Late-K Lunacy

by Ted Bernard

  “Right.” Lara agreed.

  “What’s her surname?”

  “Umm, let’s see. It’s Foster, I believe.”

  “You were with her six months and you can hardly remember her last name?”

  “As I said, she was never forthright about anything. And we were not really a couple, if you know what I mean.”

  “I guess I do.” Nick changed direction. “Any reason for you to believe she could be an agent of the opposition here?”

  “The opposition?”

  “Yeah, Tulkinghorn or Morse, who knows who else.”

  Lara frowned and turned her eyes toward Jason. Some unholy dread there. “All I can say is that I have no evidence at all. One would have to stalk her, which would be difficult as she seems to slink around with a great deal of stealth. I tried to do so for about a week back in the summer after she told me she would be gone indefinitely. Her main mode of transportation is a motorcycle which she almost never rides in daylight. I never knew where she kept it but I did discover that she seemed to be running marijuana between Grieg County and several cities. She traveled with a grizzled biker dude on those trips. That was obviously one of her sources of income. I never knew if she had a room or an apartment in Argolis. She’d rarely be with me for more than a night or two.”

  “Good grief,” Nick replied calmly, though knowing Nick, I’d say his brain was screaming Oh fuck! “Okay, here’s this woman who was highly enraged the other night; she feels she has been jilted; she’s potentially psycho and perhaps violent, has a black belt; is a drug runner and she knows how to operate under the radar. Add these up and I’d say she’s your number one suspect. If she’s not an agent of the others, this could simply be payback. But why the minion message? Either way, she’s one formidable adversary. I wouldn’t want to tangle with her.”

  Lara listened, head bowed, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped. Jason seemed frozen, staring straight ahead, his hands folded in his lap. Lara abruptly looked up. “So, where do you think that leaves us, Nick?”

  “Personally, I’m committed to continue trying to save the forest and I trust most of the folk in PCSA and ClimateThrong are too,” Nick replied. “More to the point, where does all this leave you?”

  Lara sat upright, moving to the edge of the couch. “I twitch in both directions. I’d be best advised to back off. But that’s not my history, nor my gut inclination. Jason has been totally neutral. I think deep-down he’d like to see me out of harm’s way.”

  “Lara’s got to make up her own mind,” Jason said. “I know her well enough to say she’s not prone to take the easy road. Smitten as I am, I wish it were otherwise.”

  “Back to you Lara,” Nick said. “More immediately, what do we tell the others and what should the rest of us do? This whole thing is getting more and more out of hand. We’re all distracted and everybody has studies and careers to think about.”

  “To answer your question, Nick, I do have a plan,” Lara said. “I am leaning toward staying in the arena, not to idolize one of my dad’s heroes, Theodore Roosevelt. If people ask about the break-in, I’ll give bare details without mentioning anything about the message. If they’ve read the Beacon story, which came from the police blotter, they will not know about the message. The police deliberately chose not to divulge it.”

  “Why?” wondered Nick.

  “They told us the intruder would more likely show his or her face again if the apparent point of the break-in and fire had not been reported.”

  “Some theory,” Nick observed.

  “Well, my good friend,” Lara said with regained serenity, “talking through this and getting your input have helped me get back on course.” She gazed now at Nick’s broad shoulders and bushy face and was grateful for, though also a tinge intimated, by his grounded masculinity. “We all realize, I think, that we could be over our heads. But we also have a shot at shutting down Morse. And I may have a way to deal with Adrienne.”

  With that, Nick said, “Sounds like it’s Miller time.” He went to the fridge and brought out not Miller but three bottles of Shawnee Light, a cheap beer brewed with genuine Shawnee River sludge, he claimed. They popped open the beers, lifted them in a silent toast, and slumped wearily into the worn cushions.

  8

  Speaking into her cell phone, she exited the front door of Classic Diner at the northwest edge of town. She walked across the poorly lit parking lot to the back of the restaurant and climbed into the passenger seat of a Chrysler 300C. As if she and the car were one, in her black jeans, short military style leather jacket, and knee-high black boots, she oozed across the black leather seat. Without a word, he grasped the apex of her slightly spread legs.

  As always, he rasped, “Vile pussy”.

  She said nothing.

  He revved up the 3.6-liter engine and headed toward the freeway. She removed her jacket, unbuttoned the top button of her silk blouse, and lit up a Garcia Y Vega.

  Traveling at eighty-five, halfway to the destination, the Chrysler flashed past a speed trap. Either the officers were asleep at the radar or the black muscle car was untouchable. Each time the woman made this trip, and she could claim several, she understood anew how much raw power her paramour possessed. At Route 743, they turned east, then north on Dorfmeister, a country road cutting through scruffy low woods of sumac, sassafras, hawthorn, and honey locus. A waxing gibbous moon revealed a doe and two fawns at the edge of the road. They skittered away in the dark. In another ten minutes, they cruised past a looming Faux-Normandy mansion on the left. Its cut limestone exterior, second floor dormers, many faceted roof lines, turret, and four car garage were out of place in this coal-gutted land. A window on the second floor was alight.

  “Queen’s awaitin’ me,” the man chuckled.

  “As likely as you getting it up without my help,” she replied.

  They continued another three miles, stopped at a closed gate on the left. He remotely opened the gate, allowing the Chrysler to ease through onto an unpaved track. The gate closed behind them. A mile further, they pulled up to a darkened log cabin in deep woods. He heisted his hulk out of the car with an audible groan as the stiffness in his lower back resisted his upright intention and his weak left hand and wrist burned with arthritis. Grappling the door, he steadied himself and, feeling dizziness, took a moment to catch his breath. She watched patiently from her side of the car, the man’s predicament: his bad back, his gimpy hand — reputedly crushed in a fight, shortness of breath, the inevitability of decrepitude. Her trepidation outweighed any empathy she might muster. But one had to admire his rise from a New Barnstable nebbish to a globally significant stud.

  They climbed five steps, crossed the broad porch, and entered the cabin. He locked the door behind them, activated the gas fireplace. He walked around, surveying his pine-paneled getaway, turned on two table lamps.

  “Drink?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bourbon?”

  “Yes.”

  He returned with two whiskey glasses, one neat for him, the other on the rocks. They sat in silence at two ends of a couch, each momentarily lost in the flicker of the fire. To her, the cabin bore history riven by terror as well as omens she dared not ponder. To him, it was a den of domination, a retreat few had entered, a pleasure palace. As soon as she entered the place, she began to worry about her payoff and escape. But first, at the very least, there would be unpleasant business.

  He arose without a word, abruptly grabbed her by the wrist. What would it be this time? They ascended to the cabin’s loft. He led her to the ominously heavy door with a fingerprint entry system. He pressed his thumb to it. The door opened and motion-activated string lighting revealed an expansive room with a king-sized bed at its center, a mirror above it. The room squatted under the cabin’s eaves; it had no windows. At one end was a closet with the costumes and paraphernalia of his madness.

  Chuckling now, almost to himself, he told her to relax. She could not. At length, he assigned her a role fo
r the evening, a role she knew exquisitely well but a role she had never played here. She breathed more easily. This time, it seemed, she would not suffer at the expense of his gratification. Trust had built. This was perhaps her only opportunity.

  As dominatrix, she began speaking ritual phrases to stir his deranged imagination and bolster her confidence. Layer by layer, she removed his clothing, leaving his bulbous body exposed but for a pair of boxer shorts. She eased him onto the bed and attached the obligatory cuffs, hands and feet. As she spoke, she stood on an oak chest at the foot of the bed and slowly removed her outer clothing revealing her uncupped breasts and a series of crisscrossing black leather straps over her shoulders and around her torso, all attached, front and back, to a string bikini. Hers was a tight feminine muscularity, a black-belt fitness. Yet, she knew that in real combat, she was likely no match for the old man, unless, of course, his heart arrested. With experienced hands, she stretched a condom over his member, a startling thing — that of a horse. She knew nothing of its history, nor of his own father’s obsession with his son’s long and large cock, nor of the father’s demise. She climbed aboard. He moaned, straining against the restraints. The headboard rapped rhythmically against the wall.

  Soon enough, it was over.

  She turned away, swung her leg over him, masked her disgust. Dropping off the bed, she gathered her clothes, dressed quickly, and moved toward the door. She was on the brink of activating her plan, leaving him locked and restrained. It would finally allay her fears and solve several other problems. On the other hand, it could also lead to unintended consequences, not the least, for her, a loss of income. He understood her dilemma, yet the very thought of ending life this way loosened his bowels.

  His voice ice-cold, he warned, “I will set my hounds upon you. I will hunt you to the ends of Earth.”

  Hackneyed warnings, to be sure, but she doubted neither his capacity for vengeance nor his will to survive. Saying nothing, she hesitated several moments at the threshold. Then she turned back. She unlocked one handcuff, did not remove it or unlock the other. She stuffed the key into pillows barely within his reach. Despite his tirade, he was weakened in the wake of ejaculation and near abandonment. His breathing, short and shallow, was that of a petrified old man.

  Still. She needed to act quickly.

  “You completed your assignment?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Envelope in the microwave. Await further instructions.”

  “Good,” she replied as she gagged him, attaching the harness at the back of his head.

  Moving with lightning speed, she closed the door and descended to the kitchen. She collected her reward, bolted out the back door, and ran into the woods. One hundred yards on, she came upon the Kawasaki. She helmeted herself, fired up the motorcycle, and sped westward toward what now seemed a foredoomed future.

  9

  I slipped into the CNRD office at 7:35 AM, dropped my backpack and breakfast on the work-study desk, and walked across the room to the kitchenette. Greta was not at her desk. Dr. T.’s door was closed. With swirly, jerky motions, I cleaned the coffee pot, ground the beans, hit the brew button. As I poured a cup for myself, Dr. T. barged in. “Oh hello, Dr. Tulkinghorn,” I chirped. “How’s the morning?”

  Tulkinghorn skidded to a stop. He wore a sad-sack brown suit, a yellow button-down shirt with a pale orange tie with Gilligan crests, a large old fashioned tie-clip accentuating his middle-aged spread. He carried a scuffed leather briefcase, its handles wrapped in duct tape, and a blue and orange express packet. “Hello there,” he called back, apparently unable to recall my name. “I’m okay, but I’d be better with some of that coffee. Could you bring me a cup?”

  “Sure, Dr. T.”

  He swooped out a big ring of keys on a chain hooked to his belt, opened his door, and plunged into his darkened office.

  Convinced I was succeeding in softening the man, I, Hannah, the reticent sophomore work study student, transmuted into Hannah, the sultry seductress. I poured his coffee into the red mug with the Donetsk Energy logo, added creamer and sugar in the amounts he preferred, removed one of my blueberry scones from The Neighborhood Bakery bag, and placed it on a paper plate. Though anxious about this, my first ploy, I marched confidently into his office. “Here you are and I’ve also brought a fresh scone for you. You look like you could use a treat.”

  “Well, that’s thoughtful of you … Anna, right?”

  “Hannah with h’s at either end. Looks like you’ve got a busy day ahead. Something formal perhaps. I don’t remember seeing you so dressed up. That’s a smart looking suit.” I hated to lie but such was now my job description.

  “Aw, it’s what I call my wedding and funeral duds. Hate ‘em. But this morning I’ve been invited to a press conference at Stiggins on the university’s energy plan. President Redlaw presiding.”

  “Must be important,” I said, holding back everything.

  “Probably a waste of time. Well, thanks again for the treat.” He ripped open the express mail packet, extracted a typescript document, grappled in his suit pocket for his reading glasses, and mumbled to himself, “Got some reading here.”

  “Okay, Dr. T., I’ll let you get to work. Enjoy your scone.”

  I returned to my desk as Greta arrived. We exchanged greetings. I asked whether Greta knew the time of the President’s press conference. Greta checked Dr. T.’s calendar. “Eleven,” she said.

  I quickly composed and sent a text.

  I looked up from my phone. Greta was standing there. She leaned over the desk and whispered, “Alerting your compadres about the press conference?”

  “Yes,” I said in equally hushed tones. “Hopefully, they will make some noise.”

  I dug into my office work while simultaneously fretting about my upcoming class, when our group would be the first to present their project. The group — Astrid, José, Greg, and I — had met until after midnight, fine tuning things. Since ours was the first to present, we wanted to set the bar high. I was mighty worried and wrote this in my journal in the wee hours:

  Twiggy me, a shitbag of self-loathing and fear of public speaking, GAWD! I could KILL our project. Why wasn’t José, that super-confident theater major, the one to introduce it?

  10

  Mid-morning light cast a sedate glow across his office but what was happening was anything but sedate. President Mitchell Redlaw was being coached on the forthcoming press conference by Director of Media Relations, Sabetha (Beth) Samuels, the dazzling African American diva of his inner circle. At this point, I had not yet met Beth. But even I knew of her skill as the campus guru on crafting the message, sticking like Elmer’s to it, and controlling the discourse in the administration’s favor. Beth, at six-one, was eye-poppingly gorgeous, dressed in style and cut as though she were a television anchorwoman or a U.S. Senator; on that day she wore a chic pin-striped charcoal pant suit, sans blouse, yielding an intriguing neckline. Her height was grandly accentuated by black spike heels.

  From long experience, Beth also knew that Redlaw, with his XXL ego, was often un-coachable. He was prone to temporize. Today, though, fatigued and perhaps a little melancholy, he seemed as compliant as an old spaniel. Was he tiring of the job, feeling burned-out, detached for some other reason? Beth worried. Where was that Redlaw dynamism?

  Yawning, he apologized: “Usual protocols, then.”

  Beth nodded. “You probably don’t need another run through the specifics but allow me to reiterate them anyway.” She expected resistance. The president moved not a muscle. “First, it would be wise, off the top, to tell the world that in less than two decades GUO will have become an Ohio and national model for making the transition from fossil fuels to green energy. Second, in doing so, don’t forget to mention that we will have more than achieved our 2030 zero-carbon emissions goal. Third, I would not stray from the facts on our ageing boilers, the need to replace them soon, and the cost-effectiveness of converting from coal to natural gas. In the notes the
re, I’ve included data from the plan and the chapter and verse of the Board’s minutes on the matter. Fourth, at all costs, you must avoid mention of Blackwood Forest and our alumnus Jasper Morse. These, literally and figuratively, are minefields — as you are well aware Blackwood could become a flashpoint for …”

  A tap on the door interrupted her.

  The president raised his hand to hold her in suspension. “Yes?” he called to the door. It opened. Provost Helen Flintwinch took a few cautious steps into the office and stood there blankly. She had forgotten her glasses and squinted across the poorly lit room. At first, she did not see Beth. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she asked, “Is that you Beth?”

  Beth, aware of the provost’s nearsightedness as well as her own blue-blackness, replied, “Yep, I’m here, Helen, helping the president prepare for the press conference.”

  Flintwinch nodded. She turned toward the president and said, “Mitchell, good morning. I think you should know, in case you have not heard the ruckus, that there’s a mob of students with protest signs and noise makers on the front lawn.”

  The President’s inner sanctum faced the rear courtyard of Stiggins and neither he nor his executive assistant and her staff had heard anything. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Free speech. Damn those framers.”

  Looking as if she’d seen the ghost of Thaddeus Stiggins, the nineteenth century Methodist minister and second president of Gilligan for whom the building was named, Beth stood up, towering over both Flintwinch, who was five-six tops, and the seated Redlaw. In ringing tones aimed at the ceiling, her hands formed into fists accentuating her iron woman forearms, she cried, “Shit! Shit! And more Shit!”

  Unaccustomed to profanity from the media relations director, the president and the provost snapped their heads upward.

  Beth shifted into command mode. Ignoring the provost, she said, “Okay, Mr. President, listen up. First, I recommend you call the GUO Police and tell them to stay as far away from the protest as possible, unless, of course, it becomes violent. They need to be out of sight. Second, assuming the demonstration doesn’t get out of hand, you must totally ignore it in your opening remarks. The student journalists and the other media will no doubt jump on it as soon as you invite questions. At that point, all you need to say is: ‘As long as protests on this campus are peaceful and do not abridge other’s rights or involve hate speech, Gilligan students are quite free to express their opinions.’ Refer to the First Amendment of the Constitution. Leave it at that.”