by John Chabot
Boson Books by John Chabot
Our Fathers
Now Mourn the Space Cadet
Quite Contrary
_______________________________
OUR FATHERS
By
John Chabot
_______________________________
BOSON BOOKS
Raleigh
Published by Boson Books
3905 Meadow Field Lane
Raleigh, NC 27606
ISBN 1-886420-59-9
An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc.
Copyright 1999 John Chabot
All rights reserved
For information contact
C&M Online Media Inc.
3905 Meadow Field Lane
Raleigh, NC 27606
Tel: (919) 233-8164
e-mail:[email protected]
URL: http://www.bosonbooks.com
PROLOGUE
Look at him. Arrogant bastard! The woman stood at the window of her second-floor apartment, watching a man approach from across the street. She saw him stop, drop his cigarette, and slowly grind it under his shoe. He turned slowly, searching both ways along the street before striding up the apartment steps.
She turned from the window, smiling. She had dark, curly hair and dark gypsy eyes. Small but rounded, she wore a robe of a thin, shiny material. She headed for the door, switching off the TV as she passed. Rick or Kent had been about to tell Erica or Jasmine that Ruth was becoming suspicious, that their affair must end. With the man coming up the stairs, she didn't need to watch TV actors — she had the real thing. She wondered what he'd do if she didn't answer the door. Get angry? Yes, he'd do that. Then what? Probably nothing. He'd leave and she'd pay for it later. She was still attractive, she knew that, but . . . Making sure her robe showed just enough, she opened the door as soon as he knocked.
He was a good-looking man, tall, dark-haired, in his mid thirties. He had the kind of looks that attracted women. And don't you bloody well know it.
He stepped inside and eyed her appraisingly, as if this was their first meeting. She wanted him to touch her, and knew he wanted to, but knew he would hold off, teasing a little, making it better when he did. He reached slowly and took the end of the satiny belt knotted at her waist.
"Did you miss me?"
She moved closer to him. "Now, why would I miss you?"
He smiled, pulling the belt until the knot was gone. He stooped and picked her up. "I'll show you."
He carried her into the bedroom, setting her down beside the bed. He slipped the robe off her shoulders and watched it slide to the floor. Still he didn't touch her with his hands, but leaned and kissed her softly on the mouth. It was a variation of the game they played, and each one knew the rules. She turned and got into bed. He walked around to the other side, taking off his tie as he went.
She sat in the bed, the covers pulled to just below her waist, watching him. She thought him beautiful, and loved to watch him undress. He took off his shoes and socks, then unbuttoned his shirt.
The wall he was standing by was papered in a feminine floral print, small pink and violet buds on an off-white background. Her husband had put it up just a few weeks before. She watched the man avidly, thinking the contrast of the soft colors and his strong features made him look even more masculine.
As he was about to take the shirt off, he stopped, not looking at her anymore, but beyond her at the bedroom door. She started to turn to see what he was looking at, but the explosion of the gun stopped her. She might have screamed, but wasn't sure. Her eyes were closed, her face pushed into a pillow. Then there was another explosion. She looked up and saw him, still standing, but leaning back against the wall. Blood was pumping from two holes in his chest, running down over his pants. She noticed, almost idly, that blood had spattered over the bedspread. It would be ruined.
As she watched, there was a third explosion. Another hole appeared in his chest and filled with blood. She wanted to scream, "Stop it! Stop it!", but watched silently as he closed his eyes and slid to the floor, leaving smears of red among the field of buds.
She turned to see who had done this, but all she could see clearly was the muzzle of the gun, looking at her, huge and round, as if it would shoot her in the eye.
But that, of course, was twenty-two years ago.
CHAPTER 1
He saw the shadowy figure ahead of him stop and look back. One arm came up, pointing at him. He heard someone yell something, then the blast of the gun. He hesitated, then ran forward, determined to . . .
"Whoa! He does what? What is he, some kind of idiot?"
"You have a problem with that?"
"Yes, I have a problem with that. He's unarmed, chasing this guy who turns out to have a gun, and now he's being shot at. So what does he do? Runs forward?"
"What do you want him to do — run away?"
"Sounds good to me."
"It would put him in the wrong place for the next scene. Besides, this is a chase. Lots of stress and adrenaline. Would he really be acting all that sensibly?"
"He'd better, or he's going to get himself killed."
"That's an idea. Not killed, but he could be wounded."
"Throw in a little gratuitous violence, huh?"
"Hey, don't underrate it."
"Okay, but that takes him out of the next scene even more than running away."
"Just a little wound."
"I don't think there are any little gunshot wounds. At the very least, they tend to discourage running forward."
"So now what?"
"Let's go on to the next scene. I know how that one has to go."
Terry Eason stared at the computer screen, determined to finish the shadowy-figure-on-the-beach scene. It might help, he thought, if he cut down on those schizophrenic arguments he kept having with himself.
Terry wasn't a criminal. He just didn't have what it takes. He had a reasonable amount of intelligence, his background had been middle class work ethic, and he had no pronounced sociopathic tendencies. And most importantly, he lacked the nerve. However, if he had decided to go with the gun and the getaway car, he would have had one great advantage. If he had held up a bank, for example, a sharp-eyed teller would have described him as:
"Height?"
"Medium."
"Weight?"
"Medium, I guess."
"Type of build?"
"Just sort of average."
"Age?"
"Hard to tell. Late twenties, early thirties, somewhere in there."
"Hair?"
"Brown."
"Long? Short?"
"Not especially."
"Eyes?"
"Kind of a brown, I think. Maybe hazel."
"Voice? Any accent?"
"No. Just a normal voice."
"Any distinguishing characteristics?"
"None that I could see. He was just, you know, average."
But he was not a criminal. Relative honesty was the only way of life he had ever been allowed to get away with — he simply couldn't escape the limits his parents had set. So his talent went to waste, resulting only in his being unseen and ignored by waiters and salespeople. He had a nagging desperation that had plagued him for the past week, and at times he felt vaguely guilty, but so far the police had taken no active interest in him.
For Terry, the first two days, Sunday and Monday, were perfect. It rained most of the time, sometimes in sheets, but usually a persistent drizzle, often driven by a cold wind whipping in from the northwest. Looking through the beachside windows, he could see the wet sand of the dunes, topped with rows of long, graceful sea oats bending in the cold wind. These were not the great hill dunes o
f the desert, but irregular rows of sand that paralleled the beach, four to five feet tall, raggedly covered with wild grasses and vines that kept them from blowing somewhere else. Beyond the dunes was the beach, sodden with rain, and the high surf, ragged and white. Even when it didn't rain, the ocean air was cold enough to make walking on the beach fit for only the most fanatic. In November, the kids were back in school and the sun worshippers back at work. In weather like this, even the surf fishermen stayed home.
During these two days, despite his problem with the shadowy figure in the chase scene, he got quite a lot done. In the mornings, he sat before the gray screen of the PC and wrote and, with no temptation to leave the house, was serious about it. With no TV and no one other than Kelly who knew where he was, he had no excuses. He disciplined himself to no more then one coffee break in the morning and, by lunch, was generally pleased with what he had done. It was never as much as he had planned, but still it was progress. He would start the computer printing it off while he fixed and ate lunch. Afterward, sitting comfortably with a cup of coffee, he would read it over, making sounds of disgust while he crossed out, changed, added, and despaired of ever getting it right. By mid afternoon he would have the corrected version back in the computer and call it a day.
It was after that, after supper really, that the day grew long. In planning this project, he had welcomed the thought of having no TV. It would be an intrusion, a thief of his time. Now he found that to be the reason he missed it. It was the ultimate time-killer, the perfect way to wipe out an evening without leaving a trace. Without it, he had to actually do something. He tried to read for a while, but ended up being thrown back to his own thoughts. And then the doubts would come back. Sitting alone in a house not his own, listening to the wind prowling outside, the questions would come into his mind, familiar and unwelcome, like old enemies. This always depressed him, but he went to bed knowing that in the morning he would get up, eat breakfast and go back to work. It was a devil he was learning to live with.
He woke early on Tuesday because of the sun shining in the window, and knew his routine was in trouble. He sat up and looked out toward the beach. The wind was blowing froth from the tops of the breakers, and the sea oats on the dunes were still doing their dance. The beach and the dunes were still wet from the rain, but the sun and the wind would soon take care of that. The sky was that pure after-a-storm blue, and the sun sparkling on the water seemed incredibly bright. The breakers piled up in shifting shades of green and broke into a fury of white. He promised himself that, once he had finished writing the part he had scheduled for today, he would take a long walk on the beach. Maybe up to the pier.
A different part of his mind had other ideas. It occurred to him while he was eating breakfast that he hadn't been out of the house since he had arrived. Maybe he should go out on the beach first. It would do him good to get out and breath some real air. Clean out the cobwebs. Give him a fresh outlook. Probably the writing would be that much better. God knows, he could use that. It also occurred to him that he was rationalizing to beat hell, and that if he kept listening to this particular devil he'd never get anything done. If he was going to break his routine for the first sunny day, he hadn't a chance. He would reward himself later — first he had to earn it. In the end, he compromised by knocking off a little early.
There was a fairly brisk wind, but the air was not as cold as he had thought it would be. Standing on the porch, he could see most of the beach and the sea beyond. The afternoon sun sparkled on its surface, giving it a blueness where the day before had been an angry gray-green. The sky was a paler blue backdrop with only a few small, white clouds scattered about. Far out, just on the horizon, he spotted a ship of some kind moving up the coast.
Steps led down to a narrow path, which took him over and around the ridges of sand and down to the beach. At the end of the path he looked up and down the beach. It was wide, especially now at low tide, and nearly deserted. To the north, maybe a mile off, was the spindly frame of a fishing pier. To the south, a little closer, was another. He decided to walk to the south pier and back. It would be the shorter trip for the first day, and would put the wind at his back on the return trip.
He walked along the water's edge, watching the broken waves hissing in, stopping at times to inspect some bit of something washed up the night before. He almost tripped over a round stump of rotted wood, and noticed where the water swirled around others that made a line seaward. There must have been a pier here at one time, he thought. Now this was all that was left. He wondered if he might work it into what he was writing, an image of how the greedy bastard Time ends up taking everything. Or maybe the shadowy figure could trip over one just as he was about to fire again. No. Later. Think about it later. To hell with work for now.
He wasn't used to walking in sand, against the wind, and by the time he reached the pier he was more tired than he wanted to admit. At the landward end, the pier ended against a big, square, three story wooden building. It was shaped like a house, with gabled roof and rows of windows looking out over the water. Steps at the base of the building led up to the pier. He went up with the idea of going out on the pier to watch the fishermen. When he reached the top, however, he saw that the pier ended at the doors of a coffee shop, and that sounded better.
Walking back was easier. He had the coffee to warm him and the wind to help push him along. He tried to picture what this beach would be like in the summer. Probably a mass of humanity. Surfers farther out, kids where the water met sand, mothers sitting on blankets watching the kids, fathers beside them watching bikinis jogging past. The sand would probably be too hot to walk on barefoot, and the sun on the water would be blinding. Now it was nearly deserted. As far as he could see, there were perhaps half a dozen surf fishermen scattered along the beach. All in all, even without the bikinis, he thought he preferred it this way.
About halfway back he saw someone approaching him. It wasn't one of the fishermen, but a walker like himself, hands in jacket pockets, shoulders hunched, head down to the wind. A stocky, big-boned man. He wore a gray windbreaker and blue denims and sneakers. He moved slowly, and seemed to be having trouble with the wind. As they drew close, their eyes met and each smiled and nodded, as people do when they meet in lonely places. And that was the first time he saw him.
When he came up onto the porch, he could hear the phone ringing. He hurried in and caught it in mid-ring. It was Kelly.
"Terry? Where have you been? I let it ring forever. I thought maybe you hadn't been able to find the place or something."
"No, I've just been out on the beach."
"On the beach? I thought you went down there to work."
"I have been. This is the first break I've had. It finally stopped raining. I needed out."
"I'm kidding. I know you, Terry. How is it down there?"
"Great. Cold, windy, beautiful."
"Good. Now the big question. Could you stand some company?"
"Company? What do you mean?"
"Just for the weekend."
"How much company?"
"Me, of course. Who else?"
"That'd be great. I thought maybe you were bringing a bunch of party people, or your mother."
"There's no room there for a gang." Her voice changed. "I suppose I could bring Mamma. She wouldn't like it much this time of year, but I might talk her into it — if you insist."
"No, I like your mother. Let's keep it that way. When will you get here?"
"Saturday morning. Probably late. You're sure you don't mind? I know you have a lot to do."
"Be real. By Saturday I'm going to need some serious hands-on consolation. As a matter of fact, if you wanted to get down here a little early, like maybe tonight, I could handle that."
"I wish. I had to do some finagling to get loose on Saturday. I'll have to come back Sunday morning as it is."
"Okay. I really miss you."
"Me too. Anything I should bring?"
"No, I think I've got the essen
tials. Just bring your lovely self."
"Uh huh. Well, I've got to get back to work now, or the lovely self won't get there at all."
"God forbid!"
"I'll try to be early. And Terry, don't work too hard. Give yourself a break now and then."
"Just be here on Saturday."
On Wednesday he saw the man again, sitting where the beach met the dunes, leaning back against the hill of sand, eyes closed, apparently napping or just enjoying the sun and the smells and sounds of the ocean. As Terry went by, the man opened his eyes, then raised a hand in greeting. Terry waved back and went on. On his way back, he saw no trace of him.
CHAPTER 2
The room was nearly bare. There was a bed (no linen, just mattress and box springs), a plain wooden dresser, no carpet on the floor. In one corner were two large cardboard boxes.
The only window in the room was open. The screen outside was hanging by a single hinge, swinging back and forth whenever the cold, gusty ocean wind caught it. A young woman knelt beside the window, examining the sill. She saw the gouge in the wood where the screen had been pried loose, made an entry in her notebook. She stood up, shaking her head sadly.
Mickie Wilder was a little taller than most, a little thinner. Not as curvy as she would have liked. Athletic. Her straight, dark hair was cut short and close about a well-proportioned face. The eyes were lively. As someone had said, not bad if you like that kind.
She left the bedroom and went out into the living room. It was much the same as the one she'd left, with inexpensive cane furniture, more boxes stacked here and there, a few of them open.
Two men were there, talking, both older than Mickie by a good many years. One was somewhere in his sixties, with bushy gray hair and an angry look. That was Olsen, the owner. He looked a challenge at Mickie, as if it were her fault.
She asked, "You left the window open?"