sight I’ve come to see being nothing but disappointments. The statue of David crumbles to pieces, the Duomo closed for exactly 1 week, the Uffizi gallery robbed blind overnight.
As I angrily head toward the Duomo something slams into me, knocking me down.
“Dannazione,” the stranger and I say simultaneously.
“Watch where you’re walking idiota,” the stranger shouts in Italian.
“You crashed into me stronzo," I shout right back, jumping to my feet a hot rage boiling over me.
“What did you call me?” he asks whirling around and with a firm grip grabs me by the collar, pulling me up to my tiptoes.
“I said you’re an asshole,” I slap his hand away and press my finger firmly into his rose-colored shirt. “You crashed into me. I wasn’t even walking.”
He presses me back powerfully. I’m ready to fight this stranger but my anger cools and a tinge of fear causes me to hesitate as we lock eyes. His wild blue eyes stare right through me. He has long flowing gray hair and a matching beard. He's dressed like a Renaissance fair actor, wearing velvet burgundy-colored tights, a matching tunic, and frilly tan blouse.
The man’s chest swells with air, for a moment I think he’s going to punch me but instead releases a long sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am truly beginning to hate this city. Everyone here is petty and selfish,” he says quietly to himself.
"You're telling me. This city is nothing but disappointment-," I trail off when I see the Basilica is no longer covered in scaffolding. It's unobscured, pearly, ivory walls shining over the courtyard. The buzz of tourist chatter is gone, replaced by an eerie silence, the tourists themselves all missing as if magically transported elsewhere. The houses surrounding the courtyard are all covered by a thick, milky, fog and only their silhouettes remain.
“Where did everyone go?” the old man asks. Both of us look around the courtyard concerned and curious.
“Maybe they went somewhere else?” I say, trying to rationalize the situation.
“No, listen.” We stand silently, hearing only the wind blowing through the streets. I look up at the sky still bright blue and feel the hot sun burning my cheeks. “The entire city is quiet.”
“So, everyone in the city is gone?” I ask skeptically, looking down the surrounding streets and alleys seeing no one. “Hello? Is anyone here?” I yell to the city. There’s no response.
He shrugs, “that is what it sounds like.” He picks up a small violet hat, which must have fallen off when we bumped into one another, places it gently on his long greasy hair then walks over to one of the foggy buildings and pokes at it with his fingers. “Fascinating,” he whispers. I follow his lead, prodding the houses with my hands. I almost expect my hand to slide right through the foggy exterior, but the walls still feel stony and rough, only their appearance is different. “How strange.”
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask stupidly. “Why is the church the only thing not covered in this? And what happened to the scaffolding that it was covered in a minute ago?”
“Scaffolding?” the old man asks.
"You didn't see the scaffolding? The church was covered in it because of renovations and is closed for the rest of the summer. Which really bummed me out because I wanted to see where Michelangelo, Machiavelli, and Galileo were buried,” I say carelessly.
“Michelangelo? Buried?” He looks at me bewildered. Slowly scanning me head to toe. I could feel him eyeing my Adidas shoes, denim jeans, and a t-shirt with a blue and orange Auburn logo.
“What?” I ask feeling violated.
“I think,” he hesitates, rubbing his chin. “Who are you?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.
"Um, my name's Jared," I answer still frustrated with the old man.
“Where are you from Jared?” He asks again.
“The States,” I answer proudly.
“The States?”
"Yeah, the U.S," I smirk pompously.
The old man stares at me confused. “The U.S.?” He echoes slowly.
"The United States of America," I say slowly, chuckling condescendingly. I don't think it's likely there's a person in the whole world who doesn't know where the U.S is. Is he stupid or just pretending to be?
“And,” he hesitates for a moment, licking his lips as if tasting his words. “What year is it?”
“Um,” I hesitate taken aback. “Don’t you know?” I’m truly beginning to question this person’s mental health as he waits patiently for an answer. “Two thousand eighteen?” I answer slowly.
His eyes widen, and he strokes his long gray beard, "incredible." Then he begins pacing around the courtyard mumbling to himself. He pulls a worn leather notebook from inside of his tunic with a small piece of chalk and scribbles in it furiously.
“What are you –.” Without looking, he raises his hand to cut me off and continues his writing. I wait silently for several minutes before he slowly closes his notebook and returns it to its hiding place.
“Jared?” He turns to me finally. “I would like to apologize for the way I grabbed you earlier. I’m truly sorry for the way I pushed you. The city has made me forget my manors and, truth be told, I have had a hard day, but that does not excuse my behavior.”
"Yeah. I'm sorry too. I overreacted."
“Please, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Leonardo da Vinci,” he says casually, placing his hand gently over his stomach and bowing lightly.
I stare at the old man blankly. "Did you say, da Vinci?" The man nodded proudly. "You expect me to believe that you are Leonardo da Vinci? The Leonardo da Vinci?”
He looks confused again. “You don’t believe me?”
“Do I believe you’re Leonardo da Vinci? Um, no.” He stands confused, not knowing what to say. “Who are you really?”
“I have already told you. I am Leonardo da Vinci.” He answers stubbornly.
“Right, well let me reintroduce myself. I’m King Frances, the king of France.” I say sarcastically. “Did someone put you up to this? Am I being Punked or something?”
“Punked?”
“That’s what all of this is isn’t it? A prank, right? To make me look stupid? It worked, it’s a good one. I don’t know how you guys did it. It’s pretty damn elaborate. I mean this is some David Blaine level shit,” I say gesturing to the houses. “You got me though, so you can give up the act.”
He gapes at me with his hands clasped desperately. I look around at the abandoned courtyard, the uncovered church, the gray, blank houses waiting for the pranksters to reveal themselves, they always pop up after being called out on those prank shows. No one does. I look the old man up and down, carefully studying his face which is patiently waiting for me to get onto the same page. It seems, strangely familiar. I try to recall the few places where da Vinci's face can be seen. As Socrates in Raphael's School of Athens, on the face of his Vitruvian Man and his own self-portrait. All these images run through my head, their vague similarities somewhat matching his.
“No way,” I say, still in disbelief and his expression lightens. “I know nearly everything there is to know about da Vinci. If you really are him, you can tell me who your, or, who da Vinci’s, teacher was?”
“I was taught by Maestro Verrocchio,” he replies happily.
“What was your Dad’s name?”
“Piero.”
I pause, any good da Vinci impersonator would know these answers. "Ok, let me see that notebook of yours," I say, incredulous. "If you really are him, I'll be able to tell."
“Very well.” He pulls his leather-bound notebook from behind him and reluctantly hands it over, “Please be careful.” Slowly I flip through the fragile pages, carefully and painstakingly examining each, completely awestruck and amazed by what I see. Page by page, the nearly illegible mirror writing, surrounding gorgeous sketches and doodles. A drawing of a cross-sectional batwing, a flowing river, a horse leg so detailed that it almost looks like a photograph, each surrounded by scribbled notes. I scratch one of the notes carefully and the chalk flakes right off. Years of studying his notebooks, years of analyzing every sketch, every painting. These look authentic and they are certainly too elaborate to still be a prank. I look at Leonardo astonished.
In seventh grade, my history teacher taught a lesson on the Italian Renaissance and its impact on the world. Since then it has been an obsession of mine. I've learned nearly everything there is to know about it, the people, the art, even the language. I know the works of all those periods biggest names, Leonardo, Michaelangelo, Raphael. Shit, I've even read Vasari's Lives of the Artists. I don't know any other nineteen-year-olds reading 16th century biographies.
Especially Da Vinci. The things he accomplished intellectually and artistically have been one of my life’s greatest inspirations. I’ve read nearly every biography written about him, even the fictional stuff. Michelangelo and Raphael are great and all but da Vinci, this guy is the reason I get out of bed most days.
You know that question people always ask, "If you could go back in time to meet anyone, where would you go?" My answer has always been, Florence, during the high renaissance, to meet Leonardo da Vinci.
I’ve never met a celebrity before, I always imagined that if I had I would calmly say something like, ‘hey, don’t mean to bother you, but I’m a big fan,’ and coolly walk away. This is different.
“Oh my fucking god, you’re Leonardo da Vinci,” I say in English, my voice echoing loudly. “Leonardo da fucking Vinci.” I’m so excited that I can’t stand still, I pace around him, touching his sleeves as the word vomit pours from my lips. I switch back to Italian, “you made the Last Supper and the Mona Lisa, you invented Helicopters, flying machines, you discovered fossils and pretty accurately described how they got there, you were one of the greatest anatomists of all time, you were the first to discover that heart valve thing centuries before that Valsalva guy, or whatever his name is, and physicians wouldn't realize you were right about how it works until the 1960s."
“Slow down, slow down. I don’t understand half of what you’re saying,” Leonardo pleas.
“And you designed a weird bee powered, olive press, thing, it never worked but it’s still cool.” I finish, now gasping to catch my breath. “Sorry, I’m a big fan.”
“It’s ok.”
“But I don’t understand. How is this possible?”
"Ah ha," he says excited now that I've finally caught up. “I’m not quite sure, but all of this is reminding me of a story Maestro Verrocchio used to tell. Brunelleschi died before I was born but Verrocchio had the pleasure of meeting him several times. He would tell us all sorts of stories about him, many were true, others were legends. The particular story that I am remembering now was a story about how Brunelleschi met a man from the future. Somehow, the two men from different times bumped into each other, the city became empty and nearly all of it was covered in a thick fog. As they were the only people in the city, they walked together and chatted. Legend has it this is how he figured out how to build his Duomo. At the time I believed it was just another absurd story, now, though, I am not so sure."
“Right. So, what does that mean?” I ask still not understanding.
"It appears that somehow time has folded itself from your time and mine," he says while gesturing with his hands held out flat and folding them together, touching his index fingertips. "Somehow bringing only the two of us to, what appears to be, a version of Florence that is outside of the normal stream of time. Which might be why we can see the church but not the houses. I would guess other monuments throughout the city may still be intact as well.” I blink at him still not understanding. “I am not one to much stock in faith, but this has all the makings of a divine miracle. As such we may never understand the how of it and should instead focus on the why of it. Why us? Why here? Why now?”
“Ah of course,” I say pretending to get it.
“For me, I believe it may be to learn about the future. So, please tell me what it’s like in your time? The land you’re from, for example, what is it like?” he asks excitedly.
I tell him a little about America, which, to his delight, is named for his friend Amerigo Vespucci. I make the mistake of mentioning my flight, which opens a whole can of questions that I was not prepared for. He asks question after question for the better part of two hours about my time and how everything works, most of which I don't know the answers to. Even if I do, I’m afraid telling him might cause some rip in the space-time continuum or something. It’s strange being confronted by such relentless curiosity for things that I took for granted on a daily basis.
Mental note: look up how planes work back at the hotel.
“Leonardo,” I interrupt finally. “You’ve been asking me questions nonstop for hours. Look the sun is starting to get low. Shouldn’t we be figuring out how to get back?” My glee at meeting my hero was now smothered by the stress of possibly being stuck in a timeless Florence to starve to death. What if I must consider killing and eating Leonardo da Vinci here? Maybe that’s how Brunelleschi escaped, killing and eating his counterpart.
“I know,” he says with a sigh, “but you live in such a fascinating time. I’m dying to know more.”
“No, my time is boring. Everyone spends all day on social media sharing –.” I stop myself before I say pics. That would be another rabbit hole of questions I do not want to get into. “Talking about their meals.”
“Social Media?” Leonardo repeats, looking excited again.
I put my hand in the air halting this line of questioning. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.” He forcibly restrains himself. “Your time is the fascinating one. You live in a time of massive discovery, following a time of massive ignorance. New art, new sciences, new parts of the world. In my time everything is basically known already.”
“That is probably not true. I’m sure there are plenty of areas for people to discover new things. Especially for yourself as an individual, there seems to be plenty of things for you to learn. No insult intended, but if I were you, I would be learning everything there is to know, in order to be certain that there is indeed nothing new left to learn.”
Did Leonardo da Vinci just call me stupid? Cool. But he’s right. There are plenty of things that I don’t know about, hell there’s a world of things that I don’t even know that I don’t know about.
“You are right, however,” says Leonardo. “We need to figure out how to get back.” Leonardo thumbs his lips contemplatively, “Let me ask, why have you come to Florence?”
“Well, I’ve always found your time fascinating. I’ve studied it so deeply, the art, the people, their discoveries. I’ve had this deep desire to come here and see it all for myself.”
“Well then, perhaps that is where we should start. You’ve come to see Florence then I shall be your guide,” Leonardo says with a slight bow.
“Alright,” I say giddy. So now I get to see Florence with Leonardo da Vinci as my tour guide? Hell yeah. This trip just took an interesting turn.
“Although, I don’t know how much of it we’ll be able to see,” he adds gesturing to the milky colored houses. “This way,” he says, and we begin walking through narrow cobblestone streets.
“So, now let me ask you,” I say. “What were you doing before you got here?”
“I had just gotten out of a meeting,” he says, his jaw clenching tightly.
“What kind of meeting?” I push, sensing he’s withholding something.
“A city council meeting,” he pauses with a sigh. “To determine where to display the David statue.”
“The David statue? Michelangelo’s David statue?” I ask surprised. “Whoa, you got to decide where to put the Statue of David? That’s pretty awesome.”
“I don’t see what everyone likes about it. It’s got those monstrous hands and feet, it’s much too big, completely out of proportion but still, they call it the pride of Florence.” He says bitterly.
Suddenly I remember learning about the feud between the two Renaissance masters. I never imagined that their bad blood ran so deep.
“He’s a hack. His figures look like sacks of walnuts, muscles are not lumpy like that. Do you know he doesn’t even study anatomy?”
“Mr. da Vinci,” I interrupt. “Why did, or, do, you and Michelangelo hate each other?”
“He’s arrogant, he has no respect for his elders, and he thinks no one is his superior.” He says, waving his hands erratically and aggressively. “You know what he said to me today? He said that I never finish projects. That half of my commissions go unfinished and the other half take much longer than they should. Said it right in front a whole crowd of strangers completely unprompted.”
It gets quiet for a moment between us as I struggle to find a response. “I've always assumed that because he's so much younger than you, he had been told by everyone that you were the best while coming up and even looks up to you. Even your first addition to a painting is rumored to be so good that your teacher quit painting because of it. He's a young, ambitious, up and coming artist who wants to prove himself to be the best. Maybe he feels to do that, he needs to cut you down because you are the best. As if he feels the way to get out of your shadow is to diminish you or make you seem smaller,” I say, a little proud of my insight.
“Hmm,” Leonardo says considering my words. “I’m not sure I care about why he’s a rude ass to me, I only care that he is a rude ass and because of it, I’m going to make sure he never gets out of my shadow,” he says ominously.
“What do you mean?”
“The Gonfaloniere thought it would be a good idea to commission the both of us to do paintings of battles on adjacent walls as a competition to determine who the is the best painter in Florence. I’ll make sure my painting far surpasses his. Mine will, of course, I don't paint people to look like they're filled with rocks. Anyone who walks into that hallway will immediately notice his mediocrity when contrasted to my masterpiece,” he says furiously.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” I say timidly, now remembering his Battle of Anghiari painting. A piece that would be lost after quickly deteriorating due to an experimental painting technique and eventually replaced entirely by a Vasari painting. It only exists now as copies by other painters.
“That’s what I was going to do after the meeting. I was looking for inspiration for my new painting. Speaking of inspiration,” Leonardo says as we come to a corner and points ahead, where I see the massive Dome on the top Florence Cathedral towering above us at the end of the street.
"Whoa," I say, awestruck. "Oh my god. It's so beautiful. It's amazing," I ramble.
Leonardo smiled proudly, breaking his foul mood and absorbing some of my joy.
“It is the crown jewel of Italy. Anytime I look up at it, I immediately feel better.
“Oh man, I wish I could live here and look at this every day.”
“So, the dome is still around in your time?”
“Yeah, people like me come from all around the world to see this place.”
“Impressive.” Leonardo’s eyes twinkle as he looks at it. “Brunelleschi was such an amazing genius. For 200 years, every engineer who looked at the project said it couldn’t be done. They said that they’d never be able to build something that could hold that much weight. Until Brunelleschi. He won a competition for designing the dome.” Leonardo ranted, beaming up at the dome.
“It’s interesting, the way you talk about Brunelleschi is the way I talk about you in my time.”
“Let’s see if we can get inside,” Leonardo says joyfully. “We can climb to the top of the dome for one of the best views of the city.” I agree excitedly.
“Damn. No luck,” I say, after pulling hard at the massive locked doors.
Leonardo sighs disappointed. “Well, I know another great place for a view. If you’d like to see it?”
“Sure, it’s not like I’ve got any better ideas.”
“This way.” He begins leading the way, down more narrow streets and alleys.
“Leonardo, what if we don’t get out of here? What if we’re stuck in this place forever?”
“Well, luckily I’m old so I won’t have to worry about it nearly as long you will.” I chuckle nervously. “Let’s not worry about that right now, let’s see where things lead, and we can panic if we continue not finding answers. My assumption though, is that time will unfold, and we will be gently placed back into our own times.”
I wonder what makes him think that but am too afraid of appearing stupid to ask.
“So, about you,” he says picking up where we left off. “You came to Florence to follow your dreams is that correct?”
“Er, yeah. I love everything about the Renaissance. I – “
“Renaissance?”
“It’s what we call your point in history. Being here is a dream come true and I worked my butt off to get here. Meeting you is more than a dream, it’s, well, I don’t even know what to call it.”
“What about my time do you find so fascinating?”
“All of it. The art, the discoveries, the accomplishments. The people in your time are titans of intellect and accomplishment.”
“But why us specifically? Why me? Why Michelangelo?”
“You guys are considered masters of multiple disciplines. I have many different interests and I guess I just want to be more like you guys.”
“I see. So, are you also an artist then?”
“No, well kinda. I like to draw, I’m pretty good at it but I wouldn’t consider myself an artist.”
“What do you want to do then?”
“I’m not really sure. I’m supposed to figure out what I want my major to be pretty soon, I can’t stay undeclared forever.”
Da Vinci just shrugs and shakes his head as if to say, ‘I have no idea what any of that means.’
“A major is the field that you study in college, like math, engineering or law. Undeclared is what you call it when you haven’t picked a major yet, like me.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yeah, this last year I just took prerequisite courses. Which are just general knowledge classes that you have to take no matter what major you pick.” I say, staying ahead of his questions this time. “But, pretty soon I’m going to either need to pick a major or drop out entirely.”
“Well, I don’t know much about university. I never went, I wasn’t allowed. Bastards,” he says bitterly, “aren’t allowed to. But who needs it. Universities are only good at teaching how to regurgitate the ideas of others. Maybe it’s different in your time, but I prefer to study the only perfect examples which are nature and experience.”
“Right,” I say disappointed. Is he telling me not to go to college? Maybe this old guy is just too far removed from my time to understand.
Seeming to sense my doubt he continued, “Regardless, not having a discipline at your age is not the worst thing that could happen. How old are you by the way?”
“Nineteen.”
“Ah yes, you’re still fairly young. I believe it’s normal for people to have many different areas of passion. Lord knows I do. Sometimes I truly love painting, other times I feel trapped by it. Recently, I will admit, I've begun to feel weary of the brush. I didn’t have much choice in being an artist. I showed some skill at it when I was young, and my father sent me off to apprentice as an artist. I wasn’t allowed to follow in the family business or attend university. I was a shame on my father’s reputation.”
"Yeah but you're da Vinci. The da Vinci. You're –."w
Then we turn a corner, entering a long, narrow, outdoor hallway lined with dozens of marble columns, many of which have niches carved into them and are filled with marble statues.
“What is this?” Leonardo asks.
“Oh, I’ve heard of this, it’s the Uffizi gallery. All of this was made after you died. These statues are to celebrate Tuscany’s great heroes and geniuses.” We walk through the hallway past statues of people like Dante, Galileo, Vespucci, and Machiavelli until we stop at the statue of Michelangelo.
“Ugh,” Leonardo scoffs. “I am tired of this man’s face. Look, even his statue stands as arrogantly as he does. What do people say about him in your time?” He says impatiently.
“Well,” I begin hesitantly, “some think he may be considered the greatest artist of all time.”
“Ludicrous,” he yells and throws his hat at the statue. “Have they seen his work? Greatest artist of all time my ass. He doesn’t even deserve to –.”
“Look here,” I interrupt. I walk a few statues down the row and stand in front of another. “It’s you.”
Leonardo hurries over. We both stand silently beneath the statue, my eyes flickering from it to him. The likeness is uncanny, the long hair and beard, the flowing robes and cape, his gentle, curious expression.
“Michelangelo’s daily insults, I can admit, are getting to me. Partially because I fear he is right," Leonardo says softly, still staring at the statue. "Lately, I've wondered what exactly my legacy will be. Will I be remembered as a masterful painter or as a whimsical one? Is that even important?"
"Well, I think I can tell you that one. In my time, anyone who knows about you considers you to be one of the greatest, if not the greatest genius of all time. You made discoveries centuries before your time. You are the definition of a renaissance man. Which is a person who is a master in multiple fields of study. And honestly, the painting you are going to make against Michelangelo doesn’t work out. It fades and corrodes and is eventually replaced, as is his. But one of the paintings you make after that, in fact, I believe you’ve already started it, becomes the single most famous painting in human history.”
Leonardo stares up at the statue, his beard glowing golden from the light of the setting sun. The shadow of a subtle smile edges its way onto his face. “The greatest genius of all time huh? Thank you, Jared.” Leonardo turns back to me, pats my shoulder and continues toward the exit.
We leave the courtyard and turn onto a walkway next to the Arno river. Leonardo points to the bridge ahead of us, with apartment buildings balanced on the edges and says, “Ponte Vecchio. This bridge is always packed, one of the best areas of the city to shop.”
“Whoa cool,” I say impressed by the unique design.
As we cross the bridge a long silence falls between us. Leonardo is still glowing from the Uffizi, his proud smile still beaming, but I can’t help but sink in a pool of self-pity. The size of his achievements makes me not even want to try anymore. What can I possibly accomplish next to that?
“Leonardo,” I say timidly as we turn onto a nearby dirt path. We walk uphill, past trees and bushes in full natural color. “I understand why you and Brunelleschi would be in this place, you’re geniuses who created masterpieces that have impacted the future for centuries, but why am I here? I’m not a genius, I don’t have greatness in me the way you or any of those statues do. I’m dumb, I never do anything right. I’m nothing more than an average student with nothing more than average talent at anything that I do,” I ramble pitifully.
Through a parting of trees, we come to the top of the hill, into a paved square just outside the city. In the middle of the opening was a large copy of the statue of David towering above us. His confident gaze overlooking the city. “I will admit,” Leonardo said, “it is a magnificent statue. Do you know why he is leaning like that?” I shook my head. “There was a flaw in the marble, one side was significantly weaker, flakier than the other. He’s leaning so that most of the weight is balanced on the strong side. He was able to work around its weaknesses and still create a beautiful statue. I do not believe that just because you have not yet picked a discipline means you do not have great potential. What you must do is bring your very best self to every situation. To do that you must be like this statue, know your strengths, know your weaknesses and have the determination to overcome any giant in your way.”
“Thanks,” I said. I considered for a moment how many things I’ve tried and failed at. Then I wondered, of all of those attempts, how many did I actually try my best at? Probably some, but definitely not all of them.
“Come look,” Leonardo said, walking to an unobstructed overlook view of the city. The milky fog over the buildings was beginning to fade and the red-tiled roofs glowed from the crimson sunset. Florence which just a few hours ago, seemed so ugly to me, now set my spirit aflame with its beauty.
“I believe,” Leonardo said, “The word Renaissance might mean new birth? Is that correct?”
“Pretty much.”
“I think perhaps that is what all of this was for, for the two of us to have our own personal renaissances and it seems to be coming to an end.” I look at Leonardo who is turning foggy, the milky mist covering him. “I want to thank you, my friend. This has been quite an extraordinary day.” I look deeply into his kind blue eyes as we shake hands.
“Yes it has. Thank you, Leonardo.” I say, trying to squeeze my final words in.
“I do not believe our paths likely to ever gross again but my guess is that you are meant to go on to do some amazing things. Goodbye Jared.”
“Goodbye,” I say quickly.
The fog covers him entirely and he evaporates into thin air. Suddenly I’m on the same hill surrounded by tourists and locals chatting nearby. The city, now completely uncovered by the fog, is gorgeously luminescent in golden sunlight. I hear passing traffic and distant car horns echo in the distance; the faint aroma of a nearby restaurant makes my stomach growl; and an artist nearby dabs paint onto his canvas, copying the gorgeous scene.
There is a strange feeling that comes when an impossible, once in a lifetime event is over. It immediately feels like a distant memory; a dream you wish you could go back to. Yet as I stand here I don’t feel sad, I feel strong, steady and powerful. Leonardo’s words fresh in my mind, I think about my future without an ounce of doubt about who I want to become.
Mehr and Marie
You do not open your eyes or move a limb. You lie on the hospital bed inert as if dead. But you are not dead. Your heart is beating and your organs are functioning. It has been several weeks since you were brought to my care. I have been visiting your bed every day. I hold your hand, kiss your forehead and talk to you. But you do not respond. Something in me tells me that you hear me but have decided to remain still. Stillness remains. I know you are making me wait for you. I know you will return in your own time. I will be here when you return. I will wait for you. Your spirit has receded to a quiet place inside you. You are letting your spirit heal in silence and solitude—safe from further wounding. Silence remains.
Your youthful body carries scars, bruises, and gashes. Your body is weak, vulnerable and worn-out. You look distraught. You are not unconscious or comatose. You are in deep sleep perhaps recalling the fragmented parts of yourself. I want to give you time to recuperate, to remember, to gather yourself before you look at me. I want you to know yourself before you decide to know me.
I don’t know what to expect. You may refuse my help. You may decide to leave me forever wondering what you could have shared with me. I want to listen to you for you are the sole witness to your suffering, to your wounding. If you decide to talk to me I will also bear witness to your terror. I admit I am curious: Did you try and escape? Did you run? How did you endure? What did you feel? Did you pray? Do you still believe in a God who loves you? Or are you wandering in a world of godforsakness? I don’t want to lose you. I want to know you. You are my reflection for we are female. Your body is my body. Your spirit is my spirit. We share more than you know. I wish for you to know me. Questions remain.
Je m’appelle Marie. Je suis là pour toi. I whisper softly, coming close to your face that is gentle with sleep.
You look younger than your age. Your fears may have stripped you of all that constitutes time. You may have returned to a place where nothing is familiar—wandering in wilderness searching for yourself. Your memories stolen from you. Your parents killed. Your sisters sold. Yourself sold to many strangers. You may not know yourself anymore. How to find oneself without the affinity of kinship? What is a self without a connection to spirit? I want you to help me understand where your spirit is right now? How much further down have you repressed it? Will you ever recall your spirit to your body—be inspired by the same light that you once did? Through my tears I give you water. Through my kisses I give you breath. Through my touch I give you presence. Through my words I try to reach you. I give you my waiting and my patience. I wish for you to know I am your witness. Your spirit has to trust me to bring you back to me. I will not let you down. Hope remains.
Je m’appelle Marie. Je suis là pour toi. Je suis ici pour t’aimer.
Every day I bring you flowers. I hope you inhale the beauty of these petals: it may refresh your soul, it may revive your spirit. The poet says, “it is okay to know only one song.” What is your song? Let it reach the world. It rains on mountains, lakes, trees, and grass until the earth begins to hum and sing. The tiny seed in the ground stirs with longing for the sun. The sweet scents of mulberry, almond and apricot trees of your childhood still linger. At night the stars and the moon are most attentive. Why don’t you pray to the watchful heavens? The way you used to pray on your visits to Lalish, hidden between the mountains of Dohuk and Mosul.
Earth is awake, draped in moonlight and sunlight. The birds at dawn and dusk cover the immensity of the sky. They fly for their joy. I want to remind you of the joy of flight: the joy of freedom. I hope you hear me speaking to you. It is still possible to trust the sky and its radiance. I ask of you to pay heed to how the world’s beauty beckons you to join. Leap toward the beauty of the world that awaits you. Beauty remains. The world is waiting.
I wonder if you punish yourself on behalf of those who betrayed you. Betrayal remains. I wonder if you see yourself as a sinner—someone beyond God’s love. You cannot grieve the loss of a God you once loved, for God is always here to be loved. You can find God’s presence in your body—battered and bruised—humiliated and terrorized—your body still lives with the hope of God. I want you not to separate yourself from the Divine for it is present here in your breathing body. The spirit lingers, persists, remains, dwells in your tormented body. Loss remains.
Je m’appelle Marie. Je te comprends en tant que femme.
I understand you as a woman. I am still waiting for you to trust me. You must reach out to me as a woman, as someone on the threshold, at the edge, on the verge: someone suspended over an abyss. You must cross this very difficult chasm and reach me as I am trying to reach you in your depths. I ask you to hold my hand and I will gently bring you out of this abyss where you may be alone. I pray desperately for you not to be alone. I hope you are with angels of your own body gathered to restore you to your original beauty. I hope for that encounter. You have to know the sacredness of your skin, the holiness of your body still remains. You have to know that the angels don’t depart. When the body goes mad with naked pain the angels don’t leave. They hover over every wound. They are witnesses to body’s shaming. They will not let go of the healing they promised when you were born. They know your secret self. They are secretly mending it for you. While you sleep they are awake, attending to your body. Angels remain.
Mehr, mon enfant. Je m’appelle Marie.
Your name means love. Your name invokes Mithra, an ancient divinity of light, of truth—a guardian of harvest and of the waters. You my dear symbolize everything that must go on, persist, and continue. The world needs your love and your light. You are not meant to disappear, disintegrate or fade. Come back to me and to the world to which you belong. I wait for you. Time waits for you. I am holding space for you. You must return to time and claim yourself wholly and fully. The fractured self is only an image. It can be restored. You must continue to move through time and space with all that remains in you and what remains is spirit. The spirit of love, the spirit of healing, the spirit of the angel who always sings of a different place—an ethereal place of veiling with unveiling, visible with invisible, darkness with light, wounding with healing, godforsakeness with God. Be with it. Be with this togetherness of with and without and you will not separate, you will not fragment.
Mehr, Je te promets que je t’aiderai.
Today I will play music to you. I hope it stirs you to open your eyes. I have been waiting all this time for you to look at me. This violin song is full of joy and mirth. I have always found it life-affirming. I will play it for you.
The music spreads in the room like fragrance. The tune is an invitation to life, an ode to spring, a celebration of things to come.
Mehr opens her eyes and looks at Mary.
Hello. I am Mary.
I know.
Mehr’s eyes shift from Mary’s face to the window where the sunlight pours through the slats. Her eyes light up and she murmurs, Amen, Amen, Amen, Amen…
She looks radiant as if cherishing something valuable. The next moment her head twists backward and her eyes roll back in her sockets. She looks like a ghost afraid of itself. Her body is swept up in paroxysms of pain. Her head shakes violently. Her arms are not weak any more. Instead, they are strong enough to fight anyone who attempts to subdue her. She fights with all her might the caring hands that reach to help her. She screams and howls words that sound angry, protesting, scornful and sometimes pleading, beseeching, imploring. Gradually the ferocious energy dies down and she drops on the bed exhausted— moaning and whimpering. She looks exactly the way she did the first day I saw her. The specter remains. The haunting remains. The shattering remains. What does this remaining remind us of?
I lean over her and gather her hair away from her face. I wipe the sweat from her forehead. I dab beads of blood from her lips. She looks lost, defeated. She has withdrawn to a place of anonymity and silence. Gently I straighten her contorted legs and pull her gown down to her knees. I stretch her arms beside her and open her clenched fist.
Dors ma chéri. Prends ton temps. Je t’attends.
Your story is yet untold but I assure you I will listen to you. I trust you and will not doubt your truth. Your sorrow is safe with me. It is my sorrow too. Sorrow remains. I am with you in your silence and in your abyss until you are ready to leave it. This is not the end for you though it may feel like an end. Your story is in the middle. It is incomplete. Incompletion remains. The abyss is a passage. This abeyance is temporary. Work your way through it. When you wake up the fatigue and ache of the passage will still be with you. It may never leave you. The traces of this mournful journey may stay with you for the rest of your journey. Traces remain. Don’t be afraid for all of us carry the wounds of our journey. Don’t die of your wound. Live with it. The wounding remains. I am here waiting for you to share with me all the secrets of your journey. I will gather them in my heart and never forget them. Secrets remain. You are not forgotten. You always remain in me.
On ne t’oublie pas. Tu restes toujours en moi
I address you as you journey through the abyss. I am witness to the invisible, inaccessible and unknowable depths of your suffering. Le témoin reste: the witness remains. One day you will address these depths for yourself and for me. Together we will give it words—give it voice—give it dignity. The world will get a glimpse of your depths—a place where you were alone waiting for love to enter. In this moment I stand for that love. Love that listens, understands, witnesses and trusts. Love that waits. Je t’attends. The spirit in me honors the spirit in you. All is not lost. Spirit remains. Your body is tired but it lives. You breathe, you move, you bleed, you moan. L’ Esprit passe à travers toi.
Your fullness awaits you. The fullness of a woman tested through violence of the body and soul, a woman who has endured seething pain in her young body, whose memories of humiliation are too much for her body. The testament remains. It will not go away. It will remain in time and in memory of the world for it testifies to the violation of innocence, violation of the feminine, violation of the female body, violation of love, violation of the sacred word that means love. This violation testifies to reducing the sacred to ashes. Ashes remain. They testify. They burn with embers—that suggest light, life, spirit.
Your ripeness awaits you. Ripeness of being fully human—a human within whom the divine abides, not unfruitful or unfulfilled, not empty or half full, not plaintive or dispirited, not mute or wordless, not without knowledge or wisdom, not without beauty or desire. Ripeness remains. Your wounding delays your ripeness. Your bereft silence defers your fullness. Your in-between state of being postpones the fullness. For how long will you be in suspension—in abeyance—hovering—breathing tenuously in the abyss?
Stay! Reste! Perhaps your liminal state will birth a blessing. Why else would you still be with the shadows? Maybe you are working alchemy, a transmutation, unravelling a mystery that will reach us on this side of the abyss. Maybe you are hard at work in creating your own blessing to sustain you when you decide to return to those who wait for you from a place unknowable and distant to us. We hold our breath till you breathe again a full breath . . . Breath remains.
Le souffle reste.
Notes
This piece is written in honor of the Yazidi women who were ruthlessly violated by ISIS in 2014. A number of Yazidi women were rescued and treated in hospitals in Germany and France. My piece is a fictional account of a Yazidi girl being treated by a French woman who could be a doctor or a therapist. I have deliberately kept her identity ambiguous so that the text is open to interpretations.
I am indebted to Shelly Rambo’s work on trauma, and Farida Khalaf’s moving account of her abduction and escape from ISIS.
Oliver, Mary. Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver. Penguin: NY, 2017.
Khalaf, Farida and Andrea C. Hoffman. The Girl Who Escaped ISIS: This is My Story. Atria: NY, 2016.
Rambo, Shelly. Spirit and Trauma: A Theology of Remaining. Westminister John Knox P. : Louisville, Kentucky, 2010.
Blaed A. Woodley is a writer of flash fiction, short stories, and novels from Orlando, Florida. He enjoys writing in the Drama, Romance, Science Fiction and Fantasy, and Horror genres. Notably, he has written Flash Fictions such as The Reward, and The Lonely Road. In his spare time, Blaed enjoys participating in tabletop role-playing games such as Dungeons and Dragons, Warhammer, and Vampire the Masquerade. He is currently a student at Full Sail University in the Creative Writing program. |
The Reward
“What do ya got for me, Eddie?” asked Jacob Richards from behind his ornate mahogany desk. His fingers rapping rhythmically on its surface.
Standing, Eddie slid out a rolled-up canvas from the container and unfurled it on top of the desk.
Richards hunched over to grab a closer look at the painting. “Magnificent,” he said. “This is the real deal. A genuine Vermeer.” Shifting his focus from the painting back to Eddie, he said, “And where are the rest, my boy? The list I gave you was quite thorough.”
Clearing his throat, Eddie said, “In the van with Rey.” He rolled the Vermeer back up and returned it to its container, leaving it behind on Richards’ desk, and sitting back down. “We got everything you wanted. Even that damned Eagle statue.”
“It’s a finial,” said Richards, straightening up and lacing his fingers on the desktop.
“Right, a finial.”
“Good, good,” said Richards with a grin, sinking back into his chair.
“Now, about the payment, I—”
Richards held up a hand, silencing Eddie. “All in good time, Eddie. All in good time,” said Richards. “Ya did it, finished the job. Why not relax for a moment and bask in your success for a change? Tell me, how did ya pull it off?”
Smiling, Eddie said, “Rey and I dressed as cops. The cheap security just let us right in. Was easy enough to tie them up and grab the loot after that.”
Richards laughed, clapping his hands and said, “Oh that’s just wonderfully simple. I love it. You boys have never steered me wrong.”
There was a sudden crash that echoed from the streets below. Eddie turned to look out the window to his left. Birds that were perched on the opposite building were now flying away in a panic.
“A bit jumpy, are we?” said Richards, chuckling. “I got some construction going on below. Building repairs and such.”
“I didn’t see any crew working when I came in.”
“Perhaps they were on a break,” said Richards, shrugging his shoulders.
The phone rang. Frowning, Richards picked up the handset and said, “Is it done?” There was a momentary silence before he said, “Understood.” Hanging up the phone with a loud click, Richards smiled again at Eddie. “Are you sure I can’t convince you boys to stay?”
Tensing up, Eddie shook his head and said, “No, I think it’s about time my brother and I moved on. Settle down someplace new and get a fresh start. It’s getting a bit too hot for us here, especially after this job. Five hundred million in stolen art is no joke.”
Nodding his head, Richards pulled out a cigar from his desk drawer and lit it. Dragging hard on it before blowing out a large cloud of acrid smoke. “Sad to see you go, Eddie, but I can understand your decision. Where will you go?”
“Thinking we might head down towards Mexico for a while and see where things go from there.”
“That’s a good plan. I’m sure Rey would have loved that.”
“Would h—”
A loud crack rang through the office. Eddie gasped for air as if he had been punched in the chest. The force of the gunshot tipping the chair back and knocking him onto the ground. Hot blood began to pool around his twitching body.
“Such a shame ya had to go, my boy. Such a damn shame,” Richards said, shaking his head. He picked up the phone once again and said, “It’s done. The rest of the goods are in the van. Get a cleaner to my office immediately.” The phone clicked as Richards hung up.
Margaret Karmazin’s credits include stories published in literary and national magazines, including Rosebud, Chrysalis Reader, North Atlantic Review, Mobius, Confrontation, Pennsylvania Review, The Speculative Edge and Another Realm. Her stories in The MacGuffin, Eureka Literary Magazine, Licking River Review and Mobius were nominated for Pushcart awards. Her story, "The Manly Thing," was nominated for the 2010 Million Writers Award. She has stories included in several anthologies, including STILL GOING STRONG and PIECES OF EIGHT (AUTISM ACCEPTANCE), published a YA novel, REPLACING FIONA, a children’s book, FLICK-FLICK & DREAMER and a collection of short stories, RISK. |
Ready For Takeoff
The room was decent for a handicap setup and at the aft end of the ship on the same floor as his sister's and her husband's regular stateroom. At least he was capable of getting out of his wheelchair himself and could stand or sit in the shower. He could actually walk, but couldn't feel anything so had to watch where each foot was going. It wasn't safe for him to join fast moving crowds and at times, the ship was somewhat congested as were most cruises. His sister had forced him into coming with her and Shawn. They'd even paid his fare as a combined Christmas and birthday present.
"You're going, Bryan," Anna had stated firmly six months earlier. "We paid for you and you're registered. It's official."
So here he was, on of all things a Star Trek cruise.
"Isn't this a bit dorky?" he'd remarked when Anna first told him what kind of cruise it was.
"What do you mean? You're as much of a Trekker as I am!"
"Yeah, but I don't go around advertising it."
She looked offended. "What? You're ashamed of loving the most intelligent shows to grace TV?"
He rolled his eyes. "No, but I don't go around dressed in Trek outfits like I'm living in a fantasy world and that's what they do on there, right?"
"Oh, for crying out loud," Anna said. "Your trouble is that you don't know how to have fun. Everything is serious with you all the time. No wonder you don't have a girlfriend. Who'd want to hang out with Doom & Gloom?"
Now Bryan was offended. "You'd be Doom & Gloom yourself if you had my problems! You can go wherever you want and do whatever you want and here I am trapped forever in this frail, ridiculous body!"
He knew Anna had heard all this a thousand times. But nothing he said could faze her. She had inherited their father's "good brain chemicals," while he had gotten their mother's with her dark view of life and humanity. "But you," Anna would say when he mentioned this, "got the good looks in the family while I'm like Aunt Tina, a pale, speckled manatee."
His sister did not look like a manatee, though she was overweight.
"I like the way you look," he told her. "You'll look spectacular in your Next Generation uniform."
She handed him two Star Trek uniform T-shirts and a pair of Spock ears.
"No way," he said.
"Way. On costume contest night, I'll glue them on you. And you'll comb your hair forward and I'm making your sideburns into points. No argument. You already look like a Vulcan anyway without much fiddling."
Anna and Shawn weren't hungry yet, but Bryan was starved, so he took the elevator to the ship's twelfth floor and wheeled into the buffet area. After serving himself with help from an attendant, he took a seat at one of the two handicap tables. Already he could see that the ship was filled with what he would call weirdoes: tall male geeks accompanied by hefty women obviously not ashamed of their bodies, sporting intricate tattoos and dressed brazenly in low cut tops; slender women with green and purple streaks and Tribbles in their long hair; lesbian couples with heads shaved except on top where the hair was dyed hot pink; a short geeky girl with horned-rimmed glasses and green hair; movie star handsome guys strutting about in tight Star Trek T-shirts and others from "tribes" he didn't recognize carrying stuffed animals or wearing odd hair ornaments such as unicorn horns.
I really don't belong here, he thought, and probably had on, as his sister called it, his "disapproval face."
Another man in a wheelchair pulled up to the table next to him, followed by a heavy older woman with a cane. And then a couple appeared by his table, the woman apparently blind and using an official white cane with her flamboyantly gay companion. The woman felt around for her chair and maneuvered it to sit down.
"Do you want to pick out your food or do you want me to do it?" asked the man.
"You do it, Alex. You know what I like."
"Are we watching our weight," he said, "or are we going all out?"
"Watching," she said. And he was gone.
Bryan looked her over. Did she know he was there? She was somewhere in her thirties, medium height, thin but not too, small breasted, and freckled. She had a pointed chin and large gray eyes that looked normal though with slightly darkened circles surrounding them. Her hair was flaxen blonde, not thick, but styled nicely with bangs and straight to her shoulders. She wore no jewelry except for a turquoise ring. Her fingers were long and thin and active. All told, she appeared rather ethereal.
"My name is Chloe," she said. "And yours?"
"Bryan Welsh," he said.
She seemed to look right at him. "Where are you from, Bryan?"
"Pennsylvania. And you?"
"Just north of Baltimore."
She was, it turned out, a medical writer with articles published in prestigious magazines. Her computer was set up to talk, though as she explained, she was legally blind but could still see a bit. "I have retinitis pigmentosa. I can see you a little. Tunnel vision, pretty much. By the way, you look like a Vulcan. That much I can tell though my visual murk."
He ignored the Vulcan thing; it had come up often over the years and he was tired of it. "How do you get all the information for your medical articles?" he asked. "I mean, it must be difficult since you can't read?"
"I can read some but I have to get very close and with a lot of illumination. But my computer reads for me. I also have an assistant."
He actually felt envious. He himself had accomplished so little since the accident, but then how could he under the terrible direction his life had suddenly taken? But when he thought this, he saw his sister's face in his mind, regarding him with her sardonic expression.
"What do you do?" Chloe asked.
He took a deep breath. "I was a photographer. Before my accident."
"Was?" she said.
"Well, doing the sort of thing I used to do wouldn't be feasible the way I am now."
"Which was?"
"I did wildlife and nature work, travelled a lot. You need to be in good physical condition for it. Had some good assignments. I was just getting somewhere and then it happened."
Alex reappeared and set down her tray. "What have we here?" she said.
"A fabulous little salad," he said, "with Italian dressing, extra olives and some unidentified fish. Very low cal."
"This is my brother Alex," she said. "Alex, this is Bryan."
Alex, who was very good looking, dark blond and slender with heart shaped lips, flashed his perfect teeth at Bryan and said, "Well, take care of my sister, will you? I have people to meet!" and he dashed off.
"I don't understand," Chloe said, "why anything would stop you from taking pictures. Once an artist, always an artist. What happened to you?"
Bryan swallowed his mouthful of chicken curry and said, "I was in a cycling group. A bunch of us were doing a ride from Pittsburgh to Philly. We were in Lancaster and checking into a motel for the night. I took off my helmet thinking there was no need for it at the time and was just riding from the motel office to the room when I stupidly ran into the curb. I sailed over the handlebars and landed directly on my head. They had to put me into a coma for a while. For a couple of months, I was paralyzed from the neck down. They weren't sure I would ever regain any movement. But over a period of time I did, and eventually, against all odds, I was able to walk again, though I didn't regain much of any feeling. I can move my feet and walk but I can't feel anything my feet or my left hand is doing. My right has some feeling. I have to look at my feet, at every step. And I'm still working on building up my muscles so I don't get so fatigued."
He paused and took a sip of iced tea. "At the time I was engaged and the wedding was set for the following spring. But Emily left me. She said she just couldn't handle it. I understood, I guess. Well, maybe I didn't. I wouldn't have left if this had happened to her."
Chloe ate quietly, one time having a bit of difficulty spearing a piece of broccoli. He didn't know if it was gauche to help her so he refrained.
"Well," he said, "I'd better get back to my room and unpack."
"Nice meeting you," Chloe said, but she didn't seem disappointed that he was leaving.
The next morning, his brother-in-law dragged him to the gym. "Being on a cruise," he admonished, "is no excuse for not working out!"
Bryan knew he was right. An important part of his therapy was to use the treadmill and stationary bike. On purpose, Shawn did not help him up and out of his chair and with some difficulty, Bryan hauled himself onto a treadmill and watching carefully, stepped onto the slow moving belt. He was laboring along when Michael Dorn, one of his favorite Star Trek actors hopped onto the machine next to him. The actor was very tall and slender, not burly as his character Worf, appeared on screen. Bryan tried to appear nonchalant, but his emotions were in a riot. Should he say anything or, as was suggested at the opening ceremony of the cruise, just respect the actors' privacy and leave them alone. He stole another look as Michael sped up on his treadmill and decided to say nothing. But then would Michael think he was an idiot?
To Bryan's surprise, the actor talked to him. "I admire you for working your muscles like you're doing. What is your condition?"
His voice at first shaky, Bryan said, "I had a ridiculous accident."
"What happened?"
As they continued on their treadmills, Bryan told him. Not once did the actor talk about himself and later Bryan would learn from others that Dorn had suffered through prostate cancer. He was, other Trekkers would explain, a very private man.
From then on, Bryan was in the gym every morning and would end up talking to Nana Visitor, Robert Picardo and two other Star Trek luminaries. He had to admit, this was rather thrilling.
"You seem actually cheerful," said Anna that evening at dinner in the "Klingon restaurant," a Brazilian style eatery. "Did you take some kind of happy drug?"
"Huh?" said Bryan, his mouth full of filet mignon.
"Never mind," she said. She looked at her husband for clarification but he shrugged.
"So tonight," Anna said, "we're going to catch the show. I forget which actors are doing what, but who cares? Are you coming?"
Across the room, Bryan had spotted Chloe eating with her brother and another guy. He set down his fork. She was wearing a Next Generation science uniform and from what he could see, it fit her neat figure most attractively. She had pulled her hair back in a low ponytail and stuck a tiny Tribble onto her cane, which hung from the back of her chair. Though she was doing nothing at all except chewing and was probably not even aware of his existence in the room, he felt an odd and intense pull towards her.
The waiter on his rounds arrived to saw off a slice of lamb and blocked Bryan's view. As Bryan accepted the meat, it occurred to him that he had not interacted romantically with a real woman for at least three years and the only time before that, since the accident and the desertion of his fiancée, suffered a confusing relationship with one of his former nurses. It had deeply disturbed him when he eventually learned, after seeing the woman sporadically for over a year, that she had a "thing" for spinally injured men and was sexually involved with at least two others.
"A lot of sickos in the world," Shawn casually remarked at the time and he was right, though Bryan's emotional pain had been intense. The implication that she had only been interested in him because of his injury was humiliating.
Bryan's group finished before Chloe's and he made a point of stopping by her table to say hello. She looked at him in surprise, her eyes darting about as she attempted to focus the best she could. "You're walking! Wow."
"Well, I have to watch my every move but yes," he said. He lingered, though Anna and Shawn were already out the door. Neither of them seemed to know what to say. "I hope I see you again," he said lamely. The two men were talking animatedly and didn't seem to notice him.
"Maybe," she said.
"Are you going to a show tonight?"
"The boys are," she said, smiling vaguely toward her brother. "I don't know yet what I want to do."
It was a dismissal and, disappointed, Bryan went on his way.
Clearly, he had turned Chloe off, but how? Should he ask Anna about it? Did his sister even want to hear him whine about women anymore? Shawn was sort of impossible to talk to; a he-man type of guy and occasionally Bryan wondered what his sister saw in him though he was good sport enough to accompany her on a Star Trek cruise. But the fact was that Bryan had sucked at winning women over most of his life, even before the accident. He and Emily had been having issues before his fall though he hadn't been able to admit this to himself until much time had passed. The matter of having kids – Bryan had not wanted any and Emily had. And he was an introvert who liked to stay home while she loved social interaction. But then disaster struck and it presented her with the chance to escape. He understood that now.
The question of ever being able to have sex again had been foremost in his mind after he grew more used to his situation. As it was now, he could have an erection and even satisfy a woman willing to do most of the work, though there was the matter of voiding. This he had learned to do using techniques taught to him by a very patient male nurse. Some of the time, he used a condom catheter. Not a very romantic thing, but he would not, of course, have one on if trying sex with a partner.
Though why was he even contemplating the idea. He hadn't thought about it this much for a long time and Chloe had given him no reason to hope for anything like that. She apparently was barely interested in talking to him.
He didn't feel like seeing a show. The theater was huge, Anna had said, and he remembered that kind of thing from a cruise long ago. No way could he risk climbing down those steps and he just wasn't in the mood to sit at the top in his wheelchair, so instead he slowly made his way to the Atrium, a bar area central to the ship, ordered a Manhattan and sat down in one of the stuffed chairs. All around him were people wearing Star Trek uniforms or T-shirts and others in odd attire he couldn't identify, like a middle aged woman in footed pajamas, her hair pulled back with what looked like a strip of ripped bed sheet. A young girl with her, also wearing a big bow in her hair, carried stuffed animals. Another woman was dressed in a Victorian corset and black velvet derby decorated with a spyglass.
"What is she supposed to be?" Bryan asked a chubby little man sitting next to him. "She doesn't look Star Trek."
"Oh, she's Steam Punk," the man said. "People wear all sorts of stuff on here. It's very eclectic cosplay."
"Cosplay, what's that?"
The guy looked at him as if he had just landed from Mars. "Costume play," he said. "People dressed up for fun."
Bryan took out his phone and snapped a picture. The Steam Punk woman, noticing, came over. "Your outfit is interesting," he explained, embarrassed.
She smiled, sat down and explained her outfit and other things she was into for half an hour. She was definitely not the sort of person Bryan would normally meet or communicate with, but he enjoyed the conversation. Around him, the crowd thickened and he noticed people standing in long lines leading up to black backdrops. Then Jonathan Frakes from The Next Generation appeared in front of one of the backdrops.
"What's going on?" Bryan asked the guy still sitting next to him.
"Photo sessions. You sign up in the photo store."
"Is it free?"
"Oh hell no. Frakes is fifty bucks, so is everyone else except Wil Wheaton at sixty-five and Jason Isaacs, I think a hundred and twenty-five."
"You're kidding. Are you paying for that?"
"I want one with Nana Visitor," he said. "I've had a crush on her for decades. I already have most of the others from other cruises."
This statement caused Bryan to feel a sudden sadness. Not that he hadn't enjoyed a fantasy or two about Nana's character on DS9 back in the day, but sadness for all the lonely people in the world, himself included. And then he picked his phone up again and began shooting photos. Not of the actors, of which now there were three in front of the backdrops, but of the fans. It had been a long time since he had felt pleasure in catching animals unaware.
"I don't understand why you aren't interested in the shows," said Anna the next evening. "Last night's was really good. And where were you this afternoon?"
They had opted to eat in the buffet instead of the dining room.
"In my room, I guess. I watched episodes of Discovery, Enterprise and Voyager."
"In your room? Bryan, you're on a cruise. You can do that at home."
"Holy shit, man," said Shawn.
Bryan smiled. "I like to watch people," he said. "I'll be in the Atrium tonight."
"Whatever," said Anna. She shook her head. "You ought to go to that singles thing they're having on deck six. You can check out where on the schedule."
Bryan didn't respond but dreamily chewed his fish, whatever sort it was, he wasn't sure. It was tasty though. His anxiety about Chloe had suddenly and mysteriously vanished.
The third day into the voyage, she finally showed up in the Atrium, as he somehow knew she would. "Chloe," he called to her as she wandered about and slowly, using her cane, she made her way toward his voice. He patted the empty chair next to him and she lowered herself into it. She had on fairy ears and a purple robe.
"I didn't know there were blonde Vulcans," he said.
She laughed.
"Actually," he said, "you remind me of Yeoman Rand in the original series. Have you thought of dressing up as her character? Do you know who I'm talking about?"
"I think so," she said. "Didn't she sometimes wear her hair in that huge beehive thingy?"
"That's the one, but sometimes she wore it down."
She smiled wistfully. "She was very pretty."
"And you think you're not?"
"Well…not like that. Actually, I don't know anymore. I can't see myself well. I wear very little makeup, mostly just blush. At least I can wave a little brush over my cheeks."
"You're beautiful," he said.
Her face reddened.
The crowd buzzed around them as people ordered drinks and took seats. The long lines of picture buyers and autograph hunters cozily closed in the central area.
"What are they wearing?" she asked. "Describe them for me."
"It's not contest night yet," he said. "That's two days away but I plan to get here early to get a seat. Would you like me to save one for you?"
"If you would, I'd appreciate it. And you'll describe everything to me?"
"Let's start now," he said. "As usual, a few people are dressed up."
"Oh good," she said like a small child awaiting her birthday cake.
"Well, a fabulous Spock is over to your right. He is over six feet tall and slender, just right for the role. You can't fault his hair, eyebrows and ears. He's wearing a ceremonial robe, possibly heading to some kind of serious Federation conference. And behind you is a fabulous Borg, good enough to have stepped right off the screen. She is short and her lights are flashing so don't let her see you or for sure she will assimilate you."
"And who are the celebrities doing pictures tonight?"
"Gates McFadden and Wil Wheaton in front of us, Connor Trinnear to my right and Rene Auberjonois behind us."
"I wish I could see," she said. "I don't normally go around saying that, but if I could choose any time to have my sight, it would be now."
He took the liberty of taking her hand.
I didn’t like you at first," she said after a while. "You seemed so negative, but now you seem different. Why is that?"
"I don't know," he said, "but I've been taking photos and I feel a bit like…well, like I used to feel. I feel excited. Maybe you can sense that."
"You're taking pictures a lot," remarked Anna at breakfast. "I thought you said you were done with that. Not that anyone wanted you to be. Too bad you didn't bring your old camera."
"It's fine with the phone for now," Bryan said. "I can adjust the photos right on it. Of course they'd be better with better equipment. I'm doing people. You can't find more interesting people than here, right?"
"You never were interested in doing people before."
He looked off into space. "I wasn't. But the combination of cosplay and wondering about the lives of these people to whom Star Trek means so much is, as Mr. Spock would say, fascinating."
His sister patted his arm. "You go, bro. We're going to the swim-with-the-dolphins thing today. Wanna come?"
"I'll stay on the ship. I wouldn't feel comfortable trying to avoid being knocked over by the animals since I can't feel anything. Besides, I am here to observe," he said in a dry, Vulcan tone.
The evening of "Q's Party" during which costumes were judged, Bryan swallowed his reluctance, put on the gold Voyager jacket Anna had provided and glued on his pointy ears to his sister's instructions. Earlier, she had styled his hair in in a proper Vulcan do and provided makeup for creating upturned eyebrows. He had to admit that he looked a rather convincing Vorik. And was he, like Vorik in an episode of Voyager, in Pon Farr?
He was seated in the Atrium by six-fifteen and laid a magazine on the chair next to him to guard it for Chloe. He hadn't felt this enthusiastic in years; in fact he couldn't remember when. It was as if a fairy godmother had cast a spell upon him. Chloe appeared in a red original series dress and with her blonde hair in a sixties bouffant.
"You are indeed Yeoman Rand!" Bryan exclaimed. "Excellent job on the hair." He wondered how she did it without being able to see the results.
"Alex helped me." She smiled and took her seat.
He got their drinks and they settled in for the show. "How is Alex doing? Is he having fun?"
"Alex always has fun," she said. "He has met someone as I knew he would and already they're planning a get-together in Chicago this summer. I want him to find someone he can depend on and settle down. He suffers a lot in love. It's not always so easy being a gay man."
"And how about you? Have you suffered in love?"
People were arriving in full costume, including Borg, Spock's parents, a terrifying Andorian/Pennywise combination, tall hairy creatures, Dax from DS9 and various Klingons. Wil Wheaton finished up a nearby poker competition, Casey Biggs showed up in his DS9 Damar getup and Max Grodénchik as his character Rom.
"I have learned not to expect much in that area," said Chloe in answer to Bryan's question. "I'm happy with my work and how I live. I don't ask for more."
He looked at her steadily.
"You're staring at me," she said.
"You can see me doing it?"
"I can feel it. Like heat coming from you."
"You deserve better," he said.
"The same thing happened to me," she said, "as happened to you. I too had a fiancé for a short while. My vision wasn't this bad yet. We were living together and I guess he watched me adapting to blindness, acquiring the gadgets I would need and being counseled by medical personnel. He decided he couldn't handle it and on the day before Thanksgiving, he moved out. Took me a good while before I could eat turkey again." She smiled ironically.
Bryan laid his hand over hers. "To your right is a fabulous Data in his Western getup from the Holodeck," he said. "Behind him is Lwaxana Troi. I don't know what the guy next to her is supposed to be, maybe some character from the original series?"
"Thank you," Chloe said. "You're kind. I'm having fun."
He tightened his hand. "And I see your brother in his nicely fitting Discovery uniform. He's standing with an equally handsome fellow in a white medical outfit."
Bryan meant for all of this to continue no matter what he had to do to arrange it.
"Chloe," he said, "I googled where you live and it's only an hour and forty-five minute drive from my place."
"You drive?" she said.
"Of course."
Within the happy noise around them, she was quiet for some time before answering.
"Okay," she said.
He no longer heard the roar of the crowd, nor the myriad, colorful aliens and Federation officers, for the galaxy was expanding and he imagined that he and Chloe could possibly go where no one had gone before. For the first time in years, he was content.
Tim Frank’s short stories have been published in journals many times including Bourbon Penn, Bartleby Snopes, Thrice Fiction, Foliate Oak and Able Muse. Tim Frank is an upcoming writer specialising in the comic, the dark and the surreal. He has written a semi-autobiographical novel, Devil in my Veins, and is currently writing a sci-fi thriller novel. |
A Season in Hell
She said, ‘I don't like you getting so involved with other inmates. You're not like them. You're different, sensitive.’
‘I've made my bed now I have to lie in it,’ said Liam.
‘What does that mean?’
‘All I'm saying is that I've offered to help some cons in here and some of them are good people, whatever you or the outside world thinks, and I don't want to let them down. To be honest I'm learning a lot from the characters in here. One day it'll be useful for a part.’
‘How can you think about an acting career? You've been put away for twenty-five years.’
‘I'll find my way mum, please believe in me, you're the only person who cares on the outside.’
‘Liam, I've always defended you but I want you to be realistic. You have to stay grounded and not fill yourself with fanciful ideas.’
Time was called and everyone said their goodbyes. A woman carrying a baby had to be forcibly dragged away as her screams echoed around the bare walls.
The men, with their hands and feet shackled, were led back to their cells by Cartwright and a few other correctional officers. One by one, the prisoners shuffled into their lockups and slumped onto their beds dreaming of the outer world and how to get there. When it was Liam's turn the guard guided him inside and slammed the door shut without a word. But a few minutes later the door swung open again and Cartwright shepherded in a young man wearing an ill-fitting tracksuit. He had spots and sprouts of fluffy stubble on his face. He clutched a crumpled piece of paper with notes jotted on it.
‘You have forty minutes,’ said Cartwright as he drew the door closed and went to check in on the other inmates.
‘Take a seat Tyler,’ said Liam, showing the boy to the far end of the bed where a collection of Marvel DVDs was stacked on the shelf. ‘What have you got for me today?’
‘It's this damn love letter. I'm just fumbling about. I'm struggling to get the spelling together and I can't put down what I'm thinking. This girl is the type who'll obsess about you if you've killed someone but send her one bad letter and that's it.’
‘Let me see what I can do.’
‘Thanks mate, I know you're busy. I mean I really don't see why you do this, what's the pay off? I know you don't smoke or do drugs.’
‘I have a skill; it wouldn't be right if I didn't share it.’
‘You're a good man. I know you didn't kill your wife, whatever the others say.’
‘Thank you, Tyler, that means a lot.’
After thirty minutes Liam said, ‘I think we're about finished here, you're good to go. But are you sure you want to brag about killing that hooker on the highway? You know the guards read every letter that goes in and out of here.’
‘What can they do to me? I've already got three life sentences. Chicks dig it.’
Liam banged on the door and Cartwright showed Tyler out and returned the young man to his cell. Liam flicked on the kettle and prodded the DVD remote, playing The Hulk for the hundredth time. Before he could get comfortable, Cartwright entered the room again and took a seat on Liam's bed. He looked up at the TV perched in the top corner of the chamber and said, ‘Why do you watch this rubbish?’
‘What can I do for you officer?’ said Liam.
‘I'm taking this down from the message board,’ Cartwright said holding a photocopied piece of paper, advertising Liam's services.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘I know you're helping the guys in the block, and you've been great. But it's time to move on.’
‘What exactly...?
‘Hear me out. You've been noticed by someone who could really change your life. Jason Riley wants your help.’
‘Jason Riley?’
‘None other. He wants you to ghost-write his autobiography. You could become huge. It all fits so perfectly; I mean given the almost identical methods you both used to kill your victims. It's a neat angle don't you think?’
‘Very neat. What's in it for you?’
‘Well, now you mention it, there is something. I want you to teach me to be a writer. Everyone in here wants their bio written. You will write Riley's and I will write the next big book about some other psycho. What do you say?’
‘I've never written a book before, I don't know.’
‘Listen, I don't know if you killed your wife or not. No one in here agrees, but if you do this it would look good for parole, especially if you could get Riley to confess to other crimes.’
The kettle clicked and steam spewed out, while on the TV the Hulk was making his transformation.
‘What the hell. I'll do it.’
A few days later Cartwright guided Liam to the far reaches of cell block D. As they approached Riley's room, inmates from nearby cells held mirrors through bars and angled them at the two men striding down the hall. 'Also spoke Zarathustra' blasted out of Riley's cell and there was the smell of acrylic paint. Riley was attacking a large canvas with a paint brush, spreading red oil from corner to corner in large swooping motions. As Liam entered the room Riley turned and gave a maniacal grin. Cartwright left them to it as Riley clicked the music off and took a seat, repetitively tapping his foot and wiping his nose. Beside him were completed paintings of naked women, covered in blood.
‘You know how much these go for?’ Riley said. ‘Thousands.’
He laughed uncontrollably and pounded his thigh with his fist. After he settled down, he said, ‘I really appreciate your help. I know you've admired my work for a while. I have a number of copycats but you are the most interesting of them all. I've been wanting to meet you for some time now.’
‘I'm no copycat,’ said Liam.
‘So, you think I killed your wife?’
‘That's irrelevant for now. I'm here to help you that's all and if all goes well I will be handsomely rewarded. You will too, and I think we should concentrate on that. So, shall we get down to it?’
‘Yes, of course, how shall we begin?’
Liam pulled out a notepad and pen from his back pocket and said, ‘Let's start with your family history.’
‘OK, that's fine for now, but for the future it's too predictable, too clichéd. I want to inspire my readers' minds,’ Riley said as he stood and paced around the tiny space that was crowded with canvases. ‘Listen to this, you know why I killed the way I did? The movies. Every girl I killed was a homage to a killing in a film I admired and you know why? Because my parents were never at home and I had free reign to watch any horror or thriller I wanted. Of course, when they came back and found out they beat the hell out of me. It carried on like that for years until I got old enough to graduate from watching murder to doing it myself.’
Riley sunk back into his chair and sighed. He wore a grim expression - all signs of joy now dispelled. ‘I'm tired,’ he said. ‘Let's carry on with this tomorrow.’
The next day Riley claimed he was ill and it took two weeks for him to allow Liam to return. When they did hook up again Riley was reading aloud from a screenplay at the top of his lungs.
‘And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee!’
As Riley caught sight of Liam, he dropped what he was reading, gave his visitor a vigorous handshake and said, ‘I apologise, I've been very sick but I'm ready to continue our work now. Sit, sit. I want to tell you all about what I believe in.’
‘OK,’ said Liam, ‘but I was really hoping we could concentrate more on the method of your murders today. I think people would like to know the facts.’
‘Yes, yes, we'll come to that, but the killings are far deeper than just evidence. There's so much more meaning behind them. Oh, I have so many things to tell you. I'm misunderstood Randall, greatly misunderstood, but in this life or the next I want people to truly know who I am. Once that happens, they will see my greatness. Tell me, which actress from the movies would you most like to kill?’
‘I'm not sure if... ‘
‘Come on Randall we both know you and me have the same taste. What floats your boat?’
‘Really, I think we should focus on you - how you did it, that sort of thing.’
‘What films do you like? I hear you want to be an actor, is that true?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘People talk. Come on, I think finding out about you would be a good way of finding out about me.’
Realising a simple question and answer session was impossible Liam put his pen and pad aside and said, ‘I like comic book movies. I don't like things you have to think too much about.’
‘And you a convicted felon hope to act in one of those someday?’ Riley said bursting into laughter.
Riley picked up a couple of well-thumbed books from his bed. ‘Here I want you to read these. They're French symbolist poetry. I've written notes in the margin. I thought it might help with the bio. And you can lend me one of your films in return, how about that?’
‘Sure OK.’
‘What a great, great day. I really think we're making progress.’
Riley squeezed his temples and squinted. ‘That's enough excitement. Come back when you've read the books. I'll get Cartwright to deliver one of your DVDs to me later.’
Liam paid a visit to Riley three days later. Riley was laid out flat on his bed. His canvases had been cleared away and neatly piled against the wall. When Riley noticed Liam had stepped into his cell Riley raised his arm, pointing a finger, warning Liam he was deep in thought and not to be disturbed. After a minute Riley sat up straight and placed his feet on the ground. He wrapped the wire hooks of his glasses around his ears and looked at Liam with a sober aspect in his eyes.
‘Have you read the books?’ said Riley.
‘What books?’
‘The books. The books I leant to you goddammit.’
‘Oh, those, yes, sure I have.’
‘Oh really? Because it took me years to read them. Longer to fully absorb. They have that much meaning, and you're saying to me you've read them in three days. It's impossible.’
‘Well so what if I didn't read your beloved poems, I'm here to write a book about murder. That's what people want and that's what they'll get. So, can we please get to work and stick to the topic?’
‘You don't want a book; you want a list of statistics. Have you no imagination? I'm giving you my soul; my essence and you couldn't care less.’
‘Well, did you watch the movie I gave you?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And?’
‘It's about zombies. What do you want me to say?’
‘Fine, I'll take it back and return your books next time.’
Riley ejected the DVD, snapped it in half, grabbed hold of Liam, and held the jagged edge of the disc to Liam's neck.
‘Don't make a sound. I don't want the books back,’ growled Riley. ‘You have no interests, no insight - in art, life or people.’
Liam took short swift breaths and tried to wrestle himself free. He could feel the DVD slide across his skin but it was too blunt to draw blood. Liam yelled for help and a few seconds later two guards bundled in and seized Riley. He allowed himself to be dragged away without protest.
Riley was put in the hole for two weeks and in that time Liam continued to tutor Cartwright in the prison library. During one writing session, while Riley was still in the hole, Cartwright said, ‘Will you carry on with the biography?’
‘I don't know yet,’ said Liam, ‘is it even safe?’
‘We can ensure that. You know it’s funny, Riley has never been violent since he was imprisoned. You must have really got under his skin. If I may be so bold, I have some advice for your project.’
Liam closed one of the poetry books Riley had lent him, called A Season in Hell. Liam hadn't even finished reading the foreword.
‘You need to placate Riley, let him drift off with his wild trains of thought and then sift through the junk. I'm sure you'll find nuggets of gold. Maybe that way you'll find some clues as to whether he killed your wife. Anyway, you know writing, structure, technique but I know these prisoners and how they tick. What I'm trying to say is if you need help I'm here for you, just like you've been here for me.’
‘Thanks,’ said Liam with bitterness, ‘when I need your expert opinion I'll be sure to seek your counsel. Maybe you could start by reading this book of poems for me.’
He slid them across the table and Cartwright inspected it, grunted and then put it in his jacket that was hung over the back of his chair.
Liam visited Riley a few days after he was released from the hole. His cell was bare, no paintings, no books, no DVDs.
‘I'm so grateful you've decided to continue with our work. What I did to you was inexcusable. It certainly won't happen again and I hope somehow we can be friends.
As you can imagine I've had a lot of time to think and I'd like for us to do a deal. I'm ready to confess to murdering your wife. But firstly, I want you to admit it was you who really did it.’
‘I don't understand.’
‘I've killed many women Liam, but I've always been convinced I didn't kill her. However, as the years have passed my memory has become hazy. Gossip and rumours persist, you're aware of that as well as I am. I need to know who did it, so I can relieve my conscience. So, I just want you to tell me the truth and then I will go on record and confess. I'll be repaying you for the work you have and will do for me. After all what difference does it make if they pin another one on my record? Then you will be free and we can continue our project once you are on the outside. So, do you admit that you killed your wife?’
Liam's eyelid twitched a number of times but other than that he remained poised and calm.
‘I didn't kill my wife. If you say it wasn't you then I believe you. But I didn't do it.’
‘Then it must have been me. I apologise for ruining your life but I was positive I played no part in that crime. Bring a tape recorder and we'll right this wrong for good.’
After Riley had confessed it wasn't long before Liam was roaming the city streets, searching for an acting role. He'd ditched the biography - wanting nothing to do with Riley or the accompanying memories. He'd written a superhero script and had pitched it to a number of production companies, but to no avail. A year or so after his release Liam was desperate and when he got a call for an audition, he felt it was pretty much his last chance to make it in the business.
As he entered the audition room there was a panel of three staring at him like he was an exhibit in a museum. One of the panel, a woman wearing a green beret at an angle, curled her upper lip in disgust as Liam took a seat. The other two men in the panel eyed him up and down, bored.
‘So, you have a superhero script you've written that you want to star in as well?’
‘That's right, I...’
‘You know the superhero market is heavily saturated. What makes yours different?’
‘I'm passionate about the genre and I think that shines through.’
‘I've taken a look at your screenplay and to be honest it's pretty hackneyed. We've seen it all before. Plus, I think you're a little short for this role.’
‘Right,’ said Liam, close to tears. ‘I mean I'd be happy to work on it in any way that would please you.’
One of the men cleared his throat and said, ‘I don't think this project is right for us at this time. Thank you for coming by.’
The panel waited for Liam to leave but instead he remained in his chair with his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair in distress. Facing the floor, he said, ‘Maybe you could give me a chance if you heard me tell the truth.’
The panel didn't stop him so he began his tale.
‘There was a famous killer with a specific way of killing. I thought if I could mimic his style of homicide on my own wife, the serial killer would be blamed for it and I would become famous and I’d have a great story to sell. But my plan backfired and I was jailed. They caught the serial killer too, and we were locked up in the same prison. Somehow, I managed to get close to the killer and we agreed to write a biography about our lives. I thought this was my ticket to fame but the killer was unbearable to be around and once I got released, I tried to distance myself as far as I could from the psychopath.’
The panel remained unmoved, maintaining their fixed stares.
‘Have you finished?’ said the woman, rifling through her handbag, pulling out a hardback and laying it flat on the table. ‘I have to say your pitch is a little weird and morbid for us. The ending is weak and we prefer something with a little more heart. This book here has just come out, the movie rights have been snapped up. It reminds me of your story.’
She handed over the book. There was one of Riley's bloody paintings on the cover. The title was, ‘A Season in Hell.’ He flipped the book over and there was a small black and white photo of Cartwright on the back. The blurb said, ‘An exploration into a dark and disturbed mind from a writer who knew him best.’
Liam's hands began to shake and he dropped the book. He excused himself, ran out of the production company building and jumped into oncoming traffic. Cars beeped and swerved out of the way. He felt a surge of rage from the pit of his stomach. But it passed. He made his way home full of fantasies and regrets. Then his mind became clear, without a thought for his wife, Riley or Cartwright. He would start again. Somehow. There was a story waiting for him somewhere.
After receiving his B.A. in English from Colorado State University, C.W. Bigelow lived in nine northern states before moving south to the Charlotte NC area. His fiction and poems have appeared in The Flexible Persona, Literally Stories, Compass Magazine, FishFood Magazine, Five2One, Crack the Spine, Sick Lit Magazine, Poydras Review, Anthology: River Tales by Zimbell House Publishing, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Midway Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Temptation Press Anthology - Private Lessons with another story forthcoming in Poydras Review. |
THE WIDOW
“I’m a widow,” Gladys Welock barked to no one particular as she made her way down the liquor aisle to the fish counter. Squat and sturdy, except for the hint of a limp, a scar from a stroke suffered a decade before. Her tanned leathery skin, brought astonished double takes from the other shoppers in Peter’s Supermarket; a result of years of toil on the golf course under the unforgiving sun. She had been a champion many times.
Becoming a widow provided her sudden relief and a generous uplift in spirits – an escape from the doldrums in which she had waded for the previous decade.
The tenacity of her husband’s cancer and the toll it took as it ravaged his body with absolutely no sympathy or pause was relentless and pitiless as it refused to grant even a breather once it hit its stride. Her mystifying look of joy brought confused and astonished looks from the customers who heard her declaration. How could widowhood bring one such delight?
Peter’s Supermarket was a contemporary, almost futuristic adobe-skinned building that was designed specifically for senior citizens, who made up seventy-eight percent of the population in Love Lakes. A spacious, yet comfortable ambiance was designed to make them feel as though, they too, actually belonged in the new millennium. The sprawling parking lot was filled with golf carts, the choice of transportation because the residents were more comfortable with the battery powered vehicles than their aging, unwieldy, gas-guzzling automobiles.
Wide aisles housed a breathtaking selection of products stacked in orderly rows, displaying provocative colors as the shoppers shuffled by sluggishly. Realizing their customer base lacked the appetite and basic interest, but owned the financial strength; they did their best to make the propositions irresistible. In aisle after aisle shoppers gazed at the enormous, vivid displays, so mesmerized by the colors and attractiveness of the products, they ended up at the checkout aisle with a cartful of impulsive purchases that would be taken home to go unused and ultimately discarded. The chain’s marketing department referred to it as the “the Shopping Channel effect.”
Gladys’ first stop was the liquor aisle. She stopped her cart in front of the vodka, not just any vodka, but the cheapest available. She wasn’t about to be romanced by the marketers. After all, it was only potatoes, ethanol and water. “They say it’s better for us than gin,” her husband Bob claimed decades before, influenced by an article he read in The Wall Street Journal. Adding, “There’s no difference in taste from brand to brand, so we can save money too.”
Gladys’ parents had been devoted gin drinkers. A smile spread across her dry, cracked lips as she recalled her father’s Yorkshire terrier Max. Each night during the work week, like clockwork, Max began pacing at the front door at 5:15 PM, thirstily awaiting his master’s arrival home from the office. Little tail wagging accompanied by an excited growl that climbed the scales as the minutes went by and the master’s appearance grew closer, finally erupting into a fervent, high-pitched yip when the doorknob turned. At the sight of his dapper master, Max launched into a series of backward flips – one, two, and three in a row – before pausing to yap some more. Her father’s reaction to Max’s antics depended upon his day, but usually brought a broad smile. “Max, just a minute,” he chuckled as he hung up his coat in the closet before marching to the bar where he poured two gin martinis – his, the only one with an olive, because Max had choked on one once. The diminutive pup was relentless in his pursuit, beside himself with craving, spinning frantically in tight circles, colliding with Father’s thick ankles when he paused to retrieve the evening newspaper from the hall table on his way to the den. His tizzy didn’t end until his drink was placed on the floor. Promptly lapping it up, each muscle turning limp as he stumbled to his plaid bed in the corner and promptly passed out. Gin. It would be good to have gin, as she bent down and retrieved a bottle of the most expensive brand. After all, it was a special occasion.
She marched past The Delicatessen and the rows of cold cuts protected in sparkling window display cases – roast beef, pork, Scrapple, head cheese, locks, and dairy cheeses were odorous enough to pierce the dull senses of the shoppers because the display doors were cracked just enough to send the wafting odors into the air like a weapon. Never mind preserving the freshness of the product; these folks couldn’t taste anyway.
At Peter’s all the clerks were retirees as listless and confused as many of the customers. It was a love fest of octogenarians, many even older. Come get your kicks at Peter’s. Only the cleaning and stocking crews were younger than retirement age and since they were imported from assorted Caribbean islands they could do nothing but nod and smile when asked for directions. Since English was a foreign language their stuttered attempts to respond only bewildered the customers. Actually it was another well-conceived plot by the owners to send the clientele on even longer tours of the store to whet their appetites for products they might never have seen had they not been led astray.
Scrapple was Gladys’ favorite breakfast. She was raised on it in Philadelphia, but found it hard to find while following Bob around the country as he was promoted from one job to the next. On opening day at Peter’s the previous year all shoppers could fill out forms asking for items to be stocked. She asked for Scrapple and shark cartilage pills. Bob had read an advertisement in the Sports Section of the local newspaper touting shark cartilage as a cure for cancer. He also read that apple seeds shorn of brown skin were full of nitroglycerine and cured cancer if enough were ingested. It didn’t mention a quantity. Gladys spent many an hour shucking the skin of those miniscule apple seeds causing her fingertips to blister which made it hell holding a golf club.
It had not been a good day on the golf course. She continually struggled to reconcile past success with her present frailty and futility. The stroke had left permanent weakness on her left side. In addition to the stroke was a problem with her sight. Making matters worse was her refusal to accept facts – so, on the first tee her expectations were in line with her past success and she approached the new round with the confidence she had during her glory days. It didn’t take long for her hopes to plummet into reality and obscenities beneath her breath slipped out after each dismal shot.
Her eyesight issue was due to a tumor on her pituitary gland that had grown out of control before being discovered. “The pressure exerted on the optic nerve from the tumor has cut off the blood flow for so long there is permanent damage,” her doctor explained after performing the operation. “It is like when your leg falls asleep, but it isn’t going to wake up. The nerves have entered into an everlasting sleep.” She happily used that explanation when describing the ailment, since everyone had experienced a leg falling asleep and could relate to that sensation. More difficult and frustrating to explain was the effect it had on her sight. Glasses did no good. Shadows were the only way she described what she saw and how she saw. She could no longer read books, not even large print editions and couldn’t needlepoint which had both been beloved hobbies. Hobbies that allowed her to pleasantly pass the cold winter days up north waiting for golf season before they moved permanently to Florida. Bob was off doing whatever he did wherever, whenever he did it. Like a good golf game, they were gone forever.
“Was it the cause of my stroke?” The question popped out. She wanted desperately for it to be the reason she had the stroke – a neat, simple, straightforward answer. She rarely asked questions. Whenever she asked questions she received bad news, so it was usually more palatable going along without knowing, wandering through a benign atmosphere – untouched by unwanted news.
“Can’t be sure without seeing the X-rays.”
Bob had left those in North Carolina at the hospital after the stroke. “What good will X-rays do?” he argued. He hadn’t liked having his golf round interrupted to rush over to the seventh hole, where her stroke pitched her right out of the golf cart as if someone had reached down and shoved her into the ground with such force her face had to be wiped clean of mud. The first thing he said when she awoke in the hospital, groggy and totally disoriented, wondering who she was, where she was, and what had happened was, “I was putting for bird, damn it!”
He showed up on the day of her release two hours late and claimed to have been pulled over by a cop going through a school zone. “Was going two over the speed limit. Can you believe it? I argued for an hour with the damn cop. He was some punk hick barely out of the academy trying to build a reputation.” He paced back and forth, still huffing before pulling to a sudden stop as though he’d had an epiphany, and as an afterthought added, “I told him you were here in the hospital…and…he didn’t, didn’t even care.”
She sat helplessly on the edge of the bed, fighting waves of dizziness and clenching the sheets for support as she waited the arrival of an attendant who could lift her into a wheelchair. Bob didn’t seem interested in her struggles, sitting comfortably in a chair consumed by an issue of Newsweek Magazine from two weeks prior, insisting he would get her in the chair, except, “What if I drop you? My liability. Then what? Not only would I have to pay for this stay, the total amount, forget insurance, mind you, but that much more if you land back in here because I dropped you.” Her back muscles had twisted into spasms after sitting so long, forcing her to lean forward, weak but weathering the pain, on the precipice of falling off the bed before the attendant finally showed up to rescue her.
“Good,” Bob, irritated so he complained, “you show up when I finally found a good article to read.” He turned to the attendant and huffed, “Cause you were so late, I’m taking this magazine with me and I don’t expect to see it listed on the bill.”
Gliding down the hallway, she felt a strange sense of danger, sudden fear as Bob urged the attendant to hurry along. “We have to go to the radiologist before we leave and we have a long drive back to Florida,” he explained at the elevator doors where floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the parking lot. Heart beating wildly, she gasped to catch her breath after realizing she’d been holding it the whole ride.
“Duplicates of your X-rays will be ready tomorrow morning,” the radiology nurse, Emma explained. “You’ll want them to bring to your doctor at home.”
“Why not today?” Bob complained, leaning over the counter, shoving his face into hers.
“You’re too late. Didn’t give me enough time.”
Bob backed away. Nervously shifting his weight from one foot to another, he periodically peered out the window past Emma as if he were expecting someone to drive up.
Gladys looked to Bob for direction and help. Would it be too much to ask, after all these years – to show a little empathy? Somehow reach down into that blossoming gut of his and do the right thing?
“We’re leaving today,” he announced. “I’ve signed her out.” He rubbed his fingers over his lips, the way he always did when he needed a cigarette. Smoking and drinking were other habits he couldn’t break.
Emma, a forceful, yet friendly expressive sort, with a large smiling mouth under a wide nose, suddenly frowned. “And the doctor allowed this?” Her tone was accusatory, rolling her eyes at Gladys as if to say, what is this ass trying to do?
“Have no choice. Gladys said she wants to go,” Bob explained, shrugging and lifting an eyebrow as if to say, “crazy broad, what am I to do?” “Told me she would feel more comfortable resting at home.” It was a boldface lie.
Gladys suddenly wanted to sleep. A gray haze hung over her eyes, dragging on her lids like a weight, and nothing, absolutely nothing made sense to her. But he claimed he had important things to do and she could rest and recover at home.
“Well, I can mail them to your home address,” Emma offered, still looking worriedly at Gladys.
“Tell you what, I’ll call you when we get home and give you the address. Do you have a card?”
Pulling away from the curb where she had been lifted from the wheelchair and deposited into the front seat like a sack of potatoes, she pleaded, recalling her doctor’s words, “But they said I should stay another couple of days to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Her words were like drunken soldiers tripping over the muddy field of her tongue.
“Nonsense. Look, your fine. And besides, what can they do? If it’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen.”
He didn’t even give a glance. If he had he would have seen her right cheek lay like a limp pancake and her mouth drooped lazily and how she had to use a handkerchief like a dam to keep the drool from flowing over her chin onto her blouse.
The insistent, annoying buzz in her ears wouldn’t subside – like a helicopter hovering above, making it impossible to hear anything clearly.
Gladys banged on the stainless bell that sat on the fish counter. “Where are you?” she cried. She was invigorated and couldn’t help but smile.
“I’m coming!” A whimper came from behind the wall.
“Hurry! I ordered three lobsters and I’m running late.” Lobsters were her favorite food, bar none. Always had been and always would be, especially the green gook.
“Name?”
“Welock, damn it! I’m Gladys Welock and I’m a widow.”
“I’m so sorry! Recent occurrence?” asked the hefty, platinum blonde woman, fully filling the red pinstriped white apron all the employees were forced to wear over their red shirts. She waddled to the tank and grabbed a sizeable pair of tongs. With no hesitation, displaying grace uncommon in such a large woman, she jumped onto a step stool and thrust the tongs into the lobster tank, grasping the closest crustacean. “I’m sorry for being so thoughtless. Recent or not has little to do with the anguish, the loss.” Her paunchy face crumbled with recent memories of the loss of her own husband.
“Today. He checked out today. I missed the moment though,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Was playing golf… poorly too. When I got home there was a message on my phone machine. From the time of the message, I judge I was at the turn. I was buying a Coke and a hot dog. What was even more ironic, his voice is still on our answering machine. Took the message of his own death.”
The platinum blonde’s name was Hedy according to the nametag on her left breast. She stopped, lobster caught in the clutches of her tongs – claws pinching, running in place. A baffled expression clouded her painted face. “Golf?” She really hadn’t intended to spit the word with such disgust, but she did. She couldn’t help it. It was disgusting.
Gladys leaned to the left, hand on hip and tapped her red loafer impatiently. “Cancer, not golf. How the hell could golf kill anyone, unless, of course, you don’t yell fore? And that means you aren’t following the rules. Hell, even Bob followed the rules on the golf course. It was imminent, bound to end anytime and it turned out to be today.” She took a deep breath and then sighed loudly.
Hedy continued frowning, the wrinkles around her eyes and brow appearing like highways on a road atlas. “You’re saying the poor man died alone?”
Gladys was losing patience. Her guests were arriving later that day. “No. The nurse told me she asked if he wanted anything, he shook his head, took a deep sigh and that was it. Gone. There! He died with the nurse. If you’re judging me because of my absence…” She paused, glaring at the clerk. She hated people who assumed they knew all sides to the story.
“No, no. Far be it for me to do any judging,” Hedy back pedaled, still morosely affected by Gladys’ cold nature, but realizing she could only bring trouble to herself by displaying an holier-than-thou attitude. “I’m just a clerk who is here to serve your fish needs, not to pass judgment. But since you brought it up, aren’t you tingling with a bit of the guilts? I mean, golf!” She cringed. Couldn’t keep her mouth shut! Never could keep her mouth shut.
Gladys huffed. “Golf is what I do. It’s what he did too. Had the situation been reversed, I’d have been alone and he would have been putting into holes. Now give me those damn lobsters. I’ve got places I’ve gotta be.”
Hedy placed the live lobsters in a white cardboard container. “Pay at the front,” she sniffled, obviously hurt by the response.
“You a widow?” Gladys asked, abruptly shamed into showing some kind of empathy, which was the lesser challenge. Having to ask forgiveness for her attitude would have been worse. She had loved Bob, loved him a long time, but love has to be nurtured to survive.
“Four times,” Hedy sighed, rolling heavy mascara eyes, relieved the customer’s anger had subsided and actually a bit excited at the sudden attention.
Her eyes widened. “More like a murderer, it sounds like,” Gladys huffed, did a quick turnabout and headed to the checkout counter cutting off any response. “Those who judge without knowing should just keep their thoughts to themselves,” she muttered beneath her breath.
The lobsters scratched the cardboard carton and she recalled the first time Bob brought lobsters home for her. He’d just received his first promotion and he bought one for each of them, definitely an expensive delicacy in those days. She was shocked into titillation because he had never been one to splurge. “I even get my own secretary,” he announced.
“Do you know her?” she asked, sipping gin.
“I know of her. Seen her a few times is all.”
“And,” she teased cheerily, thinking it rather fun and clever, whimsical with the thought of the extra money and status the promotion would bring.
He shrugged, curled his lip and coyly arched an eyebrow. She took a double take, for he had never once appeared so sheepishly flirtatious. She decided it was a shot of testosterone, a bit of the rooster step because of the promotion and let it go at that.
Each checkout counter was manned with teams of two. A woman on the scanner greeted the customers with a pleasant smile and current event conversation, while the bagger was always a man who talked and talked about location. Since most residents of Love Lakes hailed from somewhere else, it tickled the shoppers to talk about their original home. It really kicked into high gear when a visitor from out of town was in the store. Visitors were obvious; a younger person accompanying their parent – visiting the supermarket so the larder at home was filled with edible items and not the normal bland dietary supplements the regulars purchased. The dialogue would commence, filled with questions meant to put the visitor on a pedestal and make a lasting impression on the regular shopper, so they would continue to return. “Where ya from?” “How’s the weather up there now?” “I’m from Poughkeepsie, myself. Can’t say as I miss it all that much. Hard to miss the weather, if you know what I mean.”
Bob had never once joined Gladys in Peter’s and she liked it that way. When it opened she ventured in alone to see what all the hoopla was about. So new, so modern, so far removed from Bob – it became her refuge. No one knew him.
Gladys was the only person in the Ten Items or Less checkout line and placed her lobsters and gin on the conveyor belt before opening her red purse. She liked the way it matched her loafers. She tried, whenever possible, to match her purses to her shoes.
“Good morning, Mam.” The clerk smiled. She was a tall, washed-out woman who looked lost in her ill-fitting striped uniform. Her nametag read Phyllis. Flesh hung loosely from her face as though it were searching for padding. “Having a good day?”
“Lost a husband today,” Gladys announced without looking up as she dug for money in her purse. Phyllis sprang right into action, reaching for the microphone, as if she were grabbing a weapon. She had been trained for these moments in her checkout clerk training classes. “His name?” she asked, holding the mike to her mouth, ready to shout it out over the loudspeakers to help Gladys find her husband. Lost husbands were common occurrences, usually discovered drifting absent-mindedly, incapable of finding their way to the front on their own. Peter’s actually hired women whose sole purpose was to wander the aisles looking for lost patrons and lead them back to their respective partner.
“I didn’t lose him,” she chuckled, actually finding humor in her speedy response. “He died. Cancer! Christ, if you knew Bob you’d know he was never lost a day of his life. The man always knew where he was. Course, I didn’t always know where he was!” She paused, looking up with a smirk, before handing over her money. “Now I do though. Now I do.”
“Where was he from?” asked the bagger, following procedure, as he shoved the lobster carton into a red striped plastic bag and placed the bottle of gin on top of it. He was jowly with a stomach that pressed anxiously on the buttons of the white shirt with Peters etched across the pocket.
Gladys grabbed the bag from him with a sudden swipe and said, “His mother and father, like the rest of us.”
“I love her.” The words came out like bullets that penetrated her psyche, kicking up dust of ancient memories. This was pre-tumor, pre-stroke, when she still marched with the pride of a peacock, the reigning golf champion wherever she went, though it was way post-sex, which explained a lot as she recalled the moment later, but who had perfection in their marriage?
It was Sally Slater, a bleached blonde who hung out on the outer boundaries of their social group, attending only the larger events, never the small intimate gatherings. How could she attend? She was single. Gladys wasn’t even sure she’d ever been married and hadn’t given her a thought until Bob came out with his striking confession.
She looked up at him with a doubtful smirk, not finding his attempt at humor particularly clever, though it was a little better than most of his jokes. They had never once discussed this woman when Gladys innocently stated, “Sally Slater called today.” No curiosity, no doubt, no blame, just stated a fact – hadn’t even begun to wonder why the woman had called and how did he answer? Not the expected, “Who is she?” or “I wonder what the hell she wants?” No. Three life-changing words, marching out of his mouth with way too much ease, obviously something he’d rehearsed. “I love her.”
Midst the echo of his words, the discernment – could he be serious, no he must be joking – all circulating midst an emotional explosion in her mind while she looked at him with that deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression, he repeated it. “I love her.”
“I heard you,” she said, burying her face in one hand while waving for him to stop with her other. One thing for certain, she didn’t want to hear it again, she wasn’t even sure she wanted the history. Maybe if she ignored it he wouldn’t bring it up again and the moment would pass like a thunderstorm and the sun would pop back out and their life could continue as it had before the recital of those three words.
When a husband decides to leave after so many years, unloading all his dirty laundry in a twenty-minute tirade that absolutely wipes the image of the man the wife thought she knew from the face of the earth; is it her fault or his? It did finally explain one mystery however, the sudden disappearance of his sexual appetite, for which she paid mightily since he had refused to make love to her for years, and for the life of her, she didn’t understand what she had done wrong. She’d left her new diaphragm on the bed one evening years before, a little wink, a little appetizer – a come-on that had her grinning deviously to herself when he went upstairs to change after work. But there was no call to join him from the hallway and he didn’t even mention it on his arrival downstairs – totally ignored it. She found it in the wastebasket in their bathroom later that night. And shocked beyond words she climbed into the shower, though she never showered at night, and cried.
When she confronted him at breakfast, too unstable and shaken to mention it when she crawled into bed the night before, he looked at her with surprise. “I thought that was someone else’s.” And who the fuck might that be, she wanted to scream? But she didn’t. And they never made love again.
Listing all his sexual affairs over the years, beginning with that secretary of his first promotion, in the same monotonous manner he repeated every fucking golf shot he took after every fucking round over the years as she sat perfectly still, letting the names punch her into a stupor. Was she the stupid one for having no clue, or had he been so cunning that no one could have noticed his indiscretions? In an obvious attempt to infuriate her so she would release him, divorce him so he could be with Sally Slater, a plan that might have worked on anyone of her friends, actually most any other women she knew, he rattled off the many, many names and she pictured the faces of all these women she knew, some of whom she considered friends and wondered what the others looked like.
“Gladys, we tried. We really did,” Hester Piedmont sighed, hugging her daughter, trying to console her. “Your father and I just can’t continue to live together under this roof. Sometimes things don’t work out as you plan.”
“But none of my friends’ parents are divorced,” she cried. “No one gets divorced. Why can’t you stay together? I don’t understand.”
Her mother shrugged as she shook her head. “I can’t stay with him. I’m sorry.” As it turned out her father had begun sharing martinis with someone other than Max. The word got to not only her mother but also most of the citizens in town. She didn’t seem to mind becoming a divorcee, in fact didn’t mind what people whispered behind her back and actually seemed happier. It certainly wasn’t a problem moving onto other men and she never seemed to worry over the effect it had on her daughter. Gladys never understood what she might have done differently so that her parents would have stayed together.
And Max kept going to the front door every night until he died, which, ironically, was soon after her father died, four days before Gladys graduated from high school.
During the graduation ceremony, as she waited for her name to be called, she searched the crowd of her classmates for one, just one whose parents were divorced. She couldn’t find one, but recognized two other students that had a deceased parent.
There would be no divorce. Bob ended up having freedom to be with Sally, but it wasn’t exactly what he wanted. As long as Gladys was alive, that woman would not be his wife. And though that woman ended up accepting the arrangement, it wasn’t what she had hoped for either, certainly not the blue ribbon. So what if he, for the last ten years, spent three nights a week with Sally. So what if it was Sally that went to dinner with him at all the restaurants in town. Who was his wife? And who was the other woman?
“May I help you with your bag?” asked the bag runner, another service offered at Peter’s Supermarket. He must have been Gladys’ age, standing in the shade of the cart depository, sweat glistening on his sun scalded baldhead.
She paused a moment, holding up her bag of lobsters and gin for him to see. “No thank you.” Gazing into the bright blue, blistering hot sky, she rattled, “I’m a widow,” then marched confidently to her golf cart. She repeated it aloud. Sally couldn’t claim that. It made Gladys smile.
THE END
No Regrets: Memoirs of a Punk, his first eBook, is available from Smashwords Publishing. It recounts his early days on the San Francisco punk scene, and tells the tale of a young Catholic boy who escapes his conservative Texas upbringing to live the life of a free-spirited punk rocker in San Francisco. Download it at: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/315495.
His first novel, On the Steps of St. Dymphna, is due out in the Spring of 2019.
View his professional website at: http://tonygrocco-com.webs.com.
View his LinkedIn profile at: www.linkedin.com/in/yourperfectwrite/
Follow him on Twitter at: yrprfctwrt and trocco
Denizens
The bar, long and curved like a piano, immediately claimed his attention. Young men in black and white, groomed and coiffed to perfection, served drinks that looked like rainbow parfaits and miniature fish bowls stuffed with exotic fruit.
He aimed straight for the only empty barstool and immediately noticed a sound that seemed completely out of place. To his right sat a young man sporting a reverse Yankees baseball cap and two gold chains, one with a large cat’s eye that winked in response to the wearer’s body movements. His baggy t-shirt displayed an airbrushed image of Biggie Smalls splattered with bloodstains.
The bellicose sound of hip hop music emanated from purple Dr. Dre headphones fitted snugly over his baseball cap. With eyes closed, he nodded slowly as if falling into a blissful sleep. A snifter of dark liquid accompanied by a tall glass of cola with several cherries and a straw sat patiently in front of him.
“Hi, I’m James. What can I get for you?” the bartender asked, leaning forward with a smile.
“You can get me something to settle my nerves,” he replied, glancing to his right.
“We don’t give out Valium.”
“Too bad. Give me a Manhattan, then. Makers Mark, straight up, no fruit.”
Oscar gave the bartender a furtive look to suggest he do something about the nuisance next to him, but the bartender only shrugged and served him his Manhattan. He placed his red fedora on the bar and slowly scratched the gray spot his beard. His bald pate reflected the luminescence of the bar like one of the gleaming liquor bottles on the back-shelf.
Realizing that the bartender would not rescue him, Oscar swiveled to face his tormentor.
“Excuse me, sir.” He raised his voice to an edgy whine.
His would-be interlocutor continued to nod, adding a low-pitched drone to complement the steady cacophony of the headphones.
Oscar rose to bring the full brunt of his full five-foot seven frame to bear on the situation. He resisted an urge to slap the headphones from the man’s ears.
“Excuse me.” His voice cracked. No response.
Oscar sat down. He slumped over his Manhattan and studiously surveyed the bar for another seat. It was happy hour, so there were none available.
After a few minutes, the man to his right slowly turned toward Oscar.
“Yo, why you messin wiff me, man?” His voice boomed god-like over the bar. Heads turned.
Oscar recoiled at the sudden confrontation and turned to address the man.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, coughing slightly. “I was just wondering if you would, er, I mean, could you turn down the volume of your, um, music, just a bit.”
He mouthed the words while pointing to his head with two index fingers, as if plugging his ears. The man scowled and shook his head.
“Watchoo sayin’?”
Oscar took the napkin from under his drink and flipped it over to the blank side. He motioned to the bartender for a writing implement and wrote: Would you be so kind as to turn down your music? He held the napkin in the air like a white flag.
D took the note and squinted at it briefly. He looked back at Oscar.
“Don’t like my music, huh?” He dropped the napkin on the floor. Oscar lunged to catch the fluttering note.
“No, no… It’s not that.”
He pointed to the earphones on the man’s head and motioned like he was pulling his head apart with two cupped hands. The man stood up, yanked the headphones from his ears and reached over to place them around Oscar’s shiny head.
Oscar pulled away, nearly falling off his barstool. He raised two hands to shield himself from the aural assault.
“No, no…” he stammered.
The music blared, unmuffled by the cranium that had previously muted its throbbing beat. Bar patrons stopped their cocktail chatter to investigate the cacophony. The bartender strode over.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. He eyed the odd couple before him. “Customers are complaining. David, keep those things on your head or turn them off.”
“He don’t like my music.” He glared at Oscar and brandished the headphones like a sonic weapon.
“That isn’t so. I just…” The bartender raised the palm of his hand.
“Put ‘em back on or turn ‘em off.” He leaned in to assert his authority. “We’ve talked about this before.”
“And you know my name ain’t David. You know what my name is.”
The bartender looked skyward. “Sorry… Dah-veed.”
“I call you by your name. I don’t call you Larry or Oscar.”
“Oscar! That’s my name.” He thrust his hand toward D in a spontaneous act of friendship. “Pleased to meet you, Dah-veed.”
“He gets my name right, why can’t you?” James shrugged and waited for him to obey his command.
“Pleased to meet you, too, Oscar.” D extended a hand that swallowed Oscar’s slender digits and brought a wince to his face.
“Let’s not fuss over this. I just wanted you to turn your music down a tad.”
D grunted in assent and fiddled with a knob on his headphones. The blare of hip-hop faded to a transistorized whimper. Assured that the sound issue had been addressed, James returned to his other customers.
“Why don’t you like my music?” D asked contentiously.
“It’s just that you don’t usually hear hip hop in a bar like this.”
“I don’t go nowhere without my music.” D took a long draw on his cola.
Oscar glanced at the image of Biggie Smalls adorning D’s chest.
“Who is that guy on your shirt?”
“That’s Biggie, man, from Brooklyn.”
“Is that blood?”
“Yeah, ‘cause he got murdered.”
“Why?”
“Nobody knows who done it or why. LA drive-by.”
“Those gangster rappers, or whatever you call them, live such violent lives. Why is that?” Oscar fingered his empty Manhattan glass.
“They from the ghetto, man. Not from no artsy fartsy place like ya’ll people here.”
“Artsy-fartsy?”`
“Hell, yeah. I know all you artsy types come here after doing all your artsy stuff in the museum.”
“What brings you here?” He motioned to James to make another Manhattan. James, noticing his interaction with D, returned a look of concern.
“My old man is an artsy type, yo. He makes me come to this museum with him, but after an hour or so I can’t stand it no more, so I end up in here listening to my music and drinking Hennessy.”
D raised the snifter and swallowed its remaining contents, following it with another draw off his cola.
“Ya’ll alright… I don’t mind you artsies, but it ain’t my thing, you know what I’m sayin’?”
James served Oscar his Manhattan.
“Everything good here?”
“Everything is fine with us artsy types. Not sure about our hippity hop friend here.”
“Has Dah-veed started telling you his life story yet?” James cast a point gaze at D.
“He told me that art isn’t his thing, that he’s here to get away from his dad, who is a detested artsy type.”
“I didn’t say detested, or whatever. Ya’ll ain’t my people, that’s all.”
“OK, let’s change the subject. How about those Giants?”
He raised his Manhattan in the direction of a large television positioned over the far end of the bar. Stick figures scurried silently across the screen. Their orange and white uniforms identified them as San Francisco Giants.
“Sheeit… I don’t give a damn about no Giants. This conversation is getting stale, so I am going back to my music.”
D donned his purple headphones, turned up the volume and again nodded contentedly. Without saying a word, he held his empty snifter out at arm’s length. On cue, James refilled it and put it back in D’s raised hand. D stopped bobbing his head long enough to complete the operation, took a gulp and set the glass on the bar.
“He’s got me trained like a seal,” James said, flapping his arms.
“So, what is his life story?”
“It’s coming into the bar right now,” James said, as a large black man made his way ineluctably toward them.
“Mr. Menciere, good to see you. The figure advanced toward the bar like a torpedo.
He was a handsome, middle-aged black man, over six-foot, dressed in a three-piece suit and wearing a black bowler. He sported a red bow tie and shoes that glistened with a blinding sheen. His countenance was grim, but when he reached the bar, his voice boomed with a pleasant authority.
“Good afternoon, James. I trust you are taking good care of my wayward progeny.” He glanced at his son, who was unaware of his arrival.
“I hope he’s kept his bar tab under six figures. Give me the usual.”
James mixed a Sapphire martini straight up with a twist and placed the glistening cocktail between Oscar and D. Mr. Menciere gazed at his son as he nodded in a drowsy stupor. The muted sounds of hip-hop mixed awkwardly with cocktail chatter.
“Ah, you must be the artsy father,” Oscar said, in a mock accusatory tone. He turned and extended a hand but received none in return.
“I see you’ve been talking to my son. Yes, I am he, the artsy father out of touch with the lives of black people in the ghetto. I got the memo.”
Mr. Menciere watched D with funereal gloom, arms folded. He took the bowler from his head and positioned himself directly behind D. With both hands he yanked the hat down over his son’s cap-clad head. D jerked to life.
The bowler consumed his headphones and Yankees cap. He tore it off and threw it to the ground.
“What the fuck.” He spun around to see who had committed the assault.
“Artsy dad one, hip-hop son zero,” Mr. Menciere bawled.
He pulled one of the earphones away from D’s ear. “Is number one son ready to go home?”
D removed the headphones and slammed them on the bar. Hip-hop again filled the air.
“I tol’ you I ain’t going home witchoo.” He adjusted his Yankees cap, put the headphones back on and turned to face the bar.
“This is what he does to me.” Mr. Menciere looked to Oscar for sympathy. He reached for his martini and swallowed it in one gulp. “Tunes me out while he listens to that obnoxious noise.”
“I see. We might have a generation gap here. A cultural divide, if you will.”
“Cultural divide my ass. There’s no culture there, just bombast and adolescent swagger. Look at that t-shirt.”
Mr. Menciere pointed to the bloodied image of Biggie Smalls.
“He idolizes that dead rapper. And what is it with that... that blinking eyeball?”
“I feel your pain.” Oscar motioned to James, who had been keeping his distance from the situation.
“Another Manhattan, and whatever Mr. Menciere is having. I have a feeling he’s not leaving just yet.”
“I need more than a martini.”
“The bartender won’t give out Valium. I asked.”
Oscar extended his hand once again and this time the gesture was returned. D continued his head bobbing.
“Why doesn’t he want to return to his domicile, which I assume is with you?”
“He doesn’t want to listen to me bitch about his lifestyle, his obsession with hip hop, his drinking…”
Oscar nodded.
“Where is he going to go if he doesn’t go home with you?”
“The ghetto, I suppose, where he can be with his downtrodden brothers and sisters.”
“You don’t take him seriously, do you?”
“Should I?”
“That depends.”
“On?” Mr. Menciere raised an eyebrow and turned to face Oscar.
Oscar could see family resemblances despite the differences in age, attitude and attire. The two men shared the same hulking frame and bulging brown eyes aglow with energy and intensity. Each seemed possessed of a brooding essence that lay beneath the surface.
“On whether you want to have a good relationship.”
“Suppose I do?”
“You won’t as long as you dismiss the things he holds near and dear, like hip hop.”
“He dismisses the things near and dear to me. Calls it ‘artsy fartsy bullshit.’”
“Yes, I know. Dah-veed told me all about it.”
“He told you his name is Dah-veed?”
“Yeah, he’s adamant about it.”
“Hah, that’s hilarious! I used to call him that when he was four. I am surprised he even remembers.”
“Well, he does. Ask James here…”
“Bawls me out every time I call him Day-vid,” James confirmed.
“How did he go from that spunky little old boy who loved PBJs to this?” Mr. Menciere muttered to himself and gazed into his martini as if its bluish glow could provide an answer.
After several minutes in contemplation, Mr. Menciere balled his fist and gave D a light nudge on the shoulder. D cracked his eyes.
“Watchoo want?” He asked without removing the headphones, his voice booming.
He waved at D and grinned impishly. D removed his headphones and turned the volume down.
“Watchoo want?”
“Remember the game we used to play?”
“I don’t know ‘bout no game.”
“To learn the alphabet? A long time ago?”
D thought for a moment.
“Oh, yeah, the PBJ game… So?”
“Let’s play it now.”
“It was a dumb game.”
“It was fun. You liked it.”
“How we gonna play that game? You ain’t got no PBJ to give me.”
“True But I’ll make one for you later.”
“I tol’ you I ain’t going home witchoo.”
“Just play the game with me.”
D looked around to see if anyone was watching. Most patrons had lost interest in the hip-hop drama that had distracted them a few minutes ago.
“Awright. How does it start?”
Mr. Menciere began:
A-B-C-D, E-F-G...
“Oh, yeah,” D replied. Then:
Give that PBJ to me.
“Good! You remember.”
D continued:
H-I-J-K, L-M-N-O-P…
Mr. Menciere:
Can’t do that ‘cause I’m too greedy!
He scrunched his face and continued:
Q-R-S and T-U-V...
D:
Share that PBJ, meanie.
W and X-Y-Z…
Mr. Menciere:
I’ll give you half, now leave me be.
“Awright, dad, I played your game. Now, where’s my PBJ?”
“James, one PBJ, please.” Mr. Menciere waved a hand in the air. “Can your kitchen manage that?”
“Our kitchen can handle it.” The two men sat in stony silence until the PBJ arrived.
“Here you go, one PBJ.” James set before them a large plate on which rested a single white bread sandwich oozing grape jelly.
“Just like the ones I used to make.” Mr. Menciere reached for half. D blocked his shot.
“Hey, that’s my PBJ,”
“The game says I give you half. Now who’s being greedy?”
“Awright.”
The two men ate their halves without speaking. Between bites, D slurped his cola and Mr. Menciere sipped his martini.
“PBJ - now there’s a happy meal for ya,” Oscar said, casting a covetous glance.
“I think we must have one more, don’t you?” D nodded in agreement and the eyeball pendant blinked enthusiastically.
“Two more, one for you and one for me,” D said.
“Indeed. Greed is good.”
“I’m feeling left out… James, a round of PBJs for the three of us, my treat.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” Mr. Menciere nodded cordially at Oscar. “Your largesse is greatly appreciated.”
“Denizens, the best place in the city for a PB and J.”
James returned a few minutes later, empty-handed. “Gentlemen, I have some sad news.” His face was frozen in solemnity.
“Don’t tell me. You’ve run out of peanut butter.” Oscar was aghast.
“Yes, and grape jelly.”
“This is an outrage,” Mr. Menciere said, feigning indignation. “Son, this calls for immediate action.”
“What we gawna do? They ain’t got no peanut butter.”
“We must make our way to an establishment whose stores of peanut butter are limitless.”
“Yo, I hear dat.”
“You’re game, then, Dah-veed?”
A look of surprise swept across his face.
“Yeah, Dad. I’m game.”
“James, the check, please.”
I am a retired high school history teacher who is trying to become a published author. I have always enjoyed writing and have written a few short stories over the years just for my own amusement. I received my teaching certificate as an undergraduate. I was a substitute teacher for 3 years but could not find a full time teaching job. I went into business for 13 years at a mutual fund company before returning to teaching after my job got outsourced. I taught for 16 years before retiring. My story is a murder mystery set in the eighties called Murder at 200 Hill Rd. I hope you enjoy it. |
MURDER AT 200 HILL RD.
Suddenly the girl’s thoughts were abruptly jarred. She thought she had heard something- footsteps- but there was no one in sight. Finally, at that moment, the machine came to life and a request began to come across. It would soon type out the number of a tape which a user at the end of the line would be requesting. It was the girls’ job to get that tape and place it in the computer. Once the tape number was requested she quickly went to the tape rack and did her job.
On the way back to her seat after loading the tape, the machine kicked on again, but this time it was not working properly and printing things that made no sense. It was typing sporadically. Something was definitely wrong. The girl was puzzled. All of a sudden, smoke began to rise from the floor.
The girl’s training immediately kicked in and she identified the problem as a short circuit. Having been taught what to do, she went about it with a surprising calm and quickness.
The floor was a 3 ft. raised floor, this being so that there would be room for the cables which ran to the computer systems. It was, in effect, a crawlspace. Some tiles had circular holes cut into them so that one could get to the crawlspace by simply lifting it. Breaking the glass enclosure, she removed a nearby fire extinguisher, then lifted the closest tile to the smoke.
Just as she bent forward and began spraying the foam however, someone or something grabbed her from behind. One hand clamped over her mouth, the other around her neck. She found herself being dragged down into the crawlspace. Her strength was oozing. She tried in vain to escape, but her attacker was immensely strong, and she could not pull away. She scratched, she clawed, she bit but the iron grip around her mouth was at the same time preventing a call for help and cutting off her air. Her muffled cries grew weaker and weaker, until finally, there was no sound at all. A deathly silence prevailed.
The next day, a blue car pulled into the closest available parking space and the driver stepped out. Normally prospective clients came to his office but when the prospective client was the business giant National Computer Corporation, it meant big bucks and it befitted one to make an exception. When he got to the door he opened it and was greeted by a sign on what today at least was an unmanned guard’s desk that read:
ALL VISITORS REPORT TO THE GUARDS’ DESK ON THE SECOND FLOOR
An arrow pointed the way. From all the construction going on in and around the building it was clear things were not yet finished. This apparently was a temporary inconvenience. On the way up the stairwell, a security camera stared him right in the face. When he got to the second floor he approached the guard’s desk.
“Hello. My name is Raymond J. Janovich,”” he introduced himself, accenting the ‘J’ in his last name as a ‘Y’ sound. “” I have an appointment to see the regional manager, Roland Schwartz. He’s expecting me.”
“O.K.” the guard replied coldly, “just wait a minute please while I check it out and get you an escort. No visitors are allowed in the building unless accompanied by an employee.”
The guard got on his walkie- talkie and got the confirmation he was looking for.
“It’ll be a minute or two, but an escort is on the way.’”, he said. “We’ve got to use this system until all the phone lines are operational, and all the key cards work’” he explained.
“That’s fine by me,” came the reply.
The escort arrived shortly and took the visitor to Mr. Schwartz’s office.
“Can I help you?’ his secretary asked.
“Yes, I am Mr. Janovich,”he said being certain to begin his last name with a ‘Y’ sound again. ”I have an appointment.”
She buzzed the office.
“Yes?” a rather lifeless voice replied.
‘’A Mister YAN-O- VICH is here to see you”” she said, phonetically sounding out his last name.
”Send him right in, and Janet?”
“’Yes sir?’”
”It’s getting late so you can call it a day.” he announced, twenty minutes early.”
She filed what she had been typing, gathered up her things and left.
Mr. Schwartz rose to greet his visitor as he walked in.
“Hello,” “he said, extending his hand. “I’m Roland Schwartz.” He closed the door behind him.
“’Raymond J. Janovich,” he answered back shaking Mr. Schwartz’ outstretched hand. “private investigator.”
Mr. Schwartz frowned when he heard the Yan-o-vich last name. “Just a minute,”he said as glanced at his appointment book, ‘“it says here your last name is Janovich, not Yan-o-vich ,” he said. “I would like to get this straight up front. What should I call you?”
“It’s spelled Janovich, but pronounced Yan-o-vich, “he explained, “but you can call me anything but late for supper.” It was an old joke and as soon as he said it, he knew it was a mistake as he could sense Mr. Schwartz had no sense of humor. “My friends call me R.J,” he quickly and sheepishly added.
“Mr. Janovich,” Mr. Schwartz coldly replied. “”I have heard of your, shall we say, off beat sense of humor, but I was hoping I would not have the opportunity to experience it. In view of what has recently happened I hardly find humor appropriate. As far as the question of how to address you, I am not interested in being your friend, only your client. We chose you for this case because you are reputed to be the best private investigator in the state. I expect our relationship to be strictly business should you decide to accept this case- MR. JANOVICH.”
The final two words were heavily accented to make his point.
Anybody who knew R.J. would tell you that at this point he thought he was dealing with a bag of wind. Ordinarily he would tell him to his face and walk off, but this client represented the National Computer Corporation or as they were more often called, N.C.C., one of the biggest companies in America. There is no telling what they would pay for his services. He would stay.
“I understand,” he said, the words nearly sticking in his throat. .
”Alright then Mr. Janovich, “he began. “How much do you know about what happened here last night?”
“I know only what you told me over the phone earlier, plus what little I read in the morning paper.”
“Last night, “Mr. Schwartz said, “a young girl in our employ was brutally murdered in the computer room. One of the tiles had been removed. Apparently there had been a short circuit as a fire extinguisher was found near the body in the crawlspace beneath the floor. She was badly mutilated, her neck was broken, and…” he paused .
R.J. glanced up from the notepad he had been jotting into. “Well, what else?”
“There were two puncture marks on her neck,” he shot back.
”Mr. Schwartz, are you sure they weren’t knife wounds of some sort?”
“Yes, the preliminary indication is”- he abruptly stopped as the door suddenly opened. It was Ernie, the custodian. He was pulling a large, wheeled garbage bin behind him.
“Oh, Mr. Schwartz,” he apologized. “I’m sorry. I thought you had already left. I was going to clean out the waste paper baskets, but I’ll come back later.”
“Just come back in 15 minutes, Ernie. We’ll be done by then.”
’”Sure thing, Mr. Schwartz.” With that he wheeled out the garbage bin and left.”
“Please excuse the interruption, “Mr. Schwartz said to R.J.
R.J. nodded and he continued.
“Let me be frank, Mr. Janovich. Our company has pumped a great deal of money into this data center, and we expect it to make a lot once this operation is fully underway. Any delay, any setback costs us greatly- and not only us. This data center is going to be the largest of its kind in the country. Everything in here will be state of the art. It is of great importance not only to us, but to the local area as well as it will provide jobs and revenue also. Our management people will move here to run this place. They will buy houses here, buy cars from local dealerships, frequent the area restaurants, etc., etc. We need this center and the area needs us. “
“However, we have had several money costing setbacks, and now this terrible murder. Wild rumors are circulating among some of our more superstitious workers. Everyone is terrified. Five of our female employees and two of our men have already quit in fear. This cannot continue. If there is some maniac out there, he has got to be stopped. That is why we need your help. Will you take our case?”
R.J. Janovich was never one to run away from a challenge, and this case certainly fell into that category. Still, there was one more factor to consider. ’”We haven’t discussed my fee,” R.J. pointed out.
”I have been authorized to pay you $250.00 a day plus expenses,” Mr. Schwartz informed him.
A guy would have to be crazy to turn down that much dough. Still, he didn’t want to appear overanxious and simply jump at the offer. He coolly waited a few seconds, giving the impression he was thinking it over. Then he spoke.
“Mr. Schwartz,” he answered, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”
”Excellent, excellent!” Mr. Schwartz exclaimed. He extended his hand and they shook on it. ”I’ll have the contract drawn up and ready for you to sign tomorrow.”
”Okay, Mr. Schwartz,” R.J. turned to go, but looking over his shoulder said this to Mr. Schwartz: “I’d like a list of every employee working last night. Also, I’d like you to think of anyone who would want or who would benefit by the closing of this data center. We can get to work first thing in the morning.”
”Just a minute, Mr. Janovich, “Mr. Schwartz snapped. “This is a matter of the gravest importance to my company. We aren’t officially your client yet until we sign the contract but we have a verbal agreement for a lot of money. I insist we begin immediately. We cannot afford to waste even a single minute.”
R.J. felt his entire body sag with those words. Still youthful looking at 40, he had been at this job for more than fifteen years. Physically there was no denying this job was taking more out of him than before. He was dog tired, but for the kind of money he would be paid, he wasn’t going to argue with the man.
“Alright,” he said, sizing up Mr. Schwartz. He appeared to be a no-nonsense kind of guy. He was well-spoken, and smacked of what R.J. guessed was an Ivy League education. He probably was R.J.’s age. “But can I take a quick trip to the John first?”” R.J. asked.
Mr. Schwartz disgustedly gave his consent. “Up the stairs, through the break room, to the guard’s desk. You can get the men’s room key there,” he instructed.
“Thank you,” R.J. said and then left.
He followed Mr. Schwartz’ directions and got to the men’s room. He ran into Ernie and his garbage bin on the way out.
“How’re you doing?” R.J. said.
“Hello,” the janitor replied. He cast an eye on R.J., trying to place the face, “I saw you in Schwartz’ office. Are you a detective?”
”R.J. Janovich, private investigator,” he said extending his hand.
”Ernie, Ernie Roscow,” the janitor introduced himself.
“’Nice to meet you, Ernie.”
“You’re here about that murdered girl, huh? “
R.J. nodded.
”Well I know what killed her,” Ernie said.
R.J. was surprised by the word what rather than who.
“It was a vampire, that’s what it was.” said Ernie. As he emptied the used paper towels.
“Really?” R.J. incredulously asked.
“Sure,” Ernie replied confidently. “I hear she had teeth marks on her neck. No wild animals around here to do that. No surprise, let me tell you, if you lived here last few years. Strange things have happened.”
R.J. was not local and did not know what he meant.
Ernie started to wheel his garbage bin out. “It was nice talking to you. I’ve gotta get going now; work to do”’
R.J. wanted to know more about the ‘strange things’ Ernie had mentioned. “So long buddy, he said. “Can we talk again tomorrow?”
Ernie nodded yes then disappeared out the door.
R.J .had to get back too; to Mr. Schwartz. He hustled back past the guard’s desk returning the key as he went by. Hurrying through the break room he quickly made it downstairs to Mr. Schwartz’s office. Maybe Schwartz could clue him in on what Ernie was talking about.
Meanwhile back upstairs, Ernie had just finished his first cubicle. He reached back behind himself and began to grab his bin. Suddenly, from behind, a hand emerged from the pile of used paper towels and crumpled up paper in the bin and wrapped around his face. A second hand gasped for his throat. Ernie tried desperately to get away. His mouth was covered and he couldn’t breathe. The pressure on his neck was growing. He just couldn’t break free. He tried to yell for help but the grip over his mouth was vice-like. The pressure on his neck grew stronger; the grip tighter and tighter.
Downstairs in Mr. Schwartz’s office the phone rang.
”Excuse me,” he said to R.J. He answered the phone. As he listened, his expression changed. He turned white as a ghost. He quickly slammed down the receiver as he finished the call.
”Something terrible has happened! “he cried as he hurriedly headed for the door. “Come with me, please,” he said to R.J.
R.J. followed behind him as he again went upstairs to the place he had just come from.
When they got there security was on the scene. R.J. saw Ernie’s garbage bin. He and Mr. Schwartz were led to the other side of the bin. There was Ernie’s body, lying on his back, dead. His face was mutilated, and his neck appeared broken, but you could see two small marks on his neck with blood trickling down.
Even a pro like R.J. could not help but wince at the hideous sight.
Just then a strange noise made them turn around. It was an overly curious female employee who had crept up behind them and caught a glimpse of the body. It was too much for her and she threw up. Mr. Schwartz led the girl to a nearby bathroom. He had a key and unlocked it. He then instructed security: “You men seal off this area until the police get here. I’ll get someone to clean up this mess.”
R.J. looked at the body. Under his breath, he said: “Speaking of messes, what kind of mess did I get myself into?”
It was 9:00 a.m. R.J. made his way through a building which, except for the presence of several policeman and security guards, was unoccupied. When he got to Mr. Schwartz’ office he knocked on the closed door.
“Come in,” the voice on the other side commanded.
R.J. went in. “Good morning, Mr. Schwartz.”
“Good morning, Mr. Janovich. Thank you for being so prompt. Please sit down. I have that contact for you to sign. Here it is,” he said handing it to him.
R.J. quickly looked it over and did. Mr. Schwartz took it from him. “Very good” he said. Let’s get started.” He had a worried look on his face. “The building has been closed down until the police and security can work out a system of increased surveillance,” he informed R.J. “Until such time, this building will remain closed. But we already had one of the tightest security systems anywhere. We even increased it after the first murder. We can’t afford to have this center closed down for any prolonged length of time. This is terrible, simply terrible!””
He was speaking very rapidly and his tone was getting higher and higher It was apparent that he was very upset and in light of recent events, one could hardly blame him.
“’Easy now, Mr. Schwartz. Calm down, “” R.J. politely advised. “”I’m sure everything possible is being done and I am certain this building will re-open soon,”” he assured him.
Mr. Schwartz seemed to relax somewhat, so R.J. went on.
”Now then, Mr. Schwartz,” R.J said to begin with, “do you have the list I asked for?”
”Yes, I have the names of all the people, who were working the night of the first murder as well as those who were working last night as well.”
Mr. Schwartz lifted the lists from his desk and handed them over.
“Very good,”” R.J. replied, taking the lists. “”You never know who might have seen something that will be helpful to us. “Next thing,” he went on, “I’d like to know if you’ve come up with the names of any people who, for whatever reason, might want to see this datacenter closed down.”
“I have given that a great deal of thought’,”” Mr. Schwartz said, “”and I can only come up with two, though I haven’t a shred of evidence against either one.”
R.J. took out a pen and his notepad. ““That’s O.K., Mr. Schwartz, we’re not accusing anyone; just trying to establish possible motives. “Go ahead,” he instructed.
“Well then,” he said “”there are two men who fall into that category. The first is George Dernwood, the wealthy shipping magnate who owns several warehouses in the local area, among various other things.”
R.J. nodded. Their paths had crossed more than once during some other cases.
”Dernwood was outbid by us when the land on which this building is built was publicly auctioned off”” he continued. “”It was a long and bitter bidding war, but he simply could not match our final bid. Dernwood claimed he wanted this land for another warehouse but the way in which he so aggressively pursued it led many to believe he had more than that in mind. As I’m sure you know, Dernwood is reputed to have ties with the syndicate and to be heavily involved in the smuggling of various items- drugs in particular. Popular belief is that Dernwood wanted to build a warehouse here because, with its’ close proximity to the waterfront and incoming ships, it would be an ideal, place to ‘stash’, as it were, any smuggled goods. If we were forced to close down, our company would no doubt relocate the data center and put this land up for sale, thereby opening the door for him to acquire the property. Of course I am a transferee from New York, where our main office is. I was not here when all this occurred but this is what our management people told me.”
“Hmm…” R.J. murmured, “that makes sense, and though that by no means makes him guilty, I know George Dernwood and he is capable of anything. Who is the second person?’’
“The only other person…” Mr. Schwartz paused, unsure of whether he should even continue, “It’s a longshot.”
”As long as there is even the slightest chance,” R.J. asserted, “we’ve got to consider it.”
”Very well,” Mr. Schwartz began again. “As you know, Mr. Janovich, I’m the regional manager in charge of computer operations here. I only recently got this assignment. Before that, from day 1, a man by the name of Benjamin Nold held my current position. Just a few short weeks before we were to begin operations here however, he was caught attempting to embezzle money from the company. He was arrested and charged but as you know, our system of justice moves slowly and his case has yet to come to trial. He’s out on bail now. I suppose losing a six figure job and facing possible jail time could fill a man with thoughts of revenge against those responsible. But I know Ben Nold. He may be an embezzler, but he is no murderer.”
”Do you have an address on this man?” R.J. asked.
Mr. Schwartz nodded and handed him a slip of paper. ”I’ve written it on here. I knew you’d be asking for it.”
R.J. took it, read the address, and put the paper in his pocket. “I’ll check him out,’’ he said. As he rose to leave, he remembered one more question he wanted to ask. ”Just one more thing, Mr. Schwartz. I didn’t get a chance to mention this last night, but I ran into Ernie in the men’s room just before he was murdered. He seemed to think that the girl was killed by a vampire of all things. What’s more he said that would come as no surprise to anyone who lived here. Do you know what he was talking about?”
”Again, Mr. Janovich , I haven’t been around here very long,” Mr. Schwartz said, “but I think I know what Ernie was referring to. I have been apprised by management of some of the goings on. Are you familiar with the previous occupants of this property?”
“Of course,” R.J. replied. “Anyone on the East Coast knew of the super wealthy Bracken family. This land was owned for years by the Brackens. They were real upper class and one of the most powerful families in New England.”
“They could trace their ancestry back to the Mayflower,” Mr. Schwartz said. “They were Boston based and what the people would call Brahmins; real upper crust elites. This land was part of their summer estate. Are you familiar with the circumstances surrounding their loss of this property?”
“Yes,” R.J. replied, ”I only recently moved here. I wasn’t living in this area at the time, but I remember reading about it in the papers. Some sort of a legal loophole- an illegality concerning the registering of the deed to the property. I don’t know any of the particulars, but it was a real big deal around here and sure caused a lot of commotion.”
So I’ve been told, “Mr. Schwartz said. “ You also know then of the tragic occurrence on the day we began work on this building?”
”Yes. The widow Bracken was accidentally run over by a bulldozer and killed.”
“An accident, of course. I was here on that day along with several other higher ranking management personnel from New York for the groundbreaking. She showed up, ranting and raving about how we were stealing her land and spoiling everything. She was screaming that she wouldn’t let us do it. After a long period of time we finally succeeded in calming her down. We thought she was leaving, but when she saw the first bulldozer, she rushed in front of it, arms waving, ordering it to stop. The driver was in the process of doing so but the lady tripped and fell in front of it just before its’ forward motion stopped. I will never forget the sickening sound of that woman being crushed to death.”
“But Mr. Schwartz,” R.J. exclaimed, “all this is common knowledge. What does it have to do with Ernie’s vampire theory?’’
”I suppose that part of the story is common knowledge, but what Ernie told some of our employees is less well known. Ernie was one of our few locally hired employees. He lived just a stone’s throw from this piece of land. After losing her husband and son in a car accident, the widow Bracken had this house converted from a summer place to a full time residence. Ernie claimed that things were quiet for years but that around the time NCC was attempting to acquire the property, strange things began to happen. I am sorry I don’t know all the specifics, but whatever they were Ernie was convinced that supernatural things were going on and that this place was haunted. That rumor has spread around the data center. Given this I suppose it is not much of a stretch for Ernie to conclude that marks on a dead girls’ neck could be the work of a vampire.”
“I know you are not from here, Mr. Schwartz, but something made Ernie think that. I’d like to find out what.”
“You certainly don’t believe in vampires and the supernatural, do you Mr. Janovich?”
“No. I don’t but I think I should check it out anyway.”
“Whatever you think must be done to stop these murders please do,” Mr. Schwartz said. “This nightmare must end, and this data center must resume operations.”
“Alright, Mr. Schwartz,” R.J. said, heading for the door. ”I’ll get cracking on this case right away.”
“Good luck, Mr. Janovich,” his client wished him.
“Thanks,” R.J. replied “I’m gonna need it!” he said under his breath as he left the office.
It was a long walk to the front desk, and it gave R.J. time to think about how he was going to attack this case. First he’d head back to the office and get his assistant to get some background information. Next--
““Please sign out,”” a monotone voice interrupted his thoughts. It was the guard at the front desk. R.J. had been so deep in thought that he had been absentmindedly walking right by without signing out.
”I’m sorry,” he apologized.
The guard pushed the register forward. R.J. recognized him as the break room guard who was working at another desk when Ernie was murdered. His name was Jim Smith according to his nametag.
”They move you guys around a lot, huh? ‘’ R.J. asked as he signed out.
There was no reply.
“Geesh” R.J. murmured to himself, “this guy has all the personality of a dead fish!” He tried again.
“Like to keep you on your toes, I guess,” he kidded.
The guard managed what appeared to resemble a weak smile. It made him look, as R.J. muttered to himself, like “death warmed over. I think it hurts him to smile!” He finished signing out and left.
A short drive later, he arrived at his office. It was an office on the second floor of the oldest office building in downtown New Brighton, only a short drive across the bridge from the data center in nearby Fairview.
“Good morning Betty,” R.J. greeted his secretary as he entered.
”Good morning, R.J.” she replied.
”Any messages?’’
She shook her head no.
”Is the whiz kid in yet?”
”He just got in now”
R.J. went into his inner office, leaving the reception area. Through years of hard work and long hours that had cost him his marriage, R.J. had made enough money to be able to afford this modest office. He also had a secretary and recently, he was able to hire a young college kid to do the always time consuming background research, among other things.
”Hi, boss,” the young man with the wavy brown hair said with a twinkle in his eye. ”whaddya’ got for me today?”
It was the kind of enthusiasm which had convinced R.J. to take this kid on. R.J. normally worked alone but had taken a liking to this young kid who was working his way through college and had his heart set on a career as an investigative journalist. He saw this job as a stepping stone. R.J. had doubts about that, but the kid needed some money, he did not cost much and was actually proving to be an asset. Not only was he reducing R.J’s workload, but the fact that his sister worked in the police coroner’s office and he was dating the daughter of the chief of homicide to boot, often came in quite handy!
”Enough to keep you busy, Marty,” R.J. answered. They had briefly discussed the case on the phone earlier. “Here’s the list I told you about, complete with names, addresses and phone numbers, Only now there has been another murder so there are two lists. Check this out and see if any names appear on both. If so, check those first. Then check out the other names left on the first list. See if they can tell you anything that might help. Leave the other list for me and I will check on that one later. I’ll get it when I check my messages. But there are a couple of things I’d like you to do first.”
“What?”
”You’ve got no classes today?” R.J .asked.
“Nope,” he answered.
“Go to the police station. Use some of those connections of yours to try and find whatever you can about the coroner’s report on those two murders.”
”O.K., boss.” he always referred to R.J. that way. R.J. had given up asking him to use R.J. as his form of address. He apparently was not comfortable with that. . “What’s the other thing?”
“Marty, you college kids do lots of reading, right?”
”We sure do.”
”Well, go to the library and dig up as much information as you can on the Bracken family and aaah…Marty?”
”Yes?”
”Be on the lookout for any mention of anything having to do with vampires.”
“Wh-aaa-at?” came Marty’s astonished response, “Are you putting me on?”
“I know it sounds pretty far-fetched, Marty, but I really haven’t got time to go into it,” R.J. said. “Just let me know what you come up with, O.K.?”
“O.K., boss, whatever you say.” He said goodbye and he walked out the door. He quickly reopened the door and said: “I hope I didn’t bite off more that I can chew.”
“Leave the sick jokes to me, huh, kid?” R.J. said.
Marty laughed and went on his way.
Having quite a lot to do himself R.J. left soon after. “This case is really shaping up to be a tough one” he said to himself.
R.J. pulled the car into the warehouse parking lot and got out. He parked in the space right next to George Dernwood’s car. Everyone knew him by his unmistakable pink Cadillac. He was the man R.J. wanted to see first, but that was easier said than done. Dernwood was a difficult man to talk to unless he had something to say. Anyway R.J. was going to give it his best shot.
He entered the building and made his way to the offices on the second floor. He walked into the outer office and up to the secretary’s desk.
“Good morning,” he greeted her.
“Good morning, sir.”” she said in between chews on her gum. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Dernwood,” R.J. said as authoritatively as possible.
”Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“Yes, I do,” he lied.
“Your name, please?”
“Uh-oh!’’ R.J. thought as he noticed an open appointment book lying on the secretary’s desk. He tried to read it but did not have enough time. “Err….James, Jack James”. Another lie, made up on the spot.
”That’s funny sir, because, well, I‘ve never seen you before. You’re a new client, right?”
R.J. nodded.
“Well, I am sure that there is only one new client scheduled for today, a Mr. O’Brien at 1 o’clock. If you’re a new client and you are not Mr. O’Brien, then you can’t be on the list...hee-hee-hee” she emitted a silly sounding giggle. “I’ll check the appointment book anyway.” She glanced down at it. “”No, no appointments for a Mr. James today at any time. Is it possible you made a mistake?””
I guess I did,’’ R.J. smiled, his wheels turning. He glanced down at her. She was a typical Dernwood girl- late twenties, early thirties; a real blonde bombshell with blue eyes and a body that just wouldn’t quit. About the only thing she seemed to lack was brains. R.J. knew the type, and maybe he could take advantage of that.
“You know,” R.J. said, flattering her,” I could swear I‘ve seen you somewhere before. He stared at her with his baby blue eyes that still had a way with the girls. Though he was now starting to gray at the temples one could still see reminders of a time when Raymond James Janovich had been a good-looking ladies’ man. He would use some of that charm now.
“Really?” she asked with a wide eyed look. ”I don’t think so””
”Yes, I’m sure of it. Where have I seen you? I’ve got it! Weren’t you the winner of the Miss New Brighton Beauty Pageant?”
Corny, R.J. knew, but she fell for it
“Oh my no!” she blushed and giggled. “You must have me mixed up with someone else.”
‘”Well, you’re certainly every bit as beautiful as the girl who won it.”’
“Oh, Mr. James!” There was more nervous giggling and some blushing followed.
R.J. sensed that now was the time to stop messing around. “Do you work here straight from 9 to 5?” he asked.
“Yes except for lunch from 1 2:30 to 1:30.”
R.J.’s wheels began to turn. “Do you leave the reception desk unattended during that time?”
“Oh, no. The new girl from downstairs takes over.”
Even better than R.J. had hoped. He had found out what he wanted to know and he had a plan. But maybe he had asked one too many questions.
”Why do you want to know that?’’ the secretary cluelessly asked.
R.J. had to think of a good answer quick, or even this girl might get suspicious. “What’s your name?’’ he asked.
”Candi with an ‘I.’ “
”Well, Candi, I asked because I thought that we might be able to have lunch together.”
“Oh, Mr. James, tee-hee,” she said getting in a few more chomps on her gum. “I’m sorry, but my boyfriend and me are having lunch together today. He’s picking me up at 12:30.”
R.J. couldn’t have asked for a better response. “Well,” R.J. flirted, “my loss.”” He turned to leave.
“Oh, Mr. James?’’”
R.J. turned around
“Um…in case you ever want to book an appointment ahead of time, here’s my number” she winked and scribbled her number down.
R.J. took the slip of paper she handed to him, winked back and made his way out of the building, stopping only to deposit it in the nearest garbage barrel.
“Sorry sweetheart,” he said to himself out loud, “but I already have everything I need from you.”
He’d be back, but for now it was time to make another stop.
R.J. got into his car and drove off. Soon after, he pulled in front of a rather impressive house and stepped out.
‘‘This is the place,”’ he said to himself after checking the number on the house with the one on the slip of paper he held in his hand. He approached the front door. It was an expensive looking, old fashioned one with a brass knocker. There was also a doorbell, below which was a nameplate bearing the name of the occupant of the house, Benjamin R. Nold. R.J. opted for the doorbell and rang it. The door opened and a thin middle aged man holding a drink appeared.
”Yes?” he asked?
“Mr. Nold, Mr. Benjamin Nold?”
”Yes, I’m Mr. Nold,” he said with a puzzled look on his face. ”Who are you…what do you want?”
“My name is R.J. Janovich. I am a private investigator and I’m working on-“
”Let me guess,” Mr. Nold interrupted. “You’re working for the mighty National Computer Corporation. You’re investigating the recent murders which occurred at the data center. Am I correct?”
“Yes, I… err…”
“And you think I did it?”
”Mr. Nold, I didn’t …I mean-“
““That’s alight, Mr. Janovich,” It comes as no surprise. The police were here earlier for the same reason. Come in.”
R.J. walked in. The house was as magnificent inside as it was outside.
“Sit down, Mr. Janovich,” Mr. Nold instructed. “”Can I fix you a drink?””
R.J. was surprised at how receptive he was being. He said. “”No, thank you I never drink while working”” R.J. noted that even at this early hour Mr. Nold was already drinking.
”Happily,” Mr. Nold told him, “”I am under no such restrictions.”” He went to the bar and freshened his drink, then sat down. “You seem surprised by my willingness to talk to you, Mr. Janovich,”” he continued. ““Actually, I don’t really want to, but I’m in a, shall we say, touchy position right now, as I’m sure my former employers have informed you. Cooperating with this investigation may help shed a more favorable light on me in the eyes of the court. Refusing to help most certainly would not. Therefore, go ahead, ask me what you will.”
”Thank you, Mr. Nold” R.J. said. “What I would like you to tell me is where you were on the nights of the murders. Two nights ago, at 1:15a.m., and last night at 6:00p.m.”
“I don’t mind at all,”Mr. Nold replied. “Monday, two nights ago, I was sleeping over at my son’s house in another part of town. Last night as well I was there, for dinner at 5:00 and I stayed there the better part of the evening. I’ve been spending a lot of time there late lately since my wife…”” he hesitated “”since my wife and I separated.”” He glanced at his nearly empty drink in what was now an unsteady hand. “Excuse me.”” He got up and freshened his drink again.
‘He can sure put ‘em down’, R.J. thought to himself. He was astonished not only by the volume of drink but the fact that it was being done at such an early hour. R.J. glanced around the living room. It contained fine colonial furniture, plush carpeting, and an exquisite chandelier hung from the ceiling.
This room led to the patio, and beyond that R.J. could see the large kidney shaped swimming pool in the back. The expense involved in keeping this place up must have been great. R.J. would not be surprised if Mr. Nold had embezzled from the company. But that was not the crime R.J was here about.
Mr. Nold finished fixing his drink quickly, then turned and caught R.J. in the act of giving his house the once-over. “You like the house?” he asked.
‘’Yes, very impressive”
“Impressive, Mr. Janovich, but being very impressive has its’ drawbacks. The more impressive, of course, the more difficult to keep. Do you have any idea the cost of items such as fine jewelry, minks, expensive clothes, prize winning rose gardens…” his now trembling voice trailed off.
R.J. said nothing, but it was easy to see that recent events had taken their toll on this man.
”Mr. Janovich,” Mr. Nold said, regaining his composure. “Is there anything else, because if there isn’t ….” He didn’t say it but the implication was clear. He had had enough questions for one day.
”Just one more thing,” R.J. said rising from his corner chair.
”What?” came the response.
”I’d like to check out your alibi. Can I have your son’s address?”
“Err…his address…aaa…,” Mr. Nold hedged, acting like he had not expected that request. “Very well,” he said finally. He wrote it down on a piece of paper and handed it to R.J.
Just as R.J. and Mr. Nold got to the door, the doorbell rang. Mr. Nold answered it and an obviously agitated young man rushed in.
“Dad” he blurted out to Mr. Nold, “”where were you last night? Again-that’s two nights in a row you’ve done this. Were you drinking again? …” the young man stopped abruptly realizing that R.J. was standing there. “Oh,”” he apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”
“Mr. Janovich, “Mr. Nold said nervously “please meet my son, Jason Nold. Jason this is R.J. Janovcih. He is a private investigator looking into the murders at my old company.”
“”That’s alright,” R.J .said. “I was just leaving.”” He glanced at Mr. Nold. Caught in a lie, he had turned white as a ghost. Obviously, he had not had time to corroborate a false story with his son. ”Goodbye, Mr. Nold, “R.J. glared at him. “Thank you for being so- open,” he accented the last word for effect.
R.J. left the house and got into his car. Mr. Nold had lied. Why? To cover-up his drinking problem or was it some other reason? Mr. Nold didn’t seem like a murderer, but the words he had told Mr. Schwartz echoed in his mind: even the remotest possibilities must be considered.
HONK!
A horn beeped loudly from behind him. R.J. had been so lost in thought he didn’t realize the light had turned green. He drove for a couple of more blocks, then took a right and pulled up in front of his house. He glanced at his watch. It read 11:45.
He quickened his pace, hurrying into the house. He made his way to the wardrobe closet and pulled out his only three piece suit. Private eyes don’t normally run around all dressed up and he hadn’t worn it in a long time, but R.J. had something in mind and the suit might just help him pull it off. He put it on and looked in the mirror.
He admired how the suit still fit him after all these years. Now a quick comb of the hair, a little straightening of the tie and he was ready to go. Before leaving he took one final glimpse of himself in the mirror. “We better get going, Mr. O’Brien,” he said aloud to himself, “Mr. Dernwood is expecting us.”
R.J. poked his head into Dernwood’s outer office on the second floor and peeked in. The clock on the wall read 12:40. The girl who had been at the reception desk earlier was on her lunch break. R.J. approached her replacement.
”Yes?” the girl said.
“My name is Mr. O’Brien” R.J. said, “and I have an appointment to see Mr. Dernwood.”
“Just a minute please,” the girl said while checking the register. Finding the name, she began again. ”Yes, here it is,” she paused and frowned. “but your appointment isn’t until one o’clock. You’re early. “
R.J. knew that he had to quickly get by this secretary or run the risk of running into the real Mr. O’Brien. This trickery was necessary because given their past history, Dernwood would never speak to him. There were important pieces to the puzzle which Dernwood could provide. R.J.’s plan had to work and fast.
R.J said in his most authoritative voice, “I always arrive early for important meetings, young lady.”
”Very well, sir.” came the intimidated reply. “I’ll buzz his office.”” She did.
”Yes?” Mr. Dernwood’s voice said above the intercom.
”Mr. O’Brien is here to see you, sir.”
“Already?”” Mr. Dernwood asked, slightly surprised. “Alright then, send him in.”
R.J .made his way to Mr. Dernwood’s office and then knocked on the closed door.
“Come in,” the voice on the other side of the door said.
R.J. opened the door and walked in. Immediately, the smell of one of Mr. Dernwood’s infamous cheap cigars filled his nostrils.
”Janovich!” Mr. Derwood exclaimed, hurriedly removing his cigar. “‘What is this? How dare you pretend to be one of my clients? Get out of this office or I’ll have you thrown out!”
“Relax, Dernwood,” R.J said, calmly closing the door behind him. “I just want to ask you a few questions and this was the only way I could think of to get in.”
”I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Such hostility!” RJ. exclaimed in mock disbelief. Changing the subject, he continued. ”it’s been a while, Dernwood. How’s that lovely, fair-haired lady of yours? Has she met your wife yet?””
“Are you threatening me?”
R.J. smiled. “Easy, big boy. Your secret is safe with me. All I want to do is to ask you a couple of questions. Is that too much to ask? After all, if memory serves me correctly, you were with me, being questioned, the night of that big jewelry heist a couple of months back. You remember, the cops were all set to bring you in. If it wasn’t for me, they would have. I was your alibi, George. I saved you a lot of grief. The way I figure it, you owe me one.”
‘’I don’t owe you anything, punk,’’’ Dernwood exploded, but he quickly regained his composure and continued calmly. “O.K. Janovich. I’m a reasonable guy,”” he smiled. “”I know this is about the two murders at N.C.C., the cops were already here earlier. Just to prove to you that I’ve got nothing to hide, I’ll give you 2 minutes of my time. Two minutes, that’s all.”
”O.K.” R.J. said. ““just tell me where you were when the two murders occurred.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what I told the cops. When the first murder occurred I was fast asleep in bed.”
“At home?”
“Yes!” Mr. Dernwood angrily replied. “”My wife, however was away visiting her sister in New Jersey, so I was alone. But last night, I was right here in this office, working. My distribution director was here helping me prepare for this meeting with O’Brien. His name is Charles Martin. Ask him about it, he’ll verify it. He’ll be here shortly. You can ask him yourself. Now I happen to know that the police are certain that both murders were committed by the same person. Since I have a verifiable alibi last night, that excludes me as a suspect, doesn’t it Janovich? I’m so sorry to disappoint you.”
At that moment Mr. Martin walked in and R.J. got confirmation of Mr. Dernwood’s alibi. Still, if Dernwood wasn’t with him and he was asked to cover for his boss, would he refuse? It would probably cost him his job if he didn’t. R.J. took his story with a grain of salt.
”O.K. Janovich,” Mr. Dernwood said after R.J. was done with Mr. Martin. His tone had changed again. ”I hope you’re satisfied. Now get your lousy butt the hell out of my office!”
R.J. had got what he came for. It was clear he would get nothing more from Dernwood. He left the office.
He wanted to start questioning some of the N.C.C. employees next, so he headed back to his office to get one of the list of names Mr. Schwartz had given him. When he got there he hurried inside. Betty was on her lunch break. He wanted to check his messages. He knew where to look on her desk for any that had come in but there were none. Marty wasn’t there either, but he had left a note lying next to the list. R.J. picked it up and read it:
NO NAMES APPEAR ON BOTH LISTS. HAVE TAKEN ONE, WILL START CHECKING IT OUT
AS YOU INSTRUCTED, MARTY
R.J. picked up the remaining list. There were quite a few names on it. This task would take the rest of the day at least, if not some of the night as well. Before leaving, he grabbed his small portable tape recorder, which he always used when he had so many people to question. It beat the old note pad and pen. He quickly went on his way.
RJ. was proven right. A long afternoon and early evening of questioning produced nothing helpful. This case was puzzling to R.J. A private eye usually gets a certain feeling that tells him he is on the right track. After questioning Nold, Dernwood and several N.C.C. employees, he had no such feeling.
It was after 9 o ‘clock now and R.J. was ready to call it a day. Instead of returning to the office as he usually did to tie up loose ends at the end of the day he headed straight for home. He’d file his tapes away in the morning.
He hadn’t been there 10 minutes when the phone rang. RJ. picked it up. It was Marty.
”Hey, boss, where have you been?” he asked. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
” Sorry, kid,”” R.J. replied. “’I’ve been questioning people all day, but I haven’t had much success. How’d you do?”
‘’That’s what I’m calling about. I’ve got some of the information you wanted, and I think you’ll find it interesting.”
“Go ahead then, shoot.”
“Well, from my sources down at the police station, I’ve found out something very strange. You remember asking for me to be on the lookout for anything to do with vampires?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, get this. The coroner’s report says that the two murdered bodies were mangled, clawed and had puncture marks on their necks. But there were no traces at all of human or animal fingernails, cuticle skin, or saliva. These bodies were not bitten. They were only made to appear that way. The coroner says that someone went to a great deal of effort to make it look like a vampire attack. The puncture marks were probably made by metallic objects, pointed pieces of metal or narrowed spikes of some sort. They were not the result of a bite by a human or animal. These murders were done by a human being, probably a very strong man.”
“Hmm…that is interesting,” R.J. replied.
` ” There’s more, boss. The coroner says that the recent murders are the first two instances of this kind involving humans, but this isn’t the first time he’s come across this thing. According to him, the same M.O. occurred a couple of years back. There was a series of vicious attacks on some of the local livestock in the Hill Road area. The same puncture marks appeared on the necks of the dead animals. I looked it up and according to legend, vampires will attack animals when human blood is not available.
Despite police assurances to the contrary, some of the more superstitious local residents still believe this was the work of vampires. Except for the locals, the cops kind of kept the press away from this story, not wanting to cause a panic. What do you make of all that boss?”
’’I’m not sure,” R.J. replied reflectively. “That’s very odd. It appears someone was trying to scare people away, but who and why? Who would stand to benefit from this?”
“I’m not sure but I’ve got a feeling you are going to find out.”
”Gotta follow the leads, kid.’’ R.J. said. “Good work, Marty. What did you find out about the Brackens?”
“That’s another fascinating story,’’ Marty began again. “I went to the library for some information on them, and I really lucked out there. The librarian was actually the daughter of the Bracken’s former governess, so I even got a little more information than what was in the books.’’
“That’s great, Marty.”
“Anyway here’s what I’ve got. As anybody knows, the Brackens were one of the wealthiest families in the New England area. They were certainly the “it” family of their time. They were constantly in the press, much like the young Kennedys. The father, Jonathan T. Bracken was a distinguished professor. His specialty was ancient American civilizations, Aztec, Inca, etc. He was married to the former Priscilla Ogden, who also came from money. Both families could trace their heritage back to the Mayflower. The star of the family, however, was their only son, Jonathan R. Bracken. He was a real jet setting playboy back in the day. Good-looking, athletic, well educated, he was New England’s most eligible bachelor. He attended medical school at Harvard and had planned to be a doctor, but dropped out his second year and got involved with his father’s multiple expeditions into uncharted territory up the Amazon River. The professor’s interest at first was simply in finding new tribes that had not yet been touched by 20th century civilization. However, he and his son soon became obsessed with a local legend of a valley somewhere deep in the Amazon where the people had beaten the normal rules of aging and frequently lived over 100 and remained in great physical shape to boot. It was said that if anyone could find this valley, called the Valley of the Old Ones, they could learn the secret to long life. Needless to say it was never found.”
“For years the Brackens lived in Boston but their summer estate was on land where the new data center now stands at 200 Hill Road. About 50 years ago, a tragic automobile accident claimed the lives of the father and son. Priscilla Bracken was also a passenger but survived and lived a long live, but she was never really the same again. She withdrew a large amount of money from the bank and converted the Hill Road estate into a full-time residence. She became a virtual recluse, hardly ever leaving the property and keeping out of the public eye.”’
”About 3 years ago, The National Computer Corporation, eyeing this piece of land for a new data center, tried to buy it from the widow Bracken but she refused to sell. N.C.C.’s lawyers, however, uncovered a legal loophole-the deed to the property had never been properly registered. Ownership reverted back to the town, a public auction was held and it was sold to the highest bidder, N.C.C. On the day construction of the data center began, the widow Bracken tried to stop it and well, everybody knows the rest. ”
“Yes,” R.J. replied. But his professional curiosity was now working full speed. “Are there any surviving Brackens? “
”None, boss. I even asked the librarian about that, and she told me that for the last 3 generations the Bracken men had only produced one male heir, who in turn did the same. That string was broken when the young, unmarried, childless Jonathan R. died in the accident.”
“Oh,” R.J. dejectedly responded. Still, though, he wasn’t satisfied. “”Marty, you said the librarian’s mother was the governess for the Bracken family. Is she still alive?”
”I thought you’d ask that,”” Marty said. “Yes, she is. Her name is Mrs. Ingrid Walsh. She is 85 now, but she still has all her marbles, according to her daughter. She even lives alone. I knew you would want to talk with her so I coaxed the librarian into giving me the address. She lives at 61 Oak Lane.”
“Kid, you outdid yourself today.”” R.J. complimented him. “whatever I am paying you, you just earned yourself a raise next paycheck.”
”Thanks, boss.” Marty excitedly blurted out. “I best get going now. Tomorrow I’ll finish checking my list of names. So far that’s been a dead end for me too. Good luck, R.J.” He rarely called him that but had got caught up in the circumstances of his pay increase. “See ‘ya.” With that he hung up.
R.J. sat quietly for a few minutes after hanging up, trying to digest all the information Marty had just given him. A slight grin came across his face as he was starting to get that familiar feeling in his gut. Maybe, just maybe, he was on the right track.
It was a beautiful late summer morning as R.J. rang the doorbell at 61 Oak Grove Lane. An elderly lady answered the door.
”Yes?” she asked.
“Good morning ma’am, “R.J. said politely. ‘”My name is R.J Janovich. I’m a private investigator investigating the recent murders at the data center on Hill Rd. I wonder if I might have a few words with you. ”
”Yes, my daughter told me I might be getting a visit from you, “she replied. ”I’m sorry Mr. Janovich, but I really don’t see how anything I could possibly tell you could be of any help to you whatsoever. It’s been such a long time since I worked for the Brackens.”
“Well, ma’am, I’ve been a private eye for a long time and oftentimes people don’t realize that they know something important. Sometimes what seems to be the most insignificant of details turns out to be a key clue which is vital to solving the case. The Brackens lost their land to N.C.C. You were the Bracken’s governess, Mrs. Walsh, and I sincerely believe that you may be able to help me. Even though the chance may be slight, it is possible that if you refuse, another murder may be committed- a murder which might have been prevented had you cooperated.”
Mrs. Walsh thought for a moment. ”You’re very persuasive,” she smiled at R.J. “Very well,
come in.” She motioned inside.
R.J. walked into the living room.
“Please sit down, Mr. Janovich,” Mrs. Walsh said.
R.J. availed himself of the nearest chair.
“Can I get you anything, coffee or tea, perhaps?”
“No thank you, ma’am.”
‘”Alright then,” she said. She sat down in a chair opposite R.J.
As she did, R.J. couldn’t help but notice the pictures on the table near her. One seemed to be a family portrait of the three Brackens from long ago: mother, father, and son. The second was a picture of J.R. Bracken, the son, by himself. From the looks of it, he was in his late teens or early twenties. He made quite an impressive figure. He was a handsome young man with dark, piercing eyes. He was sharply attired. From the top of his perfectly groomed hair, to the tip of his shiny bright shoes. He seemed to ooze class. He wore a gold wrist watch on one hand and a rather odd ring bearing the family initial, B, on the forefinger of the other.
“I see you’re admiring the pictures of the Brackens,” Mrs. Walsh said as she saw R.J. looking at them. As you know I was the governess for many years. It was my first job out of college. I was wet behind the ears, but Priscilla Bracken hired me anyway. I worked there until J.R. went to medical school. Even afterwards we stayed in touch. They were very impressive people.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told.”
“A terrible tragedy,” Mrs. Walsh shook her head. “Just back with his father from one of their many Amazon expeditions-which he had left medical school for, by the way. It was a decision of which his mother did not approve. Anyway, they took the lady out for her birthday. It was Labor Day weekend 1932. On the way home, while crossing the New Brighton-Fairview Bridge in a driving rainstorm, a car crossed over the center line and forced J.R., who was driving, to swerve to avoid it. He lost control of the car and it went over the guard rail and into the water, bursting into flames as it did. Priscilla Bracken was thrown clear. J.T. and his son J.R. perished. The father’s body was horribly burned but the son’s was never recovered. Divers tried in vain to locate the body. Finally the search was called off. He was presumed dead. It was an awful thing to happen, simply awful. For the young man especially. J.R. had been so full of life. The world was his oyster. He had so much ahead of him. He was such a proud lad. He was brilliant academically and had a very high I.Q. Quite an athlete as well, he excelled in tennis, swimming, wrestling, weightlifting, almost everything. He had so much potential. It was a joy to be his governess. I was very fond of him.”
She paused, realizing she had been doing all of the talking. “Goodness look at me rattling on. I’m very sorry, Mr. Janovich,” she apologized. ”Please begin.”
R.J. was very impressed with this lady. She was 85, but her mind seemed clear as a bell and she was obviously a class act. ”No need to apologize,” he said.
Mrs. Walsh smiled.
R.J. continued. “”Mrs. Walsh, I’m sure you’re familiar with the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the loss of the Bracken land to N. C. C. and the death of Priscilla Bracken.”
She nodded. “I think everyone knows about that untimely accident. Poor Priscilla, she lived a long, lonely life without her husband and son. She was 99 when she died. That meant almost 50 years as a widow.”
”Well, that would make revenge a perfect motive for the murders. The only problem is that apparently there are no surviving Brackens left, or so I’ve been told. I’d like you to tell me if you can think of anyone related to the family, or maybe even a very close friend, who might possibly still be alive and want to seek revenge on N.C.C.
Mrs. Walsh thought for a moment before answering. “No…no” she said, “there’s no one left that I know of. You probably know that the last three generations of Brackens saw only one male heir who in turn produced another only child. Both of Priscilla’s parents are dead, of course. She was an only child herself. There were no other relatives that I ever saw. The Brackens were very private. They kept to themselves and in all the time I worked there I never saw or heard about any other relatives. As for friends, they never had many and what few they had are long since gone.”
”I see,” a disappointed R.J. replied. He paused momentarily, then rose to leave. “I won’t keep you then. Thank you for your time ma’am.”” Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his card. “If you do think of anyone- here’s my card. Please call me anytime. Good-bye, Mrs. Walsh.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t much help, Mr. Janovich.”
”That’s’ quite alright.” R.J. responded. “I’ll show myself out.”
R.J. stepped out and paused outside the door. He felt like he had just been hit by a ton of bricks. What he thought might just be something turned out to be a dead end. He had been so sure he was on the right track. He couldn’t make sense of this case. Something just didn’t add up.
Things got no better afterwards as he questioned a few N.C.C. employees he had missed the first time, but that too proved fruitless.
It was after 10 p.m. now and R.J. was beat and dejected. Before going home, he stopped at the lounge in the Boswell Bowling Lanes for a nightcap. On the way in, a man who had been drinking too much was being helped into a cab. R.J. thought he recognized him, but he thought he’d ask the bartender just to be sure. “Excuse me,” he asked the bartender “but that man just being helped into a cab- was that Benjamin Nold?”
”It sure was,” he replied. ”Poor guy. Prime example of what a dame can do to you. His wife was the type that liked all this rich stuff; furs, fancy clothes, the whole bit. But no matter what he bought, she always wanted more. He just couldn’t keep up. He even embezzled dough from his company. He was caught and what did his wife do? She left him! After he did all of that for her! She split! He’s out on bail now and he comes in here every night. Every night he drowns his sorrows and spills his guts until he’s so wasted he has to take a cab home.”
“He’s been in here every night this week?” R.J. asked.
‘’Every night the last three weeks,”” the bartender answered.
That explained why Nold had not been at his son’s house the nights of the murders. It also ruled him out as a suspect.
”Oh boy,” R.J. mumbled under his breath. “This case just gets more and more puzzling.”
”What’ll y have?” the bartender asked.
”Anything,” R.J. replied. “anything with a kick- and make it a double.”
The bartender poured, RJ. downed his drink and then went home.
R.J. hit the sack immediately and went right to sleep. He hadn’t been asleep very long when he was awakened by the telephone ringing. He opened his eyes. By the clock on his dresser, it was 12::10 in the morning. “Whoever you are you better have a good reason for calling me at this hour,” he announced angrily as he picked up the receiver.”
” Hey, boss” said the voice on the other end.
”Marty, is that you?” he asked, still half-asleep. He knew that no one else addressed him in that manner.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry to call you at this hour, but this is something that could be important and I thought you ought to know.”
”Alright, go ahead.”
” I was just driving by the data center earlier and I noticed there was no guard on duty in the guard house in the parking lot. On the way back I looked again and there was still no guard there: very strange. I would have stopped and checked it out but I…err….I was in a hurry.”
Just then R.J. thought he heard something that sounded like moaning over the phone. A few seconds later, a voice came across the line. It was a girl’s.
“C’mon Marty,” she murmured “let’s get started.”
R.J. got the picture. “That is strange. You did right to call me. I’ll check it out. Thanks, now just go back to whatever it is you were doing.” He hung up, got dressed and was on his way.
When he got to the data center, he pulled up at the guardhouse and got out. The guard was in there, but he was on the floor, motionless, slumped against the back wall with his hat pushed over his face. It looked like he had slid out of his chair. In this position, he could not be seen from the road. R.J. nudged him. “Hey, buddy,” he said.
There was no reply.
“C’mon, wake up,” R.J. shook him gently to no avail. The guard wasn’t asleep. He was dead. His cap fell off and revealed a torn up a face and what looked like a broken neck. Two small puncture marks were on the neck as well. R.J. noticed something else. There was a funny odor in the air. He looked around and noticed a recently crushed cigar butt outside the open guardhouse door. He wrapped a handkerchief around his hand, picked it up and whiffed. The cheap smell was unmistakable. Only one person he knew of smoked cigars like that.
All of a sudden a pair of headlights flashed on, cutting across the darkness and heading directly toward R.J. He just barely had enough time to leap out of the way, but as he rolled to safety he got a glimpse of the car as it sped over the speed bumps. In the parking lot lights he could clearly see that it was pink. He recognized it.
“Dernwood!” he exclaimed.
R.J. quickly got up, got into his car and was soon in hot pursuit. Behind him he heard what sounded like an explosion back at the data center. He turned around to see a small fire burning in front of the building. The fire department would have to attend to that. He continued the chase.
Fortunately, there was a long straightaway heading from the data center to the highway, so R.J. was able to pick up the speeding car some distance ahead. It cut across Route 40, sped by Allen Rd. to Route 16 and took a right at the drive-in-movie. R.J. followed behind and did the same. When he took the corner, he could see Dernwood’s car just beyond the traffic lights at the shopping plaza. He was apparently heading for the bridge.
Luckily there was no traffic due to the late hour. Past the New Brighton Institution for Savings Bank, the high school, the Captain’s Inn and onto the bridge the chase continued. R.J. was just a few hundred yards behind. He had the pedal to the floor and still wasn’t gaining any ground.
Across the bridge, around the bend and up to the traffic lights went Dernwood followed soon after by R.J. Dernwood took a left at the lights onto Commercial Street and made his way into downtown New Brighton. A left followed by another left put Dernwood down by the railroad tracks; he was going for them like a bat out of hell. R.J could see what he was up to. There was a railroad crossing up ahead and there happened to be a freight train heading that way. If Dernwood could get across the tracks ahead of R.J., the train would cut R.J. off and Dernwood could get away.
R.J. gave his car all it had. He could see Dernwood’s car ahead, already crossing the tracks. R.J. was nearly there too, but the train was close also. At the last instant the red lights started flashing and the guard rails lowered. R.J. had to jam on his brakes and veer off to the left. He had to wait for the train to pass by. After what seemed like an eternity, the caboose went by.
R.J. gunned it expecting that Dernwood would be long gone. No sooner was he across the tracks though, that he heard gunfire and realized that he had been outsmarted. Dernwood had pulled over to the side of the road. He had taken out a gun and was shooting at R.J. R.J. heard a loud noise and felt himself losing control of the car. It was a blowout! Dernwood sped away, as R.J. fought for control of the vehicle. He couldn’t hold it. It went off the side of the road and crashed into an anchor fence from a local business. R.J.’s head banged against the steering wheel.
A few minutes later, R.J. came to. He had a splitting headache and a nasty lump on the side of his head, but a quick inventory on himself and the car revealed no further damage. Calling the police now would be no use. It would just be Dernwood’s word against his. R.J. needed evidence. He realized that by the time he changed the blown out tire Dernwood would have had plenty of time to remove any evidence. Still, he knew where Dernwood lived and it wasn’t that far away. He decided it was worth a look. He hurriedly changed the tire and then proceeded to Dernwood’s house.
When he arrived he couldn’t believe his eyes. In the driveway sat Dernwood’s pink Cadillac; the back seat filled with sticks of dynamite. In the front seat R.J. could see a blood-stained, spiked glove, just the thing that could rip a face apart. The spikes on the glove could also account for the puncture marks. Also on the front seat; a box of Dernwood’s cheap cigars.
R.J. called the police from a nearby pay phone. Once they got there, R.J. explained what had happened and showed them the evidence. They rang Dernwood’s doorbell. He answered.
”It’s’ three o’clock in the morning, what is this?” he asked, tying up his robe. When told, he scoffed at the police and wouldn’t believe the evidence they found in the car until he was actually shown it. ”I don’t know how this stuff got in there,” he protested. “It’s not mine. “ The police placed him under arrest and then he blew his top. ”What the hell is going on? I’ve been here all night. I don’t care what it looks like. It’s a frame- up, I tell you. I ‘m being framed!” The police grabbed him by the arms, one on each side. This only got him more agitated. “Janovich, you’ve got to help me,”’ he screamed, “find out who did this, I am innocent, innocent!”
The protests fell on deaf ears as the police loaded him into the back seat of their squad car. As he stared at this scene, R.J. couldn’t help but think that something was wrong. It all seemed too easy, the evidence lying right there in the car. Dernwood may be a slime, but he was no fool. It didn’t make sense.
”Well, Janovich,” the police officer said before leaving “we will need a deposition from you down at the station. Thank you for your help. We’ve got him dead to rights. It’s all over now.”
“Yeah,” R.J. said “I’ll be right behind you. I guess it is all over.” He said the words, but inside, he wasn’t so sure.
With Dernwood apprehended and Mr. Schwartz tied up all day with the police and with preparations for tomorrow’s reopening of the data center, there was no reason for R.J. to get up early.
He got some well-deserved rest after a long, hard week. Now, however, it was after 7 p.m. and as per his request, R.J. was on his way to see Mr. Schwartz and conclude his business with him.
On the way in, R.J. could not help but think that something was fishy about this case. Why had Dernwood taken the risk of trying to sabotage the data center himself, rather than having a couple of his thugs do it for him? Why had he been so careless as to leave incriminating evidence lying right in his car? R.J. couldn’t figure it out. Still, one couldn’t argue against evidence, and the evidence left little doubt as to who was guilty. Maybe R.J. was asking too many questions. Maybe it was better to just accept the facts for what they were.
When R.J. got to Mr. Schwartz’s office, he was greeted warmly.
“Mr. Janovich,” Mr. Schwartz said grinning from ear to ear and giving his hand a hearty hand shake. He motioned for R.J. to sit in a nearby chair. “Sit down, sit down.”
R.J. did.
“Thank you for coming at this hour,” Mr. Schwartz began. “I’ve been terribly busy all day long, what with the preparations for tomorrow’s reopening and the police being here. In fact, they just left here and the news is good, Mr. Janovich. Yes, there was another unfortunate murder, but last night’s explosion was not of sufficient force to cause much damage at all. The police think that it was just a diversionary tactic or else maybe you interrupted Dernwood before he was able to set more charges. In any event, the damage was minimal and will not prevent tomorrow’s reopening. ”Also,” he continued “ in addition to all the other evidence which you helped us get on him, the police went down to the railroad tracks after hearing your story and made a plastic cast of the tire tracks they found there. They found two sets of tracks. One set belonged to your car. The other set matched Dernwood’s Cadillac! We’ve caught him red-handed! Thanks to you Mr. Janovich, this nightmare is finally over. Our company owes you a great deal of gratitude.” He handed R.J. an envelope. ”In that envelope,” Mr. Schwartz said, “is a check for the amount we agreed upon plus a substantial bonus as well.”
R.J. still felt funny about the whole business, but he managed a weak smile. ‘’Thank you,” he said “I don’t know what to say. I appreciate it.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Schwartz replied. “”it is we who owe you thanks, and we are truly grateful for the fine work you did on this case.”
R.J. felt a little embarrassed. He nodded and managed a thankful smile.
Mr. Schwartz glanced at his watch. “My, it’s getting late,” he said. “Well, Mr. Janovich. I guess that concludes our business. I won’t keep you any longer.” He extended his hand again and shook R.J.’s. Then R.J. left, followed by Mr. Schwartz who closed the office door behind him.
“I must be on my way too. I’ll walk out with you, Mr. Janovich.” On the way out of the office, R.J. had noticed the calendar on the wall had this date circled.
“Excuse me, Mr. Schwartz,” he said, “but why is today’s date circled in red on your calendar?”
”Oh, that’s because it was exactly one year ago today that we first began work on this building. Rather ironic now that you mention it; that we are beginning again tomorrow exactly a year after our first start.”
”I see,” R.J. replied. He and Mr. Schwartz left the office. When they got to the guard’s desk, R.J. informed Mr. Schwartz that he had to go to the bathroom.
“Certainly, by all means,” he said. “but let’s say our goodbyes now.” He shook R.J.’s hand again. “Thank you so much again for all you’ve done.” He left the building.
R.J. asked the guard for the men’s room key. Overhearing his conversation with Mr. Schwartz, the guard had anticipated R.J.’s request. The guard was reading a newspaper and had it opened in front of his face. Without lowering it he told R.J. that the key was on the desk and instructed him to take it from there. “”Anyplace a thirsty guy can get a cup of coffee around here?”” R.J. asked, picking up the key. Again, without moving the newspaper, he merely pointed a ringed forefinger toward the break room. “Thanks.” R.J. said. He recognized the guard, even though he had not seen his face. It was the same guard with the lousy personality that R.J. had met earlier in the week. R.J went to the bathroom, returned the key, got a cup of coffee on his way out and then went on his way.
In his car on the way back home something was bothering him. It wasn’t the fact that he still felt that Dernwood was the wrong guy. This was a different feeling. Whatever it was, he couldn’t put his finger on it. Thinking it might come to him if he decided to clear his mind for a few minutes, he pulled in at the nearest convenience store to get a newspaper. Just then it dawned on him.
“”Newspaper!”” he exclaimed. ‘’That’s it!”” He was onto something, but he wanted to be sure. He quickly opened the glove compartment and frantically sorted through cassette tapes he had made of the N.C.C. employees that he had forgotten to file in his office. He found the one he was looking for and popped it into the small portable tape recorder that was also still in the glove compartment. “Here it is,” R.J. said to himself. It was a tape of an entry level trainee named Charlie Souza who had been on the night of the first murder. He listened intently as he pressed play.
R.J.’s voice was on the tape. ”Now Charlie, are you sure about the time?”
Charlie: “I’m positive. I remember because I was by the freight elevator on the way to the break room and I ran into that guard, what’ his name, the creepy quiet one …we jokingly call him Smilin” Jack…Jim…Jim Smith, that’s him. He had a watch on and I asked him what time it was and he told me. A couple of seconds later I was in the break room and they told me a co-op had been murdered.”
R.J. clicked off the recorder. Jim Smith was on duty the night of the second murder, but he wasn’t supposed to be there the night of the first one. Nobody had been working during both murders, yet this trainee, Charlie, was sure he had seen this guard that first night. This was the confirmation R.J. was looking for. It was starting to make sense now. R.J. turned the car around and headed back. A light rain began falling as R.J. approached the data center. A quick look in the guard house revealed what he No guard. R.J. pulled up outside the front door and quickly entered the building. When he got to the front desk there was no guard, but as he hurried past, a sideways glance revealed a pair of blue trousered legs sticking out from under the table, a small pool of blood beside them. R.J. quickened his pace. He needed to find the central most part of the building. R.J. guessed that would be the loading dock. As he neared the stairwell leading into it, he glanced at the guard’s desk near the break room where Jim Smith was supposed to be. As R.J. suspected, he wasn’t there.
R.J. pulled out his revolver and quickly descended the stairs. When he got to the dock a guard, was hunched over, his back to R.J., setting changes for what seemed like a ton of dynamite. R.J trained his gun on him.
”Hold it right there, Mr. Smith,” R.J. ordered. “Get up nice and slow. Drop the dynamite and put up your hands.”’
‘’Janovich,”” Smith exclaimed, turning around and complying with R.J.’s instructions. ”You again!”
“Sorry I got in your way last night, ‘’ R.J .said sarcastically. “I’m afraid though, I’ll have to do the same again now.”
R.J. frisked him and removed a gun from a shoulder holster under his suit jacket. “You won’t be needing this,” R.J. said as he took it from him.
Smith sneered at him.
“You were pretty clever, I’ll give you that much,” R.J. began again “Becoming a security guard here was a shrewd move. You could move around the building pretty freely, even when you weren’t working. It probably wasn’t too hard to get one of the other guards to let you in on your off nights. You knew all the guards; maybe you used an excuse- I left something in the building, for instance- to get them to let you in. Anyway, somehow you were in here the night of first murder. You weren’t on duty but I found out that you were spotted in the building.”
“’Not bad, Janovich,” Mr. Smith said. “anything else?”
”Yeah,” R.J. went on. “”You probably were behind the cattle murders committed here several years ago. You made them look like the work of a vampire to scare people off. The current murders were also made to look this way for the same reason. As far as last night goes, you knew Dernwood was a prime suspect for the murders, so you stole his car and set him up. This would make the police and everyone else let down their guard and make it easier for you to complete your plan. Finally, and exactly a year after the widow Bracken’s death, you were planning to blow up this data center. With it gone, the killer on the loose, and everyone terrified of this place, it’s a cinch it would remain empty and go on the market again. That is your goal, isn’t it Mr. Smith, or whatever your name is, to avenge the loss of the Brackens land and the death of Mrs. Bracken by driving N.C.C. and any other potential occupant from here-for good. Then you could bid on the land and acquire it again.”
“Conjecture! “ Mr. Smith said. “That will be unprovable in court. But tell me, Janovich, how did you figure me for the data center murders?”
”You see, avenging the Brackens seemed like a perfect motive, only it was a motive without a suspect to carry it out. But that odd ring with the letter ‘B’ on it. You wear it on your forefinger. I noticed it when you pointed me toward the break room earlier, though it didn’t dawn on me right away. It made me think of another person who wore a ring like that. That person was J.R. Bracken. That’s when I started to put it together. The way I figure it, if you’ve got a ring like that, you’ve got to be some long lost relative out for revenge, or maybe even an illegitimate son.”
“Fairly accurate, Janovich” Mr. Smith said “with one big exception. I am not a long lost relative,” his voice was getting louder, “and not ILL-legitimate!” With that he reached one hand to his face, grabbed it and pulled. He had been wearing a mask and off it came, revealing a hideously burned and scarred face. “I am J.R. Bracken!”
R.J. could do nothing but stare at him in horror and disbelief.
““Not a pretty sight is it, Janovich?” he asked. ”You see, I survived the car accident that horrible night, though I’m not quite sure how. I remember losing control of the car and crashing into the water. The next thing I knew, I had washed ashore just west of Fort Firebird. Apparently, I had been tossed about by the stormy current and deposited there, but I have no recollection of it. All I remember is intense pain once I regained my senses. Some time had passed since the time of the accident and when I made my way through the night and back to our house, my mother was there alone. Here I discovered that my father had died in the crash and I got to see just how badly disfigured I was.”
“But aren’t there doctors that could have helped you?” R.J. asked.
“My mother got me into the best hospitals under an assumed name for plastic surgery, but there was little that could be done. There was too much damage. Life as J.R .Bracken, the stunning dashing J.R. Bracken who was the envy of all New England high society was no longer possible. Anything less was unacceptable to me, so with the help of my mother, I lived a life of seclusion on our Hill Rd. estate, away from the pity, pain and humiliation I would otherwise have had to endure, letting everyone believe I was dead. I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to live the rest of my natural life shut off from the outside world to ensure my privacy. Everything was going along well until that wretched company that hired you uncovered the illegality in the deed and ruined everything. I was behind the cattle murders in an unsuccessful effort to scare people away. They stole our land from us and killed my mother in the process. They deserve everything I’ve done to them and more.””
“But if you are J R. Bracken, you must be 75 years old. The murdered employees were killed by someone with great strength and physical prowess. How could a senior citizen like you do this?” As he spoke he glanced at Bracken‘s physique. He seemed in great shape. He was actually ripped and pumped. His biceps and forearms were huge; very strange. R. J. was confused.
Bracken chuckled. “I am 75. On our last trip up the Amazon, my father discovered a valley where all the natives lived in good health and to ripe old ages. Their diets consisted of a local plant which only grew there. It had something in it that slowed aging and rejuvenated muscles. We brought several of the plants back to study. You probably know I went to medical school and have some medical knowledge. I had ample time to work on this after the accident. I isolated the plant substance responsible and I- let me put this in laymen’s terms you will understand- enhanced it in the lab I set up in the basement. None of this was ever divulged publicly. This would remain our secret. I was able to create a liquid drink that both I and my mother took once a week. The results are plain to see. I am 75 years old but I have the body of a man half my age.”
“Well, Bracken,” R.J. told him. “I’m afraid you and your young body have committed your last murder. Now keep your hands up and move nice and slow up that stairwell to the front desk. I’m gonna call the police and then you can tell them your story.” He waved his gun toward the stairwell. “Move.”
Bracken glared at R.J. Then, reluctantly, he began to ascend the stairs followed by R.J. with his gun drawn. When they neared the end of the climb, Bracken executed a lightning fast mule kick. It caught R.J. by surprise hitting him square in the chest. He stumbled backward down a few stairs. Bracken ran for it.
R.J. quickly recovered and raced back up the stairs. Bursting through the stairwell door he quickly looked around the floor. Bracken was nowhere in sight. He looked toward the front door. It was a long way off. There was no way Bracken could have made it there before R.J. had exited the stairwell. That meant, however, that he was somewhere among the tiles, ducts, panels and boxes that were still strewn about the floor of the unfinished building.
R.J. walked slowly ahead, his eyes carefully searching, his gun held in front of him. Suddenly he spotted Bracken darting from behind a large spool of wire. He fired.
“Damn,” R.J. said to himself as the bullet deflected harmlessly away.
Bracken had disappeared into an area of panels and large metal doors near the center of the floor. R.J. cautiously approached the area. Just as he got there, he again saw Bracken off to the left.
Before RJ. could shoot at him, he had ducked behind a few rows of neatly stacked, filter filled boxes.
Again R.J. carefully approached the area. When he got there he stopped, having heard something. His eyes darted everywhere. Suddenly, several boxes came tumbling down on top of him. As he fell to the floor beneath him, he could hear Bracken’s footsteps running for the front door. By the time R. J. extricated himself from the boxes, Bracken was just leaving the building.
R.J. made a beeline for the front door, running as fast as he could. When he got outside he could see a car just rounding the corner at the entrance. Hurrying through now pouring rain, he hopped into his car, spun it around and gave chase.
The visibility was poor, but in between passes of his windshield wipers, he could make out Bracken’s car several hundred yards ahead. He seemed to be heading for the bridge again, but this time, R.J. was gaining on him. When Bracken passed the bank, the distance was 200 yards; when they got to the start of the bridge, 100. By the time they passed the slippery when wet sign about a mile later, R.J. was right on his tail. The sign was posted as a warning before the metal part of the bridge that moved on a turnstile to allow ships to pass through.
As they crossed over this part, a car from the gas station on the opposite side just beyond this metal section suddenly pulled out across the road and made a left turn right into their path. R.J. had enough time to slow down. Bracken did not. He tried to veer away from the vehicle, but lost control of his car on the slippery pavement. He crashed right over the side of the bridge. The force of his vehicle bent the guard rail, which acted as a sort of ramp, not unlike a ski jump. The car was propelled several feet through the air, crashing into a docked freighter at the nearby maritime terminal. A tremendous explosion followed damaging the freighter but engulfing Bracken’s car in a ball of flame. It crashed into the river.
R.J. pulled his car over to the side of the road. He got out and looked on helplessly. There was nothing he could do.
The clock on the wall of M. Schwartz’s office read 10:00 am as R.J. rose from his seat and made his way to the door. Mr. Schwartz followed him.
“Again, I must thank you, Mr. Janovich,” he said extending his hand to R.J. “our company is extremely grateful, and we are in your debt. I do hope, however, and please don’t get me wrong, that this is the last final meeting between us.”
“I understand, Mr. Schwartz,” a tired R.J. said. Today he felt much better about accepting thanks.
Mr. Schwartz opened the door for him. “”Goodbye, Mr. Janovich.””
”Goodbye.” R.J. left the office, exited the building, got into his car and headed for the city. He had some business to take care of downtown. After that, R.J. planned to take a long nap.
R.J. made his way toward the bridge. It was a gray morning. The rain from yesterday was still lingering in the form of a steady drizzle. This time, however, he wasn’t chasing anyone and could take it easy.
When R.J. got to the bridge, there was a long line of cars standing immobile, bumper to bumper. The bridge was open to allow a ship to pass by. The traffic had backed up for several hundred yards. R.J. would have to wait for that nap.
”Great,” a disgruntled R.J. said to himself. “Just what I need.” It’d be a while before traffic got moving again so he clicked on the radio.
“Today’s big news story,” the radio voice said, “is the bizarre crash of last night on the New Brighton- Fairview Bridge. It is alleged to have involved J.R. Bracken, previously believed dead for the last fifty years. His car crashed over the guard rail, hitting a docked ship and then exploding into flames. It appears, according to police, that Bracken was the one responsible for the violent murders at the Fairview Data Center, and was killed while on the run. Police have scheduled a briefing this morning and have promised more information.”
R.J. lost track of the news report. He was staring at the river below, the same river which, this time, had claimed J.R. Bracken as its victim. He listened again.
”…last night’s stormy conditions made any search efforts to recover the body impossible. With the weather expected to improve, police divers will begin the search for the body this morning.”
“No way,’’ R.J. said out loud. “You cheated death once. J.R. Bracken, but not this time. “He clicked off the radio. “Not this time.”
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ALAN BERGER
ALINA LEFFEL
ALISIA WEBBER
AMIRAH AL WASSIF
ANDREW CHINICH
AWOSUSI OLUWABUKUNMI
BLAED A. WOODLEY
CHRISTOPHER J. BAILEY
COLE SABIN
C.W. BIGELOW
DAVID C SCHWARTZ
GARY P. PAVAO
GEORGE ZAMALEA
GERALDINE MCCARTHY
GUSTAVO RIVERA
IVANKA FEAR
J.A.T. RYAN
JOHN F. ZURN
JOHN JOSEPH HAMILTON
JOHN ROSS ARCHER
JUDGE SANTIAGO BURDON
JUDSON BLAKE
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KEVIN LAVEY
LAWRENCE ROSE
LYNDEN WADE
MARGARET KARMAZIN
MARY GATHERU
MASSIEL ALBERTO
MICHAEL PASLEY
MICHAEL W. THOMAS
MIKE LEE
OKOLI CHUKWUEBUKA
RANEE MCCOMBS
SHARON FRAME GAY
SOHAIL DAHDAL
TAHSEEN BEA
THOMAS ELSON
TIM FRANK
TONY G. ROCCO