An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen - Part 3

I've been promising it for weeks now and here it is...the third and final installment of my monumental Chapter Thirteen...


Everything about this place felt familiar. The road; there was something about it; something. The sound, as his filthy 91’ Cutless tore up the gravel beneath her bald tires. The landscape. On either side of him, trees––mostly bare, but strangely reminiscent of…something… He’d been in the area a few times. Perhaps that was it. But never on this road. Had he?
About a half a mile up, he saw squad cars; two of them; one marked and one not. Something about them called back to his reckless days on the Brooklyn beat. He and partner, Colin McKee took a high-speed chase, (more like joyride), across The Long Island Expressway and four city blocks. They must have cost the city thousands in damage that day; not to mention countless endangered lives. Still, it was fun as Hell. Good times…
“What, no welcome-wagon?” he muttered, rolling up toward the foot of the clearing. Not a soul to greet him; he almost took it personal. Somehow, he’d grown accustomed to her big bubbly eyes hanging on his every move. Good old Fiorentine. Only a matter of time, he thought, mischievously. Down, boy. Been there. Done that. The company ink and so forth. Besides. The girl was just a contingency. ‘In Case of Extreme Horniness Break Glass.’ There were plenty of other fish in this shallow pond.
Take Cynthia, for example; a wet dream wrapped in a tight little package. It nearly killed him to go so slow with her. The way she moved; the way she smelled––even after a good sweat––especially…drove him into a certified frenzy. These days, the sweat came easy. That fancy new cell phone wasn’t the only added accessory to his evolving bachelorhood.
The weeks after Bluemont were like a bold new awakening; unleashing a whole host of budding passions; like sushi, which she introduced him to; (just something about raw flesh), but easily, the most surprising––was his morning run regimen.
He was amazed how effective a little activity could be in the morning to clear the mind and expel the toxins. Hell, he was down a full two cups of coffee.
At last he stepped out of the car and took a proper look around: Shesh, what a depressing spot…and began walking…
Yes, he heard it, or rather, sensed; in that inexplicable way an animal perceived danger. But he was trying not to listen. What was there to fear, after all…from one’s own mind…? Plenty… la, la, la, not listening…
In the distance he heard footsteps. “Who’s there?” A voice barked from the trees.
“At ease, Lieutenant.” The chiseled frame of Lieutenant Estes emerged; his uniform filthy, as were his hands, which looked as though they’d been in the dirt, digging…
“Detective Merrimac. I’m sorry, sir, I thought––”
“Understandable. Where’s Fiorentine?” Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could swear he saw something in the sturdy Latino’s typically-stern stare, right at her name. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear it was something ugly.
“She’s up ahead, sir. Looks like we’re hot on a trail, of sorts; some faint tracks in the dirt. Simmons and Windell are on sweep...”
“You do know there are wild animals in these woods...”
“Yes, sir, well aware.” he said, trying to hide the resentment. “I grew up around here.” Keith smiled.
“Very well. Let’s have a look.” Estes nodded and started back into the trees.
More deja-vu. It seemed to intensify with every crunch forward. Perhaps he had been through these parts, he considered. It was possible. He’d lived in Maplewood long enough to have driven roads, absorbed landscape, and have no specific memory of having done so. Things like that were known to happen. But there was no way––not one chance in holy Hell he’d ever walked this trail before…
“Sir?” Estes was waiting––and Keith was, for some reason, stopped. “Something wrong?”
“No,” he replied, hoarse. “Just a feeling,” he finished, desperate to save face. “Let’s keep moving…” Estes shook his thinning head, almost undetectable…but not quite. Snot-nosed little spic––oughta’a string him up by his greasy brown–– “Would-you-SHUT-UP!?” he snapped at thin air––and looked around…
The trees seemed normal enough. But something was out there. Estes was staring at him like Nurse Ratched at the end of Cuckoo’s Nest––right before the lobotomy. “I, ah…didn’t say––”
“I know that, I…look, can we just get on with it?”
*
The olive-skinned lieutenant took a moment to snap himself out of this Abbott and Costello nightmare. “Yes, sir. It’s…not much further...” It had to be one of the longest conversations they’d ever shared––and to Estes, hands down the strangest.
*
A few dozen yards up, Lisa Fiorentine uncovered two more possible footprints. Within her sight, Sergeants Bill Simmons and Amara Windell were sweeping the scene.
“Sir!” Simmons called anxiously. Fiorentine was startled and, for a split second, looked sharply around for a male superior.
“You’ve got something?” She adjusted.
“Yes, sir, I think so,” he said, panting from just the short trek up the hill.
The woman stood up strait and grabbed another digital shot of the murky trail. It was strange in a way. The unmistakable sense of satisfaction she felt every time another print revealed itself in the semi-frozen mud. Or some small piece of garbage, thought discarded by careless teenagers, turned out to have possible significance. These were all little pieces to a most horrific puzzle; one a small part of her wished never to solve.
Still, it was kind of exhilarating…
As a youngster in Sacramento, while all the other girls played Barbies or My Little Pony, Lisa was hard on the case of some manufactured mystery; (usually more Nancy Drew than Silence of the Lambs). Her insatiable dissatisfaction often proved useful, at any rate, (if not a shade unnerving). But then, so was the guilt; treating another’s misfortune like some sort of game. One feeling held her back, while the other pushed her forward. Together, they kept her sane.
“What’s this?” she asked, and again came the high of another step closer. The marks were subtle; and to the untrained eye, nothing more than the whims of Mother Nature. But there was something else about them. Something almost…organized…
“I wasn’t sure at first. Hell, I’m still not sure...must have looked this spot over a half a dozen times before I noticed the pattern.” Fiorentine looked closer. She saw it too. “As I’m sure you can guess, sir, it’s consistent with…well with, um…”
“With being dragged…” she finished; then looked off into a particularly dense portion of the woods. “So where do you suppose it leads…?”
*
“Windell!” The middle-aged woman marking the scene looked up to her fellow crusaders. “I want you and Simmons to follow this trail…” ordered the girl, little more than a child. “Get some equipment together...”
“Yes, sir,” she said, unsure of herself. In this new era of CSI: Maplewood, no able-bodied officer was expendable. Amara Windell had spent the majority of her twenty-nine years behind a desk, and well-suited to every predictable minute. Now, all of a sudden, she was out in the thick of things, scouring potential crime scenes for evidence of foul play with officers, in some cases, half her age. Her oldest daughter had more years on this girl giving the orders…
On her way to the squad car, she brushed by the young Estes, escorting the real star of this show. “Good morning, Detective Merrimac,” she greeted without stopping.
“Almost didn’t recognize you, Windell, with all that fire in your eyes...” Windell smiled. What a charmer.
*
“Detective Merrimac! Glad you could make it.”
“Makes two of us, hon…” Fiorentine turned up to metaphorically scratch her head––then laughed politely. Did he just call her––? “Time’s money, Sergeant, what’s say we sink our teeth in,” he said; before muttering something inconspicuous under his breath…
Lisa looked quizzically at Estes who simply shrugged. What he said sounded faintly derogatory, but she couldn’t be certain. It almost looked as though he were arguing with…himself… “Sir, are you alr––?”
“What is that, the million dollar question today? I’m wonderful, now let’s get this show on the goddamned road...”
For nearly a half hour, she meticulously went over all evidence accumulated, beginning with the clear eyeglass lens, which they must have missed a dozen times before she finally came within a snake’s tail of stepping on and smashing to pieces. The detective eyed it, glib, as though its chance recovery was barely worth the effort. Coming from anyone else, she might have taken it personally; but his simple indifference only made her more eager. Above all else, (even more than to see justice done), she so desperately wanted to impress this man; for whom she had developed complex, and very deep feelings––
“I know that, by itself, this doesn’t look like much, Keith––” She stopped herself. Keith however, didn’t seem to mind, smiling that charming smile, which melted so many women before her. Out of the corner of her eye, Estes looked like he was going to be sick. “But…Lieutenant Estes here has also uncovered footprints, we believe…”
*
Keith looked sharply at the statuesque officer to his left. In return, he received one of the coldest, most disciplined scowls he’d ever been shot. He thinks I’m a threat, he thought; and it was him; not some dark spot at the foot of his psyche. Only one Captain of this ship, he thought––again, more sure of himself…and started to walk...

agreed

Food for Thought…

Something downright strange was going on. (conclusion the third).
Perry couldn’t put his finger on it. Perry had no fingers. He did have thoughts, though. Powerful ones. No, that wasn’t the word for it. There was no word for it.
This vessel was one stubborn little bugger. Much moreso than the last. Night and day, for those hell-bent on metaphor. But it was no mere question of comparison. Nothing so simple as then versus now… Two sides. Same coin.
How can this be…? This was…borderline insubordination. Un-fucking-acceptable–– Still, the question was valid. This vessel was strong. No matter––he’d run across stronger. But what about the fear? The doubt? The lingering resistance…?
Fuck the fear. Screw the doubt. And as for resistance…
‘The Resistance must be squashed! It must be identified, sought out, and crushed for all time, under the crippling weight of its own inefficiency!’
A promising mantra, (which sounded much better in Spanish).
Perry had confidence––a creature such as he went forth armed in perpetual supply. Nothing could touch the ineffable quality he possessed. Not of this world. Or the next. Nor the thousand thereafter. However atypical the dramas of recent events, this vessel was of no consequence. Just a blip on the radar. No more. No less.
So what if it were the first ‘blip’ of its kind…the first he had ever seen in a very, very long time...?
*
“This is it,” said Simmons assuredly. “Nothing beyond this point.”
“It can’t be.” It all looked the same; trees every which way––for miles... “How can this be it?” Windell added after an extended silence. Simmons had no answer. He seemed just as puzzled, and as painfully out of his element as his exhausted compatriot. Eyes, ears and manpower. That was all they really amounted to in this new, post-Pollack age. And neither one had much of either.
Windell especially, who, after nearly three hours on her feet in the blazing sun over unforgiving ground, looked about ready to drop. Still, she tried; like a woman ten years younger and with far more field-experience. The last thing she wanted to appear, after all, was obsolete. “Maybe he got wise and took more pains to cover them up.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Simmons entertained. “But why not go back; you know, to cover it all?” He might have been a good deal younger than the plucky grandmother of two, but he sweated just as profusely. On top of that, his right knee was killing him––and not just from the labor. At his current rate, he might not make it to fifty. “Guess we should call in the cavalry,” he said, expecting––and hoping she would agree. “Can’t follow a trail where none exists...”
“Guess not…” she concurred––though not quite committal. He could see she wanted to find something––and could sort of see why. When all this was over, she would likely be thanked for her contribution––however inadequate––and shuffled back to Police Headquarters where she would spend the remainder of her days making coffee, typing reports and answering phones…rain, sleet, snow or shine––getting nothing but old.
“Careful––” he called, noticing her slowly get shorter…then looked down at her boot, where the earth was up to her swollen ankle, and still rising…
“Oh my!” she blurted, embarrassed.
“Here.” He stuck out his stubby hand and pulled her out gently…
“Something must’ve been digging around here,” she said, back on solid ground. “An animal, like a fox, or a…” Simmons looked up.
“You still wanna call for help?” The look on her face showed gathering courage. What a find it would be. What a feather in their caps. Did they dare hold off on the reinforcements? Did they dare go it alone? Windell grabbed at the two-piece shovel and handed it over without a word. Simmons began to dig.
*
Estes kept his distance; watching the pair go over markings in the half-frozen dirt. For anyone else; Davies perhaps––he’d have been right there with them, on his hands and knees to explain every minor detail. He was not, by nature, a man ruled by ego––but he was a man, nonetheless, and tempted to take credit for what was largely his discovery. All the same, he resisted; crouched on a rotting stump with a half-eaten ham sandwich.
There was a moment there––perhaps even two or three––where he could swear Merrimac was not even listening. Fiorentine babbled; on and on with nary a breath between as she pointed to one set of tracks versus another, desperate for his faint nods of interest, or the occasional ‘mm-hm’ to will her forward. But something in his eyes, when he had not noticed anyone watching, suggested a disturbing vacancy. The lights were on, but purely for effect. In that brief interval, no one appeared to be home.
It began with their clumsy eye-contact out by the clearing, before he and his little groupie went to pat each other’s backs. The veteran detective had given him a deep, hostile look that sent a cold shiver down his impeccably-aligned spine. A look that said, ‘don’t cross me, boy. If you know what’s good for you.’ Estes was hardly intimidated; but somewhat unsettled––
It was becoming harder and harder for him to deny; to others, not quite so much, but to himself, the façade was damn-near broken down. It might not have been so bad, he thought, taking another token bite of his sandwich, if it were anyone else but her.
Without realizing, he was up on his feet; the sandwich thrown to the ground in disgust––or was it frustration? And, before he could reign it in, all eyes were on him––
“I’m going for a walk,” he said, as though unaffected. Fiorentine looked on with puzzled bemusement. Merrimac came off a shade more smug.
“Something the matter, Lieutenant?” he asked. And Estes held his tongue.
“No, sir,” he replied, without turning his head. “It just seems you two have things well in hand around here. I thought I’d go check on our roving trackers...”
“Sounds like a good idea,” offered the smarmy detective. Fiorentine added nothing. “Just don’t get lost out there.” Again with that arrogant smirk; (like a finger jammed down his throat). Estes returned the empty gesture with a painted-on grin, flashed for both their benefit, then turned to head off.
“Now where were we, my dear?” He could still hear them, edging out of earshot. Good. Those two could have one another, he thought, dragging his mind out of the gutter and on to more pressing matters. He reached for his mic-phone and called Simmons––
“Go ahead, Lieutenant...” getting Windell instead––
“Where’s Simmons?” he asked, crass. “I thought this was his phone…”
“Yes, sir, it is,” she replied. “Simmons is a little busy at the moment…”
Whatever. “How goes the trail-blazing, Sergeant?”
“Actually, sir, the trail’s run cold.” There was a shaky hesitation in her usually-pleasant delivery. “However,” it continued, “it seems we may have uncovered an even stronger leg to stand on…so to speak…sir…” Lieutenant Estes stopped dead in his tracks, (which also happened to coincide with the faint lines in the thawing dirt).
“Don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate.”
“Well, sir, I could but…it might be better if you saw for yourself...”
“I’m en route,” he said, strides getting longer. “The others are, um…otherwise engaged…”
“Acknowledged. Windell out.” The spring had returned to his sturdy step. At last; something worthy of his expertise––and authority. An air of responsibility; of duty washed over him, clearing all else away. This day might not turn out so bad after all.
*
“So what do you make of it?” she asked, just dying to know. Keith knelt down beside her. Her sweet scent was pleasant; inviting in a playful, non-committal sort of way. But when mixed with that thin layer of forest and sweat…intoxicating…
“Looks pretty solid,” he commended, stealing a glimpse of her firm backside. “But not quite a closed case, Lisa…if you follow...” Right away, she turned her pretty head; perhaps a little over-anxious to acknowledge his unusual familiarity.
“Did I say something wrong, Sergeant?”
“You called me Lisa,” she said, smiling bashful. “I’m just wondering if you hit your head recently.” Keith returned the shy smile.
*
Though his was more polished. She’d seen the smile before, which tended to present itself whenever he turned on the charm; usually in the company of a lady. Christ! She was the lady. Could this be happening? Surely not. It was just her imagination taking her to places reality dare not permit. On the other hand, maybe that birthday wish had finally kicked in. Stranger things had happened. Stranger things were happening…
*
“Some things are long overdue,” he said, eyes penetrating…
“Careful, sir. The ground is starting to melt.”
“That’s not all, I hope...”
“Where, um…where was I?” She cleared her throat awkwardly and zeroed in on the nearest footprint. “I, ah…I mean if I had to guess, I’d say this was made from a…tennis shoe, judging by the pattern the sole makes. Most notably here…” She pointed toward the top-right, around where the balls of the foot dug in most prominent––
“I disagree.” His stare remained unchanged, bordering on intrusive. Fiorentine looked up again into his haunting eyes, more with questioning encouragement than schoolgirl infatuation. At last, he broke away and referenced the print with his finger.
“A boot did this.” He continued. “Probably galoshes, and quite sturdy, at that. Pair of Timberlands maybe…”
“How can you be so certain?” Her expression did little to hide her astonishment. Her eyes were like saucers and her lower lip was practically below her chin.
“Don’t feel bad, Sergeant. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you,” he said, trying not to condescend. “See…” Again he gestured the weak imprint, which seemed to exhibit more definition with each flimsy examination. “This heel is deep, as though it were dug in. A tennis shoe would barely leave an imprint. You’re right about the rubber soul, I suspect. Might have a Beatles fan on our hands.” The smile returned, and not a moment too soon.
“Makes sense.” She nodded, clearly impressed. “Guess it must pay to have all those years under your belt.” She was teasing. Honestly, openly teasing.
“Got more than years under there, sweetheart.” Her short smile morphed into an infectious grin. There was no denying that one. The girl had lobbed in an easy serve and he eagerly returned. Not the best timing perhaps, but still fun.
*
“I’ve also got pants,” he added with a boyish laugh that was no less charming. Fiorentine for all her misgivings, reciprocated with a sultry laugh of her own. It was a hell of a time for him to let loose his legendary playful side––even though she’d had fantasies not all that dissimilar––rip-roaring, spine-tingling fantasies…
“You’re too much, Keith.” Her tone was knee-deep in sentiment. When it came to the mystical art of seduction, she too was no novice. Being female, she was even less a stranger to subtlety and, for the first time in just about ever, spoke his name without the slightest trace of embarrassment or apology.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, leaning in. She felt goose bumps stand to attention up the back of her neck. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re just enough...” She turned her head gracefully and met his hard stare without so much as a flinch.
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve used that line before?”
“I probably have.” Their lips were inches apart. Only a question of time, one of them thought; and both of them knew it.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t doubt your sincerity?” she asked, lips inching ever so closer…
“Can’t think of one.” Sweet mercy those eyes. She couldn’t hold out much longer. “There have been others, though, you know that. A man gets lonely…”
“Is that so?”
“So it is.”
“Why, Detective, you’re not trying to––” But before she could expel the pointless flirtation, his lips were on hers. And not long after…hers were on his.
*
“Detective Merrimac.” A mediated voice broke in. The girl pulled away.
“Keith, there’s…there’s someone…”
“Just ignore it...”
“Are you there, Detective? Come in please, it’s urgent.” Keith sighed. Estes; fifty feet away and the man still knew how to kill a mood.
Keith sulked the entire trek, short as it was, to meet up with the all-business lieutenant and his two inept protégés––Windell and this…Simmons guy, whom he did not quite know but reminded him of ‘George’ on Seinfeld. On the mic, he’d said it was urgent; that they were apparently, and improbably, on the verge of some crucial discovery. Him too.
Fiorentine was back in game-shape before he could blink. Must be losing your touch, loverboy… As before, Keith had a strange feeling about his surroundings; alien and yet somehow familiar. Like deja-vu all over again. That’s right, this whole place just reminds you of a nightmare you had recently…while you were sound asleep in your warm, safe bed… The two were close now; close enough to hear voices. And digging. Fiorentine pushed the last of the branches aside and caught a clear view of all three––
Windell was the first to greet them. She looked exhausted; and filthy. Still, never had she seemed so…alive... “Detective. Sergeant. You’re just in time.” She stepped aside, though it was unnecessary, for the two men digging were hard to miss.
“In time for what?” Keith asked foolishly.
“Sir!” Simmons called out. His round, bald head was sweating profusely and his shirt did not fare much better. If not for the smell, he might have looked just out of the shower. Estes stopped and signaled for Simmons to do the same. Whatever the man’s shovel had hit, Estes felt it too.
“The end of the trail,” Windell responded, belated. Keith shot her a curious look, then took several measured steps forward, Fiorentine close behind…
“Oh dear God…” Clearing away the last of the discarded earth, Estes loomed over the six foot hole he and the surprisingly strong Bill Simmons had dug in just over eighteen minutes. His blemish-free, olive skin turned suddenly a pale white, and he too took a sizeable step back before climbing all the way out–– “Looks like we can call off the search,” he continued, all the life draining out of his normally level voice. His eyes did not move from the center of the hole––this crude, insensitive grave…
One by one, the others joined in, each one displaying a similar loss of composure, unique to their respective sensibilities. Fiorentine gasped––horrified, yet strangely intrigued. Simmons, still panting for breath, wiped his sweaty brow and looked on the verge of throwing up. Windell was not much different, except instead of nausea, hers was an intense, almost violent sadness, and she struggled to hold back the tears.
Last but not least, there was Keith, who took everything in the way he usually did––calm, cool and collected––almost…empty…much like the partially decomposed body before him. Lifeless, hopeless, filthy and…stinky, pee-yoo... All except for one spot, still caked in dry blood…where her left ear had been––
“I’ll get on the horn to Cuen,” he said, unemotional. The end of the trail indeed, he thought, so far as Susan Laterna was concerned.
The larger one left, led to the monster who put her there.




And there you have it, (for those of you still reading; thanks a lot, by the way). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed not only this very long chapter, but the previous 12 as well, all of which can be found in the archives of this blog.
My plan is to put out a Kindle Book of these chapters, which collectively make up Volume One of my grand horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, (Man, I like saying that). In the meantime, I continue to query agents, publishers and, well anyone willing to be queried...
If you like what you've read, (or Hell, even if you don't), do me a favour and let me know. Feedback is my nourishment...and I'm starving... (caugh)

See you real soon with all sorts of exciting new meanderings.


D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

Yes, it's that time again.

I have to admit, I've been especially looking forward to this episode of The Simpsons ever since I read a small blurb about it last summer. The Simpsons have never gone to The Holy Land, after all. Plus, Israeli-Palestian humour always goes over so well. Also, I'm a big Sashsa Baron-Cohen fan and when I heard he would be voicing the pushy Israeli tour guide, I envisioned a winner.

Which it was...for the most part...

I admit, after only one measly viewing, its hard to remember, let alone fully apreciate all the sublte nuances to any Simpsons entry, ('old' or 'new'), but this one had a few leaps in logic I felt weren't entirely necessary. Maybe I'm just holding my greatest television influence, (Star Trek: TNG notwithstanding), to a higher standard. Anyway, here's the round-up. Feel free to play along...

"The Greatest Story Ever D'ohed"
03/28/10
When Homer is playing noisily in the yard, it disrupts Flanders' Bible study group. Coaxed by the Reverend, a frustrated Flanders takes it upon himself to redeem Homer by inviting the Simpson family on his church retreat to Jerusalem. Unappreciative of the history and culture, Homer would rather hang out at the hotel's breakfast buffet than tour the city. But when an eccentric tour guide, (guest voice Sasha Baron Cohen), takes the group to famous monuments, including the Dome of The Rock and the Wailing Wall, Homer proves he is not beyond salvation."



I thought the entry had a truly epic feel sorely lacking in many episodes these days, (even the movie). In fact, this story might have made a better movie than the one they actually went with, but I won't go into that here. I will say, however, I think the best thing The Simpsons can do from a creative standpoint is to go off the air for a few years and focus on a series of films, either theatrical releases, direct-to-DVD, (or Blu-ray), or even television specials. A Sideshow Bob or Mr. Burns-themed adventure would be a kick.
This type of approach would, I believe, re-invigorate an ineffable element to The Simpsons continued relevance - the need to be missed. Viewers need to miss The Simpsons. They, along with it's very creators, need to take a break, let people miss the show and slowly build up a new apetite for the yellow-skinned five-some's illustrious return.

Ok now back to the episode at hand.

I really enjoyed Sasha Baron Cohen's voice work in this. It reminded me of the old days, with Hartman, Lovitz and of course, Albert Brooks, who had zany fun with the character and created a personality truly unique to this 20-plus year old show. Knowing many an Israeli, I can say he absolutely nailed the aggressive, almost 'pushy' characteristics so often exhibited by these colorful and truly 'chosen' people. (Ha ha)

Some more things I liked:

- Bart's offensive, yet hilarious line after reading papers shoved in the Wailing Wall: "Reading prayers and ignoring them, just like God."
- Krusty, upon discovering there's no Hell in Judaism, heads to "The Gaza Strip Club."
- Bart telling the Israeli girl she doesn't fight like a girl, or even a Milhouse. "I don't know what is Milhouse?"
- Homer calling a camel, "a sand horse, car of the desert"
- Homer ordering a falafel with pepperoni, sausage and extra cheese.
- "Some of us don't eat pork, some of us don't eat shellfish, but we all of us love chicken.

That last one just about says it all, folks.

...and some pure-Simpsons dialogue...

Ned: Our bible study group is going to the holy land next month. I'd like to take you and your family along as my guests.
Homer: Hmm, let me think. Take my family to a war zone on a bus filled with religious lameos in a country with no pork in a desert with no casinos. Where do I sign up?
Marge: Homer, I can hear your sarcasm from inside the house and the dishwasher is on.

Marge: This country is so historic, for all we know Jesus could have given a talk in conference room C.

Reverend Lovejoy: God has never given up on anyone
Ned: What about Sodom and Gomorrah?
Reverend Lovejoy: He lovingly destroyed them.

Marge: Homie, you're alive.
Homer: I am more than alive, woman. I am the chosen one, who shall unite all the faiths of the holy land. I am the messiah.
Marge: But you still have the passports right?
Homer: Oh yeah, gotta keep track of those. THE MESSIAH! has the passports.

Jacob: What? Israel people are pushy? How about you experience a few genocides and see how laid back you are. We were perished from Spain. Thrown out of there. They allow everyone in Spain. But for us, Jews, no flamenco, get out. I'm pushy? Please. You stay there surrounded by your great enemy Canada. Try sitting here for two months, then we'll see who's pushy.


Nicely done, gang.

Not sure if next weeks is new or not, so I may or may not have another one of these standing by. Either way, I'll be posting part three of chapter 13 of volume one of my epic horror maserpiece, (yup, nice and simple), An Axis Oblique. (long overdue, that's for sure)


D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen (Part 2)

This is it.
The middle portion, or 'Empire Strikes Back' section of Chapter Thirteen.
Hope you enjoy.


–––––––––––––––
For the first time in weeks, Patrick McAllister felt like being awake. He did not feel well exactly. His stomach still churned. His head still pounded. And every last part of him ached, leaving him empty; no––more like…drained…
His mother expressed a desire to expose him to some fresh air and sunlight. But even he had his doubts he could stand it. What prompted him out of bed this fine morning was not one, but rather a string of disturbing symptoms. His nightmares were worsening. He could scarcely dream at all anymore without that cold, hateful voice reaching out from beyond the silvery depths of…somewhere.
Might wanna save your strength, little guy…
And he believed it. To whomever it belonged, this voice meant the ugly things it said, and could most certainly carry them out with sadistic brutality.
He had no concept, of course. And no context. Not of the words––nor the voice––which he’d long stopped speaking of to others. As young as he was, and frightened, he knew it would come to no good.
An image, so clear and compelling, was the real culprit. A dream within a dream; so vivid, it would not leave his mind. In school he would draw all the time. He was not the most social child. Friends came easily enough. At seven, one just needed to be there, ready to play. Still, Patrick was always most comfortable alone.
From the toychest, he retrieved what supplies he needed and then, as though guided by some higher power, began rather innocently, to draw. The shapes flowed effortless. First he drew a neckline, then shoulders, moving the blue pencil to complete the shape of a head; a face, eyes bulged in fear; they too were blue. No––brown; and submerged in horrified tears. Her mouth was red. But not from lipstick. This red came from within, staining her teeth and tongue, which hung partially over her puffy lips in a helpless scream.
The image was clearer, growing moreso by the stroke. In no time, he finished the shape of her torso, and was touching up some finer detail. Who was this girl? Had he seen her before? No. Except in his dream–– She’s sitting next to a man; the bad man, he’s almost certain. Though he wears a disguise. She’s frightened of him. Screaming. Crying. He’s hurting her. Not only does he see it, he can almost…feel her pain…
When finished, it looks rough. Even at his best, he can only approximate, (most of his practice devoted to spaceships and fire trucks); sometimes, they’re nothing at all; the collective spew of subconscious. With age, he’ll begin to call it art…but for now…
“Patrick? Patrick, honey, what are you doing?” He was so wrapped up, he didn’t notice her soft, subtle approach; his mother, looking exhausted and ecstatic, all in a single dumbfounded expression. “You’re coloring!” she marveled, startling him half to death. “Does this mean you’re feeling better?” Again he did not reply. He simply lacked the words.
“The fever hasn’t broken,” she muttered. “How bout your tummy…?” At last he moved his tiny head from side to side. “No it doesn’t feel better, or no, it doesn’t hurt?” He mumbled, incoherent. “Did you draw this?” she asked, giving up. “It’s very good.” She pulled up a chair to examine more closely. “She doesn’t look very happy, though. Is she sick too?” Patrick nodded a lazy ‘yes’ this time; as good an explanation as any.
“Oap––think you forgot something, sweetie. What happened to her ear?”
“It’s gone…” he whimpered. Perhaps he should tell her, he thought; force her into understanding...but how? He hadn’t the words, let alone the stamina to withstand an interrogation. “He took it,” he finally decided. “Now she’s sad. And afraid...”
*
Mary listened, staring into the drawing with alarming understanding. Much of her face was submerged in red. Blood? She hadn’t wished to see it before; hadn’t even considered it before. For the first time, she began to see how little she actually knew of what went on inside his impressionable little head. A voice of authority ran suddenly through her own. ‘It’s always the quiet ones. They’re the ones you gotta watch out for.’ “Who?” she barely managed, still reeling from the frightful premonition.
“The bad man…” he whispered, coming to tears. “He hurt her real bad. And…others…” He jumped as she took a step back. “Make him go away, Mommy. Please.” The woman said nothing, a single tear struggling not to run down her cheek…
“I will, sweetheart. I promise…” His pain overwhelmed and she swept him up, rocking him back and forth. Together they cried.
*
Down the hallway, only two doors from his brother, Nicky heard weeping; a sound to which he’d grown quite accustomed. His mother did so often. He barely even saw his brother anymore, but suspected more than his share of wasted tears. For what? Their father? A tummy ache? The cancellation of Yu-gi-oh? Who knew? Who cared?
As usual, nobody noticed when old Nick was in pain. Who had time when cute little Patrick had a nightmare or two? Certainly not his mother; the past few weeks had made that abundantly clear. His father wouldn’t have put in the time either, even if he weren’t the source of all his raw hurt; and confusion. Dear God, please make this feeling go away...
Perhaps he wasn’t giving them enough credit. Adults seemed so sure of themselves. He’d never known a problem they could not solve. Never had a feeling, which did not, in time, fade away––pleasant or otherwise. But this was different. He knew it with a budding maturity the others were all too blind or self-absorbed to pick up on. Everything was different now. And none of it would ever be the same again.
He was almost ready. Just a few more essentials. Some shirts, socks, underwear; plus the new iPod for the bus. A cell phone sure would’ve been nice too, he thought bitterly. The gym bag was three-quarters full. Not long now. He was genuinely excited. Despite his youth––and so-called innocence––it was not a feeling that came easily to him, (especially these days), and if not for the––shit––someone was at the goddamned door–– “Nick? Nick, can I come in…?” The sound of her voice, all loving and chipper, made him angry. Why now, he thought, sliding the bag under his bed. “Please, Nicky. I want to talk to you.” Forget it, lady. You had your chance. Now do me a favor and run along. “I’m coming in,” she announced, and he adjusted himself––
“What’s the matter with you? I was calling your name, didn’t you hear me?”
“I was busy,” he shrugged. His mother rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I asked you. The next time I call your name, Nicholas, I expect you to answer me.” He smiled to himself. That could be a problem, he thought.
“Nicky, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The next time you call me, I’ll be sure to answer. Is that why you came in here?” The woman sighed and moved toward him, body language painfully awkward…
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. The boy did not answer. “Is it me? School?” Part of him; a part he was unconscious of, wanted desperately for her to throw her arms around him; to rock him as she had when he was a small boy around Patrick’s age. He wished he was Patrick. “Is it…your Dad…?”
“I told you, it’s nothing. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
*
For a second, she nearly did. With Patrick, words came easily, but Nick had a way of making it so very damned hard. “I’m going to take Patrick for some ice cream,” she said. Not the smoothest transition, but to the point. “He’s feeling better, isn’t that…?” Her voice trailed off. More awkward silence. She wondered if he cared. “We want you to come with us. It’s been so long since we spent any time together, just the three of us. That’s important to me, you know.” The boy busied himself with his computer, one ear open to her and the rest on some shoot-em-up online bloodbath he knew full well she disapproved of. “Well, what do you say…?”
“Do I have to?” The trap of all traps; how to answer...
“No, you don’t have to, but I’d feel much better if––”
“I think I’ll stay here then.”
What could she say? She had in fact opened the door. “By yourself?”
“You just said––”
“I know, I know.” To her astonishment, Mary found herself missing buxom young Cynthia more and more. At least she seemed to have some sort of rapport with the boy; similar to that with her husband, (which was the problem)… “Fine. You can stay.”
*
“Really?” A hint of surprise crept into his indifference. If not for his hurry, he might have marked the occasion. Extending his bedtime? Perhaps. A raise in allowance? No picnic, but doable, nonetheless. But all that was childsplay next to the brass ring––the whole house to himself. He almost wished he weren’t leaving.
“On one condition...” Of course. How could he not have known? “You and I are going to have a good old fashioned sit-down when I get back. Get some things strait.” The boy wore a look any parent should have easily recognized as irrational excitement. “You’re growing up now, Nick.” She went on anyway. “Now that your father is…well, you’re the man of the house. And with that comes added responsibility. It means our relationship will have to change some. Does that sound like something you can handle?” He was careful not to let his true feelings show.
It was too perfect. He knew it his best chance for success; far better than to simply sneak out the front door while she slept. Man of the house. How little she respected him, to think him foolish enough; naïve enough to jump for joy at her shallow praise. The man of the house was gone. Nicky could not replace him, nor would he ever wish to try. How disloyal she must believe him. How forgetful.
Ten minutes later, they were gone; and five minutes after that, young Nicholas McAllister stood in the atrium with gym bag in hand, staring at that mammoth oak door. A curious sensation engulfed his unstable spirit. It could have been fear. Or nerves. It could have been a piece of undigested food acting up––but it was none of these things. The sensation, he secretly knew, though dreaded with a fiery passion––doubt––had begun to take selfish hold–– Goddammit, don’t think. Thinking equals standing still. Just go. Take a swift, deep breath, grab the bag and one last look, then do what you promised...
The phone was ringing. If only he’d been more in tune with this new attitude, he might have just walked out that door and never looked back. But the phone was ringing. His next course of action seemed clear. “Hello...”
“Nicky?” That voice. Friendly. Sarcastic. Familiar.
“Cynthia?”
“Hey, least you haven’t forgotten…” He wanted to laugh––for several reasons. In spite of his feelings, it was good to hear her voice. “Is your mother around?”
“Are you ever coming back?” The words escaped without warning. He had not meant to come off so juvenile; so childlike and unsophisticated––with her especially. “Direct and to the point. That’s my Nicky. As a matter of fact I am, you silver-tongued devil. I was actually calling to find out a good time to drop over. Mind if I speak to your mother?”
“She’s not here,” he blurted. The concept itself just sounded so damn good.
“Oh. Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping to talk to her. So, um…who is there? Did you get a new…? Did, um, your Mom hire someone new?”
“No.” He hesitated, worried she’d drop everything to save him from himself.
“Well I hate to sound petty, kid, but that’s comforting to hear. So what’s the situation? You’re not…? I mean there is someone…right?” Nicky cleared his throat.
“Nope. Just me. And in case you’re wondering, I’m doing just fine.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Not yet. “Still, maybe I could come over…” The boy after all, was only ten; and his obvious reluctance must have made him sound guilty of something; as though he had something to hide. He did, of course, but that was a separate issue altogether.
“That’s okay. I’ll just tell her to call you.”
“Are you sure? It’s no problem, Nick. Really. In fact, I’d fell a little better if––”
“I said no,” he snapped. And there it was again––more likely, it had been there all along. In Nick’s short experience, it always was. On some days, his nerves were a fortress of stability. On others––like today––little more than a thin layer of smoke and mirrors. “I’m not as helpless as you think I am. I’m old enough to be left alone for a couple of hours.”
“I know that, I just meant…I mean I thought it might be…never mind…” Her condescending tone only fueled his lulled fire. For an instant, he foolishly thought it might be different. The girl was back, after all. Perhaps he’d misjudged her. But why now? And for how long? He could stick around to find out; the option was not lost on him. But his desire for a new beginning burned hotter than ever.
“Whatever. I’ll tell her you called.”
No matter. Soon he would be gone. They could ignore him all they wanted. He knew full well they would not. His only regret was that he would not be there to hear them crying. In a way, it was better now that Cynthia was back in the picture. His mother would need a shoulder to cry on. Let them regret together. If misery did indeed love company, as he’d so often heard them all say, the match would be made in Heaven.
–––––––––––––––



One more part to this mondo-final chapter, (of Volume One), coming soon. In the meantime, I'll be posting some other, unrelated goodies between now and then. Stay tuned...

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen (Part I)

Kay, kids, think you've waited long enough. Here's part one of the last Chapter in Volume One of my masterpiece horror-epic, An Axis Oblique. (Everybody got that?) Hope you enjoy.
For those of you just tuning in, (where the hell have you been?), Chapter's One through Twelve can be found within the index of this very blog. And it's all free, free FREE! I'm just that insane!!!

Sorry you had to see me like that.



–– Thirteen ––
January 28, 8:03

“Over here.” A voice called over the hill. At first he was startled. There wasn’t much difference between a female scream of enthusiasm and one of holy terror. In four years with the Maplewood Police Department, Pete Estes had heard both.
“What is it?” he asked, coming up on her kneeling form. Fiorentine didn’t look up, engrossed in the tiny focal point already inside the small, transparent evidence bag.
“I’m not sure,” she replied, examining it through plastic with her thumb and forefinger. Estes continued to approach, stopping just a few steps behind her.
It was a long shot to begin with. Eighteen year old Susan Laterna had been missing for more than two weeks and just about every other stone had been turned and re-turned. Any other time, they’d have pegged her a runaway. But these times were far stranger than most.
For several weeks, people had been…disappearing all over this once-sleepy town with no apparent rhyme or reason. Not all turned out the same, of course, but an alarming number were as yet unresolved. At least Richard Pollack had a clear enough preference, which in time, led to a pattern. These days, everyone was apparently fair game.
For a split second, she seemed to be grasping at thin air. Estes moved closer, but as she turned to face him, the rounded shape of a single eyeglass lens caught a piece of stray sunlight and its smooth, reflective surface revealed itself like a hidden image in one of those 3-D art posters.
“This could be just the break we’ve been looking for…” she said, apparently serious. Indeed, if it were, he’d eat his hat. Still in the plastic, he gave it a once-over. Items such as this could be found almost anywhere around Newbury Park. People traipsed up and down these vast acres all the time. He’d done so himself on occasion, back in his carefree youth.
“Now all we gotta do is find someone walking around with one lens in his frames,” he remarked dryly. The woman did not react as intended, with a smile or a submissive chuckle. Instead, she reached up and snatched her clue back from him. Estes wasn’t much for sarcasm. This was why.
“You make it sound like a dead end,” she said. “A needle in a haystack, maybe, but one half-decent print and we’re back in business. Anyway, I’m sure Keith will appreciate it on merit.” There was something about her voice when she invoked that man’s name, which made him want to throw up. He might well have done so, too…if not for the ringing cell phone...
“Fiorentine,” she answered, adjusting to her feet––then looked him right in the eye as if to rub something in his nose. “Detective Merrimac, it’s good of you to call, sir.”
“Speak of the devil…” he muttered before turning off…
It wasn’t as though Estes disliked his gruff, charismatic superior; not like some he could name––but wouldn’t. He and the crass lead detective had just barely crossed paths, in fact; not since Mitch Barrett’s tearful funeral. Now there was a real role model.
At the service, he’d tried to engage him on the ice-cold investigation; some faint traces of ash in the lieutenant’s carpet. Both men knew full well Barrett didn’t smoke; (as did everyone, the way he went on about that Nicotine gum).
“Could be a relapse,” the detective dismissed him off-hand––which took care of that.
It wasn’t so much Merrimac, in any case, as her. The way she always looked at him; fawned over him; catered to every whim…but mostly, it was the way she threw herself in his face every time he felt like swaggering onto the scene. ‘Oh, Keith, thank God you’re here. Whatever would we do without you? Touch me, Keith. Fuck me. Do whatever you like with me, Keith. Keith, Keith!’
He stopped himself. Jealously was unbecoming.
“Estes?” He heard her perky voice call his name. “Estes, where did you…?” There it was again. He looked up from the crude shoe print he’d uncovered. “Pete!”
“I’m here!”
Within seconds, she was coming up the incline.
“Why’d you walk away like that?”
“Did I?” He feigned ignorance. “Guess I was eager to get back to the sweep. One good gust of wind, after all, and a perfectly good lead can get buried for all eternity.” Fiorentine looked over his shoulder.
“Guess so.” She did not sound the least bit certain but was clearly anxious to relay some other juicy tidbit. “Merrimac’s en route,” she said, almost giddy. “Who knows? Maybe there’s some kinda connection between my lens and, um…this…”
“Finally decides to grace us, does he?” he snarled, then looked up at her round, saucer eyes. That’s it, he thought angrily. No more snide remarks. Not even to myself…
“What was that?” she asked, still lost in her girlish euphoria.
“Nothing,” he said. And that’s just what he meant.
–––––––––––––––
“How the hell can it be nothing? My son is sick, Dr. Pierce; from a so-called ‘viral infection’ that you diagnosed. And now you’re saying…just what are you saying?”
“Please, Madame, if you’ll just––”
“Goddammit, just tell me what the hell is wrong with my son!”
Randal Pierce took a step back. These were the moments he dreaded. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; unless she was a mother––then all bets were off.
The woman eyed him menacingly.
“As I said, Mrs. McAllister, I’ve found nothing wrong; not physically, at any rate…”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve run every test I know, and all indications say your son is in perfect health.” Again, she seemed ready to pounce; to protect her young at any cost, like any good mother––as he’d expected. “Now it’s possible; very much so in fact, this…whatever it is, will indeed run its course, as predicted.” He swallowed, uncomfortable. Here goes nothing… “There is, however, another possibility.”
*
“There’s a private wing at Tempest Medical...” the smug, Doogie Howser reject started in. Mary was about ready to button that goddamn second button on his trendy Polo dress-shirt. “…equipped with the latest MRI technology; the finest physicians and most current research conducted on the pre-adolescent cortex in…well, probably the world. I could arrange for a consultation with Dr. Lucien, the administrator. Perhaps––”
“Wait a minute…are you saying my Patrick needs a shrink?”
“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m simply offering an alternative, which, until now, had not been considered.” Mary stood from her uncomfortable chair and began pacing back and forth. She was troubled by the direction this conversation had taken. “Your son is withdrawn.” He pressed on. “You’ve said so yourself. He sleeps all day, has no appetite, no…social interaction…” The woman remained silent. Facts were facts. “On top of all that, recent family events would be fully expected to…impede the progress of any treatment, be it biological or psychosomatic.” Mary looked up. He had to go hitting her where she lived. “Listen, Mrs. McAllister, I wouldn’t presume to advise you on a matter I frankly know little about. Nor am I qualified to make any kind of psychological diagnosis. I am however, qualified to recommend an evaluation. Not because I think he’s unstable. Just to cover all bases. Doesn’t that sound reasonable?”
*
The woman continued to glare as though he’d just told her he had a room full of bunnies in back he was about to give cancer. “Reasonable…” she repeated. “The word seems to have lost all meaning…” The doctor remained silent. He could almost see the rusty wheels working inside her heavy head, struggling to turn. He waited a minute––then two. His silence would be far more convincing…
“This, um…consultation… How soon do you think you could––?”
“Within the week, I’m sure of it,” he interrupted; perhaps overeager. “Suffice it to say, the sooner we get the ball rolling…”
“That soon?” Her judgment again appeared to waiver. The good doctor braced himself. “I’ll need time to explain it to him, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. There’s nothing at all to be ashamed or embarrassed about. I think it’s crucial he understand that. If you like, I’d be happy to talk with him. However, I should stress, if we don’t seize the closest opportunity, if for no other reason than to rule this all out, we could have a long wait on our hands…”
“What about money? Things are a little tight right now, I’m not sure––”
“I’m confident we can work something out. There are circumstances whereby consultations such as these, and even subsequent treatment if that becomes necessary, are fully covered by insurance. I’d be happy to look into it.” Now there was nowhere to go.
“He might still improve. You said so yourself, this could all be for nothing.”
Dr. Pierce nodded. “It’s only a precaution. A wise one, at that.”
“Very well.” She conceded. “Make the preliminary arrangements. I’ll, ah, have a talk with him tonight. He’s awfully young to comprehend something like this. I’m having a little trouble myself…” she muttered, underbreath.
“My door is always open. And if you don’t mind my saying, he strikes me as keenly perceptive. I wouldn’t be surprised if he understands a lot more than you think.”
It was several hours before he allowed himself the sweet privilege of self-adulation. What a profound turn of events, indeed. But then, there were no coincidences. He knew he saw something in the boy off the bat; something his loud-mouthed mother could never perceive, let alone comprehend. Yes. From the moment he looked into the glossy, textured eyes of this boy, Patrick McAllister, he knew, intervention had descended.
“Dr. Pierce?” McGrady’s plump receptionist opened the door in mid-knock–– “There’s a Dr. Lucien on line three. Returning your call?”
“Yes, Gretchen, thank you. Would you mind…?” and she graciously took the hint. As soon as he confirmed total privacy, he cleared his parched throat––and hit the flashing button––
“Maurice!” he beamed cautiously. “I’ve got some exciting news.”
–––––––––––––––
“There’s been another murder––” Keith Merrimac sat on the edge of his unmade bed, trying to feel surprised. It seemed as though the words, or others to that effect, had replaced ‘hello’ in the local vernacular.
“What in God’s name is going on?” he wondered aloud. There could be no denying now, if ever there could, that a copycat of some sort was about, out there on the loose.
“That’s supposed to be your job, Detective,” replied Captain Thornhill in his gruff, no-nonsense delivery. “I’ll give this to Davies, seeing as how full a plate you’ve got already. You can hit Newbury Park. Fiorentine’s there with Estes and a team, sweeping for the Laterna girl. A witness just came forward; saw someone matching her description wandering the road side...”
A disturbing flash rattled his sleep-deprived mind. He could picture the image almost perfectly. “Merrimac? Merrimac, are you there?”
Penny for your thoughts…
“Sorry, Captain, I…didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Try warm milk. Or better yet, lay off the late nights with strange bedfellows. I can’t afford to have you sleep-walking through another shift, you hear?”
“Loud n’ clear,” Keith replied, but was lying. He heard the words, alright; received the order, disguised as ‘advice’––but they were neither loud nor clear.
“Good,” the captain went on, oblivious; (either that or he didn’t care). “Do me a favor and call Fiorentine, give her a heads up.” Oh I’m sure that can be arranged...
“What?”
“I said give her a call. Something wrong with your hearing?”
“Sorry. I thought I heard…nothing. Never mind. Consider me en route.”
* * *
Another beautiful day. Keith found it funny how they seemed to coincide with one of the worst strings of viciousness in recent memory––at least since the last. He wasn’t sure how, but somewhere along the line, he seemed to have stumbled into some sort of blissful groove. He perceived the whole world now on a much deeper level. He reveled in its energy; drank it in at every opportunity. He was still a part of it. At one with it; but at the same time, felt strangely detached; almost…above…
“How’s it going, Sergeant?” The events of the past several weeks had brought on, among other things, one of the most earth-shattering, life altering shifts in his altogether predictable lifestyle...a cell phone. He swore he’d never have one; never even get near one unless absolutely necessary. The times, they were a’changin.
“Detective Merrimac, it’s good of you to call, sir.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve been eager to try this thing out anyway. How’s everything?”
“Slow, but we may’ve just caught a break. Are you on your way over?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Thornhill mentioned something about an eye-witness?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir. A motorist just reported seeing someone who matched the girl’s description hitching a ride around Newbury Park.” An image of her, this pretty young thing strolling the roadside in skin tight blue jeans ripped through his mind. It confused him, feeling more like a memory than a conjured-up representation.
“Didn’t know people were still that stupid…” he mumbled.
“It’s more than we’ve gotten anywhere else…seems to be paying off, at any rate. I’ll fill you in when you get here.” Someone ought’a fill you in, you little cock-tease…
The car swerved out of control and Keith slammed on the break. A symphony of horns followed the unexpected maneuver. His car sat idle, halfway over the shoulder–– “Detective Merrimac? Keith, are you alright…?” Keith breathed deeply; in; then out. Who the Hell said that? “Sir, is everything––?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant.” He grabbed the phone and pulled himself swiftly together. “Just a bump in the road. Everything’s…just fine. See you in a few,” and hung up.





There is another part to this chapter but it's so frickin' big, I decided to split it in two for the purposes of this forum. Stay tuned for part two! Plus, got another Simpsons Round-up coming soon! Haza!

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Twelve

Kay let's do this. As promised, here's Chapter Twelve comin' at ya.


–– Twelve ––

Seventeen miles west of Maplewood, at approximately 10:54 the following night, Susan Laterna made the worst mistake of her young life. Had it been any other night, she might’ve been home, or at her boyfriend’s, fooling around and going too far before settling in for some late night TV. Anywhere really, other than Newbury Park––
Heading deeper into the trees, her mind ran across the unpleasantness. It began that afternoon, around a quarter to two. School wasn’t much more than formality senior year. She attended class often enough, to avoid suspension, but little else. Still, most days, she probably would have been there. But not today. Today was a free day––Mr. Petalli had the flu. For as long as there were teenagers and high schools to house them, a substitute teacher for last period meant only one thing:
_____
“I’m going home.”
“What?” Adam Lipinski, who spent more time in the weight room than the classroom, sounded like a child tantruming in the toy department. “I thought you were coming over.”
“Petalli’s not here, Adam. You expect me to waste that?”
“So you’re not coming…” he pouted. Clearly, the boy had an attention problem––or perhaps he simply disliked the idea of her making a decision without his consent.
“Just cut with me,” she offered.
“You know I can’t do that. How the hell can I skip my own make-up exam?”
“Fine then, we’ll meet up after.” Adam appeared to gnaw on her thoughtful compromise; then, as though stumbling onto his most brilliant idea ever, (which could well have been true), unzipped his tattered backpack…
“Well, long as you’re going, take this with you…” His hand emerged with a Ziplock baggie half-full of ‘oregano.’ Susan sighed, grabbing it before anyone noticed.
She didn’t enjoy carrying such things around, particularly at school, where she was a ripe target for certain faculty members with major league chips on their shoulders. Nevertheless, she’d done so willingly, blinded by her love for him; or fear of losing him; this tactless, witless, hopeless young stud with more muscles than brain cells, (and with whom she’d grown quite accustomed to making her girlfriends jealous).
“Keep your cell on,” he instructed. “I’ll text you as soon as I’m done.”
* * *
There was just something about a bag of weed in front of a pothead. Susan would never have considered herself to be such, but sitting there in her parent’s basement with Dr. Phil blathering on about teenage eating disorders, it wasn’t long before she was off and rolling.
She did not make a habit of smoking alone. Half the fun, she found, was the company, wild thought flowing aimless through a smoky green tint. Hours later, she would think herself careless. How hard would it have been, after all, to pack it all neatly away? In the end, it would have cost a cool forty-five seconds. She’d give the world to have those seconds back.
No one was supposed to be home, she had reasoned; not at that hour. No one was ever home at that hour. But this time. This one and only time, a cell-phone battery sat idly in her father’s desk drawer.
_____
At present, she was coming up on some lights. And sounds. Yes. Faint sounds of the street. Of civilization! Her feet were exhausted; her mind, still clouded. But the man with the wire-rimmed glasses was still unaccounted for, so she pushed ever forward.
*
Derek “The Duke” Laterna pulled into the driveway at around 3:00. He was not accustomed to being home quite so early; not on a Saturday, let alone the middle of the week. The street was bare, with only a few stray cars by the roadsides, and it suddenly occurred to him just how accommodating his neighborhood was to would-be thieves.
Might be time to upgrade to Home Shield, he thought, locking his near-new black Lexus SUV as he clomped up the walk. Stickers might be just as good, though, he reconsidered. The Duke was a fairly high roller, after all; or had been, once upon a time––when the stakes weren’t quite so high––and he had a whole lot less to lose.
_____
“Say that again, Manny, I…I can’t…my phone’s dying, fuck!”
In his lower-middle years, old Duke was a player of a much different sort. ‘STOCKS, BONDS, TRADES AND TIPS––whatever your business or pleasure, old Duke had you covered. ‘A strait shooter.’ It said so right on his business card.
The whole battery debacle didn’t help his hand-made reputation one bit. It implied incompetence, or at best, shady tactics. John Wayne didn’t use slight of hand, or slick manipulation to get what he wanted. John Wayne shot from the hip. Nevertheless, it was he, Derek, who had let it run dry. And he, the always reliable and doubly-prepared broker of the year, (three years running), who had failed to keep his spare charged.
_____ The man had a strange feeling from the get-go. An odd aura was about; something in the air, suggesting it’d been breathed recently by a younger, pinker set of lungs. He had no proof, of course; but sharp instincts were as important in his risky line of work as a well-cut suit, clean fingernails and a firm handshake.
“Hello!” he called out, not sure what to expect. The house remained quiet. His mind went from eased, to puzzled, to downright pissed upon stumbling, quite literally, onto a black nylon bookbag left carelessly in the middle of the floor.
“Susan…” He couldn’t believe she cut class again. At this rate, she’d be lucky to graduate. “Susan, where the hell are you?” he shouted, opening the basement door; but no light came from her cozy little sub-hideaway. Perhaps she was in school after all. Perhaps she just decided to leave her…books…at home…
In his younger years––before the trappings of marriage and family swallowed him whole––The Duke was a gambler. Not just a gambler. The gambler. Kenny Rogers even wrote a song about him. Back when he was at school in California––a time of loose morals, wet pussy and endless possibility, he was well known in certain circles. His love for excess was every bit as legendary. Back then, he understood with perfect clarity the seductive potency of pure youth mixed with freedom. He smoked, drank, fucked, shot, snorted…and oh boy, did he play. Even now, at any casino in Vegas old enough to remember, there were those that would rank him hands down the best there ever was.
As he climbed the winding staircase, thoughts of those turbulent times gained momentum. He wasn’t much of a dweller. Life was what happened now. Everything else was hazy recollection or narrow speculation. For most gamblers, there were hot streaks and cold. Some called it luck; others, karma. But no matter the name, he was starting to sense the tides slowly shifting.
“Susan!” he called out again, his feet inching nearer toward her bedroom door. It was that boy, who’d set him onto this tirade of nostalgia, switching his track from numbers and NASDAQ to those oh-so-precious days of yore––so precious, in fact, he dared not taint their memory with over-pontification. Even now he could just see him, slapping his hands all over her; shoving his dirty little prick into every orifice…
Twenty years ago it would have been him with some other girl’s clueless father. And that, if for no other reason, was why he had to put a stop to it. The battery had all but left his anxious mind. It was that punk’s pimply face he saw now. The quiet only convinced him more of their lustful misdeeds and, with his anger reaching a critical boil, The Duke drew both barrels––
Only to find nothing worth shooting for. No boy. No girl. Nothing but––
*
Green. Patches of it peaked out from under the melting snow. Susan believed it her favorite time of year. Years ago, she might have thought different. To a child, summertime in Maplewood was the epitome of every carefree fantasy. But the older she got, the more she’d come to appreciate the poetry of mid-term.
An oncoming car released her from her chronic-haze. Still clutching the roach, she ducked toward the library. So stoned…she thought, unable to keep the world from swaying. The car flew past without incident.
She’d had her fair share of experience with pot, but most, if not all was at night, and usually indoors. It refreshed her to be out in the bright sunshine––very bright, she couldn’t help but notice. Her eyes began to tear from its harsh intrusion and she fought to keep them open. A whimsical noise startled her out of yet another day-dream. Her cell phone was belting out Grease’s ‘Summer Nights,’ obnoxiously enough to call her lame-taste into question. Retrieving the purple flip-phone from her coat pocket, she checked the display:
Expecting Adam; not realizing barely an hour had elapsed, and not even he could fail that fast. “Oh shit…” She noted the number. Was it even remotely possible? Could her mother have come home to find the exposed baggie? Or worse?
*
Her father waited one more ring before hanging up. He was furious. Not only was the girl dumb enough to get mixed up with brainless dicks, she was also a stoner–– and not a very sly one at that. The bag sat out in plain sight atop the nightstand, taunting him. Half of him wanted to smoke it. The other half wanted to flush it down the toilet.
Perhaps he was a hypocrite. Scratch that. Most definitely. He didn’t care. Susan could live a thousand years and not go around the block near as many times as old Derek in his legendary prime. There were things he could say; stories he could tell her that would send her screaming to the nearest detox clinic; if he weren’t so afraid to relive them.
Stop it! he contained himself. Stop it right now or you’ll regret it. There were some skeletons that belonged in the closet. Some that, if ever allowed to taste the sweet light of day, would destroy all that they touched. He could not help his past at any rate. Escape it––he’d been trying all his life. But strangely enough, he found that the more time distanced him from deeds long done, the harder it was to forget.
Goddammit, this isn’t about me. It’s about a young girl spinning out of control. But was that it? Was it really? Or was it simply his control from which she was slipping? It didn’t matter. As long as she lived under his roof–– He stopped himself. All in good in time, he thought. For now it would have to wait. He was still on the clock, after all; and nothing––not even ungrateful, delinquent daughters, came before priority one. Now where did I leave that damn battery?
*
Dead. Susan tried one last time, moving toward the sounds of faint traffic, and still nothing. She decided that if she lived through this, she would take her father’s unrelenting advice and never leave home without a spare battery again.
Behind her, a twig snapped and she spun with a reflex she did not know she possessed. Darkness. At best she could see maybe ten feet in front of her. It could well have been wind, or a squirrel within earshot. Likely, but not definite. For all she knew, the man could be watching her right now from behind his wire-rimmed glasses…
_____
If she’d gotten home just fifteen minutes earlier, she would have run into her father, who himself, sacrificed nearly twenty in the hopes of catching her in the act. She rounded the street corner cautiously, hoping to find her mother’s car in the driveway instead of ‘The Duke’s’ imposing SUV, but to her surprise, the asphalt appeared unimpeded.
She entered the house quietly just the same, resisting the urge to snack, and went strait upstairs. Someone had been there alright. And not just someone. She could smell the faint residue of her father’s detestable aftershave. Since when did he come home in the middle of the afternoon?
She was already fearing the worst by the time she reached her closed bedroom door. To the untrained eye, everything looked reasonably undisturbed. But to hers, (despite the noticeable redness), all was slightly askew. She caught another whiff of his powerful scent––the man even smelled intimidating––then caught sight of the note:
I want to talk to you.
The six little words sent a shockwave through her full body-buzz. There was no way on earth she was going to like what he had to say. The only advantage she had was time; and if that was correct, perhaps there would be a way to soften the inevitable blow.
She doubted quite strongly that anything short of unscheduled surgery would shake the broker of the year, (three years running), off his proverbial high horse. In theory, all she had to do was stay out of face-to-face range during his prime parenting hours. In the morning, he generally left a good hour before she woke up. And as it was, the man had a ridiculous morning ritual that could doubtfully accommodate her.
That left only evenings. Most of the time, the two scarcely talked at all. After dinner, she would retreat upstairs––or down––where everything essential to teenage survival lay close at hand. But he was no better. After dinner they were lucky to get a full sentence out of him before he disappeared behind the walls of his office. Since childhood, she’d often speculate about what went on behind that beige, spackled fortress.
Once when just was about nine or ten, she found his bottom left drawer unlocked for the first time ever and inside, sifted inquisitively through a stack of Club and Swank magazines as well as a mysterious glass vile filled with sugar. After that, he was never so careless again. Perhaps it was because he knew; sensed that the contents had been disturbed in some way, much as she had with her bedroom.
‘Summer Nights’ filled the tiny pink sanctuary and she reached for her cell phone––(a Christmas gift from The Duke, incidentally)––in lieu of quality time. Nothing to worry about this time, however. She recognized the number all too well, and welcomed it in the wake of the alternative:
“Did you pass?”
“Who the hell needs English anyway?” Adam muttered. His patronizing, downright rude tone hadn’t changed an iota. Nevertheless, she found herself strangely comforted by his oafish self-absorption. Better to spend the evening with him, she thought, engaged in one-way conversations and passable sex, then even ten minutes with her father, who, with one damaging look, could effortlessly unravel her fragile esteem.
“I’m sorry,” she offered. “I was just trying to be supportive.”
“Oh. So it’s supportive you’re shooting for, huh? Well, how’s about you bring some of that over here?” She was grateful to be on the phone so he could not see her eyes rolling.
“Sounds like a plan,” she replied, still a trifle under the influence.
“Hurry up,” he snapped, effectively killing any chance for a mood. “I’ve had a bad day and I could use a little herbal refreshment.” Oh, how romantic. “Hello…?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I’m…I’m coming...”
“Well don’t take too long, okay? Weed’s not all I’m jonesin’ for...” The phone was dying out, and Susan took it as divine bullshit-intervention.
“Alright, I’ll see you soon.” Her reception was fading...
“What?”
“I’M COMING!” she screamed, then hung up. Packing everything as it’d been before, Susan Laterna took one last look at her comfy, pink bedroom. I’ll be back tonight, she thought. After all the tension’s dies down, and old Duke’s just too tired to deal with me… But she wouldn’t. She would never see this room; this house; or anything else tied to her sheltered young life as long as she lived.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. And left.
* * *
“So what brings you out here?” Susan looked up. Dirty. Hungry. Cold. And most of all, dazed––a lingering side effect from a joint smoked far too early.
“I beg your pardon?” she mumbled. The stranger laughed, shifting his peculiar gaze ever so slightly from the dark road in front of him, then back in a flash.
“Well, do you make a habit of wondering the neighborhood at night or…is this just my lucky day…?” This time his eyes remained straight ahead. Susan looked him curiously in the profile. She was trying to decide whether that was innocent wordplay or something more sinister. “Cold?”
“What?” she blurted, nervous. Again she saw that smile; so impeccably calm; like a kind man on a slow Sunday drive. But there was more to it. This may have been a big mistake, she thought.
“Are you cold?” he clarified. “I could turn up the heat...”
“No. No thanks, I’m fine.” But she was anything but. This was the stuff of horror movies, and her hazy mind raced through all sorts of unsettling scenarios best left un-conjured.
“On my way home myself…” he said after some uncomfortable silence. “Just out visiting...” His words, while still a tad mysterious, seemed harmless enough now. Perhaps it was merely lingering paranoia. Still, her caution felt eerily justified. The man, for his part, did little to put her racing mind at ease. He just kept his eyes staring directly ahead. Those dark, empty eyes behind a clunky pair of wire-rimmed glasses…
“Visiting?” She tried to sound calm.
“Yup. House call. I’m in furnace repair,” he said. “As you might imagine, this here’s my busy time. Don’t normally make evening runs, but…well it’s cold out there…and this customer’s been loyal for near twenty-five years...”
“Awfully nice of you…” Her voice sounded smoother. In all likelihood, he was every bit on the level; just a kind citizen who saw someone by the side of the road; someone who needed help. So he stopped. What was it her father always said? ‘Nine times outta ten the simplest explanation’s the one to bet on...’ Yeah. This explanation was simple enough. But what about time number ten?
“…and, well, far be it from me to turn my back on a man in need…” The stranger was finishing his thought just in time for her to tune back in. “No, sir, not me…not how I was raised…” He shuffled. “Guess it also applies to um…women...” Wait a minute. What was that? Was it her imagination, or had the mysterious Samaritan looked her up and down when he thought she hadn’t noticed? “Speaking of which…you still haven’t answered my question, hon...” Question? Was there a question?
“Pardon?” It took her a moment to sort through her anxiety. It felt more like an hour. “Oh. I, um…got into a little fight with my, um…boyfriend...” she mumbled.
Again, the driver smiled, almost undetectable, as though he did not wish her to see. “Boyfriend, huh? So was it a ‘fight’ fight or an argument-like? He didn’t––”
“No. No, nothing like that. Just a…friendly little…disagreement…”
“A lovers quarrel, eh? Well I’m not surprised. A pretty little thing like you could sure make a man’s blood boil over.” As hard as she tried, Susan could not seem to steer the conversation. Something was happening inside her; something beyond mere paranoia; beyond irrational panic. This was intuition.
“We’re coming up on my neighborhood,” she lied. “I’d just as soon not have my father see a strange car drop me off. You can let me out here.”
“Somethin’ I said, honey? What’s a matter, don’t like my company?”
“It’s fine,” she said, life draining out of her. “I really do appreciate the lift but…”
“I don’t see any houses around here. Sure you’re not just tryin to get rid’a me?”
“Please,” she managed. “We’re close enough. I can walk the rest of the way.”
“Careful now. “I’m libel to take offence.”
“My father knows I’m out here,” she blurted. “He’s waiting...”
“Oh I’ll just bet he is. Who wouldn’t be? I sure know I’ve been. Hell, if I was your daddy, don’t think I’d ever let you outta my sight...”
A single tear; one that she’d been struggling to suppress for the last quarter-mile, escaped down her flustered cheek. She wanted to let it out. All of it. She wanted to scream for all to hear, but at the same time, did not intend to award him the satisfaction.
The driver took notice. “Mmm, yummi. Now here comes the fear. That part’s always my favorite. I’m hopin’ to see more tears, though…think maybe you can…?” For the first time since she’d so stupidly gotten into his rusty old car, the stranger turned his head ninety degrees and looked directly at her; almost…in her… “Listen to me,” he said. “I’m like a kid at Christmas. Patience, that there’s the name of the game. ‘Sides, I’m sure there’ll be plenty’a tears to come soon enough.” Then he laughed a cruel, sadistic laugh.
Susan had never known true terror. Not with every card on the table, until that very moment. It seemed to entice him all the more. But with all his sly mannerisms, and subtle expressions…he had not noticed…what she was doing…
“You know, I think you girls just get prettier and prettier with time. Yes, sir, I’m not ashamed to say it…” On her right, she could see the outskirts of Newbury Park whizzing by. That might be okay, she thought. Not as good as a row of houses lighting up the night, but sufficient. She had her cell after all; (low battery not withstanding). “But who are you kidding anyhow, sweat pea?” The voice was like a distant echo. She was thinking now; fighting her crumbling synapses and mental malaise; fighting for her life. And all the while, her trembling fingers fumbled away inside her jacket... “Girls like you––sooner or later, you’ve all got it comin.’ Acting all ‘look at me’ and defiant. Swimming with bloody gums in shark-infested waters...”
Her fingers searched harder. And finally, just as she’d all but given up hope of a happy ending… “Oh now what’s a matter? You were being so chatty. Don’t tell me the ol’ cat’s got your cute little––” In a flash, she grasped what she’d been fishing for; a once-opened, once-sprayed can of mace disguised as Binacca; (another gift from dear old Dad, to which she’d rolled her eyes in reluctance). She had no idea whether it would work or, more importantly, whether her own reflexes would meet the challenge in their current condition. But it was this or nothing. And now or never.
“Ahh! Goddam BITCH!” Success. Her surprisingly steady hand performed beautifully under unusual pressure. Good to know, she thought; for next time. And then, in another moment of divine inspiration, she did what she had only seen in movies, with no idea whether it would work. The man was in agony, forced to remove the ugly pair of glasses, which gave his otherwise bland face its only personality, rubbing his tearing eyes fiercely with one hand, clutching the wheel with the other.
The car, now out of control, screeched to a near-stop as she gripped the hand-brake and pulled with all her tiny might. The blinded stranger who, to her relief, did not want to die himself, hit the brake and finished what she’d started.
“You just bought yourself a very painful exit, little girl,” he fumbled on, trying not to relinquish control of the twisted situation. With unyielding determination, his hand rubbed and rubbed his swollen eyes under his glasses. The other was off the wheel, swatting the air beside him in a feeble attempt to grab her…
But Susan was in the driver’s seat now––(metaphorically) ––and, with fresh optimism, she unclicked her seatbelt and kicked the passenger door until it burst open–– She had only a dozen seconds at most to catch her breath and assess her desolate surroundings... ‘Operation Survival’ was now into phase two.
Her legs were unfortunately much shakier than her hands as she hobbled towards the dark woods, looking back only once; just long enough to see the man reattach his glasses and spill out of the vehicle…
_____
The sounds of traffic; a clearing in the woods were upon her at last. And Susan moved steadily toward it. Her heart began to beat slower. Only moments before, she was nearly convinced it would thump right out of her chest. Her mind’s dull edges were sharpening too, and the finer details of her chilly surroundings came slowly into focus...
The cars were much closer. Almost on top of her. So close in fact, she could make out the song snippet blasting from some young punk’s radio as he zoomed by. It was over. A few dozen steps forward and she would be among people. All she had to do was flag someone down. If necessary, she was prepared to step into oncoming traffic…
The beeping noise caught her by understated surprise–– It took a second to convince her it wasn’t just in her head. But there it was again; choppy. The battery, it seemed, while nearly drained, was not quite dead after all. What to do…
Just a little further. ‘Summer lovin. Had me a blast…’ The tune cut through her bulky coat pocket, bouncing off every snowy stone and twig. Shut the fuck up, she pleaded. Just a few more steps… ‘Summer lovin. Happened so fast…’ A breeze flew across her face, and the phone beeped again. Without thinking, she pulled it from her coat just to––
“There’s a good girl...” A cold voice panted into her quivering ear. It was no hallucination. A hand slapped sharply over her mouth, muffling her spiritless scream. The phone fell hard to the ground, sending the mostly-dead battery off in a separate direction. “Now we’re gonna have us some fun, aren’t we…?” he said, licking the back of her sweaty neck… “Nearly forgot how rewarding a good chase can be…”
With one final burst of panic, she swung an arm wildly and slapped at his unseen face. Something, which she could not see, snapped neatly free and fell listlessly to the ground. His grip, nonetheless, did not waver; only tightened; his swift, panting breath all over her soft, exposed skin. It was the last thing she would ever feel––
before the world as she knew it, fell forever in darkness.




One of my all-time faves, I must say. One more chapter to go before Volume One is complete. It's a long one. But first, I've got more blogging to get to. I must get this Lost-gasm off my chest--next time.

D.A.

Canadian Voices

I know it's been a while but I've been kinda busy working on a new short story. It's called, The Red Maple Leaf, and its written from the point of view of a little boy who lost his mother in Afghanistan. I've been working on it for some time now, trying to get it ready for an anthology book called Canadian Voices, Volume Two. The book is being put out by Bookland Press, a Canadian publisher who had tremendous success a couple years back with Canadian Voices, Volume One. Both books are designed to showcase up-and-coming Canadian writers with a diverse selection of short stories, poetry and novel excerpts. I urge you to check it out.

http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Canadian-Voices-Volume-One-Anthology-Canadian-Anthology/9780978439552-item.html

Anyway, I got my story in late last night. It turned out pretty well, (I hope). Either way, it was a blast to write, a real challenge and if, for whatever reason, it doesn't quite work for this publisher, I'll be sure to shop it around someplace else. (And post it up here, of course).

Don't panic.
Regular blogging should be getting back to normal now.

Coming soon:

The long-awaited Chapter Twelve of my momumental horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, (only two more to go, people). Plus, a new exciting installment of Simpsons Roundup!, and 'What Am I reading?'

See you soon.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Eleven

Now we're getting down to the nitty gritty. I don't know what that means but it sounded good in my head. Must remember to get that thing fixed. Anyhoo, here's Chapter Eleven of my mondo-epic, An Axis Oblique. Only two more chapters to go after this one. Then your free taste is cut-off - chicka! Damn, I wouldv'e made a kick-ass drug-dealer. Never too late, I suppose. Let's see how this writing thing pans out first.



–– Eleven ––

“––whatever the heck you want to see, Harold, I just don’t care anymore…” Brenda’s nauseating drone went on and on…and on… “…a perfectly good Starbucks across the street and you have to opt for some dingy coffee shop, just so you can save a few lousy pennies…” The words stung like spikes in his temples as the intolerable glare through the filthy window took ample care of his retina. “…and then, instead of just admitting you’re too cheap to shell out for two venti peppermint mocha-chinos, you go off on some tangent about malnourished children picking beans in South America for four and a half cents an hour, I mean really…” In search of relief, he pivoted his balding, bulbous head every which way but round; his always-nervous mind threatening to give in to his much-too-fragile senses…
And that’s when he saw it.
“Harold, are you even listening to me?” Brenda’s nasally squawk morphed into one long, androgynous humm… “Harold? Harold!!? What is the matter with you?”
“Do you believe in fate, Brenda?” he whispered, staring gapingly past her.
Brenda Blylevin, his upper-middle-aged consort with premature liver-spots and freshly-touched cherry roots, pulled at her powder-blue sweater; (the one she considered a miraculous alternative to a sensible diet and exercise). “Fate?” she cackled, like he’d just pinched her padded rump. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about destiny. The mysterious convergence of exactly the right place at exactly the right…” Harold looked up at his companion of two and two-third years. She stared into his giddy round eyes as though he’d just put a bullet into her precious Yorkshire terrier.
The man sat a mere thirty feet away, nursing a paper cup of coffee whilst engaged in pleasant conversation with a plain-looking young girl on the right side of pretty. He was cleaned up some; different shirt; perhaps even a shave or two in between…but short of being a cruel figment of his own paranoid imagination, there was no mistaking that grinning fool for the angry schizophrenic who stuck a gun in his grumbling belly and carved a scarcely detectable souvenir into his chafing lower lip. “I think, darling, I may have just stumbled onto mine...”
Brenda continued to stare him down with bitter contempt; then at last, turned her head toward the unseemly couple. “Are you…are you gawking at that girl right in front of me?” she asked accusingly. Poor pathetic Brenda; forever doomed to miss the point.
“Keep your voice down.” He shushed her. “I’m not gawking at her, I’m gawking at…” He huffed. “I’m not gawking, okay? I’m observing…”
“Oh is that what you call it? Well she’s old enough to be your––”
“Would you forget about the goddamed girl,” he bellowed. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Brenda kept staring, desperately trying to piece this together.
“Stop staring,” he blurted a bit harsher than intended; a good thing nonetheless, for no sooner had her shifty pupils bounced back to him, did the man take superficial notice. Harold looked away. Surely he must recognize me, he thought. But to his mild surprise, and utter confusion, the man looked right at Harold Prescott, perhaps with a hint of faint recognition, but nothing more––then returned to his own frivolous flirtations.
“I…don’t believe it...” he muttered.
“Harold, if you don’t tell me what all this is about, I swear I’m going to––”
“The man…” he said calmly. “That man, sitting right over there with the annoying little smirk on his face…he’s the one I told you about…” The clueless woman continued to regard him with an open jaw, as though he were speaking Chinese. “Remember, that policeman I told you about? The one with the split personality? Not to mention small arsenal tucked away in that Oldsmobile rust-bucket…”
“Oh, him!” she squealed, relieved to finally be let in on the big mystery. “Where?” Her gaze shifted back to the mismatched couple. Harold rolled his eyes. “Certainly doesn’t look all that menacing. He doesn’t even look like a police officer…”
“Oh just be quiet, Brenda, don’t you think I know the man who, not two days ago, jammed a gun into my ribs and threatened to put my lights out?”
“Okay, okay, calm down, I believe you,” she said––then managed to slip an ‘if you say so’ under her condescending coffee breath. “Wait, you’re not thinking of…”
For a split second, he found himself actually considering the giddy prospect of confrontation. Surely this would be an ideal place; a public establishment, broad daylight, plenty of witnesses… “No. No, of course not. The man is unstable, I told you. There’s no telling what he might––” He stopped.
Just what pray-tell was he planning to do? He’d been so content simply to have this upper hand; to watch without being watched in return, actual action very nearly escaped him. What a waste it would be.
“I’m gonna get his plate number,” he decided.
“His––? Oh, Harold, no. You said so yourself, the man is dangerous.”
“I can’t let this slip through my fingers,” he said, pouring through his jacket. “Now where in the hell did I––Brenda, do you have a pen in that purse of yours?”
The woman returned to her favorite ‘you’ve completely lost your gutless little mind,’ expression, then began shuffling through her gigantic ‘bubbie-purse.’ “Oh my dear Lord...” she sighed. Harold sat impatiently across from her, narrowly resisting the urge to snap his restless fingers; one eye fixed firmly on the couple in the corner…
“Hold on, I’m looking…” A ruthless frustration came over him before her powder-blue sleeve finally emerged with a sterling silver Cross pen.
“Okay,” he began, snatching it out of her hand and scrambling for a piece of napkin. “I’m gonna slip out discretely and find that piece of shit car of his while you keep an eye on––” But before he could finish, his window, opened barely a crack as it was, began once again, to marginally close…
The man and his young companion were shuffling into their respective coats and exchanging mindless pleasantries. Each had a telling look in their eye, as though in on some delicious conspiracy. Harold was sick to his stomach––and envious as hell. Some guys had all the luck, he thought…and nice guys finished last.
“They’re leaving...” said Brenda with a sigh of relief. “I think it’s for the best, Harold.” But Harold was barely listening. The smarmy stranger formed a cock-eyed smile. For a split second, his eyes danced in Harold’s cold direction yet again. But this time, feeling especially brave, Harold did not look away. That’s right, you bastard. I know exactly who you are; what you are. You can treat me like just another face in the crowd, but we both know the sorted truth. The man held his stare a half-second longer.
“Just forget it, Harold,” she added, supportive as ever. Harold hardly heard; his mind a million miles away as all life shifted into slow motion...
He watched the happy couple stroll across the shop floor, past their tacky booth and out the greasy glass door. He took in every feature; every nuance of the man’s chiseled face. He would not forget it, as Brenda had so callously suggested. Not as long as he lived. Instead he would remember––with every last ounce of his weary being.
–––––––––––––––
Keith held the door for his newest witness/companion/conquest. She might just prove indispensable. On the other hand, (though he would not have shared it with her), her info was most likely useless. He knew all too well that this womanizing dentist’s untimely demise was probably connected––if not directly caused by the questionable actions of the second victim that morning––young Sonny Duval, (or Duvaliente); a most shady individual at the very least. And at most…
Just get back to the girl, you dolt…
_____
“Well, I suppose I could…hold off on my plans for now…if you really think I might be of use…” she had taunted, batting her long wistful lashes.
And the ‘understatement of the year’ award goes to…
“Cynthia, I don’t want you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable. And I’m certainly not trying to back you into a corner…” Yet. “I mean, if your heart’s set on putting this town far behind you, Hell, I might just pack a bag and go with you...” Again she laughed. Good God, what a laugh. I wonder how she screams… “It’s just that my conversations with Mrs. McAllister have proved less than forthcoming…”
“Say no more,” she replied, goofy smile still firmly in place.
_____
And it was still there now, in fact. He and the girl traded glances like a couple of horny teenagers as he walked her to her Honda Accord. “Well, guess this is it,” he said sourly. The girl fumbled casually with her car keys before unlocking and shuffling inside. She sat for a second, looking up at him like an eager kitty waiting for her saucer of milk. Keith strategically placed an arm to make it more deliberate of her to break their connection. The impersonal, electronic reminder sang incessantly to indicate the door was not only ajar––but still wide open––in case she had something more to say.
“Guess so,” was all that she did––at first. “Perhaps I should get your number...” Keith raised a brow. “I mean to your office. As soon as I’m, you know, settled. That way you can contact me if you find yourself…in need…” Again he smiled innocently. The girl was blushing now, and he wondered whether she could tell how much he liked it.
“Absolutely.” He played along, fishing for his wallet. Thumbing through the leather slots in search of an extra business card, he flipped nonchalantly past a stack of useless clutter; among which, a laminated driver’s license with a stranger’s face in the center. In the blink between it and the next trivial item, he wondered how he’d come into its possession––and why the face seemed so familiar. At last he came out with the black disposable Bic he kept on hand for just such emergencies.
“This has all my work-related contact information,” he said, scribbling something on the back. “And this is my home number, in case you…” He looked into her stunning brown eyes, “…need it for any reason. Any reason at all.”
She took it.
“Thank you,” she said with a grin that would not leave her face. “Guess in the meantime I’ll try to find a motel nearby, or something…”
Can you say ‘putty’…?
The whole thing couldn’t have gone smoother, he thought with a healthy streak of manly pride as he watched her faded sedan roll slowly out of the parking lot and toward the busy intersection. I can’t wait for next time, a shady voice pronounced deep from within…or perhaps, not so deep as he liked to believe.
A gentle breeze nuzzled his tingling cheek and he closed his eyes to better soak it in. For the first time in years, he felt glad for things like murder, mayhem and darkness. Not because they were good things, of course. In all his years in law enforcement, they’d driven him to unspeakable lengths, dragging him down to levels he could never have foreseen possible to go. But now, those same miserable, despicable forces of nature had led him to her––Cynthia Caldwell––the light at the end of this bloody long tunnel.
The pleasing warmth of winter sunshine infiltrated his senses. He marveled at all that lay in front of him; baffled by how little he’d managed to see before. A peculiar sensation overwhelmed him all of a sudden as he openly stared into the full, blazing sun––similar perhaps, to deja-vu, but not nearly so dismissible. There were other eyes just as intently glued to this beautiful ball of bubbling fire…thousands, he just knew. In this insignificant instance, several independent natures were converging into one; a singular flow of consciousness, from which an entire legion of thought-fueled inertia propelled. Good gravy, when the heck did you become such a tree-hugger…? The uninvited presence reached out from beyond its unspeakable void to slap him silly.
HONK!!! Keith returned just in time to incur the wrath of some sour-faced soccer-mom at the throne of a royal-blue Caravan. It seemed he so happened to be standing in the center of a space. The driver flashed him an angry grimace, as if untouchable inside her fiberglass fortress. It was then that he noticed the handicapped permit resting on the dash and looked swiftly down to a similar symbol, half-covered in slushy rock-salt.
You’re goddamned lucky, lady. If not for the day I’m having I’d bleed you right to the bone and feed on your earlobes for supper… Keith stepped aside with angry eyes: That’s right, bitch. Not gonna be inside that car forever… The woman avoided his stare altogether as she pulled into the coveted space, which seemed to her now, not nearly so important.
She took her sweet time. Keith’s feet remained planted, daring her to try her luck. But the once-aggressive woman could not get out of his heavy sight fast enough. She walked quickly past, hands in her pockets and eyes strait ahead. Keith let her go, as the lion sometimes did with the antelope when his head was tired and his belly full.
In truth, he got off on the fear; absorbed its nourishing energy. The seductive power lifted him over these foul, wretched creatures, who liked to talk a big game, but when push came to shove, typically fell over without incident. The blissful rush accompanied him to his waiting Supreme, just a few spaces down, and seemed somehow to gain potency over the long ride home.
* * *
He could hear the phone as he fumbled with his key––before ceasing abruptly––
The ID screen displayed only a blank space where a number should be. He thought nothing of it, much too preoccupied. The familiar apartment was unusually cold, prompting him to raise the thermostat a few degrees before tending to his eager voice mail:
“Detective Merrimac, this is Arthur Davenport calling on behalf of my client, Hartley Beckonsworth.” Keith barely listened, taking in his surroundings. “Please note that from now on, I, and not Mr. Beckonsworth himself, will be handling all matters, big and small, pertaining to he and/or any members of his family, just so there’s no further misunderstanding. I can be reached in my office Monday through Saturday until five. The number is…”
Keith tucked the obnoxious voice to the back of his mind. Meredith Beckonsworth. Why did that name send a chill down his spine? No, not quite a chill–– More of…a thrill... He shrugged off the nagging sensation with an involuntary shudder.
Two more calls followed: The first, a recording, from some woman congratulating him on his pre-approved Classic Visa, for which he had even less patience. Sexy voice, though... The thought brought him back to Ms. Beckonsworth. Meredith… Melina… Cynthia… Was his mind ever tired.
The next call was the hang-up he’d so narrowly missed. The dial tone filled the room and he sighed in disgust, crossing the hardwood. Does it have to be so hot in here…? He stopped at the thermostat and nudged the room down a couple degrees. His feet crossed the cold kitchen tile and the name flashed again inside his head––Meredith…
_____
Juanita Duvaliente brought the name up as they sipped strong coffee in her kitchen that slight, somber evening. “I don’t know if it will bear any relevance at all but…” Her voice trailed off, allowing her thoughts to catch up. “When Sonny was in school; in college, about seven or eight years ago, there was a girl...” Again she stopped talking. But Keith understood well enough.
She’d never met the young lady, but Sonny had mentioned her––once. At the time, she’d thought nothing of it. But after that strange call from the officer in Willimantic; and those stories on the news, other thoughts had been shamefully entertained.
_____
Mere hours before his progressive rendezvous with sweet Cynthia, he’d placed a call to the father of said girl, last name Beckonsworth, couldn’t be bluer blood, in the unlikely hope he might shed some light on her fresh-faced college suitor, Sonny Duval––particularly his extracurricular activities. A long shot, he knew it. Man’s gotta start somewhere…
CRASH––!!!
The jar of pickles slipped out of his hand and into pieces––
“What the Hell’s a’matter with me?” he mumbled, going for a mop and dustpan.
He had the mess cleaned in no time. In fact, he had little memory at all; only brief flashes. It was almost as though he’d retreated to the back of his mind for a bit. Yes, that was it. But, no. Not retreated exactly. More like…pushed…
A sudden shiver ran through him, and he wondered why it was so cold in there.
Sure someone didn’t just walk across your grave…? There it was again. A thought, which seemed to come, not from his own consciousness, but somewhere deeper down.
At the thermostat, he experienced an odd bout of deja-vu. The needle remained where it had been all day, and yet he was certain he’d raised it. Enough, he scolded himself, and notched it up a few more degrees.
Nothing had changed in his refrigerator. The shelves were bare as ever; even moreso without the pickles. The freezer offered little else. A near-empty drum of Ben and Jerry’s; a few frozen dinners; fish sticks; and a stack of hamburger patties wrapped in foil. Before he could think, his hand reached out and snatched the nearest Hungry Man.
Perhaps, had he more mind for protein, he might just have come across the hearty mystery meal, tucked conspicuously behind all those frozen hamburgers. It too was wrapped in tinfoil and, when the time was just right, would taste heavenly. Smothered in my own secret sauce… the voice whispered softly…careful not to disturb its gracious host.







Stay tuned for a new semi-regular feature I like to call, "What Am I Reading?" Should be good for a few laughs, (I hope), plus maybe even a smidge of insight into what I choose to read and how it influences my wrting at the time. Trust me, it sounds more complicated than it is. Just thought it might give me something to write about, as well as impart a few of my --achem!-- techniques on all of you wanna-be-writers out there, (myself not entirely exluded).

Till we meet again.
Stay literate, my friends. And drink plenty of fluids.

D.A.