As Dr. Steven Middleton sipped his lemon tea and spread a little more butter on a croissant, he looked out over the mountains near his Chattanooga home. He was overcome by a sense of relief. It was late afternoon on a cloudless Saturday in September and his wife had just gotten up from her chair on the deck to go answer the phone. As he sat there, reflecting and remembering on a lifetime and career that left little to be desired, he was relieved. Yes, he told himself, that was definitely the feeling, relieved. Of course he was appreciative for the family he had, his achievements and accomplishments, the many friends and the associates he had been lucky enough to have gained. For the most part though, he was glad that his long career had finally come to an end. He was anxious to start this new chapter of his life, try to bury some nightmares and have a new beginning.
The view from his deck was expansive and beautiful, a vista that had held him in a trance of awe and inspiration since the first time they had looked at this property about twelve years ago. He could lose himself here and sometimes during his long career, most of the time in fact - he reminded himself, that was exactly what he had needed. He could hear his wife talking to his oldest daughter in the background but at the same time he didn't really hear anything. A little whiff of breeze blew up briefly and it seemed like it lifted him right up, his thoughts drifting away and back in time.....
He had grown up in a middle class family, his father a detective for the Atlanta Police Department and his mother, an elementary school teacher. His father had in fact worked on one of Atlanta’s most infamous murder cases. Wayne Williams had finally been caught and convicted of multiple child abductions and murders, something that Williams had always claimed his innocence of. In the end though, the evidence had been overwhelming and his father had played a big part in documenting the case, putting together many of the missing pieces that had stymied investigators so long.
Steven Middleton, had also been an only child and he was his parent’s entire world. He had excelled in sports, girls and academics - and not necessarily in that order, as he had made his way through his early years. Georgia Tech turned out to be where he had finally decided to attend college when that time had come and he had met Mary his wife there as well. Medical School followed, with a final career destination of someday being a Medical Examiner being his plan. As with almost everything Steven had ever set out to do, he had accomplished that as well.
The explosion though, of the Forensic Sciences field, had opened a world of opportunity that Steven hadn't seen coming. Spurred on from his Father's unofficial expertise and interest in the fledgling forensic crime units, Steven had added this area of studies to an already long list of academic achievements. He found also that it was an area that he had a natural expertise in. Back then it had been a sort of no man's land, combined crime investigation and medicine. The pinnacle of it all though, in his mind, was his sideline studies of serial murderers, more specifically an even newer art form that was being pioneered at the time. Profiling became more mainstream and he had personally helped to popularize that term as a crime fighting tool. It had also catapulted him to national prominence. He began being brought in on a consultative basis by Police Departments and Law Enforcement agencies across the country. After being called in on a national case, recommended by an FBI Section Chief who was an old college roommate of his from Georgia Tech, things just seemed to mushroom.
Probably the only big regret though, no he corrected himself, it was definitely his biggest regret, had been the case in North Carolina. There were times where either because of prior commitments or other ongoing cases, he would have to turn down requests for help. It was simply impossible to be everywhere at once. The Chapel Hill Killer case was one of those times. At the same time the CHK murders were going on, he had been working a case in Northern Virginia. A gruesome multiple homicide involving the murder and torture of an entire well to do family of six. When Police had arrived on the scene, they had found six severed heads on the fireplace mantle. Steven would have his hands full on this one, but he felt he’d be successful. The killer had made some mistakes.
A good friend and associate of his, Bill Markham, ‘The most talented Profiler there is today’ Steven always made a habit of publicly stating, would eventually get the "win" on the Chapel Hill Killer. The case was horrendous in nature, held the attention of the entire nation for long months and Steven had watched it closely. He called his friend who was working the case as much as he could, offering advice, opinions and support. His thoughts and vision into a case he wasn’t really involved in amazed Markham and the other profiler began to lean and rely heavily on Steven’s helpful phone calls.
The Chapel Hill Killer had been particularly sadistic and gruesome but almost fastidious in his method. He exhibited a certain macabre lunacy and a strange controlled butchery, coupled with an insane artist’s touch and signature afterward. The entire campus area and surrounding community had been held in an awful grip of terror for months. One by one, seven young and beautiful girls were meticulously and carefully cut, slashed and punctured with a variety of implements.
What the Chapel Hill Killer was horribly good at was prolonging agony and the ultimate death of his victims. That as well as not being caught of course was what placed him above so many others, in terms of achieving the dubious status of the worst of the worst. By abrasions and bruising on ankles and wrists, as well as bruising and tell tale marks on their backs and buttocks, it appeared they had all been handcuffed spread eagled on a flat hard surface of some kind. They all had been raped repeatedly by both the murderer and with various objects he used. It was estimated that the girls all lasted at least 2 days and one was estimated to have lived 4 days after being cut and raped the first time. As a finishing statement and personal signature, all the girls were found hanging upside down.
One was found in an auditorium supply closet, one in an abandoned warehouse, one strung from a footbridge over a small stream in a city park and so forth. Their heads shaved, breasts always removed, and the genital area just a mass of tissue. The girls many times were barely, if at all, visually recognizable to loved ones.
As it finally turned out, the murderer was one of the college professors at the school, teaching a class on forensic science of all things. Investigators first stumbled onto the fact that each of the girls had attended at least one of his classes, at one point in their time at the University of North Carolina. He had finally been considered ‘a person of interest’ though after it was found that he had secretly dated two of the victims, lied about it in fact during questioning. It was further discovered through phone records that he had called and asked out, three of the other murdered girls. The clincher was a knife and handcuffs found, during a court ordered search warrant, wrapped and hidden in the rafters of his garage. Blood and DNA on both of these pieces of evidence came back solid, matching one of the murdered coeds. Always maintaining his innocence, the convicted professor, The Chapel Hill Killer had ultimately committed suicide in prison and made the news again only a year ago.
Steven had always supposed that his luckiest trait or talent – if you can call it lucky, was the ability he had to step out of himself and become the monster. His father had some measure of that ability but admittedly nothing compared to Steven’s ability to mentally transform himself. In effect, he could become precisely who his quarry was. He could think like they thought, rationalize like they did, compartmentalize and plan like they did. He could predict where and when and who. He was them.
Now of course, the ability and talent that was his special weapon against serial murderers was also a double edged sword, it was a cancer. It took all his energy, drained him, dried him out and dulled him over the span of the case. Only until the investigation and chase came to conclusion, with the successful apprehension of the murderer, would his self inflicted cancer begin to abate. Down through the years he had needed increasingly more time to regain, restrengthen and compose himself between cases. He wondered from time to time if it wasn’t killing him, from the inside out.
The hook for him of course was successfully solving these hideous cases, there was such a final closure to it, such a sense of doing right for the grieving families and society, such a challenge that had to be met. There was something very cyclical about it all. He needed it, it made him sick, it cured him and he needed it again.
As always though there is an end, an end to a career and retirement. Retirement, 'Beginning the end' he used to jokingly call it when discussing it with Mary. He had actually come to the decision much easier than he would have thought. He felt relieved that he would finally have an opportunity to try and cleanse himself of all the accumulated awful sights, thoughts, smells and devious acts beyond belief. He wanted more than anything never having to put on that monster mask again, pretending to live and breathe in that evil world. Yes, he wanted it over.
"Are you done?".....the question hung in the air like the fog around these Tennessee mountains on some mornings.
He blinked several times and rose up in his chair a little.
"Steven, are you done or would you like some more?" Mary asked again patiently.
He had been so deep in thought and memories that he had not noticed Mary had come back out and sat down. He looked down absentmindedly at the empty tea glass in his right hand and the butter knife in his left hand. He had apparently finished the tea and croissant without even realizing it.
He smiled over to her, "Yes, uh yes, a little more tea would be great hon."
He cleared his throat and looked at her again, "Sorry Dear, I drifted off for a moment, been sitting here thinking about things, thinking about how lucky we've been, how lucky I've been." With that said, he took her hand and looked back out at the mountains.
Smiling gently back at him Mary said, "Chrissie called and said she was going to the game today, they're expecting a big win and she sure wished you could have come. She said the Tar Heels always seem to win in Chapel Hill."
“Yes, yes they do”, he said blinking twice more rapidly and suddenly remembered Chapel Hill very well….and a dimly lit basement.
Clearing his throat again and trying to erase that, he looked down at his wife’s slim arm and her hand entwined in his, but for just a horrifying split second he saw a handcuff on a slim young wrist instead of her diamond bracelet. He looked away quickly.
"Well, let me go get you a little more tea sweetheart" she said, getting up casually and started to step inside again.
Steven absently lost grip of the butter knife that he still held and it clattered on the stone balcony. Mary, just stepping through the large sliding door began to come back out and pick it up for him.
“I’ve got it babe, I seem to have butter fingers” Steven chuckled at both his clumsiness and the bad pun.
Mary rolled her eyes dramatically, grinned and walked inside.
As he bent over to pick the knife up though, it looked different and his hand froze just above it. Instead of a normal silverware butter knife it had a carved ivory handle, it was almost twice as long as it had been. Much thicker and it had a wicked, decadently tapered, razor sharp blade.
The doctor said nothing as he stared at the evil looking knife, he also couldn't get the quick vision of those handcuffs out of his mind for some reason, he had seen those exact pair somewhere before....... maybe they were from the Phoenix, Arizona case a couple of years ago.....the ones he had never returned. A sudden and horribly shrill girl's scream, full of agony and fear jolted him back to reality and promptly, thankfully, paused the nightmare movie that had just begun playing in his mind.
As quickly as that dark movie in his mind had stopped though, it began again and he immediately started to breath quicker in short little gasps. He became strangely aroused and his pulse pounded. He could have sworn he was back in beautiful Chapel Hill again, back in that rented house just off campus. It had been extremely pleasureable for him and the girls had been such spectacular specimens, so fresh and full of life, so challenging. In the end, it had been an absolute confirmation that he really was the best. Only the best in the business could have managed it. The poor UNC Professor had of course been telling the truth all along and Dr. Steven Middleton knew this better than anyone.
The hawk screeched loudly again, startling him less and not sounding so much like a girl’s scream this time, as it continued it’s swoop on some prey in a small valley clearing down below his balcony. He smiled woodenly at himself for thinking that it had been a woman's scream, but his eyes remained glazed and blank. He’d let Mary pick up the butter knife after all.
THE END
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Heavy Burdens
He had finally come to his decision as he pulled into the driveway on a late Friday afternoon in August of 1998. He’d known for months what he had wanted to do and had planned carefully for it. He parked the car well off to the left making sure not to block Steph’s car. She’d be leaving with the kids in about an hour, so he hurried in to help her finish loading the Tahoe. He would have bet his life savings that the car was certainly not loaded yet, he smiled grimly to himself. They were off to see her folks and he was off on a weekend fishing trip to Florida. She’d be back in about four days with about a week to spare before school started again. As Will had walked into the kitchen from the back door the noise of a flustered wife, a loud confused son and a complaining daughter hit his ears, like cymbals crashing. The normal noisy storm before the late and hurried departure to anywhere, let alone a four day trip two states away.
The running argument and loud jumbled conversation on that August afternoon as it trailed out of the house and into the car would be the the last time he would heard their voices. It would be the last time he would ever see them again. He waved to them as they pulled out and as usual they had been too preoccupied with who got the I-Pod first, to really notice. A brief honk down at the end of the block was done from habit with maybe a small amount of guilt for forgetting to actually say goodbye, but mostly just an afterthought. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault he said to himself, it’s just the way it is now. He watched the car turn the corner and continued to stare for a minute or two, his eyes glazed over and dull. His mind was dull as well, muddied and sluggish. Hell, he still loved her and she still loved him and they both adored the kids. So much history together, so many memories but it didn’t matter, he had made his decision and he wasn’t going to change his mind at this point.
Will Garrison finally turned back up the driveway and walked back into the kitchen, now quiet as a cemetery. He looked stoically around the familiar scene, taking one last sad mental picture of refrigerator magnets, pictures and a small plate on the counter with half of a cookie still on it. Standing there he still couldn’t believe it. He also couldn’t believe that later that evening, he would be dead. He was just sure of it.
He would die tragically in a small plane crash around 9:30 p.m. or so tonight. He would be piloting his pride and joy, the Cessna Skylane that he had bought and learned to fly about five years earlier. Sitting next to him tonight would be his life-long best friend Brett Colson. Brett, the firmly committed bachelor, whom Will lived vicariously through. They had gone on this yearly trip religiously and enjoyed it immensely. After picking Brett up and driving to the small regional airport, they would load the plane with luggage and fishing gear. As Will had filed the flight plan already, his plane would be fueled in advance and all they would have to do would be go through the standard pre-flight preparations and wait for clearance to take-off. While Brett had no license to fly and didn’t really understand all of the instrumentation and procedures he had become a helpful unofficial copilot so they would be ready to go fairly quick.
It was nearly 9:00 and they had been in that air almost an hour, and according to his calculations, Will knew he was very close to where he wanted to be. He looked down and tapped the fuel gauge with his forefinger, seemingly puzzled he switched over to auxiliary fuel and continued to stare at the gauge. Brett picked up on this and looked over at him questioningly.
Will continued to stare at the instrumentation but now had slowly unbuckled his harness and told Brett calmly, “Hold her steady for a second okay?”
“Sure Will, no problem”, Brad replied, curious but certainly not concerned. Will was capable, solid and steady as they come in virtually everything he did, in work, at home, or in life for that matter. He was a hard man, uncompromising in general, but decent and extremely confident. Brad had no doubt he had control of the situation, whatever that was.
Will turned and half stretched, half crawled between and behind them, Brett simply taking the yoke and keeping her relatively steady as he had been instructed.
“Okay, I got it” Will said twisting back around and coming back through the narrow space between them, taking the yoke again.
Expressionless, Will looked straight ahead out into the darkness and he could feel Brett looking at him expectantly for some explanation or next step. For a brief second, Will thought to himself that maybe this all didn’t have to happen, that it wasn’t really necessary. But it had broken him and it was too late for any of that, much too late, he concluded silently.
“We’re going down Brett” Will had said it as calmly and as matter of fact as if he had been commenting on the sunset earlier that evening.
“We’re go.....wha…..What did you say?” Brett asked, as he noticed in the glow of the instruments that Will was sitting a little awkwardly now.
The only answer was the changing sound of the plane as it began to steadily gain altitude. The stronger drone continued and the Cessna’s altitude needle just kept going higher.
Will looking straight out into the night suddenly said, “Before this happens Brett, do you have anything to tell me? Anything, to say to me? Anything at all? You’re my best friend, you’re like my brother”, and adding almost as an aside he finished with, “we don’t have much time left together bud.”
He didn’t look over at Brett, he just kept flying the Cessna and staring straight ahead. There was a long silence, pregnant and tense.
“Look, Will…..I don’t know what this is all about….is there something wrong with the plane or you? Brett stammered
There was no answer from his old friend.
“Will, I …..I don’t know what you’re thinking or what you’re feeling right now, tell me whats wrong“ Brett was picking his words carefully, talking low and even.
Still no answer came from the stone faced pilot. As Brett stared over at him in the darkness of the small, instrument lit cockpit, he thought he could make out a small package in the lap of his friend. He peered at it trying to distinguish it and realized seconds later what it was. A parachute.
Brett was stammering now as he began to realize that something was seriously wrong “Will, for God’s sake what’s wrong?! Whats got you….so damn….upset….is it the job, the - ”
“DON’T do this to me”, Will said cutting in. “Don’t, on top of everything else…..don’t” he said once again with quiet force. Another silence followed and Brett slowly turned to look out the side window and into the never ending darkness. The plane droned on steadily, it had leveled out just seconds earlier, reaching the desired altitude for Will. There had been no talk for at least a minute. A very long minute.
Brett, while still looking out at nothing and his mind racing finally broke the silence, “It wasn’t her fault, not her fault at all Will”, he said abruptly, “Hell man she still loves you……Steph never really cared for me….we just….we….”
“You tore my heart out pardner, just as sure as shooting me, you killed me” Will said as his voice raised and leveled out again. He continued, “You’ve got a decision to make Brett”, handing the parachute across to his friend, “You or I will survive this - but both of us will die in our own way.”
“Will?!….Jesus…..Will, what the hell are you talking about?!” Brett asked sounding very close to panic now and still not entirely believing that this was really happening.
“One of us will go down with this plane, which is almost out of fuel. The other will use that parachute and probably live, but face the consequences; hiding out, running away from everything and everybody we ever knew or just turning themselves in. You Brett, yeah my old buddy Brett, You will decide who does what”, Will said as he slowed the airspeed of the plane and this time he was staring evenly back at his former friend.
He was sure he knew what the decision would be as Brett contemplated the small parachute that now lay in his lap. Sure he was going to die like he’d thought he would all day.
“And Brett” Will said as a side comment almost “we don’t have much time, we’re far too high to try to bring this thing in safely and she’s gonna start coughing with no fuel in a second.
Brett finally looked up at Will from the paracute on his lap with a mixed expression of grief and a deep sadness. Mingled in that look and that face though was also a touch of honor. Yes, there was definitely a look of honor. Honor once had, lost and now regained, decided Will to himself as he looked hard at the best friend he would ever have.
Epilogue
The headlines and stories in the local Georgia papers had been tragic and sudden as they always are in plane crashes;
“Two prominent business leaders from the small town of Shackley, Georgia were killed late Friday night when their Cessna went down in the Florida Everglades. One body has been found and positively identified in the wreckage of the plane and the other has still had not been recovered”.
That second body, most likely never would be found, due to the almost impossible terrain and swamp around the wreckage. Or another reason. Regardless, an extensive search had been conducted. After the search was finally called off with no results and several weeks had passed by it was time for other tragedies, mysteries and scandals in the news. There were always plenty of those other stories to go around. Week after week and month after month the story faded, until finally it was just a vague memory for most.
Steph Garrison was never the same although she finally had to just accept what had happened and come to terms with it in a way. But that never took away the guilt, knowing what she knew, feeling the shame she felt. She had no one to confide in and no one to go to, but she had accepted that as her fate and her just reward. There was something else though, something that ate at her day and night, sometimes it was right in her face and other times it was controlled and well under the surface. It was always there though, always with her. She had already decided that this was something that would be with her until the day she died. It whispered to her on a wrong number call at night, tapped her softly on the shoulder in the grocery store, stared at her from two rows back at the movie theatre. It was in her rearview mirror as she was backing out of a mall parking place, standing and staring in the parking lot. Always with her, right behind her or around the corner, or down the street standing and staring.
She didn’t know if it was just a guilty conscience or something entirely different. She shuddered at the second reason. The body that had never been found was that of her husband, Will. She was just sure of the terrible result of the accident. Just positive they had both perished. Sure of it. On the other hand she knew Will like no one else, knew his strength and perseverance, knew how strong he was physically and in his personality. Knew his feelings towards right and wrong….
On this sunny day in early June, she sat at her daughter’s college graduation ceremony with a sense of tremendous pride and love but sadness as well. Will Jr. sat next to her looking at his sister on stage with a solemn and sincere look of his own. They had all grown closer as a result of the terrible ordeal that occurred some 7 years ago now. That was the one good thing that had come out of this nightmare, she smiled to herself and wiped a slow tear away. Meghan was walking off the stage now. Graceful and beautiful in her dark blue and gold robe, she had accepted her diploma as Steph had watched with trembling lips and big slow tears. As she recovered, smiling back at her son who looked at her with some concern, she felt it again.
Felt the eyes. Somewhere behind her. Eyes burning into her. After several minutes and another twenty or so names had been called, she couldn’t stand it anymore, simply couldn’t. As nonchalantly as possible she turned innocently around with a staged expectant look, as if looking for a relative, scanning the crowd behind her, eyebrows raised and a false grin on her face.
It was like looking for something you really don’t want to find, sweeping back and forth half heartedly, hoping not to see anyone you know. She was just about to turn around with a great deal of relief, when she saw the man. Same square shoulders, same posture, maybe a little lighter in build. Maybe. He was sitting in the very back row and was partially blocked by the seated crowd. This was an informal outside ceremony so his baseball cap and sunglasses were not unusual attire and he blended in easily with the rest of the crowd. Even with the glasses though, she could feel those eyes on her, feel them burning right through her with a hot hate. She scanned away and then did her best to casually turn back around. Steph Garrison sat frozen with fear and rooted so badly, she could hardly twist around to move her arm back around her son. She did manage to decide something though, despite all of this fear and trepidation. Afterward, before she would greet her daughter, she would follow him, get a better look and if she could really steel herself, personally confirm who he was.
As the ceremony was just about to conclude she stole one more glance to get a better bearing on where he was sitting. Her face fell though as people behind her gradually shifted and moved, giving a clearer look back to where he was. An empty chair stared back at her. Looking through the crowd afterward she had not found him either. Little did she know she would never find him, despite seeing or feeling him many more times in the years to come. Little did she know that a never opened, rotted parachute on Will Garrison’s skeleton was back in that Everglade swamp somewhere, destined never to be found, destined to forever plague her.
The running argument and loud jumbled conversation on that August afternoon as it trailed out of the house and into the car would be the the last time he would heard their voices. It would be the last time he would ever see them again. He waved to them as they pulled out and as usual they had been too preoccupied with who got the I-Pod first, to really notice. A brief honk down at the end of the block was done from habit with maybe a small amount of guilt for forgetting to actually say goodbye, but mostly just an afterthought. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault he said to himself, it’s just the way it is now. He watched the car turn the corner and continued to stare for a minute or two, his eyes glazed over and dull. His mind was dull as well, muddied and sluggish. Hell, he still loved her and she still loved him and they both adored the kids. So much history together, so many memories but it didn’t matter, he had made his decision and he wasn’t going to change his mind at this point.
Will Garrison finally turned back up the driveway and walked back into the kitchen, now quiet as a cemetery. He looked stoically around the familiar scene, taking one last sad mental picture of refrigerator magnets, pictures and a small plate on the counter with half of a cookie still on it. Standing there he still couldn’t believe it. He also couldn’t believe that later that evening, he would be dead. He was just sure of it.
He would die tragically in a small plane crash around 9:30 p.m. or so tonight. He would be piloting his pride and joy, the Cessna Skylane that he had bought and learned to fly about five years earlier. Sitting next to him tonight would be his life-long best friend Brett Colson. Brett, the firmly committed bachelor, whom Will lived vicariously through. They had gone on this yearly trip religiously and enjoyed it immensely. After picking Brett up and driving to the small regional airport, they would load the plane with luggage and fishing gear. As Will had filed the flight plan already, his plane would be fueled in advance and all they would have to do would be go through the standard pre-flight preparations and wait for clearance to take-off. While Brett had no license to fly and didn’t really understand all of the instrumentation and procedures he had become a helpful unofficial copilot so they would be ready to go fairly quick.
It was nearly 9:00 and they had been in that air almost an hour, and according to his calculations, Will knew he was very close to where he wanted to be. He looked down and tapped the fuel gauge with his forefinger, seemingly puzzled he switched over to auxiliary fuel and continued to stare at the gauge. Brett picked up on this and looked over at him questioningly.
Will continued to stare at the instrumentation but now had slowly unbuckled his harness and told Brett calmly, “Hold her steady for a second okay?”
“Sure Will, no problem”, Brad replied, curious but certainly not concerned. Will was capable, solid and steady as they come in virtually everything he did, in work, at home, or in life for that matter. He was a hard man, uncompromising in general, but decent and extremely confident. Brad had no doubt he had control of the situation, whatever that was.
Will turned and half stretched, half crawled between and behind them, Brett simply taking the yoke and keeping her relatively steady as he had been instructed.
“Okay, I got it” Will said twisting back around and coming back through the narrow space between them, taking the yoke again.
Expressionless, Will looked straight ahead out into the darkness and he could feel Brett looking at him expectantly for some explanation or next step. For a brief second, Will thought to himself that maybe this all didn’t have to happen, that it wasn’t really necessary. But it had broken him and it was too late for any of that, much too late, he concluded silently.
“We’re going down Brett” Will had said it as calmly and as matter of fact as if he had been commenting on the sunset earlier that evening.
“We’re go.....wha…..What did you say?” Brett asked, as he noticed in the glow of the instruments that Will was sitting a little awkwardly now.
The only answer was the changing sound of the plane as it began to steadily gain altitude. The stronger drone continued and the Cessna’s altitude needle just kept going higher.
Will looking straight out into the night suddenly said, “Before this happens Brett, do you have anything to tell me? Anything, to say to me? Anything at all? You’re my best friend, you’re like my brother”, and adding almost as an aside he finished with, “we don’t have much time left together bud.”
He didn’t look over at Brett, he just kept flying the Cessna and staring straight ahead. There was a long silence, pregnant and tense.
“Look, Will…..I don’t know what this is all about….is there something wrong with the plane or you? Brett stammered
There was no answer from his old friend.
“Will, I …..I don’t know what you’re thinking or what you’re feeling right now, tell me whats wrong“ Brett was picking his words carefully, talking low and even.
Still no answer came from the stone faced pilot. As Brett stared over at him in the darkness of the small, instrument lit cockpit, he thought he could make out a small package in the lap of his friend. He peered at it trying to distinguish it and realized seconds later what it was. A parachute.
Brett was stammering now as he began to realize that something was seriously wrong “Will, for God’s sake what’s wrong?! Whats got you….so damn….upset….is it the job, the - ”
“DON’T do this to me”, Will said cutting in. “Don’t, on top of everything else…..don’t” he said once again with quiet force. Another silence followed and Brett slowly turned to look out the side window and into the never ending darkness. The plane droned on steadily, it had leveled out just seconds earlier, reaching the desired altitude for Will. There had been no talk for at least a minute. A very long minute.
Brett, while still looking out at nothing and his mind racing finally broke the silence, “It wasn’t her fault, not her fault at all Will”, he said abruptly, “Hell man she still loves you……Steph never really cared for me….we just….we….”
“You tore my heart out pardner, just as sure as shooting me, you killed me” Will said as his voice raised and leveled out again. He continued, “You’ve got a decision to make Brett”, handing the parachute across to his friend, “You or I will survive this - but both of us will die in our own way.”
“Will?!….Jesus…..Will, what the hell are you talking about?!” Brett asked sounding very close to panic now and still not entirely believing that this was really happening.
“One of us will go down with this plane, which is almost out of fuel. The other will use that parachute and probably live, but face the consequences; hiding out, running away from everything and everybody we ever knew or just turning themselves in. You Brett, yeah my old buddy Brett, You will decide who does what”, Will said as he slowed the airspeed of the plane and this time he was staring evenly back at his former friend.
He was sure he knew what the decision would be as Brett contemplated the small parachute that now lay in his lap. Sure he was going to die like he’d thought he would all day.
“And Brett” Will said as a side comment almost “we don’t have much time, we’re far too high to try to bring this thing in safely and she’s gonna start coughing with no fuel in a second.
Brett finally looked up at Will from the paracute on his lap with a mixed expression of grief and a deep sadness. Mingled in that look and that face though was also a touch of honor. Yes, there was definitely a look of honor. Honor once had, lost and now regained, decided Will to himself as he looked hard at the best friend he would ever have.
Epilogue
The headlines and stories in the local Georgia papers had been tragic and sudden as they always are in plane crashes;
“Two prominent business leaders from the small town of Shackley, Georgia were killed late Friday night when their Cessna went down in the Florida Everglades. One body has been found and positively identified in the wreckage of the plane and the other has still had not been recovered”.
That second body, most likely never would be found, due to the almost impossible terrain and swamp around the wreckage. Or another reason. Regardless, an extensive search had been conducted. After the search was finally called off with no results and several weeks had passed by it was time for other tragedies, mysteries and scandals in the news. There were always plenty of those other stories to go around. Week after week and month after month the story faded, until finally it was just a vague memory for most.
Steph Garrison was never the same although she finally had to just accept what had happened and come to terms with it in a way. But that never took away the guilt, knowing what she knew, feeling the shame she felt. She had no one to confide in and no one to go to, but she had accepted that as her fate and her just reward. There was something else though, something that ate at her day and night, sometimes it was right in her face and other times it was controlled and well under the surface. It was always there though, always with her. She had already decided that this was something that would be with her until the day she died. It whispered to her on a wrong number call at night, tapped her softly on the shoulder in the grocery store, stared at her from two rows back at the movie theatre. It was in her rearview mirror as she was backing out of a mall parking place, standing and staring in the parking lot. Always with her, right behind her or around the corner, or down the street standing and staring.
She didn’t know if it was just a guilty conscience or something entirely different. She shuddered at the second reason. The body that had never been found was that of her husband, Will. She was just sure of the terrible result of the accident. Just positive they had both perished. Sure of it. On the other hand she knew Will like no one else, knew his strength and perseverance, knew how strong he was physically and in his personality. Knew his feelings towards right and wrong….
On this sunny day in early June, she sat at her daughter’s college graduation ceremony with a sense of tremendous pride and love but sadness as well. Will Jr. sat next to her looking at his sister on stage with a solemn and sincere look of his own. They had all grown closer as a result of the terrible ordeal that occurred some 7 years ago now. That was the one good thing that had come out of this nightmare, she smiled to herself and wiped a slow tear away. Meghan was walking off the stage now. Graceful and beautiful in her dark blue and gold robe, she had accepted her diploma as Steph had watched with trembling lips and big slow tears. As she recovered, smiling back at her son who looked at her with some concern, she felt it again.
Felt the eyes. Somewhere behind her. Eyes burning into her. After several minutes and another twenty or so names had been called, she couldn’t stand it anymore, simply couldn’t. As nonchalantly as possible she turned innocently around with a staged expectant look, as if looking for a relative, scanning the crowd behind her, eyebrows raised and a false grin on her face.
It was like looking for something you really don’t want to find, sweeping back and forth half heartedly, hoping not to see anyone you know. She was just about to turn around with a great deal of relief, when she saw the man. Same square shoulders, same posture, maybe a little lighter in build. Maybe. He was sitting in the very back row and was partially blocked by the seated crowd. This was an informal outside ceremony so his baseball cap and sunglasses were not unusual attire and he blended in easily with the rest of the crowd. Even with the glasses though, she could feel those eyes on her, feel them burning right through her with a hot hate. She scanned away and then did her best to casually turn back around. Steph Garrison sat frozen with fear and rooted so badly, she could hardly twist around to move her arm back around her son. She did manage to decide something though, despite all of this fear and trepidation. Afterward, before she would greet her daughter, she would follow him, get a better look and if she could really steel herself, personally confirm who he was.
As the ceremony was just about to conclude she stole one more glance to get a better bearing on where he was sitting. Her face fell though as people behind her gradually shifted and moved, giving a clearer look back to where he was. An empty chair stared back at her. Looking through the crowd afterward she had not found him either. Little did she know she would never find him, despite seeing or feeling him many more times in the years to come. Little did she know that a never opened, rotted parachute on Will Garrison’s skeleton was back in that Everglade swamp somewhere, destined never to be found, destined to forever plague her.
The Justice Keeper
~Chapter 1~
It was times like these that he missed his other life, what he had been, who he had been and when things had been normal. The pleasant spring day was breezy, warm but not hot, fluffy white clouds were skidding across a perfect blue sky. He watched the young couple pushing the stroller around the town square at a leisurely pace. The man and woman walking with one arm loosely around each others waist. He couldn’t hear them from the park bench he sat at, but knew what they were probably talking about. Their baby, their careers, a new house someday, which elementary school, what was for dinner and I love you. They were talking of futures and kids going to college someday and even grand kids. Any of those things, and all of those things. He had been exactly in that position once and could remember it well.
But that was then and this was now, he frowned slightly and shook his head slowly, reluctantly turning his back to the young couple to concentrate on the subject at hand. He had been in town for a couple days now. Driving the streets, taking the interstate off and on ramps, getting a feel for the good and bad areas of town, looking at homes and neighborhoods like any good prospective homebuyer might. Not altogether a bad visit. He was working and concentrating on the job at hand, but he never rushed things and always made an effort to appreciate what ever town he was in, and its citizens for that matter. He would have made a terrific travel guide, he thought smiling ironically to himself.
William Lee Hinton had several different professional careers during a 25 year span starting back in 1975, the year he had graduated from Purdue University. He’d been an Advertising Exec, a Marketing Analyst and a VP for a major food manufacturer. Money had never been a problem. Friends had never been a problem. Finally finding a great wife and having 2 beautiful children had never been a problem. What had been a problem, for really his entire life, had been his unsuccessful search for excitement and even danger. He had acquired hobbies such as skydiving, flying his small Cessna, sheer rock and mountain climbing, scuba diving, even racing dirt track at County Fairs, and on and on. None of these had really punched his ticket or fed the hunger.
When their kids had been only 3 and 5 years old, his wife Caroline had suddenly passed away due to cancer, a cancer that had gone undetected for far too long. Four months later and she was gone from a related stroke. Ironically, the year she had died he had finally found that excitement and danger, but it was nothing like what he had been expecting or looking for.
Hinton, who had used at least ten different names in the past and was James Phillip Dixon currently, was a drifter of sorts. Constantly changing his identity and his location, he traveled the country and sometimes the world, like a modern day nomad. He was a contract killer of sorts. Completely efficient, very detached and a believer in that he was doing right, he was perfectly suited for his profession really. The people who would contract his services were usually business professionals, intellectuals, sport or entertainment celebrities, politicians and always - always from a certain level of income. He had made that a must from the beginning, not because he favored the well to do, but more from the standpoint of being able to continue this quest as long as possible. He wanted his potential 'employers' to have as much at stake as he did - as much 'skin in the game' as he did. He also demanded that they prove sincerity, a story of true personal hardship, real wrongdoing and absolute injustice. The people with money always seemed to be a little more manageable, controllable and confidential - not nearly as brazen or erratic as others who wanted people dead. He had come across this line of work unexpectedly, to say the least. Totally by accident, in fact, literally by way of an accident.
Years ago right after Caroline had died, a female department head from Marketing who reported directly to him at work, had been having marital problems. There was both physical abuse to her and to the children at home, as well as infidelity away from home. She was a very good friend of Bill’s, smart, attractive and cheerful. A woman that seemingly had everything going for her. A woman that didn’t have an enemy in the world. He had listened to the stories of deceit and viciousness being perpetrated on her family by the husband, a very prominent lawyer in town. Bill had also consoled and mentored her as best he could for at least six months. Finally, after exhausting legal wranglings had stalled, confrontations in and out of court had occured - including some hardball threats against her, taking property, seizing money and the children from her, the woman co-worker and friend of Bill’s had killed herself by jumping off a downtown luxury hotel balcony.
The news of this had saddened him greatly, along with a surprising amount of very dark anger. He felt as if he needed to do something, exact some sort of justice. What that was he wasn’t sure, but it had something to do with vengeance. At dinner several weeks later, in a local upscale steakhouse and completely by chance, he had been seated three booths away from the former husband of his coworker. Dining with a business consultant, he had hardly heard a word he’d said. Instead he listened to and watched the pompous, grinning, leering bastard with a blonde on his arm that was at least 30 years younger than him. He remembered feeling like he was 20 years old again, wanting to solve things or straighten out some jerk, the old fashioned way. He did not allow himself to be rational, to talk himself down, and the plan to seriously kick this guy’s ass was developed almost on the spot. He already knew their residence - he lived in the same lake community about two miles down the road and he felt reasonably sure he knew how and when would be a good time to meet with him and ‘discuss things’. He hadn’t been in a real fight for years but this guy needed it and Bill Hinton decided that he was the guy who was going to fill that need. It would not do her any good, it would almost definitely not stop the arrogant bastard in his ways - but it would send a message to the prick that might be hard to forget at least, and hell who knows, it might do himself a world of good.
For three early mornings and late nights he found himself down the street from this assholes house, watching the guy leave every morning and returning home at night, getting a feel for times, traffic and neighbors. He was timely if nothing else, leaving and coming home regularly, never bringing his women home for the neighbors to see. Always pulling in and evidently entering the house though the inside garage entryway door. The children were not living with him currently, custody had been contended in a civil suit by the wife’s parents. The guy had no pets, at least he had seen no sight of them.
The reason for his clandestine activity was simple, he needed to be careful of protecting and keeping his identity unknown in the situation that was about to occur. His marketing career, hell his life and kids, simply could not afford for his name to be splashed all over the newspapers by the lawyer. Bill would be painted as the guy who viciously attacked some poor husband – a poor guy whose wife had recently committed suicide.
He decided nighttime would be best. He also decided he’d keep the son of a bitch in the garage and bang him around in there. The neighborhood had huge lots, generally several acres, with generous space around all sides of the houses. Something would almost assuredly pop up unexpectedly, but he would handle that when the time came. On the night of the scheduled ‘meeting', which he had come to call it, he had gone for a jog, leaving his home dressed appropriately with head phones and sweats. Timing his run up the long driveway, to no passing cars and no one in sight at the neighboring houses, he turned in. He stood in a small shadowed alcove on the side of the garage, partially hidden by a waist high landscaped hedge and out of vision from the street, and simply waited. About ten minutes past when he should have arrived, the Mercedes’ lights swept across the front yard finally pulling into the driveway. Almost simultaneously the garage door slowly and quietly started to open. Taking the headphones slowly off his head and pulling a nylon to cover his face and golf gloves from his sweatpants pocket, he put them both on. He gripped his son’s pellet pistol in his other pocket and readied himself.
As the door completed its opening it stopped with a small clank. He heard the guy open his car door and the garage door also began its descent. As he crouched down and came around the corner of the garage , Bill quickly stepped up and over the door sensor mounted at the floor. On the passenger side now, Bill heard the guy’s door slam and he rose up at the same time.
“Hey,” Bill said almost casually just after the garage door clanked shut again.
The guy just kind of coughed and gasped. He stared at the guy and aimed the pellet gun at him, quickly, in a blur, coming around the car before the guy could catch his breath or realize it wasn’t a .45. The husband took one step back and dropped his briefcase with a thud, wide eyed, but still with a touch of belligerence in his look.
“What the Fuuuuck….. ….Hey…..Whaat the…..Get the Fuck out of my hou-” he never finished what would be several unfinished sentences in the next few minutes. As he was huffing and puffing, Bill had closed the gap between them, tucked the pellet gun quickly away and hit him square in the nose with a straight overhand right, followed by an uppercut on the chin that probably made the guy bite part of his own tongue off. Staggering back, with blood already all over him, the guy stared at him, clearly not believing that this was happening.
“YOU……Sonnofaaa….. BITCH!” Bill heard himself say through gritted teeth.
“Fuck y….” the guy started to say back and was immediately hit with a left jab that caught him flush on eyebrow.
Bill grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him away from the car so he had a little room. The guy suddenly twisted away though and made a break for the small door leading out to the backyard. Bill got a hold of him again but the guy had too much momentum and pulled them both out into the backyard. Twirling around again the husband caught him with something hard, although it was a galancing blow. He must have snatched something of the workbench on his lunge out of the garage Bill thought and then saw the wrench.
Swinging again and missing the man was off balance momentarily and Bill had grabbed him quickly ramming him into the side of the house head first. The guy dropped the wrench and went down to one knee, bleeding from everywhere now. Bill grabbed him and slung him around, letting go like it was a hammer throw sending him skidding into a patio deck chair.
“You’re gonna need more than a wrench you lousy bastard”, Bill said, spitting the words out but almost whispering to keep the sound and his voice concealed. “You might as well have killed her yourself too, you rotten Fuck”.
“Wha……is tha….is that what this is about?” the guy weezed and sputtered. He then let loose a blood gurgling laugh through several broken teeth, "This is about tha Bitc- "
His head sounded like a melon splitting open this time, as Bill hit him with a roundhouse right.
The guy’s jaw was slack now, probably broken, but he still sneered at Bill and coughed out, “Did you have her?”…..“Did you do her?”…… “If you did, you know she wasn’t any goo-”
Bill hit him so hard this time it drove him straight backwards, stumbling and falling against a retaining wall then hitting his head on the stone edge. Staggering up, he turned away from Bill and punch drunk, stepped off the edge of the pool. The same pool, which had been drained for repairs two days ago. His fall into the deep end of the pool was brief and he had heard a sickening sound, a splattering thud, the sound of death. Bill, initially was caught off gaurd but walked quickly over and saw in the muted backyard lights the rapid spread of a huge pool of blood.
The body was sprawled in an unnatural position, with the neck and head at an impossible angle. He stared at it for a good minute, breathing rapidly and thinking hard. Looking around the backyard that was lined with an 8 foot tall privacy fence and at the house which was lighted but only with a few inside lamps, he backed away slowly at first and then picked up his pace. Walking through a side fence gate he quickly removed the nylon from his head, put that and his gloves in his pocket checked for the pellet gun still in his other pocket and raised his earphones from his neck, up onto his ears.
After that he only remembered slowly jogging back up his own driveway. The kids were staying at his mom and dad’s for a couple of days and he slipped inside his empty house. In the weeks and months that followed, no one was ever charged with the murder. The case and story died out. The investigation hit an absolute dead end, with no suspects and no evidence. No one it seems, had heard or seen a thing that night. Bill went back to leading his normal life, keeping up with the story of course, but having no real interest in it. He didn’t lose one nights sleep, or have any regrets. And that did trouble him somewhat.
There had been a shift in him that night, a stopping and starting of himself. He would never be the same and he still can’t fully understand what had driven him to take such a personal revenge on the guy. True, he didn’t mean to kill the bastard, but still….what was it that had allowed him to take it to this level? With time, he found that he had the perfect personality for this kind of thing, the right demeanor and skill sets to excel at it. Where did that come from? He had always been a physical guy and used to enjoy mixing it up - but this, this, was something that went far deeper than a campus bar fight.
Was it just the excitement factor, the danger he had always chased and not found. No, that couldn't be the complete answer. This was not jumping great heights or risking everything on a challenge, this was killing people, taking lives. Whatever the reason or mental flaw, he had finally found it, found the rush, found the danger. It was wrong and he knew it, so he didn’t think he was textbook insane. Maybe it had to do with Caroline’s death, maybe it was all the wrongdoing and pure evil in the world, people hurting the innocent - whatever the reason – wrong or not, he somehow knew couldn’t and wouldn’t stop.
~Chapter 2~
An old college buddy that he had looked up about a year later, and some subsequent weekends spent with him in Vegas, had unintentionally lead him to his second killing. The old buddy was now the security chief for one of the major Vegas casinos and he was being blackmailed by a small time hood. His family was being threatened. His buddy was clean and Bill knew it, he’d never done an illegal act in his life. He was terrified that he was going to lose it all to some notorious, badass player who was going to do whatever he had to do to ruin him or get the payoff he wanted. Bill had set his friend down one night and made him an offer. His friend couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he didn’t say no. A week later, while Bill’s friend was out of town, his house had been broken into the intruders had forced his wife to strip in front of them, but they didn’t touch her and din’t steal anything. His buddy called him that night and said yes.
About a week after returning from a Vegas stay, Bill’s friend had sent him an article clipped from a Vegas newspaper paper. The article was only a couple of paragraphs about the body of a reputed mob player who's body had been found out in the desert about 5 miles outside of town. No clues. No suspects and no leads. Executed in a very professional manner. Hardly a noteworthy or rare murder case in the dark seamy corners of Vegas, several months later it had all but been forgotten and filed away as an internal mob murder.
After that it just kept going, sometimes getting assistance or calls from his friend in Vegas, sometimes watching the newspapers and t.v. news. He would call or write anonymously and offer assistance, or ask for a phone interview and gradually or quickly, getting around to the question of unsettled justice. There was unfortunately no shortage of grieving families, with rock solid cases and almost sure guilt that had gone unfinished, or unsolved, or convictions overtuned on trivial technicalities. Some people just wanted it to be finally over - or as over as they could hope for, others wanted a vindictive revenge and others still just an eye for an eye, but to Bill it was all the same.
He was seldom seen in person and if so not without some sort of physical change, a beard, moustache, long hair, short hair, dyed hair, a fake limp or a cosmetic scar that had been added. He didn’t consider himself some bloodthirsty killer, or even a stone cold murderer. He was a killer though, there was no way to clean it up any further. He eradicated people who needed to be, disposed of people who absolutely deserved it. He did it quick and did not enjoy or celebrate his deeds. At least that was his answer, his reasoning and his explanation to himself. He had basically gotten to the point of having no conscience, no feelings of guilt and surely not pity for the victim. But the overriding fact of the matter was that he was hooked on it, like some drug addict with an empty syringe.
He’d continue these vigilante acts, these acts of righting wrongs until he was caught – of that he was sure. How he would ultimately be judged would almost certainly be similar to his victims. He would surely reside in hell, as he knew he probably should. Lately, he had considered that the reason he did this, killed people to put it bluntly, maybe was not so much him being some avenging doer of right or soldier of real justice, as much as it was him fulfilling his own needs. He almost got the feeling anymore that even if the need for his services to hand out deserved justice had stopped coming, he would keep going. And that was something he didn't like to think about or consider - but the thought was there and it wouldn't go away.
Until then though, it was back to work and he filed all of that away to consider later. The young couple had left the town square by now, seemingly taking all the pure decency and love left in the world with them as they left. An average looking middle aged man with glasses and thinning hair, by the name of Howard Crossman, was now two benches over from him and he was talking casually to a young boy of 7 or 8. Crossman who had just recently moved to this town from Ohio and he looked like any other guy having lunch in the town square, on a bright and sunny spring day.
What he didn't look like,was a guy who had fondled, abused and finally raped his own younger sister, something that no one knew and something she had never admitted. What he didn't look like, was a child rapist who had avoided convinction twice now in the past six years. He had been charged, but not convicted, both times due to a highly paid attorney, iron clad alibis and 'expert' psychologists who were called in. What he didn't look like, was a man who was capable of kidnapping and killing two young girls last year, two twins in fact. One block from home, it had been surmised, they had been abducted by grabbing one and then luring/baiting the other to obey her nature as a twin and to go with her sister. Whatever the ruse had been, or whatever the means to get both of them had been, it had unfortunately worked.
They were searched for, pleaded for and prayed for. The hunt had gone national and the fear of tragedy grew each day and each week they were not found. On a chilly grey fall day, they were found, in a very remote wooded ravine by two hunters. The hunters had noticed a purple piece of cloth sticking out of the leaves and as they got closer they realized it was an arm, a thin heavily bruised child's arm reaching up from the elbow as if waving. The girls had been hastily buried, then sometime later unearthed and partly scavenged by wild animals. Otherwise they probably would have never been found until years later, if ever. It almost would have been better for the parents of the twins if they hadn't been found because the resulting autopsy would reveal so many horrific details about their captivity, extended torture and ultimate deaths that they could not go on with their lives. They had committed suicide together on an overcast and chilly Sunday afternoon, not unlike the day their two girls had been found.
Unlike the child rape cases and charges that had been filed against Crossman, he had never been offically charged in these deaths because of lack of evidence and once again, a solid alibi. Crossman was a dentist by profession and all the victims had been patients or former patients. Crossman was single, but a department store witness swearing absolutely initially, but later wavering in another interview, that she had checked out a man who had purchased with cash, young girls clothing. Identical clothes, in sets of two. A month before the twins had disappeared. The D.A.'s office had nothing else and could do no more at this point. The case dragged and sputtered to a stop. No more killings or abductions and no more leads.
Crossman had dutifully notified the police of a new job opportunity he had, they had been powerless and grim faced watching him leave town several months later. Bill had seen the newspaper articles from the beginning and followed it as closely as possible. The grandparents had been adamant in their belief that Crossman had done it when Bill had contacted them by phone and later met with them posing as a freelance reporter. Diligent and detailed investigation on Crossman had turned up the rest for Bill and his partner in Vegas. It had taken him three weeks to hunt him down and another week to get organized, but now the job was nearing it's final phase.
This job was different in that his services had not been officially requested, at least not in the normal way. The request for justice had been in the crushed and grieving faces of the grandparents on T.V. and the silent screams he heard while reading the details of the case in newspaper articles. Was he absolutley sure of his targets guilt? No. Was he ever absolutely sure of guilt? No. But in his mind, he had never taken a job that he had one ounce of doubt in and not one case in which he had second guessed himself. What he was doing was wrong, but he was right.
As Bill watched over the top of a book he wasn’t reading, Crossman said something and the young boy giggled, looking around nervously. Crossman said something else and then laughed warmly. The mild mannered dentist never took his eyes off of the boy and Bill never took his eyes of Crossman. All of his earlier self examination and self analyzing questions of why he did this and what did it all mean had vanished. Yes, he thought to himself, Crossman would probably be legally caught and convicted someday. Probably. Someday. Maybe.
The young boy in a sweatshirt and jeans suddenly gave Crossman a high five about something who was now standing up and laughing again. They were both enjoying the discussion. Crossman was no doubt going to go get something to eat, some pizza maybe. Then again, he might be going to the arcade a block away, he still loved playing video games even at his age. He would go wherever the kid wanted to go, or do whatever the kid wanted to do. Bill had already suspected this is where it would lead and had been prepared to blunder into this scene and innocently spook Crossman off, so this is one kid who would make it back home today. In the case of Crossman though, he would not be going home tonight, or any night in the future. No, Howard Crossman was only going one place tonight, he had a one way ticket and Bill was going to deliver it to him.
~Chapter 3~
TO BE CONTINUED.........
It was times like these that he missed his other life, what he had been, who he had been and when things had been normal. The pleasant spring day was breezy, warm but not hot, fluffy white clouds were skidding across a perfect blue sky. He watched the young couple pushing the stroller around the town square at a leisurely pace. The man and woman walking with one arm loosely around each others waist. He couldn’t hear them from the park bench he sat at, but knew what they were probably talking about. Their baby, their careers, a new house someday, which elementary school, what was for dinner and I love you. They were talking of futures and kids going to college someday and even grand kids. Any of those things, and all of those things. He had been exactly in that position once and could remember it well.
But that was then and this was now, he frowned slightly and shook his head slowly, reluctantly turning his back to the young couple to concentrate on the subject at hand. He had been in town for a couple days now. Driving the streets, taking the interstate off and on ramps, getting a feel for the good and bad areas of town, looking at homes and neighborhoods like any good prospective homebuyer might. Not altogether a bad visit. He was working and concentrating on the job at hand, but he never rushed things and always made an effort to appreciate what ever town he was in, and its citizens for that matter. He would have made a terrific travel guide, he thought smiling ironically to himself.
William Lee Hinton had several different professional careers during a 25 year span starting back in 1975, the year he had graduated from Purdue University. He’d been an Advertising Exec, a Marketing Analyst and a VP for a major food manufacturer. Money had never been a problem. Friends had never been a problem. Finally finding a great wife and having 2 beautiful children had never been a problem. What had been a problem, for really his entire life, had been his unsuccessful search for excitement and even danger. He had acquired hobbies such as skydiving, flying his small Cessna, sheer rock and mountain climbing, scuba diving, even racing dirt track at County Fairs, and on and on. None of these had really punched his ticket or fed the hunger.
When their kids had been only 3 and 5 years old, his wife Caroline had suddenly passed away due to cancer, a cancer that had gone undetected for far too long. Four months later and she was gone from a related stroke. Ironically, the year she had died he had finally found that excitement and danger, but it was nothing like what he had been expecting or looking for.
Hinton, who had used at least ten different names in the past and was James Phillip Dixon currently, was a drifter of sorts. Constantly changing his identity and his location, he traveled the country and sometimes the world, like a modern day nomad. He was a contract killer of sorts. Completely efficient, very detached and a believer in that he was doing right, he was perfectly suited for his profession really. The people who would contract his services were usually business professionals, intellectuals, sport or entertainment celebrities, politicians and always - always from a certain level of income. He had made that a must from the beginning, not because he favored the well to do, but more from the standpoint of being able to continue this quest as long as possible. He wanted his potential 'employers' to have as much at stake as he did - as much 'skin in the game' as he did. He also demanded that they prove sincerity, a story of true personal hardship, real wrongdoing and absolute injustice. The people with money always seemed to be a little more manageable, controllable and confidential - not nearly as brazen or erratic as others who wanted people dead. He had come across this line of work unexpectedly, to say the least. Totally by accident, in fact, literally by way of an accident.
Years ago right after Caroline had died, a female department head from Marketing who reported directly to him at work, had been having marital problems. There was both physical abuse to her and to the children at home, as well as infidelity away from home. She was a very good friend of Bill’s, smart, attractive and cheerful. A woman that seemingly had everything going for her. A woman that didn’t have an enemy in the world. He had listened to the stories of deceit and viciousness being perpetrated on her family by the husband, a very prominent lawyer in town. Bill had also consoled and mentored her as best he could for at least six months. Finally, after exhausting legal wranglings had stalled, confrontations in and out of court had occured - including some hardball threats against her, taking property, seizing money and the children from her, the woman co-worker and friend of Bill’s had killed herself by jumping off a downtown luxury hotel balcony.
The news of this had saddened him greatly, along with a surprising amount of very dark anger. He felt as if he needed to do something, exact some sort of justice. What that was he wasn’t sure, but it had something to do with vengeance. At dinner several weeks later, in a local upscale steakhouse and completely by chance, he had been seated three booths away from the former husband of his coworker. Dining with a business consultant, he had hardly heard a word he’d said. Instead he listened to and watched the pompous, grinning, leering bastard with a blonde on his arm that was at least 30 years younger than him. He remembered feeling like he was 20 years old again, wanting to solve things or straighten out some jerk, the old fashioned way. He did not allow himself to be rational, to talk himself down, and the plan to seriously kick this guy’s ass was developed almost on the spot. He already knew their residence - he lived in the same lake community about two miles down the road and he felt reasonably sure he knew how and when would be a good time to meet with him and ‘discuss things’. He hadn’t been in a real fight for years but this guy needed it and Bill Hinton decided that he was the guy who was going to fill that need. It would not do her any good, it would almost definitely not stop the arrogant bastard in his ways - but it would send a message to the prick that might be hard to forget at least, and hell who knows, it might do himself a world of good.
For three early mornings and late nights he found himself down the street from this assholes house, watching the guy leave every morning and returning home at night, getting a feel for times, traffic and neighbors. He was timely if nothing else, leaving and coming home regularly, never bringing his women home for the neighbors to see. Always pulling in and evidently entering the house though the inside garage entryway door. The children were not living with him currently, custody had been contended in a civil suit by the wife’s parents. The guy had no pets, at least he had seen no sight of them.
The reason for his clandestine activity was simple, he needed to be careful of protecting and keeping his identity unknown in the situation that was about to occur. His marketing career, hell his life and kids, simply could not afford for his name to be splashed all over the newspapers by the lawyer. Bill would be painted as the guy who viciously attacked some poor husband – a poor guy whose wife had recently committed suicide.
He decided nighttime would be best. He also decided he’d keep the son of a bitch in the garage and bang him around in there. The neighborhood had huge lots, generally several acres, with generous space around all sides of the houses. Something would almost assuredly pop up unexpectedly, but he would handle that when the time came. On the night of the scheduled ‘meeting', which he had come to call it, he had gone for a jog, leaving his home dressed appropriately with head phones and sweats. Timing his run up the long driveway, to no passing cars and no one in sight at the neighboring houses, he turned in. He stood in a small shadowed alcove on the side of the garage, partially hidden by a waist high landscaped hedge and out of vision from the street, and simply waited. About ten minutes past when he should have arrived, the Mercedes’ lights swept across the front yard finally pulling into the driveway. Almost simultaneously the garage door slowly and quietly started to open. Taking the headphones slowly off his head and pulling a nylon to cover his face and golf gloves from his sweatpants pocket, he put them both on. He gripped his son’s pellet pistol in his other pocket and readied himself.
As the door completed its opening it stopped with a small clank. He heard the guy open his car door and the garage door also began its descent. As he crouched down and came around the corner of the garage , Bill quickly stepped up and over the door sensor mounted at the floor. On the passenger side now, Bill heard the guy’s door slam and he rose up at the same time.
“Hey,” Bill said almost casually just after the garage door clanked shut again.
The guy just kind of coughed and gasped. He stared at the guy and aimed the pellet gun at him, quickly, in a blur, coming around the car before the guy could catch his breath or realize it wasn’t a .45. The husband took one step back and dropped his briefcase with a thud, wide eyed, but still with a touch of belligerence in his look.
“What the Fuuuuck….. ….Hey…..Whaat the…..Get the Fuck out of my hou-” he never finished what would be several unfinished sentences in the next few minutes. As he was huffing and puffing, Bill had closed the gap between them, tucked the pellet gun quickly away and hit him square in the nose with a straight overhand right, followed by an uppercut on the chin that probably made the guy bite part of his own tongue off. Staggering back, with blood already all over him, the guy stared at him, clearly not believing that this was happening.
“YOU……Sonnofaaa….. BITCH!” Bill heard himself say through gritted teeth.
“Fuck y….” the guy started to say back and was immediately hit with a left jab that caught him flush on eyebrow.
Bill grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him away from the car so he had a little room. The guy suddenly twisted away though and made a break for the small door leading out to the backyard. Bill got a hold of him again but the guy had too much momentum and pulled them both out into the backyard. Twirling around again the husband caught him with something hard, although it was a galancing blow. He must have snatched something of the workbench on his lunge out of the garage Bill thought and then saw the wrench.
Swinging again and missing the man was off balance momentarily and Bill had grabbed him quickly ramming him into the side of the house head first. The guy dropped the wrench and went down to one knee, bleeding from everywhere now. Bill grabbed him and slung him around, letting go like it was a hammer throw sending him skidding into a patio deck chair.
“You’re gonna need more than a wrench you lousy bastard”, Bill said, spitting the words out but almost whispering to keep the sound and his voice concealed. “You might as well have killed her yourself too, you rotten Fuck”.
“Wha……is tha….is that what this is about?” the guy weezed and sputtered. He then let loose a blood gurgling laugh through several broken teeth, "This is about tha Bitc- "
His head sounded like a melon splitting open this time, as Bill hit him with a roundhouse right.
The guy’s jaw was slack now, probably broken, but he still sneered at Bill and coughed out, “Did you have her?”…..“Did you do her?”…… “If you did, you know she wasn’t any goo-”
Bill hit him so hard this time it drove him straight backwards, stumbling and falling against a retaining wall then hitting his head on the stone edge. Staggering up, he turned away from Bill and punch drunk, stepped off the edge of the pool. The same pool, which had been drained for repairs two days ago. His fall into the deep end of the pool was brief and he had heard a sickening sound, a splattering thud, the sound of death. Bill, initially was caught off gaurd but walked quickly over and saw in the muted backyard lights the rapid spread of a huge pool of blood.
The body was sprawled in an unnatural position, with the neck and head at an impossible angle. He stared at it for a good minute, breathing rapidly and thinking hard. Looking around the backyard that was lined with an 8 foot tall privacy fence and at the house which was lighted but only with a few inside lamps, he backed away slowly at first and then picked up his pace. Walking through a side fence gate he quickly removed the nylon from his head, put that and his gloves in his pocket checked for the pellet gun still in his other pocket and raised his earphones from his neck, up onto his ears.
After that he only remembered slowly jogging back up his own driveway. The kids were staying at his mom and dad’s for a couple of days and he slipped inside his empty house. In the weeks and months that followed, no one was ever charged with the murder. The case and story died out. The investigation hit an absolute dead end, with no suspects and no evidence. No one it seems, had heard or seen a thing that night. Bill went back to leading his normal life, keeping up with the story of course, but having no real interest in it. He didn’t lose one nights sleep, or have any regrets. And that did trouble him somewhat.
There had been a shift in him that night, a stopping and starting of himself. He would never be the same and he still can’t fully understand what had driven him to take such a personal revenge on the guy. True, he didn’t mean to kill the bastard, but still….what was it that had allowed him to take it to this level? With time, he found that he had the perfect personality for this kind of thing, the right demeanor and skill sets to excel at it. Where did that come from? He had always been a physical guy and used to enjoy mixing it up - but this, this, was something that went far deeper than a campus bar fight.
Was it just the excitement factor, the danger he had always chased and not found. No, that couldn't be the complete answer. This was not jumping great heights or risking everything on a challenge, this was killing people, taking lives. Whatever the reason or mental flaw, he had finally found it, found the rush, found the danger. It was wrong and he knew it, so he didn’t think he was textbook insane. Maybe it had to do with Caroline’s death, maybe it was all the wrongdoing and pure evil in the world, people hurting the innocent - whatever the reason – wrong or not, he somehow knew couldn’t and wouldn’t stop.
~Chapter 2~
An old college buddy that he had looked up about a year later, and some subsequent weekends spent with him in Vegas, had unintentionally lead him to his second killing. The old buddy was now the security chief for one of the major Vegas casinos and he was being blackmailed by a small time hood. His family was being threatened. His buddy was clean and Bill knew it, he’d never done an illegal act in his life. He was terrified that he was going to lose it all to some notorious, badass player who was going to do whatever he had to do to ruin him or get the payoff he wanted. Bill had set his friend down one night and made him an offer. His friend couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he didn’t say no. A week later, while Bill’s friend was out of town, his house had been broken into the intruders had forced his wife to strip in front of them, but they didn’t touch her and din’t steal anything. His buddy called him that night and said yes.
About a week after returning from a Vegas stay, Bill’s friend had sent him an article clipped from a Vegas newspaper paper. The article was only a couple of paragraphs about the body of a reputed mob player who's body had been found out in the desert about 5 miles outside of town. No clues. No suspects and no leads. Executed in a very professional manner. Hardly a noteworthy or rare murder case in the dark seamy corners of Vegas, several months later it had all but been forgotten and filed away as an internal mob murder.
After that it just kept going, sometimes getting assistance or calls from his friend in Vegas, sometimes watching the newspapers and t.v. news. He would call or write anonymously and offer assistance, or ask for a phone interview and gradually or quickly, getting around to the question of unsettled justice. There was unfortunately no shortage of grieving families, with rock solid cases and almost sure guilt that had gone unfinished, or unsolved, or convictions overtuned on trivial technicalities. Some people just wanted it to be finally over - or as over as they could hope for, others wanted a vindictive revenge and others still just an eye for an eye, but to Bill it was all the same.
He was seldom seen in person and if so not without some sort of physical change, a beard, moustache, long hair, short hair, dyed hair, a fake limp or a cosmetic scar that had been added. He didn’t consider himself some bloodthirsty killer, or even a stone cold murderer. He was a killer though, there was no way to clean it up any further. He eradicated people who needed to be, disposed of people who absolutely deserved it. He did it quick and did not enjoy or celebrate his deeds. At least that was his answer, his reasoning and his explanation to himself. He had basically gotten to the point of having no conscience, no feelings of guilt and surely not pity for the victim. But the overriding fact of the matter was that he was hooked on it, like some drug addict with an empty syringe.
He’d continue these vigilante acts, these acts of righting wrongs until he was caught – of that he was sure. How he would ultimately be judged would almost certainly be similar to his victims. He would surely reside in hell, as he knew he probably should. Lately, he had considered that the reason he did this, killed people to put it bluntly, maybe was not so much him being some avenging doer of right or soldier of real justice, as much as it was him fulfilling his own needs. He almost got the feeling anymore that even if the need for his services to hand out deserved justice had stopped coming, he would keep going. And that was something he didn't like to think about or consider - but the thought was there and it wouldn't go away.
Until then though, it was back to work and he filed all of that away to consider later. The young couple had left the town square by now, seemingly taking all the pure decency and love left in the world with them as they left. An average looking middle aged man with glasses and thinning hair, by the name of Howard Crossman, was now two benches over from him and he was talking casually to a young boy of 7 or 8. Crossman who had just recently moved to this town from Ohio and he looked like any other guy having lunch in the town square, on a bright and sunny spring day.
What he didn't look like,was a guy who had fondled, abused and finally raped his own younger sister, something that no one knew and something she had never admitted. What he didn't look like, was a child rapist who had avoided convinction twice now in the past six years. He had been charged, but not convicted, both times due to a highly paid attorney, iron clad alibis and 'expert' psychologists who were called in. What he didn't look like, was a man who was capable of kidnapping and killing two young girls last year, two twins in fact. One block from home, it had been surmised, they had been abducted by grabbing one and then luring/baiting the other to obey her nature as a twin and to go with her sister. Whatever the ruse had been, or whatever the means to get both of them had been, it had unfortunately worked.
They were searched for, pleaded for and prayed for. The hunt had gone national and the fear of tragedy grew each day and each week they were not found. On a chilly grey fall day, they were found, in a very remote wooded ravine by two hunters. The hunters had noticed a purple piece of cloth sticking out of the leaves and as they got closer they realized it was an arm, a thin heavily bruised child's arm reaching up from the elbow as if waving. The girls had been hastily buried, then sometime later unearthed and partly scavenged by wild animals. Otherwise they probably would have never been found until years later, if ever. It almost would have been better for the parents of the twins if they hadn't been found because the resulting autopsy would reveal so many horrific details about their captivity, extended torture and ultimate deaths that they could not go on with their lives. They had committed suicide together on an overcast and chilly Sunday afternoon, not unlike the day their two girls had been found.
Unlike the child rape cases and charges that had been filed against Crossman, he had never been offically charged in these deaths because of lack of evidence and once again, a solid alibi. Crossman was a dentist by profession and all the victims had been patients or former patients. Crossman was single, but a department store witness swearing absolutely initially, but later wavering in another interview, that she had checked out a man who had purchased with cash, young girls clothing. Identical clothes, in sets of two. A month before the twins had disappeared. The D.A.'s office had nothing else and could do no more at this point. The case dragged and sputtered to a stop. No more killings or abductions and no more leads.
Crossman had dutifully notified the police of a new job opportunity he had, they had been powerless and grim faced watching him leave town several months later. Bill had seen the newspaper articles from the beginning and followed it as closely as possible. The grandparents had been adamant in their belief that Crossman had done it when Bill had contacted them by phone and later met with them posing as a freelance reporter. Diligent and detailed investigation on Crossman had turned up the rest for Bill and his partner in Vegas. It had taken him three weeks to hunt him down and another week to get organized, but now the job was nearing it's final phase.
This job was different in that his services had not been officially requested, at least not in the normal way. The request for justice had been in the crushed and grieving faces of the grandparents on T.V. and the silent screams he heard while reading the details of the case in newspaper articles. Was he absolutley sure of his targets guilt? No. Was he ever absolutely sure of guilt? No. But in his mind, he had never taken a job that he had one ounce of doubt in and not one case in which he had second guessed himself. What he was doing was wrong, but he was right.
As Bill watched over the top of a book he wasn’t reading, Crossman said something and the young boy giggled, looking around nervously. Crossman said something else and then laughed warmly. The mild mannered dentist never took his eyes off of the boy and Bill never took his eyes of Crossman. All of his earlier self examination and self analyzing questions of why he did this and what did it all mean had vanished. Yes, he thought to himself, Crossman would probably be legally caught and convicted someday. Probably. Someday. Maybe.
The young boy in a sweatshirt and jeans suddenly gave Crossman a high five about something who was now standing up and laughing again. They were both enjoying the discussion. Crossman was no doubt going to go get something to eat, some pizza maybe. Then again, he might be going to the arcade a block away, he still loved playing video games even at his age. He would go wherever the kid wanted to go, or do whatever the kid wanted to do. Bill had already suspected this is where it would lead and had been prepared to blunder into this scene and innocently spook Crossman off, so this is one kid who would make it back home today. In the case of Crossman though, he would not be going home tonight, or any night in the future. No, Howard Crossman was only going one place tonight, he had a one way ticket and Bill was going to deliver it to him.
~Chapter 3~
TO BE CONTINUED.........
Friday, March 10, 2006
When Life Was Fresh
I suppose it was the phone call last night, or maybe it was yet another birthday of mine coming and going. Most likely though, it was a little of both. While I sat in my small study just off our living room reading a chapter or two of a new book that I had gotten as a birthday present, my wife was cleaning up things in the kitchen from the dinner and cake we had just had, my youngest daughter was having a lighthearted conversation with her favorite doll in the living room and my oldest daughter, thirteen (going on sixteen), was in the dining room finishing up her geometry homework – homework that I am less and less helpful with as the years go by. It was the kind of night that you always swore you would avoid somehow; routine, rote, quiet, almost scripted and well, average. “That’ll never be me…..I won’t let it happen……I will Not be predictable” were things I remember saying. What you didn’t realize, or at least I didn’t, about that dreaded boring stage of life is how enjoyable it can actually be. Of course we have fights, arguments and tension. Of course it’s not a staged sitcom setting every night with sugar sweet endings, but this was one of those nights that was balanced perfectly – comforting and very satisfying.
When the phone rang, I heard my oldest daughter slide her chair out almost simultaneous to the ring, announce she would get it and heard her bang her knee on the table getting up - all in the span of two seconds. The second ring was abruptly cut short. Now, from the dining room table to the phone in the kitchen is a distance of approximately 25 feet or so. She had obviously sprinted like an Olympian, possibly hurdling an object or two in perfect form no doubt, skidded to a stop and answered the phone in record setting fashion. After a whispered conversation with my wife which I couldn’t quite pick up, she bolted the other way, back through the kitchen, dining room, living room (where my youngest daughter was still happily chatting away) and up the stairs to the private confines of her room. From where I sat I was able to see some of the action, but mostly just blurred and almost frantic motion. What struck me most though was the excitement, the vibrancy and sheer exuberance for life that is so special to the young. A young teenage girl in this instance, reacting to a phone call, a call that was obviously not one of the countless ones from her girlfriends. No, I was sure that this was the boy she had met at school last week. A kid that had transferred to her school from another middle school in town. My wife looking around the kitchen corner and meeting my gaze with a small knowing smile was the only confirmation I needed. I tried to go back to reading the book, but I ended up going back and reading another story to myself, a story that had nothing to do with the fictional book I was holding.
Friday night football games was where it was at. That was the deal man, that’s just what we did, where we went. The rural High School that I went to was a downstate powerhouse in football. Basketball we were just good at and Wrestling - my sport, we were better than average - maybe even very good, but football we were an absolute juggernaut. That night, we were playing a nearby town that we were expected to crush and we were doing exactly that. I was with some buddies hanging on the chain link fence that encircled the field.
It was late September, a clear night sky with a moon that was almost full. Chilly, brisk and air so crisp you felt like you could snap it in two. We were all Juniors, and we all had our maroon and gold letter jackets on. Some of us had already won varsity wrestling letters as sophomores and were proudly wearing them. We were casually watching a group of girls coming around the chain-link fence from the other side of the field and we saw they had on the colors of the other team. As they walked by, we dutifully watched them go by but then looked back at the game, effectively ignoring them and they continued for about 30 feet or so then stopped. All huddled up, talking, glancing over their shoulders at us, back to talking and glancing back again. A ritual that was almost a stage play of sorts, somewhat new to us the last few years, but one as old and practiced as time itself. Now, the rules of engagement between boys and girls have definitely changed these days, as well as attitudes and role playing, but at that time it was generally accepted that the boys were the aggressors so to speak. Yes, we acted bored as hell and pretended to be ignoring them, but sooner or later the ball was in our court. They knew it and we knew it.
As we exchanged smiles, glancing sideways at each other and talking quietly so they couldn’t hear us, we heard them start laughing behind us. Hey, giggling was one thing, but laughter, that made us turn. It was a lazy turn, but we turned. I found myself staring at the cutest girl I had ever seen - would ever see – and she was standing directly in front of me only a couple feet away. “Ohhhh, a big Central man, huh?” she smiled at me with a look of all the sweetness in the world, but with a tone of pure mocking. I was so struck by her looks that it didn’t matter if she was kidding or not. Didn’t matter if she really thought I was a jerk or what. What mattered was the school color ribbons she had in her long straight brown hair. What mattered was how her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me, all flirty and condescending at the same time. What mattered was the way she smelled – just clean and fresh, is the best description I could ever come up with then and now. What mattered were the sweater, jeans and the windbreaker she was wearing.
The expression I had must have been hilarious because she laughed quickly and said, “So big Central man, what’s your name?” The guys I was with and the girls she was with for that matter, couldn’t believe what was going on. They had been watching this little scene like an audience sitting on the edge of their seats. Luckily, my buddies decided to regroup and rethink the situation several feet away, shuffling around and murmuring like a crowd listening to someone speak that they’re not so sure about.
If there was ever the classic example of a boy being awed, dumb struck and bumbling his way through an introduction, it was me that night. We continued talking and she even ended up taking me over to the other side of the field, introducing me to more of her friends. Me, like a puppy happily trotting along and her much more easy going, free spirited and just cute as hell. She had been pretending supreme confidence and would tell me later that she doesn’t know what made her come up to me like that. After the game, I asked her in broken English if she would like to go get something to eat at Burger Chef, the local hangout (No, not Burger King and no, not McDonalds – they had not arrived in the scene yet). The night was truly like a dream, I bought her a strawberry shake and I think I had a Coke. I was so nervous, if I would have had my normal cheeseburger I would have lost it. When I drove her home, with her girlfriends following behind us, it was a bit of a haul. She was not only from the other town but she was a country girl, a farm girl whose farm was out there aways. Not from some exclusive estates located outside of town either, a corn and beans farm girl and from what she told me, more brothers and sisters than I could count.
We talked for a minute in front of that old farmhouse, her eyes still sparkling, her hair still smelling so good, and her smile so intoxicating. She was so full of life. It had gotten chillier and she was all shaky so I told her she better get inside. I said goodbye and she turned around to join her friends who were up on the porch waiting for her, all smiley and anticipating every detail. She ran, ran, to the porch and did those quick little steps that girls can do, up to the top. Almost too late, I yelled to her, “Can I call you?” She said yes and I yelled a silent YES! to myself. I will never have a night where I felt so alive, so edgy and so in tune with everything. Every sight, sound, smell and emotion was electric and charged. There was nothing I could think of except her, there was nothing wrong in the world and there was nothing I couldn’t do.
We would ‘go together’ for the most of the next two years. We of course broke up and would end up not seeing each other anymore after high school. There would be other guys for her and other girls for me but that wouldn’t change that night, that absolute top of the world feeling. My daughter has many things yet to experience in life, some bad and some good. Last night, when she answered that phone it reminded me of how good, the good parts can be. How special things are when they’re happening to you for the first time. She will have memories of joy, sorrow, marriage and children that will top all other emotions in their own way. Then one day or night she’ll watch her own young son or daughter rush to the phone or the door someday - just as I did last night and she’ll remember her own stories then, of something so simple but so special.
When the phone rang, I heard my oldest daughter slide her chair out almost simultaneous to the ring, announce she would get it and heard her bang her knee on the table getting up - all in the span of two seconds. The second ring was abruptly cut short. Now, from the dining room table to the phone in the kitchen is a distance of approximately 25 feet or so. She had obviously sprinted like an Olympian, possibly hurdling an object or two in perfect form no doubt, skidded to a stop and answered the phone in record setting fashion. After a whispered conversation with my wife which I couldn’t quite pick up, she bolted the other way, back through the kitchen, dining room, living room (where my youngest daughter was still happily chatting away) and up the stairs to the private confines of her room. From where I sat I was able to see some of the action, but mostly just blurred and almost frantic motion. What struck me most though was the excitement, the vibrancy and sheer exuberance for life that is so special to the young. A young teenage girl in this instance, reacting to a phone call, a call that was obviously not one of the countless ones from her girlfriends. No, I was sure that this was the boy she had met at school last week. A kid that had transferred to her school from another middle school in town. My wife looking around the kitchen corner and meeting my gaze with a small knowing smile was the only confirmation I needed. I tried to go back to reading the book, but I ended up going back and reading another story to myself, a story that had nothing to do with the fictional book I was holding.
Friday night football games was where it was at. That was the deal man, that’s just what we did, where we went. The rural High School that I went to was a downstate powerhouse in football. Basketball we were just good at and Wrestling - my sport, we were better than average - maybe even very good, but football we were an absolute juggernaut. That night, we were playing a nearby town that we were expected to crush and we were doing exactly that. I was with some buddies hanging on the chain link fence that encircled the field.
It was late September, a clear night sky with a moon that was almost full. Chilly, brisk and air so crisp you felt like you could snap it in two. We were all Juniors, and we all had our maroon and gold letter jackets on. Some of us had already won varsity wrestling letters as sophomores and were proudly wearing them. We were casually watching a group of girls coming around the chain-link fence from the other side of the field and we saw they had on the colors of the other team. As they walked by, we dutifully watched them go by but then looked back at the game, effectively ignoring them and they continued for about 30 feet or so then stopped. All huddled up, talking, glancing over their shoulders at us, back to talking and glancing back again. A ritual that was almost a stage play of sorts, somewhat new to us the last few years, but one as old and practiced as time itself. Now, the rules of engagement between boys and girls have definitely changed these days, as well as attitudes and role playing, but at that time it was generally accepted that the boys were the aggressors so to speak. Yes, we acted bored as hell and pretended to be ignoring them, but sooner or later the ball was in our court. They knew it and we knew it.
As we exchanged smiles, glancing sideways at each other and talking quietly so they couldn’t hear us, we heard them start laughing behind us. Hey, giggling was one thing, but laughter, that made us turn. It was a lazy turn, but we turned. I found myself staring at the cutest girl I had ever seen - would ever see – and she was standing directly in front of me only a couple feet away. “Ohhhh, a big Central man, huh?” she smiled at me with a look of all the sweetness in the world, but with a tone of pure mocking. I was so struck by her looks that it didn’t matter if she was kidding or not. Didn’t matter if she really thought I was a jerk or what. What mattered was the school color ribbons she had in her long straight brown hair. What mattered was how her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me, all flirty and condescending at the same time. What mattered was the way she smelled – just clean and fresh, is the best description I could ever come up with then and now. What mattered were the sweater, jeans and the windbreaker she was wearing.
The expression I had must have been hilarious because she laughed quickly and said, “So big Central man, what’s your name?” The guys I was with and the girls she was with for that matter, couldn’t believe what was going on. They had been watching this little scene like an audience sitting on the edge of their seats. Luckily, my buddies decided to regroup and rethink the situation several feet away, shuffling around and murmuring like a crowd listening to someone speak that they’re not so sure about.
If there was ever the classic example of a boy being awed, dumb struck and bumbling his way through an introduction, it was me that night. We continued talking and she even ended up taking me over to the other side of the field, introducing me to more of her friends. Me, like a puppy happily trotting along and her much more easy going, free spirited and just cute as hell. She had been pretending supreme confidence and would tell me later that she doesn’t know what made her come up to me like that. After the game, I asked her in broken English if she would like to go get something to eat at Burger Chef, the local hangout (No, not Burger King and no, not McDonalds – they had not arrived in the scene yet). The night was truly like a dream, I bought her a strawberry shake and I think I had a Coke. I was so nervous, if I would have had my normal cheeseburger I would have lost it. When I drove her home, with her girlfriends following behind us, it was a bit of a haul. She was not only from the other town but she was a country girl, a farm girl whose farm was out there aways. Not from some exclusive estates located outside of town either, a corn and beans farm girl and from what she told me, more brothers and sisters than I could count.
We talked for a minute in front of that old farmhouse, her eyes still sparkling, her hair still smelling so good, and her smile so intoxicating. She was so full of life. It had gotten chillier and she was all shaky so I told her she better get inside. I said goodbye and she turned around to join her friends who were up on the porch waiting for her, all smiley and anticipating every detail. She ran, ran, to the porch and did those quick little steps that girls can do, up to the top. Almost too late, I yelled to her, “Can I call you?” She said yes and I yelled a silent YES! to myself. I will never have a night where I felt so alive, so edgy and so in tune with everything. Every sight, sound, smell and emotion was electric and charged. There was nothing I could think of except her, there was nothing wrong in the world and there was nothing I couldn’t do.
We would ‘go together’ for the most of the next two years. We of course broke up and would end up not seeing each other anymore after high school. There would be other guys for her and other girls for me but that wouldn’t change that night, that absolute top of the world feeling. My daughter has many things yet to experience in life, some bad and some good. Last night, when she answered that phone it reminded me of how good, the good parts can be. How special things are when they’re happening to you for the first time. She will have memories of joy, sorrow, marriage and children that will top all other emotions in their own way. Then one day or night she’ll watch her own young son or daughter rush to the phone or the door someday - just as I did last night and she’ll remember her own stories then, of something so simple but so special.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Mike
This morning I thought of something that happened a long time ago, something that I need to remember and remind myself about from time to time. Remind myself to not lose that inner voice, listening to it and most importantly, reacting to it. I’m not sure whether it’s that I’ve reached a point in my life that I’m reflecting more on my younger years or on the past and the lessons learned along the way, but it seems to happen more frequently now. I have come to the decision that all of these memories are a good thing. Good or bad, things that are pleasant or things I’d just as soon forget. All of them, they’re a good thing.
When I was a sophomore in High School, which back then meant the first year of High School, it was a time that you carried girl’s books as you walked home. It was a time of letter jackets, class rings, going steady and drive-in movies. There were jocks, gear heads, ‘sosh’s’ (social elites) and brains. The group names have changed somewhat these days, but I don’t think that the basic culture of groups has really changed much. As it is today, there were the constant battles for supremacy, acceptance, popularity and maintaining a certain recognized status quo, all of which you find in any High School in this country.
I had one of the most important and defining points in my young life in that 10th grade year. I was not a follower and I liked it that way. That trait was directly related to my Father, who he was and how he thought someone should conduct themselves. More accurately, how he thought I should conduct myself. Feelings and thoughts I didn’t always agree with, nor was I always successful in performing. He always told me that most of the time, knowing right from wrong was not nearly as hard or as troubling as people like to make it out to be. He would say the trouble or hard part, was to actually do the right thing and trying to resist the always easier wrong way. Sounds real basic, but that’s the way he kept things. I think for the most part, I really did try to do things right but this year I would be tested in a way that I wasn’t prepared for.
I was athletically minded and team sports were okay, but I liked the test that individual sports tended to offer. I was a wrestler and had many friends on the wrestling team as well as other friends, including upperclassmen, on the other school athletic teams. I did better than average academically and had other friends that basically met each of the ‘general population’ category names I mentioned. I’d had girlfriends, although not many, and had one then. I was as close to being an average ‘balanced’ kid, or as close as you can get to balanced when you’re that age.
At the beginning of the year there were the usual recognized faces with some new ones sprinkled in that you didn’t really notice. They seemed, either by great effort or gifted ease on their part, to melt right in. This did not apply to Mike though, it was virtually impossible for him to melt right into the student population. Mike was a new kid and he Chinese, from
“I’m He-ah.” Mike answered that first day.
He was sitting next to me in unassigned seating and he was about as uncomfortable and self conscious as it is humanly possible for someone to be. Several looks he got thanks to his accent, size and appearance probably tripled that anxiety. After roll and all the boring first of the year homeroom stuff, the bell rang and we all headed bravely out into mind-boggling world of high school. Mike Fung, the new Chinese Giant, whom I had ignored in homeroom, not out of anything really but sheer apathy, loomed over and behind me coming out into the hallway.
“Hi, Jeem” he said from high above.
I turned around and stared almost directly into his chest. Looking up at him, from way too close for my druthers, I remember saying a not so pleasant “What?”
Mike was smiling broadly, ear to ear, and said again, “I say, Hi Jeem….how you doing?”
He was one of the first oriental people I had ever come across up close and personal, so to speak and I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that I had grown up in some racially exclusive town or area and it wasn’t that I had never talked to, or was ignorant of Orientals – it was just, well, different. It was different because Mike was so anxious, so willing and so desperate for me. Yes, he had decided on me to be his new friend. You could see it behind the smile and in his eyes. He was terrified. He was scared of being in this big old school, scared of having maybe only three or four other kids that looked like him around that school and scared because all kids in the 10th grade – including me, were scared of something. They might fear being a social outcast, might fear failing academically, maybe it was a fear of not being a starter on the football team like dad dreamed of, or a thousand other concerns. At least there was one fear Mike would never have and that would be failing academically. Simply put, he was a brilliant student and it would not take long for everybody to figure that out, students and teachers alike.
As we walked into the hallway of that old coliseum of a high school, even at that time nearly a hundred years old, with its three floors of confusing room numbers and all new teachers it was a daunting experience for all of us sophomores. For him though, for Mike, it had to be his worst nightmare. Of course at the time, I knew or appreciated none of that. My bored and distracted “hey” in reply, or whatever short one word mumbled greeting I said back to him that day, was certainly not a welcoming type comment. It was all he needed though. My nightmare, or what I considered one, had just begun and his was looking better. We continued down the hall and I veered off to my first class. As I finally found that class, and started to slowly file in with the other kids who had the same familiar deer in the headlight look, I had to slow down for the bottle neck at the door. As I did I was bumped in the back, a heavy bump, and I turned around knowing before I saw him, that it was Mike Fung.
Whether it was fate or design or both, it turned out that Mike and I had almost identical schedules. In the week that followed we even walked a good part of the way home on identical routes, finally forking off our separate ways. We talked some, but not much. Mike was painfully shy and not sure what to say. I was purposely not saying much, not because I disliked him or was trying to be hurtful but basically because I had no interest in him. What I failed to appreciate and realize, was that Mike didn’t have the luxury to selectively choose his friends. He would walk slightly to the side of me or even slightly behind me on the way to class, depending on whether I was walking with my girlfriend, other guys or alone. Walk isn’t the right word really. Mike lumbered, yes that’s the word, he lumbered and he was smiling all the way. I started to get very self conscious about my lumbering shadow and it got worse when I started noticing that after school he would wait outside for me at the bottom of those massive stone steps. Patiently waiting for me, just so he could have somebody to walk home with. As I said it wasn’t because of any hatred or dislike, I just didn’t care about him. I just didn’t like it. Not something I’m proud of, that’s for sure, but that’s what and who I was at the time.
“What do you WANT Mike?” I asked with dramatized impatience.
I’ll never forget his look as he hesitated, stopped, grinned uncertainly, waved and slowly turned back towards his house. He was grinning sure, but it had crushed him. It embarrassed him badly. Even being as insensitive as I was then, I was sure of that and the sad part was, I still didn’t care. I’ll never forget that look and it haunts me to this day. My girlfriend didn’t let me forget it either, she was furious with me. When I got home my mother told me that someone named Mike had called and apologized. Apologized and was coming over. Now I was really mad. Why couldn’t he just leave me alone, find somebody else to attach himself to? And what the hell was he apologizing for? I had no answers to my hollow questions.
When he got to our house, I was conveniently out back attending to some pretended chore. My Mom walked through the back screen door holding onto something, with a very quizzical look on her face. She then presented me with a small oriental box which I opened, and inside sitting on the velvet lining, was a sort of miniature warrior figure. She told me that Mike had politely greeted her, left his apology for me, nodded his head and then given her my gift. I went in my bedroom, sat it on my dresser, and stared at it thoroughly confused and somewhat embarrassed.
As the weeks and months followed, he eased up on the shadowing, at least that’s what I called somebody simply needing a friend. I had finally thanked him for the present and told him I didn’t really mean anything that day, but had stopped far short of saying anything that might continue or grow the acquaintance. As time went by, he was virtually ignored by others at the school, sometimes openly ridiculed and occasionally teased by others. He was a constant and faithful fan at my wrestling meets though. Grinning and cheering. He was always smiling, always. He would wave at me from down the hall, from down the sidewalk, from the stands and I’m willing to bet when I wasn’t even looking. He forever had an opened book, head bent and reading. He was always pleasant, polite and well meaning. That’s how I remember him.
And I didn’t care. Just flat, didn’t care. Occasionally, I did start to watch him though, but just as a curiosity I thought to myself. In reality though, it was something that I wouldn’t admit to myself – not right away anyway. It was out of shame. Pure and simple, I was ashamed of the way I had treated a guy who wanted nothing more than to have a friend. He had chosen me, to be that friend. He asked for very, very little and was willing to offer anything just to have a friend. I had in return, given nothing.
The day it all changed for me and Mike was not spectacular in any way, except that it was the day I got suspended from school for a week. This happened to a ‘good kid’, a solid Dudley Do Right kind of jock. A kid that said yes ma’am and yes sir, did his homework, got good grades, had a part-time job already and helped older neighbors. I followed the rules. Of course I was not always the knight in shining armor when it came to doing the right thing. I had certainly proved that to Mike Fung, and myself, for the last few months.
As I came out of school that day I was again walking with my girlfriend. Off to my right, down below in a little alcove beside the steps I heard somebody yelling loudly. Looking over the edge of the railing I saw that it was three guys and some onlookers. One of the guys was Mike Fung without his glasses, the other two were football players. I knew them and even hung around with them occasionally. Mike was bigger than them of course, but he was cornered and for one of the few times I ever remember he was not smiling, sensing the inevitable trouble. I knew damn well he had not done anything wrong and that these two were taking on his size more than anything. I was also sure that Mike did not want, or even knew how, to fight. I looked away quickly, trying to ignore it, trying to be as uncaring as I had been all year. Reaching the bottom of the steps and heading down the sidewalk, I was successful in ignoring it, because I quickly thought how many times I had been in a scrap and nobody had chipped in to help? It basically never happened to me anymore anyway, because I would fight and I was pretty good at it. So hey, what the hell did it matter to me?
At the beginning of it, I was just mad at having to get involved. A great inconvenience to me or something – again shameful, but that’s what it was. As I remember, I didn’t make some valiant statement, or say anything really as I got in there between them, just walked in and started punching.
In the middle of it, I got to the little loudmouth pretty quickly, he was just along for the ride anyway. One solid punch to the nose and he was all wide eyed and bleeding. He was out of the game before it really started. The main guy, well, that was another story. He was a fighter, a big and very good fighter. It was a draw at best, we were both on the ground which is where I had to be with this particular guy. We were both just kind of wore out when it finally got broke up, by my wrestling coach of all people.
In the end, it was probably the best I had ever felt about myself, at least at that point in my short life. I had finally done the right thing with Mike. I hadn’t done it for the right reasons initially, but it had at least made me realize what those right reasons were. Mike’s only problem was a pair of glasses that needed the all too familiar piece of white tape in the middle over the nose. His parents who were well off, could have bought him ten new pairs but he continued to wear the old ones, possibly to remember or possibly as a badge of sorts. I think for him, they meant something very special. Although we did not become the best of friends, like a true
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Last Dance
Silence, no wind, and the night sounds had suddenly stopped as if a switch had been thrown.
Silence so pure it was a noiseless scream ringing in his head. He was a town square statue, void of all motion. Frozen in place partly by fear, but also in his all consuming awareness seeking to see or hear something, anything. He waited, breathing shallow and slow. Seconds were hours. Almost positive he had seen one layer of dark shape move over another off to his right, but his eyes strained against the pitch black, searching for that real shape among false images. He stood still, feeling and trying to measure the air all around him with his senses, seeking a brief vacuum, a push, or a whiff of air, just a tiny tick of a sound. Black nothing.
There was nothing out there yet he knew there was. They were there and if lights came on suddenly, the real terror would be in how many and how close they were. How many countless sentries on isolated posts, or guards on watch, throughout the long history of man had felt the same? They surely had felt the same horrible trepidation, the total and crushing feeling of doom. They had suffered the loneliness and fear of what awaited them out there, the sure death. A death that crouched, waiting with terrible patience in a heartless night.
Yes, the end would be tonight, he was sure of it now. It had been three days. Three long days since their offensive push began. His company had been in a full retreat and overrun several times, the enemy right on their heels. They were so close tonight – a matter of a hill away or a stand of trees on the other side of the valley. They were right over there in that direction of black. Tonight he’d been drifting in and out, like a slow steady dream. Almost totally exhausted and at times all but sleepwalking his post, ready to self sacrifice to the relentless lurking presence out there. Welcoming, no requesting, a razor edged bayonet in his back. At other times like this, he would snap back, pure animal instincts and survival.
He finally sensed the movement again, off to his left this time, almost felt a push of air before he heard or saw anything. It was an almost casual, arrogant movement. His eyes wider than wide trying to pierce the darkness, his ears tuned to hear the smallest twig. Yes there it was on his left again at about 11 o’clock and close. Damn close, moving slow, steady and confident. His inner voice screaming now and so scared he had fight it, pushing the paralyzing panic into a closet and bolting the door.
Pretending to ignore its presence, he let it come closer. It was a monster, not a man, the monster from childhood nightmares. He caught a slight whiff of barn hay and rifle oil, a certain gaminess and cold hard gun metal. Now, more clearly he smelled sweat, a bitter clinging sweat. A sweat which was not his and one that reeked of ritual brutal combat. The anticipation in these seconds is exquisite, a strange raw desire to prolong this deadly silent courtship whispers to him. But this rush to death would overpower both players, the final embrace inevitable.
This dance of death, so ancient and instinctive, so intoxicating. He’d never felt so alive, so engaged. Like stepping off a great uncharted dark cliff and not seeing the ground hurtling up, he turned only his eyes to the left. The noiseless scream in his head was now a low moan as he continued his turn slowly, eyes unseeing but wide open in the dark as he brought his gun around in dream like slow motion……his blood pounding pulse like a countdown to engage his invisible foe…..a tiny twig snap. Abruptly, he bows to his partner as sharp steel swishes the air gracefully over his head. An old photograph flashes by his eyes, the house he grew up in and his mother at the door waiving to him.
Soon, very soon, the music would die and the dance would end for one.