Rebecca Besser's Blog, page 16

Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #13

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The material (chapter) in this post is copyrighted by the author and may not be used or copied in any way without the author’s permission.

 

Chapter 1

 

My mother, she’s standing at the counter with her hair shining loose over her shoulder, her eyes just as bright, her smile so wide she can only be oblivious to the lipstick marks on her teeth. She’s laying her change out onto the counter, one coin at a time, placing each down with a sharp, metallic tap on the smooth space between the till and the gum rack. The tapping sound, clear and deliberate behind the dancing wall of her voice, feels like the echo of a giant clock in the background. Ticking down to something. Tap-tap like tick-tock.

“Eighty-nine,” she says. Tap-Tick. “Ninety.” Tap-Tock.

Beside the rows of coins, stacked up to tens in neat piles, are two crisp bills. Beside the bills are her intended purchases. There are only three—a vanilla-scented lip balm, a box of salted crackers, and a carton of full-cream milk.

“One hundred,” she beams. Tap. Tick. “Nearly there.”

She’s twenty cents off the total. She’s fumbling in the depths of her bag in search of more loose change. The guy behind the counter, he’s standing there with his arms folded, trying to look serious while he stares down her shirt. She’s made this easy for him—the staring—leaning forward the way she is, her shoulders curved in the way they are.

The man waiting behind my mom, he huffs a sigh. It comes out mostly through his nose. His hands tighten on his shopping basket. He wants to buy a frozen pizza, a bottle of soda water, a tube of lubricant. Clearly, he’s not asking much of life as it is, and this is supposed to be the express queue.

My mother looks over her shoulder at him. Maybe she caught the gust on the back of her neck, felt his breath hit the space between her shoulders. “Sorry,” she says to him. “I’m in a hurry, too.” She gives him the kind of smile that leaves him awkward for a few moments. His cheeks color to a tough, meaty red. He huffs again. But this time it isn’t a sigh. Not exactly.

“I’ll pay whatever’s left,” the woman behind Lube Dude says. She’s middle-aged, no makeup, sloppy ponytail and sports shoes that have never seen the surface of any track or indoor court. She wants to buy a pack of tampons, a bottle of aspirin, a box of cheese-flavored crackers, and the obligatory bread, eggs, and milk, of course. Still, it isn’t hard to tell why she’s testy.

“Five,” my mother says, ignoring her. “Six.”

Tick. And then Tock.

The shop is small but understaffed. Four check-outs, two in use. The guy behind the counter should’ve done something by now, but he’s young, new. Who expects this kind of scene on a calm, mid-week afternoon?

He clears his throat. “Ma’am….”

My mother stops counting. “Yes?”

“Don’t worry about the rest,” he says. “Please.”

So, at fourteen cents short, everyone in line behind my mother exhales a loud sigh of relief.

“But… are you sure?” she opens her eyes wide at him, and smiles again, the tips of her teeth caught with the scarlet smudge of her lipstick. Red smeared on white. Gleaming.

“Yes, really,” the cashier guy says. “It doesn’t matter. Just, please…”

His new worry is she’s going to launch into a thank you speech. That she’ll stay right where she is with her shining hair and her stained smile, and hold the queue up even longer while she tells him how wonderful he is, how kind he is, how he can only be an angel, helping a stranger out so selflessly. From the way she’s standing—cozy on her elbows, her feet arched in their heels with one ankle crossed back in a lazy twist—this seems a likely scenario. The way she leans, it’s like she’s at her own kitchen counter. The way she’s smiling, it’s like she’s catching up with an old friend.

“Please,” he says.

My mother seems unsure. She turns her head for a moment, about to look back again at the growing line of people—now six, maybe seven—behind her, but thinks better of it and returns her attention to the cashier. He drags his eyes away from the place on her chest where her shirt ends and her skin starts. For a moment he looks like he might be about to cry.

“Well, times are tough for all of us,” my mother says.

Cashier Man stares at her. He blinks.

“So… I can’t tell you how grateful I am. My little girl here—” and now she points to me “—she and I, we struggle every damn day to support ourselves and each other. Every cent counts. Every cent really counts. So few folks understand that when it’s not them it’s happening to. You know?”

The cashier guy definitely knows. Minimum wage for long shifts, school assignments, and debt payments. Time stretched out like a decaying rubber band you have to keep plucking on, dreading the day when it finally snaps—but then he has a moment. He seems to replay what he’s heard, and he looks at me. Eyes mostly white.

“That’s your daughter?”

My mother beams. “Looks just like me, doesn’t she?”

My mother, sometimes she’s a super bitch.

“Hey.” I smile. My teeth are whiter than my mother’s. They don’t have any lipstick marks. “Mind if I take some gum?”

I’ve already pocketed a pack, strawberry-flavored, by the time he looks at me.

“S-sure,” he says.

I take another pack. The only one he knows about.

“It’s so important to be kind in this life,” my mother says.

“I thought maybe she was your sister,” Cashier Dude mumbles. He’s trying not to look at me again.

My mother scoops the cash back up off the counter. Bills, coins, the lot. She shoves it all into the pocket of her leather jacket. She picks up the purchases. The items she hasn’t purchased at all.

“Only great people do beautiful things,” she says. She cocks an eye at me, signalling that it’s time to leave.

“But—” the cashier says. “Wait—”

But.

Wait.

Like by the time he dared to say those words, they still had any power at all.

My mother zips up the side pocket of her jacket, packed now with all the cash she’s just re-appropriated. She shoves the milk carton into my hands. She palms the lip balm in his full view.

“God bless you,” she says. “So much.”

I follow her out, and when the door closes behind me I hear a bell jingle inside.

Such a cheerful sound.

The stiff silence of sudden outrage shut behind.

***

“Okay kitten,” my mother says as we speed-walk across the parking lot. “Stay right by me for the next few blocks, okay?”

I wouldn’t know where else to go, but this is something she always says after what she calls a ‘paper-tiger heist’. The famous paper tiger, a cut-out form that fools only the utterly gullible or the absolutely stupid. My mother, she’s not made of paper, though. The tiger in her has teeth. Scarlet-marked and all.

That we’ve just risked a major scene for some milk and crackers, it’s not important. Adrenalin, endorphins, the sweet mayhem-jolt anxiety and excitement make when they swirl into each other. My heart pounds. My throat is swollen with all the giggles I’m keeping trapped down there. Scary as it is right now, it’s also sort of funny. Later it’ll be hilarious.

“Try to look innocent,” she tells me over her shoulder, half-smile, fast-stepping in her heels. I’ve never seen any other woman walk so fast with spikes on her feet. Battered concrete or rough country road, my mother steps like all the world is her linoleum.

The box of crackers slides out from under the clasp of her jacket—it thuds against the concrete and rolls onto a battered side. Probably all shattered in there, now.

“Goddammit,” she mumbles, pausing to snatch the box up, glancing at me through the fall of her hair.

I raise an eye at her, flash her the tube of lubricant, the carton of eggs. I lifted them right out of those tight-clenched baskets while their holders gazed in stunned outrage at my mother’s shining-smile antics. I could’ve swirled these items over my head on the way out, shrieking, and nobody would’ve noticed. Back there, I was that invisible and she was that bright.

“My girl.” She grins.

Without having to try this time, I smile.

I don’t know where we’re going, but she leads us. My momma in her pretty spiked shoes, with her lovely dark lips. Her blonde hair glittering, her silhouette stark as black velvet tossed on tall flames. Like an angel on fire. Like a shadow thrown against the sun.

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Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #12

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Chapter 1

 

Docking the shuttle took all of Zyle’s concentration. This was only his second training flight and he didn’t want to mess up and have to start the course over again.

“Good job, Zyle,” Instructor Handor said. “That was a good flight. I’m surprised how well you’re able to do the maneuvers. Most students don’t master those until they’ve taken the course at least twice.”

“Couldn’t be the extra training my dad makes me take in the simulation capsule, could it?” Zyle asked, laughing. “Not everyone has the military obsessed father I do.”

Instructor Handor snorted. “Yeah, but your ‘military obsessed father’ has done wonders for the Jupiter Mining Base. The JMB was in shambles when he arrived.”

Zyle sighed. “I know, he reminds me of it often.”

Handor laughed. “Well, it was no small accomplishment. He brought scientists and cutting edge technology to what was once just a mining operation. JMB is flourishing with him in charge.”

Zyle shut down the shuttle and removed his training badge, as well as his Datafile-Attachable-Memory stick, from the console of the training shuttle.

Stepping out, Zyle surveyed the dock. There was a large shuttle unloading a new group of students who had come to JMB for the promise of a free education; they offered scholarships in exchange for an internship on one of the research bases, or a spot in the military.

“Yes, indeed,” Zyle said over his shoulder to Handor. “He has brought a lot to JMB. He’s hoping I’ll do the same when he passes the reins.”

“Resigned yourself to it, then, have you?” Handor asked, typing the last of his training notes into the small fiberoptic board he carried.

“I guess,” Zyle said with a shrug. “I don’t really have a choice. He won’t let me go back to Earth to take the courses I want. He’s bound and determined I’ll be a military man like him.”

Handor slapped Zyle on the back as he walked by. “There are worse things you could be.”

Zyle shook his head and retrieved his bag from the shuttle, dropping his DAM-stick and badge into it. Flinging the pack over his shoulder, he headed toward the dock exit, colliding with one of the new students.

“Oh, excuse me,” Zyle said, reaching out to steady the young woman he’d almost knocked down. “I didn’t see you.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she said at the same time.

They both laughed.

“Are you all right?” Zyle asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

Zyle couldn’t help by stare at the young woman. She was short, around five feet tall, with brown hair, and huge, dark brown eyes.

“Um. . . ” the woman said uncomfortably, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “I better get going, before the group leaves and I get lost.”

“Huh?” Zyle asked. “Oh, okay. Sorry, again.”

She giggled and hurried to catch up with the group of new students who would be taken on a tour of the JMB, where they would learn about the base and its operation.

Zyle stepped forward when the door closed behind her and he realized he hadn’t even asked her what her name was.

Slapping himself on the forehead, he made his way out through the exit and looked after the group, hoping to speak with her again. She was at the front of the crowd, right by the guide.

He sighed and turned to go to his dorm room.

Zyle couldn’t think of anything except the woman’s beautiful eyes and sweet smile. Somehow he made it to his room. Pressing his palm to the announcing pad that doubled as an identity scanner, he stepped inside.

“How did the flight go today?” Hex teased. “Hit any rocks? Or did you just blast them out of your way?”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Zyle said to his roommate. “There were no rocks, but if there had been, I would have handled them.”

“Is the simulation capsule anything like the real thing?” Hex asked.

“Close,” Zyle said, stowing his stuff on the shelves above his bunk. “The real thing is more intense. The biggest difference between the simulation capsule and actually flying a shuttle is knowing that if things go wrong you might not come back.”

“See why I took intelligence instead of all that combat stuff?” Hex asked. “This way, I’m safe and sound away from the action.”

Zyle laughed. “Except if you get assigned to a shuttle. Then you’ll have to be in the thick of it and not have any control. I’d rather have some control over the situation, if I have to be in it.”

Hex grunted. “There’s an important message for you.”

Zyle raised his eyebrow at Hex, who seemed to be engrossed in his homework. “Did you read it?”

Hex shrugged, but didn’t look up.

Zyle sat down in front of the fiberoptic panel in the corner of his side of the room and proceeded to check his messages. Most were personal messages from friends, a couple of reminders from classes, but that wasn’t what Hex was referring to. There was one from the correspondence school Zyle had applied to.

He read it, then read it again. They’d denied his enrollment, saying that the in-class assignments were impossible because there wasn’t a literature course available where he was currently going to school. His dream of studying the language, culture, and history he’d come from was officially impossible.

Zyle turned off the panel, got up, and laid down on his bunk with his arms crossed behind his head; he stared up at nothing.

“Sorry, man,” Hex said quietly. “I know you were hoping to at least take a correspondence course.”

“Yeah,” Zyle said.

“Maybe they’ll have a teacher here in a couple of years for literature and then you can take it.”

Zyle didn’t respond. He stood and walked out of the room without a backwards glance. Turning to the right, he walked through the corridors blindly, not caring where he was going. Nothing was working out the way he wanted, but everything seemed to be conspiring against him to align with his father’s will.

Without even realizing it, Zyle wandered down to the next level and into the Fountain Room; it was where he always went to think. The soothing sounds of water helped him relax and cleared his mind when things were bothering him. Today, he needed that peace.

He sat in the corner, where he had a good view of the fountain and of Jupiter. Staring out the window at the planet, he watched lightning flash in the depths of its Great Red Eye. They had always fascinated him – the storms that ravaged the planet – and how Jupiter seemed to remain the same despite the constant changes. Zyle sometimes wished he could harness that peace within the storm and have better control of the things that influenced his life.

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Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #11

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Chapter 1

 

Lilac power-walked with the crock pot held to his chest. It had taken him twenty-three years, but he finally had his concoct. He didn’t know if he would win Grandmother Harry’s Silverbell Soup and Woodworking Award, but this had to be top ten. No. He would win. Had to. It was just that good. Until early this morning, he had never come close to finishing in the top three hundred.

But Lilac had to be careful. The concoct he was carrying was his only successful batch and he was very tired. He’d been up for eight days straight working on this—one slip and it would all be over for another year. Plus there was a werewolf chasing him.

Not a werewolf werewolf, but a soup werewolf. Lilac had heard Baker Call screaming from the apartment across from his. Baker had placed third last year and she was supposed to be entering again this year. Not now, though. As Lilac left his apartment he’d seen her lying in her open doorway, the remnants of what looked like tomato soup splashed on her torn shirt and legs. She had her hands to her face, crying as he’d quietly stepped over her.

Something had smelled like dog in there. Lilac hadn’t waited, but he was pretty sure it had been a soup werewolf. It was the only thing that had made sense, but he hadn’t slowed down to look. That would have allowed the smell of his concoct to waft into her apartment and if the soup werewolf were in there he’d come loping out and would no doubt gobble up Lilac’s dish too.

Lilac would die before he let that happen. He’d rigged enough C-4 to the bottom of his crock pot to take out a city block if anyone ate his concoct.

He wondered a moment if his soup really was good enough this year. Twenty-three years he’d been competing, twenty-three years he’d been losing. Maybe that soup werewolf would take one sniff of his concoct and turn his nose up at it. Lilac had a moment of self-doubt and his legs slowed almost to a stop. That was just slow enough for the polite police.

Officers Tom, Dick, and Nashwant were on his heels before Lilac could turn to see the soup werewolf wasn’t the one behind him. He was simultaneously relieved and frightened because while the polite police were well known for their good manners they were also known for their long spoons. Many a soup competitor had been derailed simply because they’d been eaten down to the dregs before competition. It was nearly impossible to refuse the polite police and suddenly the C-4 strapped to Lilac’s crock pot seemed like not such a good idea.

“G’d e’enin’,” Officer Tom said. Or maybe it had been Officer Dick. It couldn’t have been Officer Nashwant, he had a heavy accent. None of the three men’s lips had actually moved which really wouldn’t have helped Lilac anyway, considering he hadn’t turned to look at any of them. Instead, he held his crock pot closer to his chest, ignoring the intense heat of the ceramic dish as much as he could.

“‘Cha got dere?” one of them asked. It sounded like Tom from the way he was speaking in the key of C and Lilac didn’t like the hungry tone in his voice. Lilac held his crock pot with one hand while he fished into his fanny pack with the other. He found the corn muffin breadsticks he’d baked and began to unwrap the foil they were in. As Lilac walked he broke off pieces and dropped them onto the sidewalk. A moment later the three officers were chewing and smacking their lips.

“What dis eyus? Jalapenos?”

“Yes, and shredded cheese.” Lilac had made the muffins from a Jiffy mix, but had added shredded cheese and bits of jalapeño.

“That was very good,” Officer Nashwant said. It was so hard to understand him. Michigan accents always threw Lilac. “May we escort you to wherever you’re going?”

“No-no. I’m good,” Lilac said. He grabbed the crock pot with both hands and held it away from himself, certain his skin was blistered.

“Would you mind turning around?” Officer Nashwant said.

“I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“Please? Pretty please?”

Lilac slowed, knowing he’d been defeated. Grandmother Harry’s Event Center was only three blocks away and he wasn’t going to get there. The polite police were about to eat his concoct.

He turned around, lowering his eyes to the shoes of the three officers.

“Whachoo carryin’?” Officer Tom said. Lilac had been right, his lips didn’t move. None of their lips moved. All three men looked like they had tiny fists balled up in their mouths.

“Concoct,” Lilac said quietly.

“Oo!” Officer Dick said.

“May we have some?” Officer Nashwant said. All three of them began reaching into their inner pockets for spoons.

“Uh, how about some more breadsticks?” Lilac said.

They shook their heads in unison.

Lilac could feel himself stretching out his arms and couldn’t resist. They’d asked so nicely.

Officer Dick lifted the lid and hovered his nose over the crock pot. “Mmm. Dat dere smells delightful.”

The other two officers nodded in unison as they came closer. Lilac’s heart raced. It was over for another year.

But as their spoons were poised over his crock pot there came a howl. All three officers looked up as if trying to pinpoint where the cry had come from.

Could that have been the soup werewolf? Was he nearby?

Lilac didn’t expect such a creature could save him, but Officer Dick put the lid back on his pot. “Y’ gwan now. Get gon’.”

Lilac wasted no time, turning around and hurrying away. He thought he’d heard the patter of foot pads nearing and wanted to be nowhere near when the officers met with such a hungry creature.

He’d gone no more than five feet when he realized he wasn’t holding his crock pot anymore. Lilac looked at what he had in his hands and saw he was now holding a dog that was roughly the same size and shape of his crock pot.

“Where you going?” The dog asked.

“Grandmother Harry’s,” Lilac said. “Where’s my concoct?”

“The lady took it.”

“What lady?’

“The lady who had the dog.”

“You?”

“I’m no lady. I’m a dog.”

“No, I mean were you the dog the lady had?”

The dog smiled. “Me.”

“Where is she going?”

“Grandmother Harry’s.”

Unafraid of spilling his concoct, Lilac took the dog under one arm and began sprinting down the sidewalk. He had to catch up with this thief before she could present his concoct as hers.

There was a bar ahead and Lilac turned to avoid it but the building moved farther out onto the sidewalk, blocking his path. Lilac turned onto the street as he ran, hoping to maneuver around the building but it hopped over the curb, getting in front of him again.

But the building didn’t know Lilac had taken fourth in track in high school. He ran straight, intending to jig at the last moment, but what he didn’t realize was track had been thirty years ago and he didn’t have the lungs or legs of a sixteen year old.

Lilac tried to cut left at the last moment but his bones gave way and he went down like Joe Frazier being punched off the Golden Gate Bridge by George Foreman with concrete shoes on. The bar lifted Lilac with a steel bollard and pulled him toward the front door where a giant of a man in a full length sarong tucked him under his arm, much like Lilac had done with the dog, and walked back inside.

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Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #10

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Chapter 1

 

My name is Jordan Snow. When I was alive, I had two burning desires. I wanted to be a heart surgeon who healed the sick. And I yearned to have a child with my beautiful wife, Emily. But a freak car accident killed me and one of those dreams.

As I soon found out, the universe had other plans for me. While I still heal people, I am a ghost, and the people I heal are dead. And the silver lining? I’m proud to say my living wife, Emily, is expecting our first child.

I’d say I am rocking my ghost self.

***

Perhaps you have never met a ghost. Neither had I. That is, not until I became one myself.

Like most of my living friends, I had this idea of what would happen when I died. I figured when my time came, I would close my baby blues and fall into eternal rest. Over… done… the end.

I believed in ghosts, but I wasn’t prepared for the possibility of being one myself. No, it never occurred to me I’d end up a ghost, moseying along the sandy roads of the Outer Banks with nothing to do and no one to see. Or that I’d be living a parallel existence to my living life.

When I was alive, if you had asked me the hypothetical question of what I thought being a ghost would be, I would have played along and said it would be loads of fun. I would have figured that I wouldn’t have to work to pay bills and provide a home, so I’d always be full of energy. I’d just choose a place to haunt and maybe, from time to time, move to a new spot. And of course, being at the beach, I’d spend a lot of time there. Say… ghosts can’t get sunburned, right? Anyway, I thought it would be like taking an extended vacation… but as a dead guy.

However, as I have discovered, the dead life is a whole different kind of lifestyle.

My entry into the ghost world began when a freak car accident stole my life from me and left my spirit earthbound. Sounds like a cliché, right? Cool guy, car crash, now a ghost. But it wasn’t quite that like that.

Within less than six hours of my demise, I met my transition angel, Luke. A celestial being eager to teach me the ropes of living the ghost life. On my first dead day, Luke brought me into his community and introduced me to some charming ghosts. I quickly blended in with them, mostly because they were amiable, and they accepted me with open arms.

Those ghosts were Maggie, Elise, and T.L. They had died during the 1800s, so they were stuck in that era. Since I was recently deceased, it was only natural that I teach them about the current world. At the same time, they taught me to enjoy the simple life. They became my people, and I’d like to think I became theirs as well.

It wasn’t long before my dead life shaped up to be pretty darn good. From the people to the learning of new ways, it has been great fun, and I’ve gone on adventures that I never would have experienced in my living life. Yeah, my new dead life rocks… well, most of the time, it rocks, but when I’m missing my wife, it sucks. And when it sucks, it sucks bad.

To help you better relate to the ghost experience, I should tell you that my dead friends and I use some ghost-specific terminology when referring to ourselves and our alive counterparts. For instance, ghosts prefer to be called the Living Dead or LDs. We refer to living folks such as yourself as Breathers. There are other nomenclatures, rules, and such, as you shall see. But don’t worry, you are one of my peeps too now, so I’ll help you along.

Welcome to my continuing ghost love story…

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Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #9

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Chapter 1

 

Jack Henderson was driving home from work when he noticed something was different. At first, he couldn’t place what exactly the difference was, but that it was there. By the time he reached his street the feeling started to turn into dread. Where there were normally children playing and elderly neighbors working in their yards, there was silence – no movement, no sound, no people.

Concern for his wife and daughter caused him to accelerate, and his dark-blue luxury sedan slid sideways with a squeal of tires as he maneuvered into his driveway. He jumped out of the car, leaving it running as he banged his way through the open front door.

“Maggie!” he yelled. “Regan!”

He slid in something slick and wet on the floor of the foyer, falling and landing on his back; the marble tiles almost knocked him out as his head made contact with the hard stone.

Groaning, Jack rolled onto his side and rose up to his knees. He stayed that way for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to remain conscious. When he finally opened his eyes, he instantly wished he hadn’t. The foyer floor was covered in blood and it was now all over him.

Slipping and sliding, he forced himself to his feet, gripping the banister of the stair railing to hold himself upright while the world spun.

“Maggie!” he bellowed again. “Regan! Answer me!”

Silence.

He closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths before letting go of the banister. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at the floor. The world had stopped spinning moments ago, but it began again as his stomach lurched.

Lying on the bottom step was his daughter’s tennis shoe with a bloody bone protruding out of it, pointing into the corner. Blood dripped from the leg to the step and onto the tile of the foyer; strips of muscle and skin hung loosely from the bone, slouching limply against the red, saturated carpet.

Jack bent over as he lost the contents of his stomach, adding color and acidity to the already wet floor. He fell to his knees, and that’s when he saw Regan’s head; it was sitting in the potted fern by the door.

Her eyes were gone, leaving dark hollows where the windows to her soul had once been, and all the flesh was missing from her face. Her cheekbones were still pinkish red from the blood that was trickling down over her small, exposed white teeth to drip into the dark soil beneath her jawbone, which hung at a drunken angle.

Slowly, he crawled over to her, envisioning her beautiful face and her bright smile. Held in his vision of the girl he loved so much, he lifted his hand to caress her hair, but when his hand came in contact with slick, rough skull, he knew the carnage was indeed reality. He cupped the head of his daughter in his hand and drew it close into the crook of his arm – his mind and body were numb with shock and grief.

Jack’s hand absently caressed the top of the bloody skull and his fingers became entangled in the few scraps of scalp and clinging hair that still remained on the bone. With disgust he shook them off, and as they landed in the blood and vomit mixture with a plop, he noticed for the first time that there was a hole in the back and the brains were missing. Around the hole were deep groves that looked like they’d been made with something long and sharp. The only thing his brain could come up with was tooth marks, but he couldn’t think of anything that large with teeth that big. Now curious, he looked over at the leg bone laying a few feet from him; he could clearly see similar grooves on it.

Suddenly, his brain cleared a bit and he remembered his wife. He’d been so shocked at finding the severed pieces of his daughter, he’d forgotten all about her.

“Maggie,” he whispered, and looked around frantically, but he didn’t see any of her laying in the entrance way of their home.

Setting Regan’s skull down on the step beside her leg, Jack stood, slipping slightly but righting himself before he fell again. For a moment he stood undecided, looking up the stairs and then down the hall, wondering which way he should go and what horrors might be awaiting him.

Cautiously, he moved through the rooms on the first floor, but found absolutely nothing else alarming. The backyard looked normal, and he even went half way down the basement steps to check if anyone or anything was down there. Nothing was moved or missing from any of the rooms he searched.

Again he stood at the bottom of the stairs, and tears returned to his eyes as he looked down at the remains of his little girl – she’d only been six years old.

Trudging up the stairs, he gripped the banister once again for balance. As he ascended each step his heart sank lower. There was still no sound coming from anywhere. If his wife was upstairs, he expected her to be dead.

Jack searched all the rooms, ending up in the master bedroom. He was almost surprised to see that the covers of the bed and all of the pillows were shredded – some of them streaked with blood. He examined them more closely and noted there wasn’t enough of the red liquid for it to have been a fatal wound to whomever had been injured – there was a streak here, a small puddle there, but nothing significant. Because of the remains downstairs, he believed the blood to be his wife’s, since there was no other logical explanation. So, it appeared his wife was still alive and was injured. Someone had taken her for some reason he didn’t know or understand, and he didn’t have any idea what to do about it; he felt helpless and lost.

He sat down on the bed, letting his head fall forward into his hands.

In a daze he reached for the handset of the phone, which had been knocked out of its cradle and now lay on the floor – assumedly by the struggle resulting in the appearance of the bed.

His brain was in a fog, but he managed to dial 9-1-1. There was no answer. He frowned down at the phone for a moment and then threw it across the room as hard as he could; a violent shudder ran through him as it shattered the mirror it collided with.

He jumped when a loud booming voice yelled from downstairs.

“Hello? Is anyone here?”

For a split second Jack panicked, thinking he should hide, but he realized he had nothing to lose: his daughter was dead; his wife was missing and could be dead as well for all he knew; and there was no help coming, because he couldn’t even contact emergency services to help. He was alone and broken, and depression was quickly seeping through him, all the way to his bones. . .to his soul.

He stood and walked toward the doorway, stumbling like a drunkard as his head wound pulsed painfully. Once he exited the master bedroom, he went left along the landing hallway and made his way downstairs. Just as he stepped off the last of the stairs into the foyer and turned toward the living room, a burly man appeared in the archway; they both jumped at the site of each other.

The larger man raised a rifle, aiming it at Jack’s face.

“If you’re robbing me, I don’t care,” Jack said with a smirk. “Shit, take everything – it means nothing to me.”

The man opened his mouth, but shut it again, lowering his gun. He looked Jack over; he was quite a sight covered in dried blood and vomit. His gray eyes held a hollow sadness and tears quivered on his dark lashes, but at the same time, his countenance held defiance and strength – his clenched jaw, ridged stance, and harsh tone proved that he was a fighter at heart.

“We aren’t here to rob you,” the burly man said with surprising gentleness. “We came here to see if there were any survivors, and we found you.”

Jack sighed heavily and looked down – the tears finally fell and washed streaks down his face.

“My name’s Ben. Do you have any family? Is there anyone else here? We need to get moving and find somewhere safe. Those. . .things might come back.”

Jack’s head shot up and a berserk desperation replaced his sadness. “Things? What things? Have you seen them? I think whoever was here took my wife!” He darted forward and gripped the front of Ben’s shirt, half dragging the much larger man down to his level. “Tell me, damn you!”

Ben would have laughed at the crazy behavior if it hadn’t been warranted. “Calm down. Calm down. I don’t know exactly what they are yet – I haven’t seen them myself. My daughter caught a glimpse of them before she managed to hide.”

At the word “daughter” Jack groaned and released Ben. Going limp, he slid to the floor, sitting with his back against the door jamb.

“We have to get what supplies we can, and move out. George, there, he has a cabin in the woods we can hide in for a while.”

Jack glanced to the entrance of the house to see a small group of men standing outside. One nodded at him, and Jack assumed he was George. Having been so focused on Ben, he was surprised to see the others.

“What’s going on?” Jack asked, dragging his hands through his blood crusted hair. “I don’t understand any of this. Why do we have to leave? What’s happening? Why aren’t they answering emergency calls?”

Ben sighed and squatted down beside Jack. “We aren’t entirely sure. We can’t reach any emergency personnel. Hank saw something on the news before everything went crazy – he can tell you more than I can.”

He looked outside at the group of men who were milling around the yard, waiting to see what they would be doing next. He scanned them with his eyes, not finding the one he wanted.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Has anyone seen Hank?”

A young man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, stuck his head in through the door.

“He took a small group and went to the next house,” he said. “I guess he figured you had things handled and wanted to check the last few houses before dark.”

Ben nodded. “Thanks, Xavier.”

The young man nodded and ducked back outside after his eyes darted to Jack briefly.

“So,” Ben said. “Are you going to come with us? Or stay here and try to sort things out on your own?”

Jack turned toward the stairs, his eyes falling on what was left of his daughter.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “If nothing else, I want to pay those bastards back for what they did to my little girl.”

Ben followed his line of vision and saw the skull and leg lying on the step. His jaw tightening in contempt for whoever would do such a thing to anyone, much less a child.

“I have some debts to settle with them as well,” Ben said, thinking back to the carnage he’d found in his own home. “Let’s get your daughter buried in the backyard while the guys collect supplies. We’re loading up as many trucks as possible with food and anything else we might need. Oh, I don’t think I caught your name. . .”

“Jack,” he said standing, and nodding. “Jack Henderson.” He walked over and gently lifted what was left of Regan into his arms and carried the pieces out to the backyard without another word. From the shed he retrieved a shovel and started digging.

Ben followed him out, stood his rifle against the privacy fence close to the grave site, and found another shovel in the shed. He too started digging.

The burial didn’t take them long, since there wasn’t much left of the girl.

They stood over the small grave, not saying a word. The clangs and bangs of the men gathering food and supplies from the house echoed out to them.

Jack sighed. “Could I have a minute, please?”

Ben nodded, put his shovel away, collected his rifle, and went back into the house.

Jack knelt down and caressed the loose brown dirt with his hand, tears once again springing to his eyes as a lump formed in his throat. For a few moments he had a difficult time breathing, but finally he was able to speak.

“I know how much you loved to play out here, so I know you’ll be happy to stay. When I think of you, I’ll always remember the sound of your laughter and the sight of the sun shining in your golden hair as you ran and played. I’ll always love you, and I’ll always remember you. I promise that I’ll find Mommy and make sure she’s okay. And I’ll make whoever hurt you suffer for what they did. I love you, Regan. Daddy will always love you.”

Bending forward, Jack rested his forehead on the grave and sobbed.

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Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #8

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Chapter 1

 

Darn Rylace’s Bedchamber and a Bejeweled Sword

The morning her kingdom fell to the dead she sat on her bed with her legs folded under her, while listening to a story she thought would ruin her life. Nothing special was supposed to happen that day, so she wore a common dress for lessons. It was the dead man’s eyes she would remember most as her family and her life were ripped apart.

Princess Darn, third child and first daughter of Rylace – the Regent of Valahark, wished every day for her routine to be disrupted in some dramatic way. She wished it more in the morning, when it would make the most impact on the day, and usually resigned herself by evening to the unwavering pattern of her life as a child of the Regent, a stern and busy man, who served the role of acting ruler of the land, until the return of the Lost King.

She had no more faith in the Lost King’s return than she did in the slightest crack forming in the monotony of her lessons and trainings and duties. The Lost King was dead before she was born, and all his possible heirs with him. Dead people never returned, except in legends or fairy stories. This is what she believed, anyway, and this is what Darn Rylace, Princess of Valahark, wished for every morning right up until the morning the dead and bloodied cook sank his teeth into her second brother’s neck, over the artery.

It was not the most pleasant of days, but before long it wouldn’t be the worst it could get, either. She knew the cook was dead because of the look in his eyes. She had seen death before, even from the shelter of the High Palace. It, death that is, had always been lying down and not moving before the morning the dead rose and invaded the home of the Regent, with routine shattering horror. The eyes were pale and lifeless as they slid about in the cook’s sockets above the deep, dark bite mark gouged into the flesh of the cook’s cheek.

Darn saw the death in the colorless eyes, but she did not understand it. Thomas was droning on about wars and rumors of wars to the east. He said he might get to ride out with a royal diplomatic contingent while their oldest brother, and heir to the Regency, Folerice, visited with his wife’s father in the minor kingdom of Salsteer across the green-blue lake to the southwest they called the Garnett Sea.

Later, Darn would wonder if her niece and nephews went with Folerice on that trip or stayed behind in the palace the day of the dead invasion. She would not wonder this until it was far too late to check. It was probably too late by the time the cook shambled into her bedchamber unannounced.

Thomas rested his hand upon a decorative, bejeweled sword sheathed at his hip. It was a thing to communicate wealth rather than a threat or for practical use in battle. Darn was about to find this out for herself, firsthand.

When she looked into the dead eyes and the bite mark in the cook’s face, she had been ignoring her brother’s words and wondered instead which of them, she or Thomas, would have to marry one of the heirs from the kingdoms to the east once it was time to close out the latest session of wars. If it was Thomas, the new wife would come to live in Valahark.

Darn liked Folerice’s wife, Melody. Melody had been fourteen and Darn twelve at the time of the wedding. Darn was now sixteen. Melody’s wedding was like getting a new sister, only nicer and less boring than her real sisters.

But if it was Darn who had to marry, she would move to a different land and possibly have to learn a new language. The fact that the languages of the east, spoken and written, had seeped into her lessons of late bothered her a great deal. She knew this would be her life eventually, but there was always hope of wars dragging on or other disruptions to routine popping up. Thomas traveling with diplomats did not bode well for her hopes, and this is what she thought about while Thomas bragged, until her room was painted in blood.

There was this other thing, too.

The first four children, including her two older brothers and Phillip, two years younger than her at fourteen, had the same mother as Darn. Their mother was gone now, and her father had remarried for the last three of his children. The East was a place of banishment, and Darn thought surely that must be on Thomas’ mind as well. Even under his coy grin and his dreams of adventure as a prince in a foreign land, he had to think about where their mother might be out there in all this war.

Aldusa was the name of the new Queen Mother, the mother of the youngest prince and princesses. It was a commoner’s name, Darn thought in bitterness. She realized she could not remember her own mother’s name. She used to know it, but she had not thought about it for quite some time. It embarrassed her to admit she had forgotten. She bet that Thomas would remember.

She never had a chance to ask, though, because of the dead cook.

Darn studied anatomy, which she found distasteful and thought of as the business of those who killed for coin and flag, not the sort of thing a princess would ever need – should ever need. She knew the wide passages of arteries in the neck and everywhere else in the bodies of men and women. She therefore knew it was an artery the teeth of the dead cook bit through because of the spray of blood across her linens and walls.

Thomas drew his sword after three tries while the dead cook locked his teeth together on the prince’s neck. The fingernails were incredibly clean and manicured as they dug into Thomas’s tunic. The decorative sword cleared the sheath, finally, with an awkward twist of Thomas’ elbow, as he bent nearly backward in the cook’s grasp.

The point of the rapier-style sword whipped past Darn’s cheek, close enough for her to feel the wind of it and to see a flash of light below her eye along the platinum shaft of the weapon. It shocked her as much as the violence and bloodshed, in what should have been the safety of her bedchamber in the High Palace, so much so that she clapped her hand to her cheek and wiped for blood. Her cheek might have been one of the few surfaces in this corner of her room not splattered at that point.

Thomas kicked one foot, flailed his free arm in the air with his fingers curled into a terrified claw, and swung the sword wildly back over Darn’s bed where she sat on the bloody linens. This time she rolled away, spotting her dress with Thomas’s blood, as the point of the sword slashed through the air where her head had been an instant earlier.

She tried to scramble around the end of the bed and away, but her brother continued to wave his sword blindly. Darn dropped to her knees and dodged another slash. The sword hoisted above her and stabbed downward this time. No time to get away. She rolled underneath the bed instead, and the metal point rang off the flagstone floor of her third story bedchamber.

From under the bed, she watched the blood rain down in thick drops which pearled on the stones. The cook was missing one boot. They shuffled backward, away from Darn’s bed. One bare foot and three boots smeared the droplets in red sweeps through their path. They crashed into her vanity and spilled her implements off the sides. A hand mirror from distant northern lands shattered out of its silver frame. A jar of cream blasted open and splattered the table legs of the vanity. Another container popped its lid, and fine powder dusted the floor in a wide spill and turned to grimy paste where it met the excesses of her brother’s blood.

She looked at the broken glass cover of the mirror between her and the door. She needed shoes. She reached out from under her bed for her slippers, but then stopped. She felt around her sides in the darkness under her bed. In the dust, she found a pair of boots she wore on days of riding or hiking. The servants had neglected their dusting. At least they had not come to her room to chew apart the royal family, as the cook had.

Riding had been a part of her training for a while. The saddle was a relatively new invention within Darn’s lifetime, brought from the North to Valahark through trade, and had been perfected by the tanners and leatherworkers in the kingdom. She never remembered riding without one though. She had boots to match all her personal saddles, even though she seldom rode anywhere except in circles around the palace grounds.

My brother is dying … being eaten … by the cook!

Sewers weren’t that old of an invention, either, for that matter.

Thomas … eaten alive in my bedchamber … while I hide under the bed trying to put on boots.

The High Palace had one of the oldest systems in the world, but the capital city had a sewer system built into the tunnels under the streets within the last couple generations. Darn didn’t like to think about what life must have been like in the days of the Regents who preceded her father.

… back before the cook murdered Thomas while I hid.

Her mind kept trying to go to more mundane musings, as she laced her boots in the cramped space.

Darn finally shook herself out of her muddy shock and cried out, “Guards! Someone?! We’re under attack!”

Thomas’ sword clattered to the floor, but there was no response to the alarm from the princess under her bed. She scrambled out from under the foot of her bed, below the window, with the shutters open to the morning air and light. Her window overlooked the practice yard for the knights and squires. She could see the edges of the city below the keep walls and, on clear days, the fields beyond for several miles. It did not occur to her until much later that she might have called for help from that window or that seeing the entire city in advance of trying to escape might have provided valuable intelligence on the state of the kingdom. However, she did discover most everything she needed to know as she stood and watched the cook finally tear the flesh away from the ravaged side of her brother’s neck.

The cook released Thomas’ body as he chewed. Thomas fell limp and flat into the mess of powder, cream, glass, and blood. The cook leaned down to attack Thomas again as the monster chewed on his mouthful. The cook stopped short though and turned his pale eyes onto the princess.

Those eyes were all wrong. They were animalistic, cold and unthinking. They were the eyes of spreading death and merciless violence. They were empty, but they were hungry.

The cook had rips through his clothing and deep bite marks and wounds under each tear in the cloth. Someone had taken bites out of him before he did the same to Thomas.

The beast of a man stood between her and the door to her bedchamber. She hoped to see guards come crashing in to take down the attacker for her, as they should. She needed to press a cloth or linen to the terrible wound on her brother’s neck. If he stood any chance of surviving, she had to stay the bleeding to give the physicians, healers, and barbers a chance to work. She had to deal with this terrible obstacle herself first, though.

The cook abandoned Thomas and lumbered for the princess. His bare foot kicked Thomas in the shoulder and the cook stumbled. Darn broke for the door, feeling shame mixed with her terror as she decided to try to escape and leave Thomas helpless. The cook regained his footing and grabbed for Darn. She ducked the first grab and backed away from the cook’s side, but also farther from the door. The cook clawed again, and she dodged out of reach. As he came for her, the princess dove and slid on her knees through the mess, toward her vanity and her brother’s body. She grabbed up the sword by its decorative handle and spun around, at the ready.

The cook came fast, with no regard for his safety, and she went for his heart. She clutched the hilt in both hands and drove the point home on the left side of the man’s chest, over the heart. The cook’s own forward motion slid the sword through his chest and heart. He kept coming instead of falling, though. His teeth snapped together, and he grabbed two handfuls of her long brown hair. As she felt the pain in her scalp, she wished she’d had more time to braid her hair up before all this started.

Her back hit the wall, and the cook moved down the sword toward her. His teeth snapped closer to her face. His breath stunk and was cold as winter. Darn braced her forearm against his chest, and then into his throat, to hold him back. He kept opening and closing his jaws, trying to bite her.

She lifted a boot and stomped down against one of his knees to break it back the wrong way. She heard and felt something snap and the cook wavered on his feet, but he did not act as if he felt it nor noticed the new injury.

Darn growled in concert with the cook, in frustration, and dropped her weight suddenly. He still had her hair, but she rolled away anyway and fought through the pain of it. The cook’s face slammed against the wall as he tried to lunge in to bite her. She yanked her hair free of his grasp and pulled the sword out of his chest as she rolled to her feet again.

She tripped on Thomas’ feet and landed on her backside. Her dress was marred at the knees and back now. He grabbed for her, but she rolled away and up to her feet again.

The cook charged with a wild limp from the knee she had cracked for him. Darn sidestepped and gritted her teeth as she slashed the deadly point of the sword across his throat. She did not care for the cook’s life anymore, but she was no killer. He had been a loyal servant before and a kind enough man. She knew he had three or four children down in the city. This treachery was not a mortal kind, bought with coins and lies. He was no assassin by nature. This was some form of madness, and Darn hoped it had not come from the food. Perhaps the bite of an animal, although the scratches and bites on the cook’s back had the half moon shape of human teeth.

This made no sense.

Dawning on her slowly as the cook turned, she realized he had not yet fallen from his open, wounded throat. The skin hung down in flaps, and she could see the cords working within, as the man growled like a sick animal instead of speaking like a human. She stared at the wounds and stared into those horrid, pale eyes. There was no life left in him and yet he refused to fall and be still.

He charged again. She faked toward the door and he turned to meet her. Darn sprinted the other way and around faster than his busted knee would allow him to respond. On his slow turn, she took advantage. Darn stabbed through his back at the level of the left kidney. No barber, and few healers, could save a man from such a wound. Yet, he continued to turn.

She circled about the room to keep his back. She stabbed into the other kidney this time and gritted her teeth again as she prepared to do an uncivilized thing. She whipped the sword while it was planted inside the man, in order to rip a “C” shaped wound on the way out.

One of the squires, a bobbed and straw-haired boy named Jessie, had told her that secret when she asked in passing why the squires carried their tiny knives. The knight training the squires that day had walloped Jessie across the head for speaking in such a way to a princess. Darn’s face had turned red from surprise, and she had left Squire Jessie to the punishment. Her face was red again, but from exertion this time.

The cook finished his turn, unfazed by the fatal wounds to his kidneys. He grabbed at her again. She swept her hair back over her shoulders and backed away as she circled the edge of the room. He lunged, and she stabbed for his liver. She whipped another “C” for good measure. He kept coming. She slashed open his belly. She struck for the heart again, and then both lungs.

He still came for her. Nothing. Nothing would stop him. Those eyes and these wounds … He could not be a man any longer. The eyes were dead, and he continued to attack through every injury. He was some sort of ghoul, set upon her and her family to keep attacking until they were all dead. This was some form of evil magic too powerful for her to overcome alone with no training in war or monsters, and only a decorative sword with which to defend herself in her bloody bedchamber.

She ran around her room, and he was on her again. Darn jumped onto her bed and ran across it in her boots, from headboard to foot. The covers threatened to tangle her feet, but she lifted her boots and pumped her legs until she leapt off the end ahead of the ghoul.

She found herself in a corner, across the room from the exit, as the ghoulish cook stumbled through the light from the window, toward her. As the light reflected off the milky eyes of the creature, she thought that perhaps, if she could not kill a thing which was already dead, maybe she could blind it so that she would be somewhat harder to find.

Darn raised the sword, her hands shaking as she struck for the eyes.

But she missed.

The point met the bridge of the cook’s nose and the shaft bent with the flex in the metal. He grabbed for her again and unhinged his jaw to take a bite. The sword slipped, and the point drove into the tear duct of the cook’s left eye. Her stomach turned at the sight, and she was thankful she had not eaten. The stab would have been deadly to any ordinary man, but she feared it wasn’t enough to even blind a ghoul.

She dropped down and rolled away from the corner before the beast could take hold of her hair again. She tried to bring the sword with her, but it was wedged in the cook’s head and in the corner of the stone walls.

She abandoned it and crawled away, unarmed. Bits of glass bit into the heels of her hands, but Darn hardly noticed as she looked at the body of her brother, unmoving, and the door of her bedchamber, unguarded.

“I can’t stop him,” she whispered, “and I can’t save you. I’m sorry.”

Darn took to her feet and prepared to flee from her room to save herself. She looked over her shoulder to see how close behind the ghoul was. The cook had started to turn, but this time he halted. He fell to his face with the sword still planted in his skull. The weight of his body snapped the sword against the floor. The hilt shattered, and jewels of all sizes tumbled around the mess and gore across her bedchamber floor.

The ghoul went down and moved no more.

“The eyes?” Darn shook her head. Was that the weakness of this species of monster? “The head? … The mind. Wound its brain and mind …”

Her eyes went wide and she ran for her bed. She pulled the ruined linens off her mattress and turned toward her brother. But she was too late to do anything with them to stop his bleeding.

Thomas’ eyes had closed, and his mouth hung open. He lay in an awkward position; all the color had drained from his flesh with his blood. The wound across his neck was broad and ragged. No more blood pumped from the broken artery, which meant his heart had ceased to work. His spirit vacated his body.

“I’m sorry I was no faster, no better, and no more true, Thomas.”

She dropped her linens in a heap and ran from the room. She burst through the door into the passage and cried out, “Guards. Come quickly. We are under attack! Prince Thomas is dead. Help!”

Her voice echoed in both directions and then died against the stone. No hail or cries followed. No footsteps or motion greeted her plea. The walls were as dead as the bodies in the room behind her. She shuddered at the thought and took a few steps further down the passage.

Princess Darn stopped again. “Hello? Anyone? Father? Phillip? Alexander? Stephanie? … Nora? Is anyone still here? Please!”

Something stirred behind her, and there was a crash.

She whipped around to find the other end of the passage still empty. “Whoever is there, come out and show yourself or …”

She had no idea how to end that sentence.

The door to her chamber slammed against the wall, and she cried out in surprise. Thomas reeled out and held onto the wall.

“Thomas?” She took a step toward him.

He lifted his eyes, as pale and lifeless as those of the cook turned ghoul. There was nothing of her brother left in him. No memory of their lives together, or any other thought within his head, except violence and hunger. Those terrible eyes stared at her, and through her, at once.

He staggered toward her and she turned away to run. As she fled ahead of the ghoul now using her brother’s body to chase and attack, Darn wished she had another sword with which to pierce his mind and lay him to rest.

For now, she ran.

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Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #7

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Chapter 1

 

I get paid large sums of money to kill children.

I’ll let that horrific sentence sink in before I tell you what I really do for a living.

More specifically, I move children from horrific situations with parents, guardians, and wicked people and place them with someone who will watch over them. Take care of them. Not want them dead.

How and why do I do this? We’ll get back to the nitty gritty in a bit. For now…

 

“How much money to kill my daughter?”

I frowned and stared at the man. Without an answer, I walked to his office desk and sat down in the guest chair, and motioned for him to join me. I put my satchel on the floor within easy reach.

He took his time, trying to seem casual, walking around his desk and dropping into his chair.

I notice things.

A picture of his daughter was on the filing cabinet to my right. His hands were shaking and he couldn’t make eye contact. He was sweating despite the air turned down low, and when I’d first walked into his office, I noticed his secretary was not at her desk.

John Caruso was one of the big shot lawyers in Philadelphia, but I would be stupid not to do my job and figure out the background of a potential client before we met. This guy had a couple of red flags and I was going to have my due diligence with John before we went any further.

I chuckled without humor and sat up in the chair. “If I’m not mistaken, you just asked me how much to kill your daughter?”

He nodded, his hands on the desk. When he moved his right hand to his phone on the desk he stopped, his hand shaking.

John was wearing a dress shirt. It most likely cost as much as my entire wardrobe. Especially what I was wearing. He was sweating so badly I could see his chest hair through it.

Me? I was calm and casual.

In the movies, the killer is always dressed smartly. Expensive Italian suits. Diamond-studded watch. Shoes like butter and worth the cost of a Porsche.

I was wearing a pair of jeans I’d bought at Wal-Mart, a black t-shirt that came in a pack of three, and boat shoes. Very comfortable, but not butter-comfortable. The most expensive thing I wore was the gold chain and cross around my neck, a gift from my deceased mother.

The pen on this guy’s desk cost more than everything I had on even if you added in the cash from my wallet. I was sure his phone had every app imaginable to mankind and he didn’t worry about his monthly bill.

“Don’t play with me, Mister Aaron. You know exactly why you’re here,” John said. He sat up and his hands stopped shaking.

I knew the look on his face. He thought he had me. This little weasel thought he was back in control.

I turned my head and looked around the room. When I turned back to him he looked confused.

“I need water. Is there any way, before we begin the transaction that will change your life, you can get me a glass of water?” I asked.

“Uh… sure. I have bottled water.”

I smiled and tried to fake warmth for this snake. “Actually, a tall glass of water is better. I don’t even need it cold. I just need a lot of water.” I touched my lips. “I get very thirsty doing this. You understand, right?”

“I have tap water,” he said.

“Perfect.”

John nodded and went out of the office and into his bathroom.

I scooped up his phone and sliced my finger across it, unlocking it quickly. These big shots were all the same: they’d spend thousands of dollars on home security but set their passwords to their computers so an eight year old could crack it, and never put anything safety-wise on their cell phone. I wasn’t tech-savvy at all, but I’d paid a lot of money to learn the tricks I needed to learn over the years. I knew enough to keep me from getting backed into a corner or caught doing something stupid.

I found what I was looking for but didn’t bother doing anything with it. I knew the score now.

John returned with the water and I sat up. I’d put his phone back but made sure it was moved half a foot to the right, away from him.

He noticed it right away and looked like he was about to run.

I put a finger to my lips and stood, taking the glass of water and taking a sip.

John didn’t move.

The side of his mouth twitched when I picked up his cell phone.

“I think we got off to a bad start, Mister Caruso. You mistook me for someone else. Someone bad. I was contacted by a friend of a friend of a friend. This is how this happens and gets me in your office,” I said. I sat back down and put the phone next to my glass of water.

I motioned for him to sit and I picked up my satchel from the floor on my side, keeping eye contact with the lawyer so he didn’t bolt.

“I am selling this and I was told you had money for the purchase,” I said and produced a 1973 Topps Mike Schmidt rookie baseball card, sealed and graded Gem Mint. Perfect 10. “You won’t find this card in a better quality than this. Make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

John looked confused as he stared at the baseball card in my hand.

“I didn’t invite you to my office to buy a damn baseball card,” he said.

I picked up his phone with my free hand.

“Then I’m sorry for wasting your time. I really thought I was here to sell you a Schmidt rookie. I figured since we’re in Philadelphia and you’re obviously a hometown fan, it made sense to me. My bad. I’ll be on my way,” I said and stood, dropping his phone into the glass of water.

John panicked and tried to grab the glass but I pulled it away. I wanted to make sure it stayed in as long as possible. Not that it would do anything other than destroy his expensive phone. It was my own personal screw you to this jerk, who thought he was smarter than I was.

I yanked the phone out and spun it across the room, where it smashed against the wall.

“Oh no, I am so sorry. I will buy you a new phone. Is it broken?” I asked, running to it and accidentally stepping on the screen. It cracked. They didn’t make them like they used to, right?

I could see he was getting pissed and about to say something really stupid. I turned, grabbed his arm, and pulled him to me. When I stared into his eyes he stopped and anger was replaced by fear.

“You got your wires crossed. I sell baseball cards. That’s it. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You want to kill your daughter? I should go to the police, you sick bastard. Anyone who tries to pay someone to have someone killed, especially a child, deserves to die themselves. I hope, someday, you get what you deserve,” I said and pushed him away.

I grabbed my satchel and walked out of his office, slamming the door behind me.

My instincts had saved me again but I was far from in the clear. I knew what was going to happen now.

As soon as I got outside there were lights in my eyes, armed police officers and men in black suits, and I was tossed to the pavement. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last, either.

They searched me, the FBI agent taking the lead disappointed I didn’t have a weapon on me. I knew better. I didn’t even carry a pair of tweezers.

I was put into the back of a squad car without a word and driven away. I didn’t bother telling anyone they’d forgotten to read me my rights. They knew exactly what they were doing.

I’d been in this spot before. A lot worse, in fact. They had nothing on me and I wasn’t going to slip like you saw in bad TV and movies. Not happening.

I enjoyed the ride. I’d flown into Philly so quickly I hadn’t had a chance to see the city. Now, I watched it from the back of a police car.

*   *   *   *   *

It was Reggie Keane again.

Twenty years ago, when I’d first come onto his radar, he was a detective in the NYPD. He’d only been in a few years and was looking to make a name for himself. Since he’d almost nailed me in Spanish Harlem in 1996, he’d had an unhealthy obsession.

I called him Captain Ahab, which drove him nuts. I was his Moby Dick.

Agent Keane spread his stack of files on the table between us, not making eye contact just yet. It was always the same move from him: he’d try to disarm me with a lame look.

As soon as he looked up, going for his best DeNiro, I winked at him. He was flustered, as usual.

“Is there a reason I’m here, with you, again?” I asked. I leaned back in the chair and nodded at the two Philly cops standing near the door. “Am I a threat to you, Reggie? I don’t even carry a weapon. You know all of this.”

I was sure half a dozen FBI cronies were on the other side of the glass, taking notes. I knew most of them by face if not by name after all this time.

I was getting too old for this game, though. Keane was getting desperate. He was probably getting close to retirement age and needed to close the books on me before he got his pension, gold watch and was put out to pasture.

“I have a few questions to ask you,” Reggie said.

“Sure, go ahead. I have a plane to catch in an hour, but I’ll try to help in any way I can,” I said. I didn’t have a plane to catch. I gave him the line every meeting so he could bust my chops for two hours and feel like he’d accomplished something as insignificant as having me miss a plane back to wherever he thought I was going.

After this distraction, I was headed up the road to Manhattan to a sports card show. If he’d done even a bit of homework he would’ve known it.

Keane smiled. So predictable. “I think you’re going to miss your flight… where are you headed now? I have sightings of you in Chicago, San Diego, Atlanta, Boston and Dallas in the last year.”

He didn’t mention Jacksonville or Newark, but he’d made my home in Chicago since our last talk. I’d make a note to have Marisa clear and sell it before the end of the year. What a shame. I was starting to like the summers in Chi-town.

“I am a legitimate businessman. I pay my taxes. I vote. I try to buy U.S. goods when possible. I recycle, too. If you’re trying to shake me down in front of the Philly cops or your buddies in the FBI listening in, forget it.” I smiled and leaned forward. “I told you the last time you tried to get a bribe out of me, and I’ll tell you again: I’m doing nothing wrong, and there are real bad guys out in the world you need to concentrate on. Stop asking me for money. You might need a new job if you can’t seem to get your mortgage paid on time.”

Keane was getting hot and I was enjoying this, but I knew I needed to pull back. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention his cheating wife and the divorce papers signed a few days ago. I knew I was nothing more than a distraction right now. I felt sorry for Reggie, too. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was doing his job and he did it quite well. He’d risen in the FBI ranks like a bullet (pun intended) but I was the obstacle keeping him from the big time.

“I know exactly why you’re in Philadelphia,” Keane said.

“I thought I was selling a Mike Schmidt rookie card.” I turned to the two cops. “You guys get to go to Phillies games? I imagine with how bad the team is they let you in for free, right?”

Both cops tried their best not to snicker.

Keane opened a folder he’d had his hands on as if it would make for a dramatic move and I’d tremble in my seat.

He pulled the top page from it and smiled. “You know what this is?”

“All the cases you never solved because you’re too busy with me?”

“No,” Keane said and his voice cracked. I had him. “This is a thread we pulled off a message board three days ago. Mr. Caruso was talking to a Mr. Aaron, who set terms to kill his daughter at quarter of a million dollars. Does this ring a bell?”

“I know who Caruso is. The lawyer who flaked out when he saw how gem mint the Schmidt card was. I have no idea who Aaron is. Maybe another lawyer in his firm?”

I made a mental note to have Marisa wipe the message board clean. It was no longer safe. If Keane was smart he wouldn’t have tipped his hand he had finally cracked the outdated means of communication between me and the evil in the world.

At the halfway point between forty and fifty, I wasn’t tech savvy. I despised computers and only had a cell phone because I needed it for my life. It was an online world we lived in.

Back in the last part of the previous century I thought I had a firm grasp on technology. As I got older and the computers got smaller and smarter, I got lost. It was the same with music and TV and everything else. I freely admitted it. Marisa, who was still technically a teenager, spent most of her day wired on coffee and wired to the internet, making my job that much easier.

I needed to give the kid a raise.

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating. Should I get a lawyer?” I asked, knowing as soon as you mention a lawyer, the Feds and cops shut up.

Keane grinned. “I know a good lawyer. John Caruso. You just met him. He wants his daughter dead. Remember?”

Ahh. This wasn’t a sting to catch me specifically. They’d been watching this idiot as he tried unsuccessfully to get his daughter killed. It probably hadn’t been a trap until Keane got his mitts on the operation. He’d swooped in when he thought he’d finally get me. Instead of Caruso hiring a couple of undercover cops, who would simply arrest him, Keane had wired him for sound and given him a deal: help the FBI and they’d help you.

“Killing kids is a horrible thing. Hiring someone to do it is even worse,” I said.

“How do you mean?” Keane asked, flipping through the papers in the folder.

“If you want someone dead, especially a family member, step up and do it yourself. You’re an asshole for wanting to have someone dead to begin with, but your own kid? And you don’t have the balls to do it yourself? I don’t know what I just walked into in that law office but if you need me as a witness I’d be happy to help the FBI. He asked me point-blank if I wanted to kill his daughter for him. I thought I misunderstood,” I said.

Keane stood and closed his file without showing me another page and more of his weak hand. He aimed a finger in my direction and I grinned when both cops took a step forward. This wasn’t practiced or planned. Keane was going off-script and I’d gotten under his skin. Again.

“Don’t think for a second you’re fooling anyone. I know all of your aliases: Jones, Smoltz, Cox, Murphy, Spahn, Maddux, Niekro, Maddux, Glavine, Robinson and now Aaron. I don’t know if they’re random names or what, but I’m going to find out and take you down,” Keane said.

“Uh, sir…” one of the police officers, a guy in his late twenties, put up his hand like he was in school. When Keane didn’t bother asking him why he was interrupting but looked at the man, he got the hint to keep talking. “I know all those names. Baseball names, sir. If I’m not mistaken, they all played for the Atlanta Braves.”

The cop looked at me, expecting me to answer.

“Not only are they all Braves, but I believe they are all players that had their numbers retired by the great franchise,” I said. I looked at Keane and grinned. “I grew up in Atlanta, which I’m sure you knew. A simple Google search of the names would’ve gotten you this far.”

Keane smiled. “I got you.”

“I fail to see how me knowing about my favorite team makes me a criminal. If knowing sports is a crime, I’m guessing the cop here should go to prison for figuring out a bunch of names.” I stood up. “Unless you’re arresting me for something, I need to catch a flight. I’m not staying for coffee. If you ask me another question I’m going to lawyer up and not say another word.”

“I know your name is James Gaffney. Your home address is listed in Atlanta. You do pay all your taxes on time and your side business of sports cards is rather lucrative. Hell, if you went legit and stuck to selling baseball cards you’d be a rich man,” Keane said.

“I am a rich man because I sell baseball cards and nothing else,” I said.

“Why have you killed all of these children?” Keane asked, dumping his folder on the table. Pictures of crime scenes spilled to the floor, but not one of them contained an actual body.

Like I said, I help these kids.

“I need to see my lawyer,” I said and sat down. “I also need a cup of horrible Philadelphia coffee. Any chance Geno’s is still open for a cheese steak sandwich?”

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Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #6

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Chapter 1

 

It’s been dark for an hour and I’m the first one up. Usually am. I stare at the ceiling and pretend I’m somewhere else, pretend it’s all been a dream. It took about a week to get used to staying up all night, sleeping all day. We rarely get to bed before noon. That’s Doc’s doing. Nobody wants to rape a girl in broad daylight, the sun spotlighting their sin.

I turn on the lamp next to my bed and look over at the top of the stairs, where Doc puts our food. The same empty plates sit there, stacked and licked clean. It’s been like this for days. Not a crumb in sight. Being hungry is one thing, but when food is the highlight of your day, the days slow down and stretch into something tortuous, maddening. If it weren’t for Alex and Kammie, I’d have taken a broken bulb to my wrist months ago.

Doc is punishing us. Alex had bitten a guy’s neck. The guy went to Doc, demanded his money back, bitching about what the hell is he gonna tell his wife about the marks on his neck. He doesn’t know how lucky he is she didn’t rip his throat out. Not that she’s done it before, but she would. She’d love to.

“You asshole!” I yell. It wakes Alex, stirs Kammie.

Alex peeks at the stairs with a makeup-filled eye, sees the empty plates. She kicks off the bed sheets in a fit, lets out a little whine. She’s still in her fishnets. Of the three of us, she’s the only one who doesn’t mind the clothes Doc gives her. The black skirts, the leather, the Bettie Page bangs. Everything is black, goth and punk and speaks volumes about her rebelliousness. Her punk rock mentality. Whether the anarchist in her is from something else or brought on by too many years under Doc’s thumb, I don’t know. But it fits, and I envy it.

I look at Kammie. Her back is to us, her finger tracing something on the wall. Probably a flower. It’s all she ever draws. Her nightgown is covered in them. So are her sheets, drawn in multi-colored markers. I think she does it to remind herself she’s a girl. Doc dresses her as a boy, her hair kept short. She has no figure yet, not at nine. And it pacifies the clients looking for a young boy, but without feeling gay. I guess that little detail helps them sleep at night.

I head down the attic stairs with weak legs and stand on the bottom step. The door is locked. Always. I hit the door with the flat of my hand. “Let’s go, Doc!  We get it, alright!?”

I listen. Nothing. I head back upstairs.

Alex is sitting on the bed, lacing her boots. “This shit stops now,” she says. “What we’ve always talked about doing but never have? We’re doing it. The second Doc shows his face.”

She’s talking about killing him.

Kammie sticks her thumb in her mouth and looks through the barred window at the beach below. The moon licks the incoming waves. Stars on a black liquid canvas. It’s a million miles away. She rocks on her heels, knees bent to her chin. Her nightgown is stretched tight, hiding her pencil legs. She hasn’t said a word since I’ve been here. Alex said she used to talk, too much even. But when Doc was ready to use her, she never spoke again. Alex said the last words she ever said were, “I love you, too,” as she was led out of the room, holding Doc’s hand. Alex’s pillowcase is covered with the stain of mascara and eyeliner from that night. She said she’s never cried so much in her life. And now Kammie spends her time near the window with her fern, a potted plant.

“Maybe he’s not coming back,” I say. “Maybe he’s done with us.”

“No. He’s pulled this shit before. You weren’t here yet.”

“He starved you guys?”

“No, just me.”

“What’d you do?”

“Scratched the shit out of somebody. He was tearing me up, Stac.”

I don’t know what to say. I’ve only been here a year, been through my own hell. But not like Alex. Not like Kammie.

I stare at the shag carpet in our room. Dark yellow and matted, stained where I vomited once. It was my first time and a client made me drink too much wine. I was a virgin until that night.

I hate calling them clients. The word gives a false perception that I willingly provide a service. I have no will here. They’re not my clients. They’re Doc’s. They’re my demons, my living scars, my bane, and the subject of every murderous thought I have.

“I’m worried about Kam,” I say.

“She’ll be fine once we’re outta here.”

The room feels claustrophobic, something I thought I’d get used to but haven’t. There’s a single window in the room, covered by bars. Behind the bars is plexiglass painted white, with little scratches in the paint. Kammie did it with her fingernail, scratching in a flower with petals you can look through and see the beach. Alex said there used to be three other windows, but Doc covered them years ago with brick, then drywall.

Alex eyes the room. I know she’s looking for a weapon. She really does mean to kill him. The room is empty of all but books, our beds, and two small lamps. We have no dressers. No closets. When a change of clothes is needed, Doc brings them up based on the client’s preference. School girl uniforms being the most popular for me, sometimes an elegant gown when Doc tries to lady me up. I don’t look seventeen when I’m done up and in those dresses. I guess that’s the idea.

“What if we don’t kill him? What if we just break out?” I ask.

Murder. Other than daydreaming about it, I don’t think I have it in me. Even under the circumstances.

“What the hell, Stacia? If we could do that, I would have done it ten years ago.”

“I can’t kill someone.”

“Doc’s a piece of shit. He deserves it. Besides, it’s what vampires do.”

That’s her thing. Vampires. In some twisted way I think that’s how she copes, pretending to have blood lust, avoiding sunlight, immortality. All that. I let her carry on with the facade. Never argued with her over it. If it keeps her from losing her shit, slicing her wrists, so be it.

“Get your shoes.”

I look at my side of the room. There are two pairs of high heels in the corner. One red, one black. It’s all I have. Alex sees them.

“Never mind,” she says. “Come on.” She grabs my hand and heads for the stairs. “We’ll get him up here, then I’ll push him down the stairs. With any luck, the asshole will break his neck.”

I look at the stairs. They’re steep, wooden. If he falls, he’s not getting back up. We head down the stairs. Alex sits on the bottom step and pats it, inviting me next to her.

“We’ll sit here and kick the door.”

“No way we can break it down.”

“We just need his attention. At the count of three, kick it with both feet, like this.” Alex rests her arms on the stair behind her, grips it, then lifts her legs. “Ready? One…two…three!”

I’m fatigued from no food, and my barefooted kick is weak against the door. But Alex’s boots make up the difference, and the kick thunders through the house. The step behind me is hard against my back, and I feel it on my spine. I’ve lost more weight, I can tell.

“Doc! Something’s wrong with Kammie! She’s having a seizure!” Alex screams, kicks the door again. Then we run up the stairs and wait at the top.

“Hold on.” Alex says. She runs and fetches one of the lamps. “If he doesn’t fall, swing this at his head.”

She hands me the lamp. The murder weapon.

“Got it?”

I nod and put the lamp behind my back.

We can hear the pound of Doc’s feet heading up to the second floor and toward the attic door, then keys. The door has four separate locks. We’ve counted, hoping one day he’d forget to lock them. But Doc is too careful.

The sound of each lock opening is barbed wire in my stomach. Alex grinds her teeth.

The door opens.

Doc stands there in his silk pajamas, burgundy. They barely fit him and shimmer in the hallway light. A bloated kidney bean dipped in oil. His hair is slicked back against his giant head, a gun at his side. He never comes up without it. He points it at us and says, “What the hell is goin’ on?”

“Hurry! She’s dying!” Alex yells.

He heads up the attic stairs, never taking his eyes off us. Gun pointed. The stairs scream under his weight. Doc is huge. I’m guessing 350. If Alex means to push him, she’ll have to shove hard. I don’t think she can do it. She can’t be more than 110 herself. He’ll shove back and fire the gun. This is a bad idea.

“What in God’s name?” He’s winded, holding tight to the handrail. I can hear Alex breathing heavier. She’s growling, quietly. Doc nears the top, and Alex’s growl escalates into a full shriek. She lunges for him. A feral cat onto an unsuspecting dog. She wraps her legs around him and the gun goes off. The bullet hits the wall behind me, and Alex buries her face in Doc’s thick neck, ripping at his throat. Her thumbs find the new wound and split the fat skin, widening the gouge.

I scream for her to stop, not really meaning it. Kammie runs to me, holding the fern against her chest, her thumb in mouth.

Doc howls as blood sprays the walls, sprays us. His knees buckle and he drops, tumbling down the steps and taking Alex with him. I drop the lamp and scream for Alex. Doc’s huge body rolls over her, crushing her against the steps. But she holds on and is on top of him by the time they land. He’s not moving anymore, other than the jiggle of his cheeks as she pulls the flesh from his neck with her teeth. It’s savage. Animalistic. And I hold Kammie against me, shielding her eyes and covering her ears, while Alex drinks from the man’s neck.

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Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #5

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The material (chapter) in this post is copyrighted by the author and may not be used or copied in any way without the author’s permission.

 

Chapter 1

 

My circumstances tend to change in a moment. It has happened all my life. Everything seems to be going fine and steady, then…change. Immediate and life altering change. I didn’t realize that change was coming for me again. All I felt was a rush of anger at the warm slide of a hand across my left butt cheek. I shifted away from the man sitting at my booth in the little all-night diner in the heart of Manhattan where I worked and forced an air of calm along with a half-smile. I couldn’t pull off a full one, as even I’m not that great of an actor.

There was nothing exciting or memorable about him. He wore a tired end of the day, wrinkled dark blue suit, with a white and blue striped tie yanked loose to dangle down the front of his white buttoned-up shirt. His face was pale. His eyes were muddy. The brown was dark and intense on my body, which made him creepy. There’s nothing new there. Anyone in the diner at one in the morning tends to hit high on my creepy meter.

I held the fresh, hot pot of coffee aloft and said with as big a smile as I could muster, “More coffee? It’s hot and fresh from the maker.”

That was the whole reason I’d come over to his booth in the first place, as I’d seen him empty his cup a moment before. I needed the tip money, otherwise the moment his hand touched me, I’d have upended the coffee over his stupid, balding head. Why me? Why did I always get the pervs?

“That’d be great, darling,” he said, and again looked me up and down, hesitating a real long time on my boobs.

I tried to calm the rising emotion in my chest, but there was a small part of me that wanted to let it free and make him sorry. How many girls and women had his filthy hands groped? How many people young and old had he made feel dirty? Oh, yeah, there was a big part of me that wanted to freeze the life out of him. But I didn’t. I held my smile and poured his cup full to the top with steaming hot coffee.

He immediately lifted the hot cup to his lips and sipped. “Shit!” He slammed the cup back down on the table.

I saw it slosh over the rim and onto his hand, burning it, along with his mouth.

He jerked back and cursed a bit more, all the while flapping his dripping hand around.

One drop hit me in the cheek. It was cool by that point, but the idea of him winging the liquid around without care or caution ramped up my annoyance even more.

I decided I couldn’t help myself. As if to steady the cup, I reached for it and blew a soft breath on the liquid as well as the cup. If he’d been paying attention he might have noticed the misty fog that came out along with my breath, but even if he’d been watching, I doubted it. I was careful.

No, I shouldn’t have done it, but it was my own passive aggressive way of getting even. It wouldn’t hurt him. It would simply confuse and annoy him. I set the cup back on its saucer, handed him a few more napkins, turned, and headed to the back of the diner and out of his sight.

He mumbled at my back the whole way.

I said a sad goodbye to the tip I wasn’t going to get. He would blame me for the hot coffee incident, even though I’d warned him it was hot.

I passed through the double swinging door as I heard him say more to himself than to anyone, “What the hell?”

I smiled at the soft clink as the frozen cube of coffee that had been in the man’s cup landed on the saucer when he evidently tried to pour it out. It was a juvenile prank, but it was funny. I should have at least iced his grubby hand, but I didn’t want to draw attention. It all came down to that. I needed to be a shadow. I didn’t need attention of any type.

I shouldn’t have done anything at all. What if he told someone his steaming cup of hot coffee suddenly and inexplicably turned to ice in a moment’s time? Would anyone believe him? Would he realize I’d done it? I didn’t think so. I mean people freezing coffee in an instant, that wasn’t real, right? Not to the normal human population, it wasn’t. But then again, I wasn’t one of your normal human populaces.

“Hey, Nancy,” I said to the other waitress in the back.

She was more than a waitress. She was like the night manager, only without the title and the money that should have gone with it. The owner was more than tight-fisted. He was a greedy bastard. There were days I wondered why I stayed. Then I would remind myself I stayed because he was also an absent bastard. He didn’t ask questions and paid me under the table. I took my hourly fee and tips out of the till each night, and no one knew about me on paper. It was a necessary evil in my shadowy life.

Nancy was a perk. She was older, maybe fortyish? I never asked. It seemed rude. She had taken on a mothering role the first night I worked and now, almost nine months later, she hadn’t slacked off a bit. In fact, she was getting worse each day.

“Nora, love, why are you still here? You should have clocked out half an hour ago.”

“I know, but I was waiting for the guy out there to leave.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll save your tip for you. You better get a move on. The last train is at two.”

“I doubt I’ll be getting a tip from that one,” I said snidely.

She was right about the train though. If I missed the last train, I’d be walking about ten blocks to get home, in the darkness of the middle of the night. Not a good idea in Manhattan, even for me. Seriously.

Nancy didn’t ask why I wasn’t getting a tip. She and I both knew the type that came in at night. They were either truckers that would tip gloriously or they were stingy businessmen that didn’t tip at all. I found it funny, the men with more gave less and the men with less gave more. You’d think it would be the other way around.

“Be careful,” she said.

I looked up at her and smiled as I reached under the counter to grab my backpack. “I will.”

Nancy sighed. “Did you eat? I don’t remember you eating.”

“I ate,” I said as I pulled a grey beanie hat on my head down to my ears. I swung my pack over my shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

I headed to the back door and heard Nancy yell, “By the way, I love your new hair!”

“Thanks,” I yelled back.

My natural hair color was white. I don’t mean light blonde, I mean white, like old person ready for the grave white. It had always been that way. At least as far as I could remember anyway. I wasn’t albino or anything like that, but my hair caused me to stand out, which I wasn’t a huge fan of. A few years back I’d started coloring it black. Black suited my mood. However, this last time, I’d had them cut it short, pixie cut short, and add purple stripes and highlights. It was awesome. It was a bit of an attention grabber, but I liked it all the same. Anything was better than the white.

“See you tomorrow, Chuck,” I said to the cook as he sat in the very back of the diner by the delivery door, which was where I was heading to exit.

“Night, Nora. You back tomorrow?”

“As usual.”

“Got your mace?”

I smiled. I didn’t need mace. I could take care of myself very nicely, but they didn’t need to know that. So, I lied. “Yep.” I patted my pack and said, “It’s in the bag.”

He gave me an upward nod of his head and went back to the book he was reading. Chuck may be a simple cook, but he read more than most scholars I knew. I asked him once why he was a cook and not one of the snooty business types. His answer shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did.

He’d said: “I get to read here most nights. I doubt in the uppity up world I’d get to do that. Besides, there isn’t any stress, the pay keeps me with a roof over my head, and I get to see you. What more is there?”

What more, indeed.

“Night,” I said.

He didn’t reply, and I hadn’t really expected him to.

I skipped out the door into the humid July heat. I’d been chilly in the diner, but outside I was instantly hot. I turned the corner around the diner and headed toward the front, just in time to see the perv from inside come out as well. I rolled my eyes as I put my head down and tried to pretend I didn’t know him. No such luck for me.

“Hey, gorgeous! How’s that for timing?”

The timing sucked for me, actually. I tried to step around him without comment, until he put his hand on my arm and stopped me. I could have yelled out, but I didn’t want to worry Nancy and I didn’t want to bother Chuck.

So instead, I said quietly, but firmly, “Let go. Now.”

“What? I’m just being friendly. I thought we could go get a drink and get to know one another better.”

“I’m nineteen. I can’t get a drink,” I said. I would have said more, but he cut me off.

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll buy you whatever you want. It won’t cost you a penny.”

Yeah, it would cost me more than money. My self-respect for one thing.

“No. Thanks.” I pulled my arm in the hope he would release me.

He didn’t. Instead of letting go, he tightened his grip and drew me in closer. “Don’t be like that.”

The grip on my arm was getting painful, and I moved from annoyed to a little uneasy. Being angry was always better. Anger kept fear at bay. I hadn’t been able to get to real anger before fear had wiggled its way in. My body went cold under my clothes.

“Uh-oh,” I whispered to myself.

“Uh-oh, what?” He leaned in and pressed his nose against my hat directly above my ear. “You smell really nice.”

Since I’d been at a greasy diner for eight hours, I doubted it. I tried to tamp down on the fear building inside me. I stepped back and yanked as hard as I could. My arm snapped out of his grip and unexpectedly slapped back into my chest, knocking me off balance. I back-pedaled quickly and regained my stance a few steps away from him.

“Leave me alone.”

“What’s wrong with you? I offered you a drink and you’re being a bitch.”

Name calling. How lovely. The night was getting better and better. “I don’t want a drink.”

“Screw you then,” he said as he turned and stalked away from me, but not before tossing over his shoulder, “I didn’t leave you a tip.”

“Shocker!” I yelled out after him.

Then, without thinking and without my brain’s permission, I snapped my arm out and pointed it toward his feet. I breathed in slow and deep as I pushed the air out from the tips of my fingers toward the spot under his heel as it landed on the wet sidewalk.

I watched ice form where liquid once was. The black heel of his dress shoe hit perfectly on that slick ice spot and his leg shot out from under him, kicking his other leg up as well. He fell on the ground with a thud, on his back. His breath shot out of his lungs with a whoosh and his head snapped back and cracked on the cement.

I turned and walked away, my laughter echoing off the sides of the buildings around us. I didn’t check to see if he was okay. I didn’t care if he knocked himself unconscious on the sidewalk. He was a jerk and he’d gotten what he deserved. I felt no remorse. I felt no guilt. I did feel a little worried, as I hadn’t used the ice in a while. Then in the span of an hour, I’d used it twice. Revenge was fun, but it was dangerous.

I hustled to the train station and, thankfully, even if just barely, made the train out.

~ * ~

I arrived at the old apartment building where I live just after two thirty a.m. The area wasn’t good. The sidewalks were covered in trash, both loose and bagged. Rats were a common occurrence along with roaches. I climbed the stairs to the door, opened the pitiful lock, and went inside. If anyone really wanted to get in, a two-year-old could pick it.

I checked my mailbox and found nothing. Good. I never got mail, although I checked it every day. Sometimes I got sales ads for the resident, but never by name. Mail was a bad thing. It meant someone knew where I was. So, yeah, no mail was good news.

I went up to my apartment, let myself in, and dropped my pack by the door before turning and locking it behind me. I flipped on the ceiling light and checked around. It looked to be exactly as I’d left it. Empty. Clean, but empty, except for a single air mattress made up nicely in the corner and one crate that held a few changes of clothing. That was it. That was all I needed.

There was no point to possessions when…if I had to run, all I could take was what I could carry. Although I was strong, I couldn’t carry much for a long haul.

I flopped down on the bed. My body was tired, but my brain was awake. I kicked off my shoes before padding back over to where I’d dropped my pack. I dug through the belly of the bag and pulled out a worn paperback I’d stolen from the library. I say stolen, because I didn’t exactly have a library card. I didn’t keep the books I took though. I always returned them. I could call it borrowing, but borrowing tends to imply permission, which I didn’t have and didn’t plan on getting.

I plopped back on my bed and decided to read until I got tired enough to sleep. It took longer than I’d hoped. It was dawn, the sun barely peeking up over the horizon when I finally drifted off.

~ * ~

I woke as night fell over the city. I took a quick shower and got ready for another exciting night at the diner. Thank goodness I worked, because when I looked in my small refrigerator, it was running on empty but for a handful of soy sauce packets and what looked like an old sub sandwich. How long had that been in there?

I made up my bed, put my toiletries back in my pack, and left the small space to make the trip to the diner. That was my life. Work and sleep and work and sleep. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was mine. No one owned me. No one controlled me. It was a great life if I remembered that.

~ * ~

I swung my way into the diner with a flourish. “Hey!” I said to Nancy and Chuck as I stashed my pack under the counter.

“Well, you’re in a good mood,” Nancy said. Then she glanced at the clock. “And a bit early for your shift.”

“Hungry. I haven’t had time to go to the grocery.”

“Surprise,” Chuck barked from the back.

I couldn’t help the smile that blossomed on my face. They knew me well. They weren’t real family, but they were kind of like family all the same.

“It’s a good thing I brought in leftovers then. Dean made sure to make extra for you,” Nancy said, and went to grab a food container from the big fridge by the grill.

“That’s ‘cause Dean likes me,” I said to Nancy’s back. Nancy’s husband was just as bad as Nancy with trying to fatten me up. I loved them for it.

“What is it?” I eyed the container as she stuck it in the microwave.

“He had a fancy name for it, but I call it pasta and white garlic sauce with peppers and mushrooms. It’s good.”

“Mmm, sounds really good.”

“It tastes even better. Well, it did when it was fresh. I hope the microwave doesn’t ruin it.”

That wasn’t an idle hope. The diner microwave was ancient. I swear the thing was built before I was born. It tended to burn and crisp food before cooking it through. We didn’t even try to microwave popcorn in there. I’m pretty sure it would have been engulfed in flames before it was done.

God was on my side for once, as the pasta came out edible and as Nancy had predicted, it was good. I told them about my encounter with the customer from last night. I made sure to embellish the funny parts, so they wouldn’t worry. I kept the ice parts and the scary parts secret, to keep them safe.

“I don’t like you walking to the train alone,” Nancy said.

“I agree,” Chuck added in his two cents.

“I told the story to make you guys laugh,” I said.

“It’s not funny. You have to be careful. You aren’t some big guy that’s safe out there. You have to be aware and you can’t put yourself in situations where you’re going to be hurt or worse.”

I’d had the same discussion a time or twelve with Nancy and Chuck, and seriously, it always annoyed me. Why was it my job to make sure some guy didn’t hurt me or rape me? Why wasn’t it the job of the guys to just not do it? Why was society so concerned with teaching girls how not to get hurt, instead of teaching the boys not to hurt? I sighed. Did I want to get into it with them again? No, not really.

“You know, I woke up today in a pretty decent mood and now I’m getting a headache.”

Nancy sighed right back at me and said, “I’m not trying to upset you or give you a headache. I worry. I can’t help it. You’re like one of my own kids. You scare me.”

Nancy didn’t actually have any children. Not that she hadn’t wanted them or tried. As she once told me, “It wasn’t in the cards.” She would have made a great mom. It wasn’t as if I really knew what a great mom was, but Nancy would have been one.

“I’m sorry I scare you.”

I wasn’t sorry about the night before, I handled it. I didn’t see what the big deal was. But I didn’t want Nancy to be upset and I didn’t want her to worry. She always started asking questions when she worried. I don’t do questions.

“What if something happened to you? I wouldn’t even know where to look for you.”

“Um,” I said, as I knew where that line of discussion was going.

“You should at least give me an address. I could check in on you. What if you get sick? What if you’re hurt? You could be trapped in your place for days and no one would be able to find you.”

“Nancy.”

“Don’t Nancy me. I mean it.”

The pain in my head was moving from a soft barely there, ache, to a building thumping pain. I rubbed my forehead and said, “Don’t. You know I’m uncomfortable with it.”

“But why?”

“Because!” I started to say more, but suddenly the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up at attention. A chill slithered down my back. I spun around to look out the front windows. I didn’t see anything. Or I couldn’t see anything. The windows were a bit foggy around the edges thanks to the over air-conditioned diner. The night was closing in and the front sidewalk lights hadn’t clicked on yet. I could make out a few people walking past the front, but other than that, there was nothing I could see that would account for my sudden and complete anxiety.

“What is it?” Chuck asked and stood up to look over me at the windows too.

“I don’t know.”

I didn’t, not really, not for certain anyway. There was a small kernel of knowledge I didn’t want to hear. My brain was stuck in a loop screaming: “Not again, not again!” It could have been someone staring into the diner that set off my senses. I couldn’t really kid myself, though, even if I wanted to. That same part of me that didn’t want to believe, knew what the warning sign was.

They’d found me. Again. It had taken them nine months to do it, but they’d found me. I could only blame myself, because I’d used the ice the day before, twice. That didn’t quite make sense though, as how could they find me that fast? It was just the night before. They couldn’t have. Could they? I wasn’t so certain.

I pasted a smile on my face and said, “I don’t know. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m a little off today.” I pointed at my head. “My head is making me paranoid. Come on, let’s get to work.” I picked up my empty plate and took it to the sink. I stood there a moment and breathed in deep a few times to settle my heart and my wavy emotions.

I tied on an apron, grabbed a pen from the stash in the back with an order pad, and got to work. I needed as many tips as I could get, more than ever.

The night went by fast, too fast. It was one in the morning, time for me to head home for the night. I got my shift money and cashed out my tips then pulled my pack from under the counter.

“Well, that’s it for me today.” I needed to leave as if nothing was wrong.

“See you tomorrow. You be careful tonight. Promise me. I don’t want to worry about you all night long.”

Impulsively, I stepped over to Nancy and gave her a tight hug. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. I promise.”

Nancy placed gentle hands on my shoulders and pushed me back enough to look at my face. “What’s wrong?” It was part question and part demand.

I wanted to tell her everything was wrong. That was reason number one as to why I didn’t form attachments. I knew better than to care about anyone. I needed to disappear without anyone remembering me. I’d made a mistake though. I did care. I would miss Nancy and Chuck and the stinky diner, and I would miss the nights spent with people who actually gave a damn if I lived or died.

I took her hands in mine. Both of us had hard, working hands. There were calluses and lines from the abuses of life. I looked from our hands up into her eyes and made a decision. I didn’t want her to get hurt, and I didn’t want her to worry enough that she might mistakenly give me away. I had to give her something more than me vanishing into the night.

“I’m…” Even knowing I needed to protect her, I hesitated. Was giving her knowledge protecting her or putting her in more danger? I tried again. “I’m leaving, Nancy. I won’t be back.”

“What? Wait, why? What’s happened?”

I didn’t answer her questions. Instead, I clouded the waters even more.

“Listen. If anyone comes asking questions about me, don’t lie, but don’t tell them anything important. Don’t tell them what I look like. Don’t tell them anything descriptive.”

“Who are you running from, Nora?”

“I can’t tell you. They’re dangerous and you should know they’ve killed people trying to get to me.”

“Why?” she whispered the word. Apparently, she was finally understanding the danger I was sharing with her.

I wasn’t hysterical or crazy. I was quiet and firm in what I said.

I shouldn’t have told her. I knew that, but I needed to tell someone. I needed someone to know I was here and real.

“I’m not what you think.”

“You don’t know what I think.”

“I know you think I’m some runaway regular girl. I’m not, Nancy.”

Her hands were still held in mine. I breathed in a deep and full breath then without giving myself time to change my mind, I blew out a foggy stream of air over the top of her head. Her brown hair turned white and firm with frost. I watched her face as she dropped one of my hands and touched her newly frozen hair.

Her face didn’t contort with fear or revulsion as I expected. A smile of wonderment bloomed instead. “How did you…?”

“They want me, because of what I can do.” I whispered the words to her.

I saw her lovely smile fall from her face as my words sank in.

“You’re an experiment?”

“Yes. One gone wrong, but maybe also right at the same time. They want me as a weapon. I don’t want to be used to hurt people. I don’t want to be used for money. I won’t be used for power.”

She grabbed my hands again, tightly this time, and said, “You can stay with me. We’ll keep you safe. Don’t leave.”

I shook my head. “I can’t stay. They’ve found me and I’m a danger to anyone around me. They don’t care who they hurt or kill as long as they get me. I wish I could stay with you, Nancy.” My nostrils suddenly burned, and I felt tears fill my eyes. I’m not the crying sort. I’m not really the emotional type at all, so this took me by surprise. “I have to go. I can’t stay and see you hurt because of me.”

I let go of her hands I’d continued to hold simply for the connection. I didn’t want to leave. That was true. Nancy was the first person I’d let in behind my wall in years.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nora,” she said and reached out to me again.

I ignored the hand and the connection it represented. I turned to go, tossing over my shoulder as I headed out the door, “Don’t forget what I said. You don’t know me.”

The diner door swung shut behind me. When I was certain she wouldn’t hear me, I added, “I’ll miss you.”

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Blind Date A Book 2020 – Book #4

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The material (chapter) in this post is copyrighted by the author and may not be used or copied in any way without the author’s permission.

 

Chapter 1

 

In case you’re wondering, my name is Stanley Hockenschmidt.  First name’s English.  Last name’s German.  Good ole All American boy.  I write this stuff to keep my hard-earned sanity.  That’s a full time job.  I tormented all the people who cared about me, for a long time.  I’m not proud of it, it’s just a fact.  I’d like the world to know some of the story from my perspective.

Jay was one of my neighbors. I’d known him since he was a little kid.  I was in high school with his big brother, Paul.  Paul and I were friends and we were in Scouts together too.  Jay was quite a bit younger than his brother.  Paul and I would ride around partying.  When we were still kids, Paul made a remark about my not having a father at Scouts one night.  I wanted to crown him, royally.  I’d still like to, come to think of it.

Paul knew my dad left us, but he didn’t have to make a big announcement about it in Scouts in front of everybody, like I was some kind of bastard.  He didn’t have to say anything about it, but he did.  The remark still bothers me sometimes.  I let it go best I could, that is, after I screamed obscenities at him when he said it.  I got in trouble for cussing him too.

Like an idiot, I hung out with Paul while he was around because they lived just up the street from me.  Their house was just across Gilbert, on the main drag.  I could walk there easily in all kinds of weather and did.  Jay and Paul were always there in those days.  There just wasn’t anybody else nearby to hang out with.   To hang with any of my other buddies, I needed a bicycle or a car.

Paul moved to the Southwest somewhere, near an older brother.   Jay was in high school by then and he and I were hanging out after Paul left town.  We’d walk up and down the hill, a quaint little country road, going to a hay field off to the left, descending the hill toward the crick.

We’d go down the road to the hay field and blaze up.  On the way back I’d get all paranoid about nothing.  I told him repeatedly, all the way back up the hill to the world, we’re going to get busted for jaywalking.  He’d just repeat it, “I’m jaywalking, alright. I’m Jay, walking.”

It was an irony I could not grasp.  We were out on some back road in the sticks, for Christ’s sake.  There was never any traffic.  Once in a blue moon, you’d see a car.   I wouldn’t shut up about it and I think I got on his nerves.  I’m kind of sorry about it whenever I think of it.  Lol.

We also went to an old wood and rock fort next door to my aunt’s house.  It was back in the woods, behind old Ellie and Tom’s place.  I used to cut their grass when I was younger.  Ellie and I were good buddies when I was in school.  Mother, auntie, Ellie and Tom, all knew we were going back there to blaze up, but what could they do about it?  We were adults.  I led a life charmed with the clout of whom my family happened to be, as far as the law was concerned and the major part of it was because auntie really was somebody in that town.  She was actually one for the history books.  My aunt always told me to leave the neighborhood boys alone, because I was corrupting their bad habits, but I wouldn’t heed to her.  I couldn’t think straight because I wasn’t straight.  I couldn’t add anything to anything and make sense in those days.  I wish it wasn’t so.

It was my connection to Jay that led to my meeting Smithy and his crowd at the apartments.  They were all still in high school.  We hung out at Smithy’s.  I got the bright idea one day to walk right into school and find them.  Why not?  I was always hanging out with them.  It was time to ride around looking for a bag of weed.  They didn’t care I was in my mid-to-late twenties and I didn’t care either.  I’d gone to school there and graduated with honors.  I felt like I had the right to be there, but the vice principal didn’t agree.  He kept telling me I couldn’t come in there.  I gave up and left, but it continued to bother me.

Later, I realized I could have gotten in a lot of trouble for hanging out with all those kids.  There was a whole passel of them and some other guy whose name I forgot.  I’d load up my car with those kids, get some beer, a bag of weed, maybe a bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple and do some DWI action.  The MADD mothers weren’t very powerful yet, not enough the cops pulled young people over for partying in a car.  At least, they never pulled me over.  Seems like I was always intoxicated and it never stopped me from driving.  My car was frequently banged up and there were an awful lot of times I parked in the bushes at home, missing the parking spot in the turn-around by a half mile.  I’d been riding around with all those kids half the night, regularly.

I hardly ever worked a job in those days.  Unemployed a lot I have a chemical imbalance in my blood and have always had trouble holding down a job.  So I’d tempt fate unknowingly and hang out with all those kids all the time.

One summer I was at the swimming pool at the apartments.  Robin was just coming out of the pool to walk home, in her two piece.  I escorted her home.  Don’t get me wrong. Robin was another man’s girl, and she was just a skinny kid.  She and I were friends though and that day I needed a friend.  I was talking to her while she was walking kind of fast.  I suggested we sit on the grass and talk.  I wanted to get her attention and she wanted to know what was up.  We sat next to the apartments.

I told her I was thinking about killing myself.  She reached out and took hold of my forearms with her bony little hands and said, “I want you to listen very carefully to me, Stanley Hockenschmidt.  I think you are one of the nicest, sweetest, kindest, gentlest men I have ever met.  If I ever hear that you’ve taken your own life, I’m going to cry for a long time.  Do you understand me?”  There was moisture in her eyes and she emphasized each word.

We were both upset.  The gravity of what I said hit me suddenly.  I didn’t think I was any of those things Robin said I was.  I thought I was a terrible monster and should be exterminated.  I had this paralyzing concept of myself throughout my twenties.  Whenever my brother came home to visit, he’d remind me how horrible I was, compared to him.  He was always self-righteous and squeaky clean.  He didn’t smoke or drink and never cussed, but he’d chew me out and put me down, until I wanted to slug him one.

I succumb to my desire to slug him once.  Woody was getting out of his car at the bank drop-box.  He’d been chewing me out the whole the way up the street, so I punched him in the kidney.  Woody wheeled around with the money bag and hit me in the teeth with it.  He broke one of my two front teeth with it.  The dentist never let me live it down, either.

Woody had some kind of resentment against my brother Richard and me, from childhood.   He was such a nerd.  He’d usually act like he didn’t care what people thought of him.  He tore me down so much I felt like dying.  It’s partly why I tried to kill myself twice.  I had a lot of thoughts I didn’t like to think, much less dig them up in print now.  I was at the point I was telling that stuff to the people on the hot-line, and everywhere else.  I began assassinating the efficacy of my own character, publicly.  I was the worst guy on the planet.

I don’t know why I got such an awful impression of myself.  The fact that I was a drug addict and dropped out of university easily could have contributed to that self-image.  Instead of shining all over my hometown like the noon day sun, I knew I’d failed.  Everyone else knew it too.  People frequently said how talented and intelligent I was, but all I felt was failure.

I’m the sort of fellow who wouldn’t kill a fly, gentle as I am, but I believed I was the worst of the worthless, throughout my twenties.  This belief stopped me cold.  I couldn’t get anything done.

One night, in the wee hours, I was up suffering with myself, talking to the hot-line, a lot of self-destructive crap and they called 911.  I asked the cops to take me to jail.  My aunt’s friend was the sheriff and his deputies were dispatched to auntie’s.  Mom and auntie woke from the hubbub in the front hall. I was still begging the cops to take me to jail, but they refused.  Go figure.

Mom and auntie asked what the heck I thought I was doing.  They informed the sheriff they were taking care of me.  The officers just plain left without me.  I still feel bad about that sometimes, knowing I embarrassed Mother and auntie so badly.  What a stunt to pull in the home where I grew up!  Mom said, “You wouldn’t act like that if Richard was home.”  She was rightly.

Once, Robin was in my car, along with some of the guys.  We were getting pretty drunk on beer or getting high and Robin said she had to pee.  I got paranoid, not wanting to stop in obvious places along the back roads.  Robin started to cry.

Eugene said, “Why not right here?”

So I stopped.  I figured Robin needed to go really bad and I better let her out.  It was a country road, after all.  There wasn’t any traffic anywhere.  I don’t know why I didn’t stop sooner when she asked.  Don’t know if she wet herself.  Felt bad about the incident later too.  I have a rather consistent pattern of beating myself up in life.

My life was increasingly coming apart.  I was ready to jump out of my skin whenever there wasn’t any weed to smoke.  I needed the stuff like I needed air.  I had a bad case of reefer madness.  I’d already been to the state hospital too much and sometimes I wanted to go back.

***

Two young couples moved in across the street from Jay’s, in an old apartment house across the street.  None of them seemed to have jobs.  Jay and I started partying over there, with their wives and babies around.  I’ve forgotten their names.  One day, Jay and one of them woke me up from a nap on the couch at home, and invited me over to party.  Who ever came around to include me in on anything?  There was another guy who was going to get some reefer, and he’d be right back.  They wanted me around when the guy got back with the reefer.  Yea, right.  Nobody ever acted that way around me.  No one was ever interested in being around me, back when I was getting loaded, and I knew it.  It was suspicious behavior, but I didn’t catch on.  I just got my jacket and walked out with them and went over to the apartment to wait till the guy got back with the weed.  I had no clue.  I walked home with Jay, after we got loaded.  We were going somewhere in my car.  Mom and auntie were standing in the middle of the front yard, yelling at me that we’d been robbed.

One of the apartment dwellers broke into my aunt’s house and stole a substantial amount of Aunt Ruby’s stuff.  He’d entered through the screened-in porch, gone through the dining room door, and ransacked the house.  A detective came and questioned me.  He wanted to know who I hung out with, where they lived, and all that.  I didn’t want to go to jail, so I cooperated.  He didn’t seem to care what I was doing.  He only wanted to know about all my buddies.  I gave him names and whereabouts.  I told him all about those guys, friend or foe.

***

When my brother Rick was engaged to Karen, there were people closer to my age around home. Karen worked at 7/11.  I dropped in to see her at work fairly often.  She was always nice to me.  Talking to me in the cooler, she put drinks away.  Karen asked me what I planned to do the rest of my life.  She sensed my desperation.  I didn’t have an answer for her.  I had no idea what I was going to do about anything.  She scarcely needed me to tell her.  She already knew.

I lived with mom and auntie, collected a disability check, wasted it on substance abuse.  I had no clue about what I was going to do with life.  None.  I was as lost as lost gets.

Sometime later, I was hanging around with Rick and Karen.  They were still trying to help me.  They took me to Bible classes and private worship in their friends’ house.  I took the study course, though it wasn’t accredited.  It was as intense as if it were accredited.  I started to get my life back together, somewhat.  I learned a lot about the Bible, began praying and established some trust in God.  It was as though I’d awakened from a nightmare, at twenty eight years old, after a lifetime.

I went over and took a walk with Smithy’s mom one afternoon.  Sharing what I’d found in God and that I was getting away from drugs.  She wished her son could do it, said she knew what the kids and I’d been doing.

“But what can I do?” Smithy’s mother asked.

I talked to her seriously and was in my right mind.  As far as my thinking went, it was the difference between being high and straight, an equivalent to night and day.  Smithy’s mother seemed to understand what I was saying about being straight, and how hard it was.  I wasn’t smoking anymore, but I was drinking.  It was beyond me that I wasn’t totally straight yet.   I didn’t learn the whole crux of the matter until much later.  I had more trouble to go through before I figured sobriety out.  I can’t help but wonder how I ever survived.

I was kicked out of the house where the Bible study was being held and couldn’t attend any of the worship there anymore.  I don’t understand what was wrong.  It seemed I was always getting kicked out of places.  I was just different.  Only had a couple beers now and then.  I don’t get it.

Headed straight to Smithy’s place, like I’d always done.  When I got there, it looked like the devil himself kicked in Smithy’s front door.  I was scared, but I walked in anyway.  Smithy was just sitting in the living room, like he always did.  I hadn’t been there for a while because I’d found Jesus.  Smithy had a little weed, a little dust, whatnot.  I got a little of it, so wasted I could hardly walk.  Couldn’t find my car in the parking lot.

“Did the cops kick in your door?  Are you and your mom okay?” I asked him, wondering what in hell had happened to them.

“Some drunk guy wanted to see my mom. He kicked in the door.  No one got hurt,” Smithy replied calmly.  How he could be calm was beyond me.

There I was back to partying with Smithy.  All of a sudden, it occurred to me my clothes were awfully loud.   I had started dressing that way when I went to Bible classes.  I looked like some kind of dandy.  I wanted to just change back to normal duds and vegetate in my aunt’s basement.  The whole world should beat it and leave me alone.

I left Smithy’s and tried to drive home, but the great granddaddy of bottle necks was on the road, blocking my way home.  I sat there for hours and there was no way to get home.  I’d lived in that town most of my life, knew every road in the whole darned county.  All I could think to do was sit there and wait for traffic to move.  A few hours later, I learned there was a bad accident at the main corner, just ahead at the traffic light.  I was too high to think of any way around it, so there I sat, waiting for the mess to clear up.  Once again, I was clueless as ever.

I was convicted of my own iniquity by myself and by God too.  I’d slapped God in the face.  When I finally got home, my mom and aunt were both in very bad moods.  They wanted to fight with me about everything and anything.  I tried to play them off and go to my room in the basement.  My ploy didn’t work.   Auntie was in the kitchen yelling at me.

Suddenly, she said, “Stanley Hockenschmidt, what are you planning to do with that knife?”

I was flabbergasted.  “What?”

I looked down and sure enough, there was a steak knife in my hand.  I don’t remember picking it up, getting it out of the drawer, or anything.  I was seriously out of it.

“Well, I guess I’ll just put it back in the drawer here, okay?” I said, mystified by my subconscious actions.  Geez.

The next day, my aunt kicked me out of the house. She took me to the city in her fancy, comfortable car.  Auntie saw to it I had a little room to stay in.  It was the beginning of a period of starvation, and being in a bad way constantly.  I don’t want to think about it.  Mom and auntie saw me get totally sober eventually and I stayed that way.  It redeemed me in their eyes, I think.  They saw me take hold of life and turn myself around, before they passed.  I am doing alright, like I always wanted.  I’m so grateful I was able to be that in their eyes – and for myself too, since I still live sober.

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