Excerpt

Chapter 1:  I’m Going Where?

It was May of 1975. Maybe you remember what it was like. The US was evacuating its embassy in Saigon. Streaking had come and gone. The stock market was just beginning to recover from an extended downturn. Gerald Ford was our president. Most people had yet to hear of Bruce Jenner. Jack Nicholson and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest had just cleaned up at the Oscars. Nixon administration personnel were being sentenced to prison for their roles in Watergate. We were soon to reach two hundred years as a nation. The Cold War was going strong, but the “ping-pong diplomacy” of 1972 in China had initiated a thaw of sorts, even with the Soviet bloc. Eighteen was the legal age for drinking in many states. Simon and Garfunkel, Elton John, and the Eagles were among my personal favorites. The Pittsburgh Steelers had won their first Super Bowl in January. And I was driving a school bus twice a day to pay for tuition expenses at Grand View College before transferring to the University of Northern Iowa.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said to no one in particular as I pulled the bus on to the shoulder, in response to the flashing red lights that were clearly intended for me. I was usually the first driver to depart every afternoon from the Norwoodville Elementary School parking lot because my route covered the greatest distance. As the rookie driver I didn’t select my route; it was assigned to me. I stood up to tell my kindergarten passengers to remain in their seats while I went back to the car with the flashing lights to talk with “Mr. Policeman.”

Little Rollie Kouski asked, “Are you mad? My daddy always gets mad when he talks to the policeman.”

I had to watch as every other driver slowed his bus to make certain he could believe what he was seeing. That’s right, one of their very own was being cited for speeding – while driving a school bus full of kindergartners – less than three blocks from the school! Between their wild hand gestures and guffaws I was confident they would be waiting en masse at the bus barn once I finished the route. They were.

“Son, I’ve been sitting here in this same spot, every day, for two weeks. I’ve been watching all of you drivers barrel down Broadway. I know it is downhill, and I know the limit changes from twenty-five to forty-five just up the street. But right here it is only twenty-five. Every one of you drivers has been over the limit. I just decided that today I was going to send a message to all of you. You just happened to be the first one out of the chute, so I am citing you for speeding. Sorry, you were the one to be the example. Now maybe all of you will slow down.”

And that is why I married a girl from Bydgoszcz, Poland.

I suppose that segue merits some explanation. My father always liked music. He was not a trained musician but he had a pleasant bass voice. He liked to sing and was in the church choir. But even when the choir wasn’t singing, Dad always sang the hymns with a little more gusto than the rest of the congregation. And he would harmonize. That always fascinated me, too. You know how sometimes people sing really loud – like they are trying to impress you? Well, that wasn’t Dad. If he had been like that I probably wouldn’t have liked music. He just enjoyed singing, and still does. I wasn’t particularly gifted in music, like my little sister was, but I was probably a little better than my older brother.

Dad found an outlet for his singing interests. He joined the Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America Inc., or SPEBSQSA, for short. I was probably seven or eight years old when Mom and Dad took us to our first “Barbershop Show” at KRNT Theatre. I liked it. The music was OK, I guess, but I really liked those funny guys, “The Four Nubbins.” (The featured quartet).

And that is why I married a girl from Bydgoszcz, Poland.

My youth was a pretty typical middle-America, 1960s, blue collar experience. We were probably closer to poor than to rich, but we were far from either one. Dad was a truck driver who had grown up with six siblings. Mom was a nurse and had been raised on a farm along with three sisters and a brother. We weren’t exactly the Cleavers because Dad didn’t wear a suit to work and Mom always worked outside the home to make ends meet. But Mom and Dad did teach some of the same values as Ward and June. My brother took care of me, kind of like Wally took care of The Beav. My father liked to reference my two best friends as Gilbert and Whitey. He even pegged another buddy as Eddie Haskell.

Copyright 2010 Tim Pratt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

“Pass the peas,” Lydia says, but I ignore her.

“Pass the peas to your sister,” my dad says.

“I’m not touching them,” I say.

“I thought you liked peas,” my dad says.

“Things change,” I say.

“You know, that’s enough of that. This is between your mother and me.”

My mother watches us both while she eats.

“Fine,” Lydia says. She leans over the table and snatches the peas.

“They’re going to build on the empty lot,” my father says.

That was Davey’s house, across the street and one house down. It blocked everyone’s view of the valley. That lot was steep, fell right into the woods. For those of us without a view, this was a place to stare into real blank space, not into someone else’s yard or window.

Elysian Fields. Paradise for good Romans. A squatty tower greeted visitors to our neighborhood. It said so right on the tower, in letters of wrought iron. The place began as a bunch of shoebox houses crowded between corn fields. It looked like a Roman army camp. Very precise. No curves. The Elysian Fields grew, and they ran out of farm fields and expanded into stray patches of woods, muddy ponds, and the Purley Creek valley.

It’s all Roman street names. The main road into Elysian Fields is Elysian Street. Very imaginative. Emperor streets connect to it, okay ones, like Augustus and Claudius. And crazy ones, like Caligula and Nero. Then are names of Roman places, like Ostia and Carthage. By the time they got to our area, someone was getting tired. We lived on Via Street, which means Street Street.

Our side of the Via Street is a row of split-levels. They are all the same. The west side of the street, with its woods, has houses for richer people. Most have four bedrooms; many have walk-out basements. One has bricks on the front. The east-siders and the west-siders didn’t talk much.

“That’s not a buildable lot,” my dad said. “Too steep.”

But Davey’s father, Marlin, is a builder, stores and offices and such. And one day in mid-summer, a huge pile of creosote timbers appeared, crushing the weeds and sending a tarry smell up and down the street. Over the next couple months, workers constructed a layer cake of terraces, filled them with dirt and rocks, and started building a house.

“These columns are real fiberglass,” said one dad. It was part of the daily inspection. This happened when all new houses went in. It had been a while, though, and Davey’s house was a real draw.

“This place must be 2500 square feet, it it’s an inch,” said another, “and look at this driveway. I didn’t know you could get green cement.”

Davey moved in later that winter, just after a soggy four-inch snowfall. Davey stood at the end of his driveway. I stood at the end of mine. I walked slowly up the sidewalk on my side of the street, made a snowball, and lobbed it at him. Davey watched it, caught it with one hand, and whipped it back, hitting me between the eyes. I wiped the snow off my face, shook it out of my jacket.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. I could see there was no point in escalating.

He shrugged, then smiled. “Do you like baseball?”

“No,” I said, “I’m a basketball man.”

“What grade are you in?”

“Seventh,” I said.

“Seventh,” he said then “See ya.”

“Yeah,” I said.

He joined our school the next week, Shifford A. Tarman Middle School. He joined 7A. I was in 7C. It was no secret what this meant. The smart kids were in 7A, the kids everyone ignored were in 7B. The artsy misfits, the aspiring criminals, the imbeciles, and everyone who wasn’t white – that was 7C. I felt there had been some mistake. I tried to explain that to my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Myx. I delivered an impassioned appeal and she banned me from art for the rest of the school year. I sat in the hallway reading a book while my classmates painted, glued, and stapled each other. So it didn’t matter to me. I liked reading.

Our science teacher was prepared for 7C. “See this jar?” he asked, holding up a one-quart canning jar. “See this fish?” With his other hand he displayed a dead, six-inch catfish. He placed the fish in the jar and screwed the lid on tightly. “If there’s noise, if there’s backtalk, if there’s any kind of trouble, the lid comes off.” He held up the jar for our inspection. “We’ll get aerobic decay first and then anaerobic. When I loosen this lid, after this little fellow turns to gray goo, the smell will be worse than you can imagine. Very penetrating. Eye-watering. I’m used to it. But you…” He paused, then continued, “Remember, it’s not me who opens this jar. It’s you. Cross the line in this class and retribution will be swift, extreme, and automatic. Any questions?”

Davey and I spent some time together during that year, but Davey’s mild interest in me wore thin when he discovered my social status. I’m not sure why it was so low. On the plus side, I was normal height, normal weight, and dressed inoffensively. On the minus side, I was shy, my parents were getting divorced, and I played the piccolo. I wasn’t the lowest, a pariah, untouchable. That came later.

Davey, on the other hand, had no minuses. He was tall, had curly blond hair, blue eyes, and extraordinarily white teeth. He smiled easily. And he was a natural athlete. He was great at math. And, though not particularly talkative, said the right things at the right times.

That spring was eventful. Here’s why. First, my mother went back to college during the divorce. In June, she moved in with her poetry teacher Anna Bella Wolcott. Second, Lydia, three years older than me, got her driver’s license. On her first trip by herself, she opened the garage door, started the car, and backed over our dog. It had been a dachshund named Milly. I’m not sure who I missed more, Mom or Milly. Third, my dad lost his job, found a new, better one, and then lost that one, too. Fourth, I got acne.

“You’ve got acne,” says Dr. Wendt. He wears a red vest with his white shirt and bow tie. He looks jolly enough, but his eyes give him away.

“There is a medical treatment for this,” Dr. Wendt says. “But it’s dangerous stuff. Causes suicides. Besides, maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I see this acne condition a bit differently. You see, acne is the result of lifestyle choices.” He grabs my chin and moves my head this way and that. “You need to stop shoveling chocolate and French fries into you.”

“I don’t like chocolate. I hardly ever eat French fries,” I lie.

“Don’t lie to me, son. Your face tells the story. You have to exercise some self control. And touching yourself. Masturbation. Acne has been linked to masturbation.”

My mother is sitting in the room with me. I look at my feet.

“Self control, my boy. I can’t do it for you. Your mother can’t do it for you. You have to do it all yourself. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now how are things going otherwise? You are going into 8th grade?” He pauses. I nod. “What section?” he asks.

“8C,” my mother says quietly.

Dr. Wendt frowns. “Not smart like your sister, eh? Well, you had better learn to do the best you can with what God gave you. Mind, body, and soul.”

“You heard Dr. Wendt,” says my mother, searching her purse for her keys. “Where are my car keys? I told you to remember where I put them.”

“I don’t remember,” I say.

“Yes, you do. You remember everything.”

“Coat pocket.”

“You heard Dr. Wendt,” she repeats. “It’s up to you, Jason.”

I nod, then say, “What about the medicine? Can I get a second opinion?”

“I think we can get along fine without a suicide,” my mother says.

I knew it was my fault. Davey’s mother had told me the same thing, early in the spring when we were still hanging out. I resolved to do better. For weeks, I ate no butter, no ice cream, no candy, no french fries, no snack food, nothing that had ever encountered a whiff of grease. To be safe I avoided all red meat and most starches. I lost 11 pounds and my acne became pathological, covering me with inflamed, festering lumps. Whenever self abuse entered my mind, I thought of my Great Grandma Penance, moldering in her grave.

When I went back to school in fall, students stared. A few asked “What happened to you?” I didn’t have a good answer, I just shrugged and tried to keep my head down, which, of course, invited closer scrutiny. Younger kids, particularly 6th graders, who are generally in humanity’s cruelest stage, taunted me as I walked home from school. I could have pounded them. I knew how.

My mother was adopted, to add a girl to a family of four boys. Four mannish boys. Most started shaving at 10. They all were wrestlers. Two were state champs. When other mothers got mad, they screamed at you or ran crying from the room. My mother put me in a chokehold and threw me to kitchen floor.

“That’s enough backtalk,” she’d say through gritted teeth. When I was eight, I got in a fight with a kid at school. I won, due to my knowledge of chokeholds. He had three older brothers who chased me for blocks after school, until they cornered me in my own front yard. I screamed for help. My mother came out the front door, took in the situation and said, “All right, that’s enough of that. One at a time!”

My mother’s brothers were broad-shouldered, beer-gutted, and oddly bow legged. They had a complex geometry, while my mother was simple and linear. Tall, wiry, pale—she had small ears, a high hairline, and a surprised look that gave no warnings and no information. Backed by her army of brothers, she was used to getting her way, particularly with men, who had to learn to interpret vague nods and vacant glances. My father never learned this. That’s why they divorced, I imagine. That, and the fact that they had nothing in common.

“We need to have a chat,” my father said to my sister and me. “As you know, your mother has decided to move out. Sometimes adults may seem to act in ways that you may find puzzling or inexplicable. Unexpected. You may feel blind-sided, hurt, betrayed, humiliated. Maybe guilty. These feelings are natural when your mother does something so completely bizarre.” He smiled weakly. “Throughout human history, we see a parade of costly decisions promulgated on flawed, frail imitations of reasoning.” In college, my father had been a double major in English and history until he switched to accounting and flunked out. “So try to keep this disaster in our own lives in perspective. Many, many have suffered, and now you join their ranks.”

“What are you babbling about?” asked Lydia. At this time, Lydia was between junior and senior year in high school. She shared my mother’s linear frame and my father’s frizzy Welsh hair. She looked like a white Angela Davis. She excelled in sarcasm and advanced placement classes. I think she despised my father and me.

“Your wife is leaving you, father,” Lydia said, “because it is the natural consequence of her growth as a person, as a female person.”

“So we are like innocent civilians killed by bombs?” I asked.

“That’s enough,” said my father. He rubbed his stubbly chin vigorously. “We have to pull together here.”

“You two can,” said Lydia. “I’m moving in with Mom.”

“I don’t think that’s a good environment-” my father began to say.

“Look,” Lydia said, “I’m out of here in a year. I’m seventeen. I’m an adult. I can certainly choose where I live. And Mom invited me.”

“When?” I asked.

“Yesterday,” she said. “Don’t tell me you didn’t receive an invitation?”

“You’re super, super skinny,” I said to Lydia. I knew she hated that.

“At least I’m not a gorilla like Dad,” she said. She knew she could get to me by insulting our father. I was immune to her direct insults. In truth, I rarely understood them.

“We’ll see about this moving business,” my father said.

Two days later, Lydia moved out.

Read more about The Skeleton Train and Craig Hansen HERE.

Copyright 2010 Craig Hansen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

ONE

Lindsay pulled into the lay-by and flicked her mobile open. ‘It’s me again. What’s wrong? I’m on my way down. See you.’

She eased the Hyundai back into the stream of traffic heading south. Her Dad thought she was overreacting; let’s hope Tracy doesn’t think so, too. In a way, driving to Cork was a little… daunting.

Breaking out of her comfort zone hadn’t been easy. She had to force herself to get behind the wheel for the long drive when she couldn’t get hold of her sister.

Her Dad had insisted she take his car, said her old Toyota wouldn’t last the trip. It needed replacing. It wasn’t the only thing that needed replacing, she reflected. Clothes were something else she hadn’t bothered with since Jon died. She only realised how shabby her clothes had become when she started to pack an overnight bag.

Why had Tracy opted for their holiday cottage when they could have gone to her in-law’s villa in the south of France? The summer was a complete washout. August was a little warmer and drier, but only just.

Dad’s instructions to Clonakilty were excellent, but Bay View Cottage was trickier to locate. After three stops for directions, she finally rounded a sharp bend to find it nestling in the cliff face.

Lindsay stopped behind Conor’s BMW. It was quiet. Where were the children? Were they on the beach? She looked down at the empty cove. The sandy beach below was still damp-looking from yesterday’s rain.

The hall door was locked. The back door opened when she pressed down on the handle. The kitchen was empty.

‘Tracy. Tracy!’

They couldn’t have gone far without the BMW. Unless they had taken off for the continent after all? But why didn’t Tracy answer her mobile and why was the back door unlocked.

One of the two doors off the kitchen led to a large sitting room with white walls, turquoise and brown couches, and matching easy chairs. It was empty. Nor was there any sign of life in the hall, which also had the same white walls and parquet flooring as the sitting room.

The silence was unnerving. ‘Tracy! Tracy!’

The first door was obviously the children’s bedroom with its pinks and blues. It was also deserted. She ran down the hall. The second bedroom looked untenanted.

The silence was eerie as she took the stairs two at a time, pushed the door of the master bedroom open.

‘Tracy!’ Her sister was huddled against the pillows on the unmade king size bed in crumpled jeans and top. Her navy blue eyes red rimmed and her blonde hair dull and lifeless.

‘My God, you look awful.’ She threw her arms around her and hugged her close. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Lindsay! Oh, Lindsay.’ ‘What on earth’s happened?’ ‘Something so terrible…’ ‘Jack! Gillian! Oh God, where are they?’ A deep sigh racked her body. ‘They’re with the babysitter.’ ‘The babysitter?’ ‘I was looking for Conor.’ ‘Where’s Conor?’ ‘I don’t know,’ cried Tracy. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘You poor thing. When did he leave?’ ‘Sunday… at five.’ That was precise. ‘Why didn’t you ring me? I’d have come down immediately. So would Dad.’

Tracy started to hiccup, a sure sign she had been on a mega crying spree. ‘And tell you what? That my husband left me? But I don’t know that he did. I mean, he did leave but not the way you think.’ She rubbed her forehead distractedly. ‘Or maybe he did.’

‘I’m so sorry, Tracy. Does he want a divorce?’

‘What are you talking about? Don’t you bloody understand anything, Conor’s disappeared.’

‘He’s disappeared? You’re not making any sense.’ ‘He went to buy ice cream.’ ‘Ice cream?’ Oh God, this was getting worse by the second. Tracy knuckled her eyes dry.

‘We ran out of ice cream on Sunday. Conor walked to the village to get some at around five. He never came back. I’ll bloody kill him… when he does.’

‘Never came back?’ repeated Lindsay. ‘He must have had an accident. He’s in hospital somewhere. Did you report it?’

A happily married man doesn’t just disappear. They were happily married, weren’t they?

‘Will you shut up and listen, you stupid idiot.’ Realising she had gone too far, Tracy took a deep breath before continuing, ‘I went to the garda station. They asked the usual bullshit-questions instead of going out to look for Conor. Had we marital problems; money problems; was the business in trouble? I told them it had nothing to do with anything like that. I begged them to search for Conor. Told them he must have had an accident. But all they said was he’ll turn up.’

‘And?’

‘They sent out Conor’s description locally. But so far… I’m going back to the station this afternoon. They said yesterday they’d check the CCTV footage in the supermarket today… if he’s still missing.’

Thinking aloud, Lindsay said, ‘So, they’ve sent out his details. Did they ask you what he was wearing? What money and credit cards he had on him when he disappeared.’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Tracy scrambled off the bed, hiccupping, and went into the on-suite bathroom. She sluiced her face with cold water and returned to the bedroom. While drying it, she mumbled through the white, fluffy towel, ‘They’ve also checked the hospitals.’

‘Could he have gone for a swim? Got cramp… got into difficulties?’

‘You’re not listening, Lindsay,’ she shouted before flinging the towel on the floor. ‘I told you, he went to the village for ice cream.’ She was touchy, snappy even. ‘If he’d gone swimming, I would have said so.’

But if he had taken an impulsive swim and got into difficulties, Tracy might have a long wait for Conor’s… body to wash up on the shore. His body! What was she thinking? It wouldn’t come to that.

‘Could he have committed…’ Lindsay couldn’t finish the sentence but Tracy guessed what she had been going to say

‘No, he couldn’t,’ she snapped. Grabbing a bundle of tissues from the box on the bedside table, she blew her nose. ‘I know he was worried about something, but take his own life? No. Conor’s too positive; hasn’t a negative bone in his body. Do you think he’d leave me and the children stranded in this bloody out-of-the-way place if he could help it? I don’t think so.’

Lindsay hesitated before asking, ‘But what if he wanted out of your marriage. What if he wasn’t happy?’

‘Happy?’ Tracy’s temper flared again. ‘I’ll bloody happy him if that’s the case.’ Her spurt of anger evaporated almost immediately. She said more calmly, ‘Conor was happy, I’m sure of it. But if he wanted out – if that’s what this is all about – the bastard could have waited until we were in Dublin. Not left us in an isolated holiday home. When he does turn up, I’ll boot him all the way to Dublin.’

‘And I’ll help you.’ Lindsay grinned for the first time. Anger was good, wasn’t it? ‘Why don’t you have a shower, do your hair? I’ll make us a strong cup of tea.’

While Tracy was showering, she went into the kitchen. The colour scheme was clever, she thought. The walls were a pale grey and the floor a dark slate grey. The white units and black granite worktop were also striking. A touch of red on the window wall and blind gave warmth to the room.

She opened the big American-style fridge. The salad looked ghastly, the meat dodgy, but the milk was within its use by date.

Tracy’s hair was still wet when she joined her in the kitchen in a fresh pair of blue jeans and matching shirt.

‘Here, have some tea, you poor thing.’ They sat on stools at one end of the island. Lindsay suggested, ‘Why don’t you close the cottage, head home.’ ‘No! Not without Conor.’ Her instinct had been right; something was wrong, but it was more serious than anything she had imagined. At worst, she thought Tracy might be sick, or the twins. But a missing husband? If she hadn’t followed her intuition and driven down, God knows what would have happened to them.

‘Let’s ring Dad. He’ll help.’

‘No, no! Let’s wait.’ Looking at her sister curiously, she asked. ‘Why did you come down? You’ve refused all our invitations.’

‘We were trying to get hold of you on your mobile and the landline. When we couldn’t, I thought something was wrong.’

‘Jack was playing with my mobile. Couldn’t remember where he left it. I only found it this morning. I don’t know why the landline isn’t working. I’ll ring Eircom when my mobile is charged.’

‘When did you involve the gardai?’

‘Monday morning.’ Tracy slipped off the stool and started to pace. ‘When Conor didn’t come home Sunday night, I thought he was sulking because I wouldn’t close the cottage and return to Dublin. I wanted to stay on. The weather had improved; the children were enjoying it.’ She sighed. ‘If only I had gone back Saturday, none of this would have happened.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. A man doesn’t vanish just because he has a disagreement with his wife.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m sure Conor didn’t disappear because you wouldn’t return to Dublin. I mean, that’s a ridiculous notion. Was he depressed?’

‘Not depressed… but he did become more security conscious when someone he used to know in the Sandycove Rowing Club was murdered. It was after his funeral Conor suggested holidaying at the villa. But the twins love it here and it’s safe for toddlers.

‘I often think about Madeleine McCann’s abduction last May. I was terrified that something similar could happen to Jack or Gillian. But for Conor to disappear; that never entered my head.

‘Clonakilty is close and Mrs Brennan babysits whenever we want to go out in the evening. She’s very experienced; has four grownup children.’

Tracy was trying to justify her decision to stay in Cork, but that was ridiculous. How could she have known her husband would disappear? Lindsay got her feet and replenished their mugs from the teapot.

She leaned against the black granite worktop, nursing her mug. ‘Did you tell the gardai?’

‘What?’ ‘About Conor’s friend being murdered.’ ‘No. I only remembered it myself yesterday. Why? Oh my

God! You think Conor’s been murdered?’ ‘Of course I don’t.’ But if Conor turns up dead, it might be very relevant. She daren’t voice that thought. It would upset Tracy more than she was already. ‘Was there anything wrong with the business?’

‘No. The half yearly figures were up 40% on the same period last year.’ She reflected for a moment. ‘Things were beginning to slow a little, Conor told me. But he wasn’t worried about it. No, it’s definitely not the business.’

‘Could there have been a problem with the staff or the premises? Something he mightn’t want to worry you with?’

‘I don’t think so. Conor thrived in the business world. Problems were a challenge to him, not a worry.’

‘Maybe he was tired. That he needed a break sooner?’

Tracy started to bite her nails. Something she hadn’t done since childhood. She looked her sister in the eye before voicing something which was obviously worrying her.

‘Could he be cheating on me, Lindsay?’

‘You mean another woman? It’s possible. Did you suspect an affair before he went missing?’

‘No. Never.’

‘If he was meeting a woman…’ When Tracey’s face turned paler, she hurried on, ‘And they had an accident…’

Agitated, Tracy shouted, ‘I told you, the gardai checked the hospitals.’

‘They could have used a different surname.’ People are always checking into hotels under names like Smith or Jones when they’re having illicit affairs, aren’t they?

‘No one with Conor’s description was in an accident! How many times do I have to tell you?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just exploring possibilities.’

Tracy’s navy blue eyes – so like their mother’s – filled. Sniffling, Tracy shook her head. ‘No. It’s all right. You’re only saying out loud what I was thinking. I’ve been wracking my brains since Sunday, but nothing makes sense.’

‘Are any of his clothes missing?’ ‘No, but I’ll check again.’ Upstairs, she opened the wall-to-wall wardrobe. ‘It was one of the first things the gardai asked. But there’s nothing missing, not even his swimming trunks.’ She stared at his side of the wardrobe, clasping and unclasping her forearms, at the neatly arranged designer jackets and trousers, the polo shirts, jeans and swimshorts. His white running shoes, beach shoes and slip-ons were there, the only pair missing were the ones he was wearing on Sunday, his black trainers. ‘We keep clothes here so we don’t have to keep packing, as you know. I only bring the children’s clothes with us. You know how fast they grown out of everything.’ Near breaking point, she cried, ‘I’ve gone through all this with the gardai! I haven’t a clue where Conor is or why he’s disappeared.’

Lindsay put her arms around her and hugged her close. ‘Come on. Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make a fresh pot of tea.’

TWO

Who was the tall brunette? Family or friend? I picked up the binoculars and looked at the registration.

Dublin. What was she doing here? Did Osbourne’s wife send for her? But another adult wouldn’t deter me. Anyone who gets in the way will get the same treatment.

Where has the bastard skulked off to? Thinks he’s got away again. But his wife and kids are still here. He can’t stay away forever, has to come back sometime. What if he doesn’t come back?

Deal with Frank later. Touching him now would bring the gardai on me. It’s common knowledge I assaulted him. Thought he could live in Lisa’s house as if nothing had happened. She was proud of that house. Much more glamorous than the Ma’s; Lisa never said that, but I thought it on my first visit.

Stop drifting! Stay focused!

The bastard will escape justice if you don’t get on with it. Thinks he’s outsmarted me. Thought he could bury it forever. Money isn’t going to save him this time. The bastard hasn’t a clue what’s coming at him.

They’re on the move. I picked up my backpack, threw the binoculars in and scrambled through the bushes. I got to the Nissan Note and slipped inside, turned the engine on and was reversing out of the drive when the BMW drove past. Are they going to meet Osbourne?

I forced myself to keep a discreet distance behind the BMW, even though my adrenaline was pumping. If she’s picking up Osbourne, I’ll finish the job on the way back.

I thumped the steering wheel. Watched the two women go into the babysitter’s house. They were only picking up the kids.

THREE

The village nestled in a hollow. ‘No wonder you like it here, Tracy, it’s beautiful.’ The hanging baskets tied to the lampposts, with purple, pink and cerise petunias spilling over, gave the street a festive air. Next to the pub with its shiny black façade, a boutique displayed fashionable ladies clothes in the window. On the opposite side there was a supermarket and a café.

Main Street was thronged with tourists. Some stopped and looked at postcards displayed outside the newsagent.

A small ancient church stood on a hillock overlooking the village as if guarding the community.

Here she was admiring the scenery when her sister was in bits. The knuckles of Tracy’s hands were white from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. She stopped outside a bungalow, on a half acre of well tended garden, just outside the village. Lavender bushes bordered the path and small shrubs lined the walls. As they walked to the black hall door with its stained glass panels on either side, she noticed the window frames were also black and thought what a good contrast they made to the white-washed walls.

Rachel Brennan was a middle-aged woman with greying brown hair, chubby cheeks and twinkling blue eyes. Lindsay liked her on sight. She could understand Tracy’s complete confidence in her.

‘Come in. Have a cup a tea,’ she said, when Tracy introduced them.

‘No. Thank you, Rachel.’ The back door opened. Jack ran in. Gillian was behind him. ‘Aunty Lins!’ ‘Mummy.’

‘I’ve given them their lunch, Mrs Osbourne.’ Her twinkling blue eyes turned serious. ‘Any news?’ she whispered.

‘No. We’re going to call into the garda station on the way home.’ Tracy swallowed what sounded like a sob. ‘I’m hoping they’ll have some today.’

The twins weren’t identical but looked a lot like Tracy when she was young, except that Gillian had Conor’s brown eyes. Lindsay took hold of a small hand in each of her own.

‘Come on, you two, into the car.’

‘Thank you, Rachel,’ Tracy called over her shoulder as she hurried after them.

‘Let’s stop at the café and have a sandwich. I could do with some food and a strong coffee. So could you.’

‘I couldn’t eat anything, I’d be sick. But I’ll have a coffee.’

Tracy drove to the public car park behind the supermarket. They walked back to the café. It looked a fun place with pink wall and cups and saucers painted in different shades to give the impression the dishes were being thrown in the air.

Lindsay ordered apple juice for Gillian and orange for Jack, a sandwich for herself and two coffee lattes.

‘Here you are,’ the waitress said, as she unloaded her tray. ‘Any news, Mrs Osbourne?’

‘No, afraid not,’ Tracy replied.

Another woman stopped at their table a few minutes later. ‘Have you heard from Mr Osbourne yet?’

‘No, Joan.’

Tracy got to her feet when she moved away. ‘Let’s go before anyone else asks.’

They put the children in their buggy, left the BMW in the public car park, and walked the short distance to the garda station. The local station was a two story cream building with a blue front door and similar coloured window frames.

Before they went in, Lindsay asked, ‘Would you like me to talk to the duty sergeant?’

‘With your experience you might be a little more successful prising information out of him, than I was.’

The Duty Sergeant was standing behind the counter writing into a large book. He was a middle-aged, balding man, with a fringe of grey hair. His tired looking eyes shifted from Tracy to Lindsay and back to Tracy.

‘Has Mr Osbourne turned up?’ he asked, kindly. ‘No. Not yet.’ ‘Look, I’m Mrs Osbournes’s sister, Lindsay O’Loughlin.

Have you any news yet as to my brother-in-law’s whereabouts?’ ‘No, but I’m sure Mr Osbourne will turn up soon,’ he said, in a voice which was meant to reassure, but didn’t. ‘I’ve suggested to my sister we drive back to Dublin. It’s not necessary for us to stay, is it?’ ‘Take a seat.’ He pointed to the row of grey plastic seats opposite. ‘I’ll check with the investigating member.’ He returned a few minutes later. ‘That’ll be fine, but leave your Dublin address and telephone number. If anything turns up here, we’ll notify you.’

While Tracy bent over the buggy to put on Gillian’s shoes again, Lindsay leaned over the counter and whispered to the garda, ‘Do you think Conor’s dead?’

‘There’s nothing to indicate foul play,’ he replied gently. ‘He’s an adult. Lots of people leave home.’

‘Yes, but without saying anything to his wife? Surely that’s strange?’

‘Not so strange. Lots of spouses do it. Mr Osbourne’s only been missing three days. About ninety percent of missing persons turn up within a week. I’m sure Mr Osbourne will turn up soon with a satisfactory explanation.’

Tracy heard that. ‘You have to search for him! Something’s happened to Conor, I know it.’

‘Mrs Osbourne, we’re doing everything possible at this early stage.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘We checked the supermarket’s CCTV footage this morning. Your husband was in the supermarket. There was a bus into Clonakilty round that time. Someone fitting his description got on it.’ He looked from the children to Tracy. ‘But if Mr Osbourne doesn’t turn up in the next week, we’ll call in the helicopter and the dogs. Have them sweep the area. Don’t worry, I promise you, we’ll do all we can to find him’

‘Why can’t you do that now? Conor’s never done anything like this before.’ Her voice broke. ‘He wouldn’t,’ she insisted.

The twins, as if sensing their mother’s distress, start to cry. The sergeant shifted his feet, picked up the biro and twiddled with it.

‘Why don’t you believe me?’ she cried, her voice rising. ‘He’s had some sort of accident, I’m telling you.’

Jack sobbed, ‘Mummy, I want to pooh.’

Gillian, who always did everything Jack did, stopped whinging long enough to cry, ‘Me too, Mummy,’

He started to wriggle in the buggy. ‘Mummy, it’s coming. Mummy. Mummy.’

Oh God, what a place to pick? ‘Tracy, I’ll take them back to the cafe.’

Lindsay left the station and ran, pushing the buggy in front. When she returned, ice cream having dried up the twins’ tears, her sister was sitting in the BMW outside the garda station. ‘Come on kids, into the car.’ She strapped the twins into their car seats and put the buggy in the boot, then climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Did the sergeant say anything else?’

‘If Conor doesn’t turn up by Sunday, they’ll check if he’s made any withdrawals from an ATM or used his credit cards.’

‘At least we know he did go to the supermarket, and was spotted on the Clonakilty bus.’ But where the hell was he now?

‘I don’t want to go back to Dublin. Will you stay? Conor might have had a fall. He might be suffering from amnesia. The sergeant said that was a distinct possibility when I called on Monday. It wasn’t him on the bus, couldn’t have been. No way would he go off like that. And I want to be here when he comes back.’

‘I told the agency I was taking leave but I didn’t put a timeframe on it. I can stay as long as you like. But if we’re staying, we need to buy food.’

They went back to the supermarket and loaded the trolley with groceries. She was tempted to talk to the supermarket manager, to ask him if he could remember any detail, no matter how trivial, about Conor’s visit on Sunday. But one look at Tracy’s ashen face decided her against it. Anyway, the gardai had interviewed him thoroughly, she was sure. They left the supermarket and drove back to Bay View.

Inside the cottage, she suggested, ‘Why don’t you take the twins for a walk while I unpack the groceries.’

Jack implored, ‘Beach, Mummy, beach. Aunty Lins can see me swimming.’

They could both swim a little, she knew. Tracy took them to the swimming pool for the mother and toddler session every week.

‘Beach, Mummy,’ Gillian implored.

In a low voice, Tracy said, ‘It’s the last place I want to go. I thought once we packed the groceries away we might drive around looking for Conor.’

With a frozen pizza in her hand, Lindsay turned to face her sister. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can’t drive aimlessly around with two young children. Anyway, where would we start? Better to stay here and take the twins to the beach.’ She played her trump card. ‘If Conor turns up, he’ll see us there.’ Tracy looked so badly in need of sleep, she suggested, ‘Why don’t you lie down, take a nap? I can take the twins.’

‘I couldn’t sleep. And you’re right. We’ll be in full view.’ ‘And stop worrying. Conor’s alive.’

They got tired making sandcastles. Lindsay took them down to the water’s edge. They paddled in the shallows. She showed Jack how to kick his legs while doing the breaststroke. Next, it was Gillian’s turn. She adored splashing, but wasn’t too keen on instruction.

Eventually, she gave up all pretence of learning the breaststroke and pleaded, ‘Sandcastles, Aunty Lins. Want to make sandcastles.’

Taking her small hand, Lindsay walked to the water’s edge. ‘Go to Mummy. Tracy, here’s Gillian. I’m going for a swim.’

She struck out forcefully using the freestyle stroke and didn’t stop until she was a kilometre from shore. Turning on her back, she drifted. The water wasn’t cold, under different circumstances she would have revelled in it. Flipping onto her stomach, she stared at the beautiful coastline. It looked fabulous in the afternoon sunshine.

Read more about A Killing Reprisal and Adeline Bolton HERE.

Copyright 2010 Adeline Bolton. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

I suspected right away that I had stumbled upon an assassination plot.

Not sure I can explain how I came to suspect this. I don’t think I’m psychic, unless you would count the occasional ability when I was younger to start humming a tune an instant before it was played unannounced on the radio. It could have been because the disc jockey had been playing the same sequence of songs so often that I unconsciously memorized the order. Then again…

I wonder now if a related phenomenon was at work to prime me for my immediate recognition that the strange message I’d stumbled onto while snooping through White House email might well be a communication between conspirators in a plot to assassinate my boss, the President.

The President being the President of course was hated by multitudes. In her case the haters constituted right-wingers – both greedy economic giants and bitter proletarian ignoramuses – along with assorted misogynists, misoneists and misologists of all races, ages, income levels, genders and sexual proclivities. Many of them who might otherwise have tolerated her or even offered her grudging respect, were utterly turned off by her refusal to confirm or deny that she occasionally enjoyed a pharmaceutical compound proven clinically to induce female orgasm, which is sold to billions of women world-wide under the trade name Primrose Lane.

Assassination plots ranked a close third behind fund-raising activities and poll results in the President’s morning staff meetings. That is, until the President one morning waved an impatient hand at Warren Hendrian, her domestic affairs adviser, to halt his usual litany of plots against her life that were newly discovered, under investigation or recently thwarted by various law enforcement agencies, the primary one being the United States Secret Service, to which, among his many duties, Hendrian served as the President’s liaison.

“Warren, enough. Enough already,” she said in a tone hovering dangerously close to scold. “If they’re going to kill me, they’re going to kill me. I dearly hope our guys are smart enough and good enough to keep that from happening. But if it happens, it happens and I’m sick of hearing about all the sick and evil people out there who want to do me in. So…,” she smiled abruptly, showing a set of even teeth so white they looked like Jimmy Carter’s caps, “enough with the lists of all the plots and counter-plots and so forth at these little morning get-togethers. OK, darling? We have more important things to talk about, I hope. Adele, what’s happening in the jungle? Whose asses do I need to kiss today?”

This effectively ended the routine discussion of assassination plots in the morning meetings, although I as Chief of Staff had Hendrian deliver those reports to me so that if nothing else I could adjust the President’s schedule to avoid situations that could prove opportune to any of the plotters who had been identified and, I hoped, really were under investigation.

I decided at first not to tell Hendrian what I had discovered. I had several reasons for keeping this card face down. Perhaps most important among them was that he was a pompous ass who would have loved nothing more than to push my face into a pile of my own feces were I dumb enough to show him the pile and then bend over it and wait for him to strike. Which is what I would have been doing had I told him that something I’d stumbled upon while snooping in the purgatory file of the White House email network might be a note from one would-be assassin to another.

My first inclination was to bring in Tonga Cooke, who was chief of the White House technical support team, and a friend. And or possibly Joan Stonebraker, agent-in-charge of the White House Secret Service detail.

For the time being, I worried solo. I did keep a journal during this time, though, partly because I felt frustrated and outraged – not to say terribly vulnerable – that there are still and may ever be serious doubts about the government’s integrity in the JFK murder and its investigation. One journal kept by a player in that sad, sorry episode might have contained the key to obviate all of the myriad heavily and meticulously documented theories both proving and disproving the various intricate conspiracies credited for the crime that will haunt Americans for as long as there is an America.

Let us proceed to my journal.

Read more about Executive Pink and Mathew Paust HERE.

Copyright 2010 Mathew Paust. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter One

The incident occurred in the D.C. Metro station’s Farragut Place stop, as Martin Silkwood boarded the northbound train for his return commute to Maryland. It ended as quickly as it began, and no one – save the participants – seemed to notice or care. But it would forever change Martin’s life.

Martin had entered the subway car at the head of a surging crowd that heaved and pressed against him with the dumb force of an enormous beast. He was angrily pushing back and maneuvering toward an empty seat, when a tough-looking middle-aged man in a beige overcoat suddenly sprang up, lurched forward and rammed into him.  “Watch it!” the man barked, his steel-gray eyes seeming to penetrate Martin’s skull.

Martin recovered his balance and pushed back, forcefully. “No, you watch it, asshole!”

For an instant, the two squared off. Then, as a faint smile appeared on the stranger’s face, his right arm shot forward, palm out, catching Martin square in the solar plexus.  Martin doubled over in pain, gasping for air, while the stranger grabbed his arm and drew near. “I already have watched it, Martin,” he said under his breath.  “Now, it’s your turn.” Then, he slipped out the door, disappearing into the crowd.

Martin struggled to breathe as he dragged himself toward an empty seat. He swung his left arm wildly to clear a path and steadied himself by grabbing onto a nearby handrail with his right.  When he finally reached the seat, he turned around and gingerly dropped into place.  As he did, Martin felt something in his left pants pocket. Hand shaking, he dug in and retrieved a tiny video disk in a slim vinyl case. The disk was silver, unmarked and small – only half the diameter of the videos Martin normally played on his home entertainment system. “Huh,” he grunted to himself, in between steadily decreasing – but uneven – chest heaves.  He flipped the disk over in his hand several times. He had no idea what it was, why the stranger had given it to him or how he had come to know his first name.

After a few moments, Martin put the disk away. He decided he would deal with it later, when he got home, but try as he might, he couldn’t get this latest incident out of his mind.  Martin kept wondering if it somehow fit into the disturbing chain of events that began to unfold the previous Friday night, when he had returned home to an empty house – without Katie, the kids or the dog.  All he had found was a brief note, in Katie’s handwriting, lying on the kitchen table. “I tried, Marty. Really, I did,” it read. “I’ll contact you when we get settled.” That was the last time he had heard from any of them.

Martin had spent all night Friday calling around to Katie’s friends. (He used to consider them his friends, too, but now he knew better.) Had they seen her and the kids? Did they know anything about where she had gone or what was up?

Some of them, the nice ones, apologetically said they couldn’t discuss it. They had promised Katie to keep her whereabouts a secret, but, they said, everyone was safe, not to worry. Others, her “true sisters,” uttered startled, indignant gasps at the mere sound of his voice and then hung up the phone. The nastiest, most self-righteous ones said things like: “Really, Marty! Haven’t you caused enough trouble already? Leave her alone!” – or – “If you call here again, I’m going to report you to the police! Do you understand?” both of which were followed by a sudden resumption of the dial tone.

Martin couldn’t believe these were the same women who had welcomed him and Katie into their homes for years on end, the same women who had joked with him, occasionally flirted with him, and who once or twice seemed to forget themselves and send him signals he wisely chose to ignore. And, he wondered, where were their husbands – his supposed friends? Only one of them ever picked up the phone to say anything to him at all, and it went something like this: “Hey, man, I’m sorry about you and Katie. Let’s grab a beer sometime soon.” And then, when his wife discovered he was on the line, “Oops, got to go now,” and again the damn dial tone.

Martin wondered what Katie had been telling these people and how they could possibly believe her without first hearing his side of the story. But these thoughts quickly evaporated, as Martin grasped, for the first time, the full impact of Katie’s decision. Disillusion turned to anger, fear and finally desperation as Martin realized that, in leaving him, Katie had stolen nearly everything that gave his life meaning: his children, his marriage and his home life. Of the three roles Martin dutifully performed each day, those of husband, father and breadwinner, only the later remained. Katie had stripped away everything else.

Katie left the one thing she couldn’t take: Martin’s senior partner position at the accounting firm of Findley, Feldman and Santori. Martin had earned senior partner status through years of hard work, self-discipline and self-sacrifice. While he drew some personal satisfaction from this, he found accounting work, in general, to be rather dull and unfulfilling. Martin had long ago realized that he did his job, day-in and day-out, primarily to pay the bills. His partner’s salary made possible the life, and future, he had been building with Katie and the kids. Now that his marriage appeared to be unraveling, Martin felt the wind go out of his sails. He wondered where he would find the motivation to continue to put in the long hours and to suffer the painful deprivations that life on the road, as an auditing team leader, demanded.

Deep down, Martin sensed he only had one option. Somehow, someway, he would have to get his children back. He could not live with the harsh, new reality Katie had forced upon him.

Despite this realization – or perhaps because of it – Martin had a hard time accepting the fact that his marriage to Katie was over. In the first place, her timing made no sense to him. Yes, they hadn’t been getting along all that well lately, but only a few months earlier, when the trouble started, Katie had agreed to see a marriage counselor with him. They hadn’t even attended their first session yet! ‘Why would she ‘throw in the towel’ now?’ he wondered. ‘Could she really just walk away from our marriage — especially after starting a family and bringing two new lives into the world? Good parents, and he and Katie clearly were that, good parents didn’t just ‘bag it’ when the going got tough, did they?’

The next day, Martin gained further insight into the depths of his problems, when an ATM machine rejected his debit card. The joint household account that previously held $4,500, now claimed to have “insufficient funds” to cover his $100 cash withdraw.

As these thoughts once more flashed through his mind, Martin’s stomach began tying itself up in knots. He hated feeling this way, and, since all he could do for now was to spin mental wheels, he redoubled his efforts to put his troubles out of his mind. He decided to focus, exclusively, on his accounting work. That usually helped.

Martin began by taking stock of preparations for the upcoming Central Plains Company audit, and by mentally reviewing the members of his newly formed auditing team. Martin always handpicked his auditing crew. Thursday a week, they would all fly out of Dulles airport to Chicago for an extensive review and compilation of the food processing giant’s books.

There was so much to do. Gradually, ever so slowly, Martin slipped back into the endless sea of accounting management minutiae, and soon he found himself back in that numb, safe place his work often provided. Before he knew it, the train had reached his suburban Maryland stop, and he was crossing the parking lot to his car.

Copyright 2010 Jon Reisfeld. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Excerpt from Chapter Twelve

I’ll admit I was a bit frightened when the car behind me tapped the bumper of the BMW. I looked for a place to pull off and stop. Unfortunately, a rain filled drainage ditch ran along my side of the road. Reluctantly, I stepped on the gas and felt the tires skid as they reacted to the burst of speed. I had no intention of racing down the road with an obvious maniac in pursuit, but it seemed like a better idea than stopping in the rain and having him hit me.

He hit me anyway. One instant I was frantically looking for any safe place to pull into, and the next instant I heard the smack of metal against metal and felt the roadster being picked up by the back end and tossed into the drainage ditch.

I must have blacked out for a moment or two. When my eyes focused, I realized I had blood oozing from my head and someone with the whitest teeth and the blackest, sexiest eyes I’d ever seen was pulling the car door open and lifting me out.

“Do you think you can stand?” Fernando Garcia let go of my arm and I instantly sagged to the ground. My legs felt like they had lost all their bones. Within a few seconds, not only was I as limp as a noodle, I was also soaked. I licked my lips as water mixed with blood trickled in my mouth, and I tried to peel my hair off my face. Senor Garcia looked good wet. Impressive muscles bulged under his black turtleneck, and his hair was thick and shiny in the rain.

I took the towel he offered me and couldn’t help notice it smelled faintly of musk. “Are you the one who hit me?” I asked as I gingerly touched a sore bump on my head.

Read more about Neigh It Isn’t So and Linda Clayton HERE.

Copyright 2010 Linda Clayton. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

The vampire closed his eyes and bit into the fleshy neck of the waif. He waited for the rush as the red plasma trickled down his throat, engorging him and bringing him to life. He heard the young man moaning in ecstasy, his voice echoing through him, drowning out the loud club music surrounding them both.  Blood flowed through his body like fire as Lucien instinctively wrapped the trembling stray tighter in his strong arms. The boy’s muscles tightened, his heart beating faster. He was afraid. Lucien felt stronger as the urchin’s blood coursed through his veins, inflating him, making him dizzy with power.

Strangely, he felt mortal again; his sight became even clearer and the surrounding sounds intensified, almost to the point of pain. The youth’s heartbeat pounded in his ears like native drums, and between his legs an erection bulged as blood filled every inch of his body. For a moment Lucien thought he might die. Not like his mortal death, but in bliss like a star, blazing so bright he would explode, shattering the dark universe with fragments of energy and light.

The blood gave him incredible sustenance and power. It pulled at his own thoughts seductively and slowly, like a vampire tugging at his victim’s life force. It felt as if the blood had a life of its own, a vampiric power. Lucien concentrated harder as images from the young man’s life ran through his mind. A tiny house, his bedroom, school, friends, putting a needle in his veins. The images moved like a film in fast forward. The face of a dark-haired woman with emerald eyes surfaced. Once a child, now a seductively beautiful woman. Was she a lover? No. A sister, perhaps? She reminded him of someone he knew in Paris, but who? Reluctantly, Lucien released himself from the youthful flesh of his prey, still holding him close. The boy stared up at him with glazed eyes.

So the rumors had been true.

“Why’d you stop?” He rubbed his neck, feeling the two raised bumps.

“Too much of a good thing.” Lucien smiled and licked his pouty lips. He brushed the mortal’s warm cheek. Yes, if he were not careful, he would drain the boy. Instead, he studied him carefully, now that he had satisfied his lust for blood. He brushed a strand of dirty dark hair from the boy’s sunken face. He was beautiful underneath his drug-induced haze.

“I’ll do whatever you want as long as you pay me.”

Lucien reached into the pocket of his leather coat for the wad of cash and felt nothing.

“Later I can get you all the money you could want, young man.”

“It’s Ryan,” he quipped, his eyes glazed over from the blood loss. “I’m always available.”

“Very well, Ryan. Who is the woman with the emerald eyes?”

“My sister Amanda.” He chuckled nervously, knowing a vampire could gather information from a mortal’s blood.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, and real smart. She got it all, beauty and brains.”

Lucien had seen the facade of a large building with columns and banners waving in the breeze. He had seen a fountain with running water and sunlight cascading through it and trees surrounding the building. It bordered on a great park. He had seen the woman sitting at a desk in a tiny office, surrounded by books and coffee cups, staring at a computer screen.

“She works in a museum?” he asked casually, scanning the crowd for the others.

“Yeah, the Met. She loves antiques and anything French.”

“Good taste.” Lucien smiled as he caught a glimpse of Michel moving through the crowd coming toward them.

“Later, Ryan,” he whispered in a dismissive tone.

Ryan nodded and ducked into the shadows. Lucien guessed this was the usual crowd of mostly young women, overly made up, dressed all in black, pretending to be one of the undead. Only in America, he thought, feeling suddenly homesick for the City of Lights. This was his first weekend in the New World, and already he missed Paris.

He watched Michel move through the crowd. Despite the passing centuries, Lucien had never forgotten Michel’s grace and beauty, now adorned in haute couture such as Armani and Versace. Well over six feet tall, with catlike dark eyes, shoulder-length black hair, and high cheekbones, Michel was still one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen. He had been the talk of Paris centuries ago, and judging by the way women stared at him, Lucien assumed nothing had changed for the ethereal vampire. His beauty was arresting, his attraction to both sexes universal. He moved like a tiger through jungle palms, silent and deadly. Lucien felt his heart racing as Michel approached him.

“I thought it was just talk, but no.” Michel gave Lucien the once-over. He had never trusted the younger vampire.

“What brings you to our little corner of the world?”

“Quelling rumors.” Lucien smiled carefully. There was no use lying.

“And how are our Parisian friends, Lucien?” Michel leaned up against the bar, surveying the crowd for Christian. Lucien’s presence was an omen. “What are their panties in a bunch about now?” He grabbed a plastic drink straw from the bar and began to chew on it.

Lucien shrugged. He had come to New York to gather information. He had not asked for permission, nor would it have been granted to him. He was depending on the reputed good manners of the New York vampires, especially Christian Du Maura, Michel’s best friend. In fact, he was praying for it.

“I mean no harm, Michel.” Lucien put his hands up in a gesture of humbleness. “It has been too long since we have seen each other.” He noticed that the only things that had changed about Michel were his clothing and his accent. He now had only remnants of the French accent that Lucien remembered mixed with what must be a New York twang. He had heard that Christian and Michel had been here since the early 1900s.

“1790 to be exact.” Michel spoke, twirling the straw. “If I remember correctly, you sided with Gatan and Gabrielle against us, but then, that was over two hundred years ago. My memory may be failing.” He watched Lucien carefully, guessing that he wanted no trouble, at least not in public.

“Things change, Michel. That is one of the advantages to being immortal. Your perspective on history alters at some point, don’t you think?”

“Vampires tend to hold a grudge. You should know that, Lucien.”

Lucien shrugged, leaning against the bar.

“Well, my eyes deceive me.” A deep, soothing voice pierced the darkness.

Lucien turned and found himself face-to-face with the flowing blond hair and dark eyes that could only belong to one immortal: Christian Du Maura. Dressed in satin trousers and a lace shirt, he could almost pass for the eighteenth-century dandy Lucien remembered so well. He wore a long black leather overcoat and his once shoulder-length hair now fell down his back.

“Hello, Christian.”

Copyright 2010 Denise Rago. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

“This is an old folks home?” I said.

Harriet shook her head and clucked. She has been shaking her head and clucking at me for the fifty-eight years of our marriage. “Retirement home, Henry.”

She gazed up at the 20-story high rise while I drove the car through a circular drive to the porte co-chere where a young man in a blue-shirted uniform hurried from the podium where he’d been standing, and opened the passenger side door. The pin on his shirt read “Phillip, Valet.”

Another valet emerged, opened the door on my side and handed me a ticket. Big smile. “Welcome to Restful Bowers. When you’re ready to leave, call down and we’ll have your car ready.”

We were here to look over the place Harriet had found in a full page newspaper ad. The enticing spread showed a group of handsome, grinning silver-haired men and women, obviously models, sitting on deck chairs sipping drinks. “A place to spend your golden years in luxury and dignity!” Translation: Buy in and we’ll house you, feed you, and change your Depends® diapers until they box you.

Golden years. Ha!

I was eighty-one and Harriet was seventy-seven. Our “golden years” were a tarnished green. In the past ten years, several of my organs been surgically removed for a variety of reasons, and it now took me fifteen minutes to get out of bed each morning with some guy driving a harpoon into my lower back. I could read War and Peace while I stood at the toilet bowl each morning waiting for my diuretic to kick in.

Harriet was healthy but had gotten to the point where she was losing her glasses every other day, and twice that I can recall, had put her car keys in the refrigerator.

I stood staring at the building. This was an old folks-pardon me- retirement home? Where was the wrap-around porch with a gaggle of toothless crocks, rocking in creaky chairs, humming tunelessly to themselves? Where were the hovering nurses holding drinking straws to the mouths of the wrinkled fossils? Where were the canes and walkers and wheelchairs parked against the wall? The old men playing checkers?

Harriet and I entered the lobby where a concierge behind a marbled counter asked us to sign in as Visitors. We told her we had an appointment with Betty, a marketing person.

“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to a pair of easy chairs on the other side of the lobby. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

Ten minutes later, a smiling young woman, probably in her thirties, bounced over to us, hand outstretched.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Callins. I’m Betty and I’ll be your marketing representative.”

She was an attractive brunette wearing slacks and a flowered blouse.

“I’ll give you a tour of our wonderful facilities. I’ve arranged for you to have a delicious lunch when we’re through with our business.”

She kept up an endless chatter en route to the elevators. Most of her sentences included the words “wonderful” or “we’re excited by” or “you’ll just love…”. Her sales pitch made your average car salesman sound like a killjoy.

“Coming through!” The shout from behind us had me clinging to the side rail which ran the length of the corridor. A moment later, a woman hunched over the handlebars of a motorized wheelchair whizzed by at eighty miles per hour.

“Hi Mrs. Parker.” yelled Betty.

Mrs. Parker was well out of earshot by this time. Of course, “earshot” could have been inches from her ears stuffed with hearing aides.

“And this is one of our card rooms,” said Betty as we went by a room with four or five card tables. At each table were white-haired or bald men and women, silently squinting over their cards. They could have been mannequins or even corpses in perpetual rigor mortis. Museum statues made more movements.

We had reached the bank of elevators bringing a close to the discussion. Two of the three elevators were working. Our guide said, somewhat apologetically, “They’re doing some work on the other elevator.

A man standing behind us, also waiting, muttered, “Damned elevators. They’re always doing some work on one. I think it’s an empty shaft.”

Betty smiled ignoring the comment, but kept up her chatter telling us about the fabulous apartments we were about to see.

The elevator finally came.

The apartments she showed us were vacant and undergoing renovation. I assumed the previous occupants were en route to their Maker. You don’t leave one these places upright. You have too much invested in it.

We stepped around paint cans and rolls of carpeting as we toured through the rooms. The freshly painted walls were tastefully decorated with pull cords attached to small red alarms. Betty explained. “If a person falls, he or she just has to pull the cord and someone will come to help.”

Provided they were conscious and could crawl to the wall.

It was hard for me to visualize what the rooms would looked like with furniture, but Harriet was busy framing with her hands making comments like, “Our breakfront would go here. Our knickknack cabinet would go there. This corner would be for your desk.”

We had downsized before, moving from our big house in Decatur. Our kids weren’t interested in the overstuffed furniture and other relics, some of which had arrived on the Pinta. A few years later, we moved again to the condo we now call home, leaving some more furniture and assorted space hogs. Get ready Salvation Army, here we come again.

We finished our tour of apartments and Betty said, “I’m sure you have questions. Would you like to go to lunch, or would-?”

Before we had a chance to edge in a word she said, “Did you like the two-bedroom or the three? I’ve got samples so you can pick out the cabinet hardware and the color of carpet.”

I’ve had car salesmen who pressured me less. “Whoa!” I said. “You are going to tell us about the cost and other minor details involved, aren’t you?”

She looked at me as though I had asked her to undress.

“I’ll get the cost sheets.”

She went to a file cabinet and extracted a sheaf of papers.

The buy-in cost had me gulping.

Betty saw my face turn white. She was quick to point out that “The Bowers” was a luxury establishment. “You can probably find something cheaper but it won’t have the amenities we have. Incidentally, there’s no tipping.”

“How about the valet who took my car?”

“No tipping. Period.”

“Gratuities?”

“That’s the same as tipping.” Betty went on. “Of course residents can show that they value the services they get by voluntarily contributing to an Employee Appreciation Fund.”

I said, “You mean like a giant tip jar?”

Betty shook her finger at me. “There’s that ‘T’ word again.”

This exchange of semantics could have gone on forever, but I got the idea-or did I.

Betty glanced down at my scuffed shoes. “Luxury such as you’ll find here doesn’t come cheap.”

I wasn’t looking for cheap, but the price of an apartment was about the same as the GNP of Ethiopia. And that wasn’t the end of it. There was also the monthly fee. I did some mental arithmetic while Harriet was more interested in the samples of hardware and carpeting.

In the end, we decided on Restful Bowers. Besides, as Betty pointed out in her sales pitch, we could be secure in the knowledge that it was owned and operated by a well-known hotel chain, Motel 7.

Two weeks after our visit to The Bowers, I phoned our marketing rep, Betty.

“Great! All you have to do is bring me your bank statement, your citizenship papers, copies of your last five income tax filings and the result of your blood test. We’ll also need reference letters from your minister or rabbi and your fifth grade teacher.”

“I can understand why you need my financial and moral records,” I said. “But why the blood test?”

She smiled showing me her tolerance and my stupidity. “We want to make sure you have blood. You’d be surprised at the number of people who try to sneak in here dead. We turn most of them away.”

Read more about The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe and Barry Friedman HERE.

Copyright 2010 Barry Friedman. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Prologue

Stu whispered, “Becca, wake up.” Even in sleep, his wife’s face didn’t look very different from the face he’d first made up his mind to get a closer look at in the bookkeeping department of the Morris National Bank. She hadn’t smiled at him then, and she didn’t now. His breath tickled her. She swatted her ear.

“C’mon, Honey, wake up. Please?” He nudged her shoulder. No response. He nudged her again.

“What time is it?” she said without opening her eyes. “Two o’clock. I can’t sleep. We have to talk.” “Go downstairs and have some warm milk. You’ll be asleep in no time. If you still want to talk in the morning, that’s fine by me, but not now. You know how lousy I feel when I don’t get my sleep.”

“I didn’t just get an urge to chat and wake you, Becca. I’ve been lying here since midnight, thinking, trying not to wake you. But I really need you to listen to me. Not in the morning. Now, Becca!”

She pushed her pillows up against the headboard and turned her half-closed eyes in his direction. “Okay, okay.” She grumbled. “What has you in such a state at two a.m.?’

“Same thing that has me in a state, as you so nicely put it, all day long: working with my father. I have to get out from under him. I can never do a damn thing right in his eyes. Then he complains I don’t do enough. Today was the clincher.”

“What happened?” she asked without real interest. “And if it was so awful, why didn’t you bring it up last night?”

“Because you don’t like me to talk business over dinner, that’s why!”

“Whoa, fella! Don’t go getting mad at me.”

“Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been bustin’ my ass for this guy since I got out of school, and all it’s brought me is misery, every single goddamn day. Last week, there was a rise in interest rates and he told me to adjust the prime rate up one-percent on all the commercial loans. Well, the damn phones started ringing off the hook because customers were pissed-off at that big adjustment all at once.”

“So let him handle them. I mean, you did do it because he told you to, right?”

“Yeah, he told me, all right. Only now he says he told me to adjust the rate by only one-half percent. I know damn well what he said, but he’s just tired of taking all the heat. Well I’m tired, too. Sick and tired of taking heat he’s responsible for. And I’m sick and tired of taking all the other shit he tosses at me on a daily basis. I need to be my own person, Becca, and he’ll never let me. So I’ve decided we’re leaving here.”

Becca’s eyes were open all the way now. “And where are we supposed to be going?” she asked in her extra-quiet voice, the dangerous one.

“Florida. We’re moving to Florida. I called Des at the bank before I left work yesterday, and he wants me with him. No strings attached. He’s looking for someone and he told me I’m his top candidate.”

“Are you planning to do this on your own?” “What do you mean?” “I’m not about to leave here in order to trot off to hot, sticky Florida!” she snapped. “Especially not to live near my asshole brother!”

“This isn’t about your not liking to live near your brother, it’s about my hating to work for my father. It’s a way for me to get out from under him. Besides, it’s a good opportunity for us, for our family. Des was really encouraging. He may not be the sweetest brother-in-law in the world, but he knows what I can do and he says he wants me with him.”

“Good opportunity for you? I doubt it. But it’s definitely not my idea of a good opportunity for me. First of all, I hate Florida. Second, I hate my brother. Des is nothing but a slick conniver who’s never given a crap about anybody. I know you find it hard to see that your father’s right about anything, but he was right about Des when he was here to dinner last week and said he was a loose cannon bound to do a lot of damage sooner rather than later. You’ve told me yourself that his reputation in your business stinks. From what your father says that’s not a state secret in Florida, either. Maybe you ought to think a little more about why he’s offering you a job.”

She took a deep breath and squeezed his hand. “I know you’re good at what you do, hon. But Des is only going to use you. He’ll get you into trouble. Mark my words, if you accept his offer, you’ll be sorry, I promise you that,” she said, her voice beginning to elevate to another octave.

“Now you’re taking my father’s side?”

“Stu, you know damn well I’m not taking his side. I hate the way your father puts you down nearly as much as you do, maybe more. I know how capable you are and how much he depends on you even though he’d rather die than admit it. But he’s right about my brother. Believe me, I know better than you what Des is like, and I’m telling you, if you do this, you’ll regret it.”

She sat up straighter against the headboard. “Besides, I don’t have to go down there to know I’d regret it. Stu, this is my home. I can’t just get up and move and upset the kids because your father has treated you like a kid for the hundredth time. Speak up for yourself, goddamnit! Tell him he’s wrong, that you did exactly what he told you to do. Christ, Stu, isn’t it about time you stood up to him?”

“Don’t you think I have? Many times! He always comes back with some answer—even if he’s making it up right on the spot—that sounds like it’s true. If he can’t think of anything, he falls back on telling me to show him the proper respect. I’m tired, Becca. I’m tired of fighting him all the time and losing, over and over. I want to live my own life and to stop being the tail wagging behind him. I know your brother isn’t the nicest guy, but he’s not my father, literally or figuratively. I can handle him. You must have some faith left in me. I think this is a real opportunity for me. Please, let’s not argue about it anymore. Let’s just go.”

Becca’s face reddened. She gripped the end of the sheet, squeezing it in her fist until her knuckles stretched the skin of her forehand smooth. “Maybe you didn’t hear me,” she said quietly. “I’m not leaving here on the basis of what you’ve told me. So you make any plans you want to, but if they involve moving to Florida, you’re doing it alone. Now I need some sleep!”

Flattening her pillows, she slid down between the sheets, turned on her side away from him, obviously hopeful she’d managed to bring the argument to an end.

“That’s just like you,” Stu said. “Turning your back on me when I need you. You know, Becca, maybe you’ve had it too easy. Maybe you should have worked; maybe then you’d see things more clearly. You have no idea what hell I have to go through every day.”

Becca glared at him. “I know damn well what you go through each day! God knows you tell me often enough! What beats me is why you do nothing about it. When we hit Florida it won’t be long before you’re bitchin’ about Des—but there, you’ll really have something to bitch about! You think he’s going to give you a nice cushy job so you can strut your stuff, but you’d better think again! He’ll nail your ass to the cross every day, because that’s the kind of Chairman he is. If you can’t stand up to your dad, Stu, forget about being able to hold your own against my dear brother.”

“Why can’t you understand?” he yelled. “If my father were just my boss, it’d be different! Look, I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to be kissing ass the rest of my life. I’m going and that’s it. If you want to stay here, fine. But you’re my wife, Becca.”

“Stu, grow up, damn it! You’re in a difficult situation with your dad, but running away isn’t the answer. If you feel you have to run, I guess I can’t stop you. When you stop running, I’ll be here.” She put her head between her pillows, determined to shut him out.

He spoke loudly and clearly so she would hear every word. “Fine, bury your head. I’m leaving next Friday. I hope you change your mind.”

Stu shut his eyes, even though he knew sleep would be beyond his reach for whatever was left of the night. He lay there, listening to the irregular beating of his heart, each beat a shard of hope that she’d change her mind and come with him.
But he knew she wouldn’t budge. By morning, he had convinced himself that maybe some time apart wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe being on her own for awhile would remind her that being able to count on the person you’d taken marriage vows with was a two-way street.

That had been five long years ago.

Chapter One

As Halsey Stuart waited for George Thompson to finish placating an indignant woman in a pinstriped suit, he looked around City National bank. Being in someone else’s bank was like a chef dining out. He viewed the place with a critical eye.
The ambience at City National was definitely a step down from the way Stu’s Fortune Beach Bank presented itself. But you couldn’t always judge a bank by the quality of the marble on the floor, a hard lesson he’d learned in recent weeks. He was glad his line of credit was safely in place at City National.

But right now he was in a hurry to make use of it, and George, the branch manager of City National, was taking longer than he should with the irate woman. That was the underside of George’s unfailing politeness, and one reason, at thirty-five, George was at the pinnacle of his career. Any aspirations beyond bank manager he might secretly be harboring were just not in the cards. Stu glanced at his watch in a way George Thompson was sure to grasp, and within seconds the branch manager hastened to end his business with the woman.

George always walked as if someone were holding a stopwatch on him, but as he approached Stu his bounce was subdued. Hope it’s because he kept me waiting, Stu thought. Not because maybe he’s heard rumors about Fortune Beach Bank. Even if word had reached George, there was still no reason he’d have automatically frozen Stu’s line of credit. Surely, he’d wait to find out what happened and whether he was leaving the area. As George stood in front of him, he just seemed nervous about having kept Stu waiting.

“Hey, Mr. Stuart, sorry for holding you up. Ms. Oakes, the one leaning against the deposit counter, is one adamant, sly old fox. She can’t understand the early withdrawal penalty on her CD after she beat me out of one penalty already. I tried explaining again even though I know she understands the rules. You know how it is, someone always trying to beat the system. Anyway, how are things up your way?”

“Fine, George. Everything’s just fine. I just stopped in to draw some money on my line of credit. Do you know how much I have left?”

“Give me a few seconds to pull your file up on the screen.” George race-walked back toward his desk and pressed the computer keys with precision. “You’ve used exactly half the line. How much of the $50,000 remaining would you like?”

“I’m going out of town for awhile so I may need it all.” “Shall I have it transferred to your account, then?” Stu pretended to consider that. “Better wire the funds less five thousand dollars to my father’s bank in New Jersey.” He took a card from the morocco holder he’d seen George admire before and jotted quickly. “Here’s my account number and routing information. I’ll take the five thousand with me today.”

“That’ll be fine, Mr. Stuart.”

George rapidly prepared the note for Stu’s signature and slid it across the desk.
Stu took out his Mont Blanc pen—a going away gift from his father when Stu had accepted the job in Fortune Beach five years earlier—and bent to sign off on the money. A loud bang yanked his head around. The glass door leading into the lobby slammed against the wall, glass shattering in every direction.

Two men strode in, nylon stockings shielding their faces, guns drawn.

“Anybody does anything but breathe, it’ll be your last goddamn breath,” the taller man ordered. “Do I make myself clear?”

I’ll say, Stu thought. He had no intention of playing hero, and suddenly he didn’t give a damn about the money, but keeping calm was something else. All he wanted was to get out alive.

He commanded himself to stop shaking. There were only a handful of people in the lobby. Slowly, he scanned their faces for who might do or say the wrong thing. Fortunately, Ms. Oakes had gone. Among the current customers no one looked stupid enough to argue with the gunmen, but one never knew how terror could change a person. There was one elderly man, second in line at a teller’s window, whose fear was visibly clear across the lobby as a wet spot formed on the front of the his pants and spread down his leg. Poor bastard! Hope he doesn’t have a heart attack.

“Hey, you! Yeah, you!” The second gunman pointed his gun at George. “Get your skinny ass over here! Now!”

George, of course, did exactly as he was told, approaching the two gunmen as quickly as his rubbery legs would carry him. He kept his eyes lowered, an unnecessary caution given the stockings pulled over their faces. They also wore matching dark blue windbreakers, absent any identifying insignia, with the collars turned up.

Just then, a woman came through the front door of the bank. She spotted one of the robbers and tried to tiptoe back out, but one of the gunmen noticed her too. He pointed his gun. “You’re in now, bitch. Just keep on walking in.”

Panicking, the woman made a run for the door. Three shots thundered and the woman lurched forward, crashing through the glass panel door. Half of her body was hanging out the front door, a thick piece of jagged glass protruding through her abdomen.

Stu’s entire body clenched as he waited for more shots to be fired, but the gunmen had made their point. Everyone was rooted in place. For a few seconds, there was a deafening silence.

The taller gunman grabbed George by the hair, put his .357 Magnum to the quivering man’s throat, and cocked the hammer ever so slowly with his thumb. “I’d be very careful if I were you and do exactly like you’re told.” George nodded quickly and repeatedly.

“Atta boy,” the gunman said.

“Everybody else, on the floor!” the other ordered. “Let’s go! Face down, everybody, heads facing away from the teller counter! Quick! Unless someone here is dying to be next.” He chuckled, then growled, “Don’t take my little joke seriously. We don’t give a shit if all of youse want to die now—we’re in this to the end.”

Stu was already on the marble floor, which felt very cold against his cheek. The gunmen were loudly opening zippered bags, slamming drawers open and shut. The thought of the money flying into the bags. The faster the better, he thought. Just let there be enough to satisfy them.

There must have been, because one of the robbers laughed again. Footsteps echoed as they left, and something clunked to the floor. Then there was only a hissing noise, smoke, choking, eyes burning. Tear gas!

Outside, cycles fired up and roared away. In the stillness following the sounds of departure, people got up off the floor and scrambled for the double doors, passing the lifeless body and gasping for fresh air. Stu looked around, his reflexive sense of responsibility kicking in. Everyone seemed to be out except the dead woman and George. He wiped his stinging eyes with his shirt and, with the head teller, went back into the bank to find him. It didn’t take long.

George lay on the floor under a deposit counter, out cold, blood running down the side of his head. An ugly blow had landed above his right ear, not lethal from the look of it.

Stu and one of the male customers dragged him outside. Within minutes George came to.

By then a crowd had started to form. Sirens were approaching, although they sounded a few blocks off. Stu looked at George. “George, are you okay?”

The manager looked up at Stu, the blood caking on the side of his face. “Okay? I don’t know…. I don’t know how any of us got the hell out of there alive.”

“The thing to concentrate on, George, is that you’re out of there. It’s over. Look, I have to get going. I can’t explain, but this isn’t a morning I can get hung up giving a statement to the police. I have a plane to catch. Are you following me, George? Can you remember something?”

“I’ll never be able to forget this.” George replied.

“You’ll be fine. Listen, George. Take the five thousand and put it in my account. I’ll use my ATM card to access any money that I need the next couple of days. I’m sorry to leave, but I know you’ll be able to handle things from here on in.”

George nodded. “Thanks for saying that. I’ll have to, won’t I? I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of there. God knows how much worse off I’d be if you hadn’t gotten me out into the air. I’ll make sure you’re kept out of this. Just tell me what to do about that poor woman in the doorway?”

“Nothing,” Stu said. “The police will take care of it. They’ll be here any second.” Stu rose, rushed to his car and drove off, his hands clenched white as paper on the steering wheel.

He tried to concentrate on being glad to be alive. He’d be more glad when he was actually out of Florida, but he had promised to see Des first, and he was a man of his word. Today, he was hoping Des would be a man of few words, because he couldn’t stay long. He’d given Des five years. Fifteen minutes more wouldn’t hurt, and then it was Stu’s time. He suspected he’d need every bit of it to pick up the pieces and try to put his life back together. Again.

Read more about Traces of Greed and Ted Bessler HERE.

Copyright 2010 Ted Bessler. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

I was in a bad mood for the rest of the day. I felt empty and cheated like I missed my chance to say something, but what did I have the right to say? I’m mad as hell that I fucked you, and even madder than hell that I can’t fuck you again? It was all I could do not to cuss somebody out for asking the simplest question or making the most ambiguous comment.

I guess we all go through our days asking each other how we’re doing, and most of us don’t even care about the answer. I’m no different. Depending on the time of day, day of the week or week of the month, I could easily respond with, I’m hungry, my feet hurt, I need a new weave, and I just started my period I’m in dire need of a bikini wax and dire-er need of a man to notice. But I stick with the Just fine, thanks, adding the standard, And you? in passing, like it’s not a question.

All that particular day, saying, Just fine, thanks, when I really would rather have babbled on with, I’m tired, broke, and lonely, I spend way more money than I make, I make way less money than I’m worth, and I want a man of my own, was really a struggle.

When I got home that night, I found Curtis’ business card in my door with a note written on the back. Sorry about today. Call me, please.

I won’t deny that I ran to the phone to call him. I took a couple of breaths and then dialed. When he answered, I told him, “I just wanted to tell you that you shouldn’t be just dropping by over here, leaving notes on my door.”

He cleared his throat before responding. “So what you’re saying is, call first from now on?”

“You know what I’m saying. You shouldn’t be coming over here, or leaving notes on my door. Or anything. From now on.”

“Listen, could I come by in a minute?”

“You already know the answer to that,” I said.

“So, I’ll see you later?”

“You know, I’d rather you wouldn’t. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s not a no.”

I was tripping at how I was even going through the motions with this conversation. “Curtis, let’s not start this, okay?”

“Start what?”

“Look,” I said. “You know I need a lot of attention, and you-you just ain’t in that kind of position.”

“I just want to talk,” he lied.

“Come on, Curtis. Don’t play me like that. Give me a little bit of credit.”

“Okay, Baby.” I heard the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”

It didn’t help that he was calling me Baby, but I could listen to his voice all night. I dragged on with this bogus exchange, like I wasn’t already considering exactly what I knew he wanted. “You have no idea what it’s been like for me. And to be honest, I’m really just almost at the point of not giving a damn.”

“So, tell me what it’s like,” he said, like that wasn’t enough said.

“You’ve only been married for a couple of months,” I said back. “What do you want with me?” That was a rhetorical question, and he knew it. What did he mean, so? So? “So if I see you again, I know all I’m going to want to do is fuck you.” Okay, that did not come out right.

“Wow,” he breathed a slight chuckle at my lack of subtlety.

“I mean, shit. You know what I mean.”

“I miss you too,” he said. “Really.”

I just held the phone.

Then he said, “See you in a minute, Baby,” as if my silence was the only real answer he needed. Then he hung up.

Awwww-shit! Shit, shit, shee-it! I stood there for a couple of seconds and just cussed myself. No. No. Don’t do this. I cussed all the way to the shower. I had to shave in the shower, because I hadn’t had a recent bikini wax, and I didn’t have any Nair in the house. I cussed while I shaved and bathed myself in smell-good shower gel. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror while I reminded myself how wrong this was.

I went in my bedroom and turned the covers back and lit a couple of candles on the dresser. I sat on the bed in my bathrobe and then just fell back and stared up at the ceiling fan. I thought about what color lingerie I would put on. Or maybe just a bra and panties. Damn! I wish I’d bought those edible pink panties.

Okay. No. No edible panties. “Don’t do this,” I said out loud to myself. I sat up and swung my feet for a few more seconds. Then I went and sat by the front door, for several minutes trying to unmake my made up mind.

When he knocked on the door, I was still sitting there in my bathrobe. I stood up and leaned my back against the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice muffled through the door. “It’s me.”

“I know.”

“So-what’s up? You opening the door or what?”

My stomach fluttered as I stayed braced against the door. “You know this is a bad idea,” I said.

“Since when is that reason enough not to do something?” His twisted logic made us both laugh. I took a deep breath and turned around and cracked open the door.

I was about to make another reasonable argument when he pushed the door the rest of the way open and kissed me. He came in and pushed his back against the door and held me and kissed me. Kissed me. And kissed me. I managed to get out the words, “I’m just saying I don’t want to get hurt.”

He just said something like “Mmmm,” and kissed me harder and breathed harder and held me tighter.

“I don’t, don’t um…” My mind went blank for a second.

“Don’t what, baby?” he asked. “You don’t want me?”

“Um, don’t want to hurt her,” I think I said, which wasn’t exactly true. I didn’t even know her, or care about her, honestly. But I knew what it was like to be hurt like that. Hell, I knew what it was like to be hurt by him like that. And none of that, at least at that moment, mattered one bit. What mattered is that I was feeling too good to want it to stop. Damn a red light.

He reached his hand inside my robe and whispered, “If you don’t want this, just tell me, and I’ll stop.” And he kept saying, “Tell me you want it, Baby. Tell me you want it,” all the while pushing his hand between my legs.

He picked me up off of my feet and turned me around so that my back was against the door and stayed pressed against me. And I kept saying, “Please,” and breathing like I was running from something but not getting anywhere.

And he kept kissing me all over my face, my neck and shoulders, and pulling his clothes off and saying, “Please what, Baby? Say you want it. Just say it. Say you want this dick.”

Hell yeah, I wanted it. I wanted to ride him raw, so hard that he’d feel like I would break it off. I wanted it doggy style and thrown up against a wall and to feel him sweating all over my back. I wanted to take it in the ass and beg him not to stop because he’d be hitting all the spots that couldn’t be reached any other way. I wanted his tongue shoved so far up my pussy that I could feel it in my throat. I wanted to swallow him whole and hear him scream for me and God at the same time. I wanted all that, and I wanted to not want it, but not as much as I wanted it. “I-oh God,” I heard myself about to pray for forgiveness for what I knew I was about to do. “I-can’t. Mmmm. Please.”

And every time I thought I could catch enough breath to say what I should have said, he’d kiss me in my mouth until I could hardly breathe. God, he was feeling good. He was smelling good. But mostly, he was feeling good. I could feel the ripples in his stomach pressed against me.

“Please, what, baby? Tell me,” he said, like he really thought I could.

I couldn’t tell him anything. I couldn’t even think of anything but hard dick. Hard, magnificent dick, throbbing between my parted thighs, begging to go just a little bit farther, all mine, if I dared to claim it. Mmm. My dick. Long enough. Wide enough. Just the right amount of rough. Too close to pass it up. Again. Who was I kidding?

It was like I was some pothead who was suddenly consumed with a fiend’s case of the munchies for forbidden dick. Or a crackhead who just couldn’t resist one more hit of that sweet, smooth, slick pipe that had my jaws tight and my mouth literally aching to taste it again, calling me. “Tell me you want it, baby.”

“I,” was all I managed to get out. We ended up having sex right there against the front door. He had my head spinning. I could feel my body tightening, and then loosening as he slid so easily inside me, welcoming, begging, needing every thrust and stroke and motion that he put on me. I swear, I felt the walls moving and the floor about to give way.

He was exactly what I needed, exactly what I’d been missing, and I wasn’t ready or willing to give him up again. It was right there against that door that I decided. Now, what we do is her problem, not mine.

He stayed all night, holding me close. I don’t know what he told her, and didn’t care, because it felt good to feel good, and up until now, I’d forgotten how good. That sexy, beautiful kind of good that you only get from being touched by a man you can hardly wait to touch you, and when he does, you don’t want him to ever stop.

A few hours later, I vaguely remember staggering to the door to lock it behind him, and then making my way back to the bed. The smell of him was making me hot all over again, so I pushed myself out of bed and stumbled to the shower. I went into work a few minutes early. Even went to PT. On a cold ass day in January.

Just be clear, doing PT, physical training, means running at least two miles. Not only do I hate running, I hate early mornings, which sometimes makes me wonder how the hell I’m still in the Army. People on three continents know I hate PT, so for me to have my ass up and running, things have to be going way wrong or way right. What is it about good sex that makes you feel like you want to do stuff you know that you wouldn’t ordinarily want to do?

Anyway, New Year, new attitude. I told myself that 2000 is the year to come up, not back up. And there’s no room in my life for this second hand stuff that he was trying to get me caught up in. His clock starts ticking right now.

I trudged along the track for a few more steps and then came to my senses. What the hell was I thinking? That sex the night before would make running less of a pain in the ass the next day?

The scales were definitely tipped. I was feeling way too good for my own good. My shift doesn’t start until eleven, but I got to work and was ready to rock by 10:15 or so. And that includes the time it took for me to press my skirt, using the iron and board in the vault, pin my hair up, put on my uniform and adjust my ribbons on my shirt.

I walked into my shop just like any other day except the thought of recent sex had me smiling. I’d expected that today would be a pretty uneventful day, considering the night I had last night. I was still tingling and my thighs practically burned thinking about it.

I came through the door and heard the Charlie Brown theme song playing. Residual Christmas music, I guess. I sat down to a stack of tests that came in from one of the MET- or mobile something- something-sites waiting to be coded and graded, so I dug in. A MET site is one of our remote testing locations in different parts of the state where the test administrator goes to give a paper version of the test for applicants who for whatever reason choose not to come to the MEPS to take the computerized version.

When I looked up, I saw my grown-ass coworkers dancing around, mimicking the Charlie Brown gang in that scene where they were all on the stage getting down to Schroeder playing the piano. I have the best coworkers. Silly bastards.

Read more about The Other Side of 30 and Regina Swint HERE.

Copyright 2010 Regina Swint. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.