Kaleidoscope

by Chariss K. Walker

  “Let me finish dressing and I’ll join you, darling. The view is amazing, isn’t it? And, the wine is rather nice too. Drink up, there’s plenty more,” Casey called out to ensure I could hear her while on the balcony. She moved around the apartment dressing in casual slacks and a knit top, all the while sipping the wine. “It’s very nice wine, darling. Have you tasted it yet?” she asked.

  A moment later, I heard the glass shatter as it fell from her hand and hit the tiled floor. I turned back to look inside the room in time to see Casey crumple, partly hitting the bed and then sliding to the floor beside the shattered glass. I quickly dropped the cigarette into a potted plant and rushed to her side.

  “Casey, what is it? What happened?”

  “You switched the glasses, didn’t you, Mike? You switched the glasses,” she accused, horror stricken as she looked up at me with frightened eyes.

  “Yes, but why would that matter, Casey? What was in the glass you intended for me?”

  “Oh no!” Casey wailed. “What have you done? I put a strong tranquilizer in your glass of wine. I put enough to make you compliant so they could pick you up without your resistance this time, but that amount might kill me, Mike. Please, call an ambulance now!” She was frantic.

  I left her side immediately to call the front desk and request an ambulance. I specified it was a medical emergency and very urgent. When I returned to Casey, she had a film of cold sweat on her upper lip and her eyes were slightly glazed. I tried to talk to her. I needed to know how she was involved in this hellacious matter.

  “Casey, who are you working for? What is this about? Why did you do this?”

  “Mike, I might die and you’re interrogating me,” she gasped, obviously very frightened, but reluctant to divulge anything.

  “Casey, I need to know what this is about. Did you put the listening device on my pillow?”

  “Yes.” She pulled at the collar of her blouse as if it was too tight.

  “Did you set me up to be abducted by the men outside the market?”

  “Yes, Mike, please, I need help. Please, can’t this wait?” she asked and then she began to cry.

  “I’ve called for an ambulance, Casey, and it’s on the way, but you need to answer my questions. What were your plans after you drugged me?”

  “The sedative was supposed to make you compliant. Not knock you out. You’re too large to carry. We’d planned to say you’d had too much to drink and then help you downstairs. There’s a van waiting to take you to the airport where a jet is standing by. They only want to question you, Mike,” Casey said reproachfully. She paused between sentences, struggling to breathe. Then, she began to convulse and gasp for air.

  I rolled up a hand towel and placed it under her neck. Then I washed her face with a cool cloth. She relaxed some, but I continued to ask questions. It occurred to me at this point that Casey wasn’t using the 1940s vernacular any longer. This was the real Casey—the other was just an act.

  “Who are they, Casey? Who are you working for? Is it The Rodante Group?”

  “For God’s sake, Mike, please stop.” Casey lifted her hands weakly in defense.

  “Please, this is important. Tell me who you’re working for,” I demanded. Casey had faked so much in our short relationship, I couldn’t be certain that she wasn’t acting now. “Why won’t you tell me what I need to know, Casey?”

  “I’m more afraid of them than I am of you. I’m more afraid of them than I am of being in this situation right now. I can’t tell you who they are,” she paused, struggling to breathe. “I’ll tell you that nothing you’ve ever done has been private and you’ve been watched for years. That they’re very interested in your ability and they’ll stop at nothing to learn more about it.” Again, Casey paused between sentences to gasp for breath, causing her to take a long time to answer, but I persisted.

  “Casey, I need to know everything you know, please,” I demanded again.

  “I can’t do that Mike. If I survive this, I have to worry about me. They know you see the future, and they want to know how it works. Don’t you get it? Who can see the future?” she asked incredulously. “You’re not safe…They’re going to get what they want and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Her throat was closing. “Did you see this coming, Mike? Did you know this would happen? Is that why you switched the glasses?” she gasped again and then passed out. I shook her shoulders trying to draw her back, but after her eyes fluttered briefly, Casey began speaking incoherently, with eyes rolled back in her head, and thrashing about on the floor. She exhibited all the signs of a seizure.

  “Casey, this isn’t the effect you should be having from a sedative. Do you have a medical condition that would cause this type of drug reaction? Casey, you’re having a seizure, damn it; tell me what I need to know so I can help. The ambulance will be here any moment and I need to tell them your medical conditions. Casey?”

  She didn’t answer, and it was then that I realized she couldn’t. I studied her closely. She was no longer aware of me or anything else. Casey was unconsciousness. When she stopped breathing, I performed CPR. As I compressed her chest, I could feel the erratic heartbeat, first fast then slow, then very fast, then slower still. Frantic with worry, I tried to resuscitate her, but I wasn’t getting a response. When the paramedics arrived and entered the room to give emergency aid, I was still trying to revive her, but nothing could be done.

  “Please step aside sir, she is gone. The CPR is not working,” a medic said.

  Casey was dead.

  I got up from the floor and put on the rest of my clothes. I intended to ride along with the ambulance to the medical center, but that didn’t happen. Since Casey was already dead, we’d wait for the coroner and the police to arrive. I realized with trepidation that this was now a crime scene and I was the primary suspect.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The police put on plastic gloves and foot covers. It really was a crime scene. I was questioned about my relationship with Casey and whether or not we’d argued before the incident. I answered the questions willingly.

  “We arranged to meet here and spend a romantic weekend together, but we didn’t argue or disagree about anything,” I replied. “Casey put a ‘strong tranquilizer’ in my wineglass. Somehow, the glasses were mixed up. I tried to revive her.” I went on to explain her reaction to the drug. The medical examiner listened intently and then explained his findings.

  “From what you’ve described, it’s apparent this young woman had a heart condition. The tranquilizer intended for you was lethal to her. Monsieur, I cannot say with certainty until I perform an autopsy, but all the signs here are from an accidental drug overdose, not murder,” he concluded.

  “But, if what you say is true, and we don’t have verification of that yet, that doesn’t explain why she wanted to put the tranquilizer in your drink. How do we know that what you say is the truth? How do we know that you did not put the tranquilizer in her drink?”

  I shook my head several times, not knowing what else to say that could explain this. Before I could think of a reply, an officer asked me to identify my luggage. I realized that my overnight bag and Dopp kit were still in the rental car. I handed the keys to one of the assistants. Casey’s luggage was searched thoroughly. The tranquilizer, rohypnol, was found in her makeup bag. My fingerprints were not on the small vial. After that, the police questioned the hotel director and any other staff who’d had knowledge of our arrival at the hotel, including the lounge where we’d eaten lunch earlier that day.

  After several hours, the police discovered that I’d told the truth. Casey arrived on Friday from New York. I’d arrived in Roussillon five days earlier from New York and hired a car for the weekend. My employment with GMS was verified. The only part of the story that didn’t make sense, as far as the police were concerned, was why Casey wanted to sedate me.

  I hesitantly began to explain that I’d only met Casey a few weeks earlier. As I thought about the events since that first meetin
g, a more complete picture formed. I hadn’t wanted to see before, but Casey was dangerous. I explained about the romantic relationship, stolen key, changing the locks and installing a security system. I explained that the friendship had turned into an unusually bizarre situation. I left out some incidents, such as the covert listening device, the near abduction, and how Casey knew I was headed to Roussillon—those details would’ve complicated matters even more.

  One of the police officers shook his head and mumbled ‘monomaniaque’ a French word liberally translated as ‘female stalker,’ and the light went on in my head also. Casey had been stalking me. Granted, she did this for someone else, but it was still stalking. She’d gotten close to me to feed someone else detailed information. She admitted that much. She admitted that someone had been watching me for a long time; they’d sent her to Cavenders that very first day. It wasn’t a coincidence or chance meeting as I’d previously assumed—it was planned.

  I didn’t want to believe any of it, but Casey admitted her involvement. The entire episode was a dark and covert situation that I was too blind to see. It was orchestrated. She’d known exactly what she was doing, and she was doing it for someone else. Anger welled up inside. It was a burning anger that filled my mouth with bile. The coroner quickly handed me a small bucket and the putrid stuff exploded out of me. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.

  I was angry with Casey, but the emotion was also directed at me for being manipulated so easily. Once I swallowed the bitter pill of being duped and manipulated, and then expelled it so violently, it was easy to embellish the story with a few more details. Fueled by outrage at how I’d been suckered in by lust, I warmed up to the idea quickly and elaborated the details with relish.

  “Casey didn’t want me to take the job in Roussillon to begin with and she followed me to France from New York. She didn’t like it when I was away from her for even a few hours. She didn’t want me to return to Roussillon after the weekend. She tried to drug me in an attempt to keep me in Marseille with her,” I said while glancing around the room at the men who stood listening.

  Oddly enough, my explanation seemed to satisfy the police, the hotel directeur, and the medical examiner. All men, at least my age or older, had a knowing look on their faces about their own monomaniaque experience somewhere in the past. Once it was determined there wasn’t any foul-play, I was allowed to leave. A police officer escorted me to the front desk to retrieve my passport.

  As we walked through the lobby, I noticed two men standing in an alcove near the service elevator. One man had a broken nose and the other carried a cane. They quickly turned away, but I was certain they were the same two men who’d tried to kidnap me two weeks earlier. They were waiting for a call from Casey that didn’t come. I wanted to point them out to the police, but that would require details I couldn’t explain. As the coroner escorted the gurney with Casey’s body through the lobby, the two men turned to watch. They paled and looked frightened. Their mission had failed a second time.

  I left the hotel and put my personal belongings back inside the boot of the Audi. I was dazed, angry and frustrated. I’d seen the two men who’d tried to abduct me in the lobby and I couldn’t do anything about it. They knew who was behind this; they were my only lead now that Casey was dead. I was forced to walk away. The more the police knew, the more suspicious Casey’s death would appear, and although I didn’t kill her, I couldn’t admit switching the glasses either. I had to keep silent. It was enough to drive anyone mad! Mentioning anything, even the men in the lobby, was far too risky. I felt helpless and it was another bitter pill to swallow.

  Death is a chilling thing.

  Memories of Casey’s lively body, once beautiful and warm, now cold and stiff, flashed across my mind. As I reflected on Casey’s sense of humor and spontaneity, I didn’t think she’d mind that I extricated myself from this complicated mess by embellishing our story. I’d painted her as the villain in all of it.

  I don’t think the dead give a damn what we do.

  On the drive back to Roussillon, I was like a dog with a bone. I couldn’t let it alone. During the last three weeks, I’d felt powerless. Telling Nelson about the kaleidoscope images had been the catalyst for all that had transpired since. How long have I been wandering around in my own life as a stranger, unaware of the dangers surrounding me? Casey said I wasn’t safe. She said that I’ve been watched for a long time and they won’t stop until they get what they want.

  I’m powerless!

  A pang of guilt washed over me. I’d relentlessly questioned her while she struggled to breathe. She’d emphasized that whoever was behind this only wanted to talk, but she’d refused to name them. She denied me the answers needed most.

  If their objective is only to talk, why the hell haven’t they picked up the phone? Why hasn’t someone approached me at Cavenders and simply asked me to talk to them? Why all the covert bullshit, listening and tracking devices and then sending in a New York socialite to seduce me? Who the hell is running the operation anyway?

  I’d picked up some obvious clues—Casey and the men working for her were not professionals. They were sloppy. They were spotted in the lobby and I was able to overcome both of them in New York with only a few causal defensive punches. As for Casey—a dedicated operative would’ve kept the glass with her at all times. This reeked of amateurs and someone making things a lot more difficult than it had to be.

  I’m an amateur too.

  I don’t have the training needed to defend myself against real pros, physically or emotionally. If they up their game and hire real professionals to come after me, I don’t stand a chance. I know diddlysquat about disabling an attacker and avoiding capture.

  If I want any power in my life, I have to take it.

  Chapter Twenty

  The news from Marseille hadn’t followed me back to the job. However, knowledge that being helpless was the weakest form of submission had. I found an Aikido dojo in Roussillon with an instructor willing to teach close-combat techniques to protect and defend myself.

  Sensei Fukui, the Aikido instructor, tutored me several hours each evening. We started with the basics. On the first night, Sensei circled me, tapping well-formed biceps and quadriceps, glutes, and rectus abdominal muscles with a rolled-up newspaper.

  “These,” Sensei stated flatly, “will not protect you.” Using the newspaper again, Sensei tapped his own head, “This is where true protection and power resides. You must practice here,” he tapped lightly on my brow, “in order to see progress.”

  Although I was strong, it was all-over strength. I could do pull-ups and push-ups easily, but I couldn’t run ten repetitions of twenty pull-ups without collapsing. I didn’t have endurance. I had ‘show’ muscle from years of working out without a specific goal other than a good night’s sleep. We began the grueling work to change that. I could walk across a long beam with good balance, but I couldn’t run across it, turn and run back ten times without falling off. I could put in a good workout using battle ropes, but I couldn’t climb a twenty-foot rope in five seconds or even five minutes. These were the areas where Sensei began.

  We worked to build upper-body strength while incorporating initial protection techniques involving footwork, shuffling, and sidestepping to avoid actual contact. I memorized a series of fast hand movements and practiced jumping up and down with both feet and only one foot. I jumped from the ground to low beam and graduated to jumping onto a bench. Later, I learned the importance of pivoting my body and that simply changing position could unsettle the attacker’s balance, making that person easier to overcome. I practiced jumping over objects placed around the dojo as an obstacle course. Some were low and others were waist high.

  “Don’t think—just do!” Sensei demanded perfection as I jumped each new height of wall or fence. He was relentless, and my body screamed from working new muscle groups. But I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t. I had a purpose and I was damn well going to see it through. I felt responsible for Case
y’s death, and the pain was a constant reminder to never forget why I made these changes.

  After training with Sensei Fukui each evening, I continued the work when in my quarters at the jobsite. I visualized the practice, battling my teacher into the night as I struggled to learn the routines. The last step Sensei taught gave an overwhelming sense of power. I learned to throw an attacker. The maneuver disabled further threats. Sensei’s instructions explained the exact amount of pressure to apply to the thorax to render an attacker unconscious. And, during this training segment, I learned to jump over taller objects, land with a roll and then jump and run. I also learned to vault over fences and walls by placing my hands on the top of the obstacle and leaping over it with my body to one side.

  Physically fit, I moved through these stages quickly, but it was determination that allowed me to excel. I practiced day and night, visualizing the repetitive practices until each routine was performed flawlessly. Although unaware of the benefits, this persistence further mended the broken pathways I had inadvertently sealed off some time ago. I was healing.

  On the final evening, Sensei encouraged me to continue the work in New York. Then, he gave me a taste of Kali, a fighting style that originated in the Philippines. With the demonstration, Sensei’s primary focus was to demonstrate how to use anything at hand as a weapon: keys, a rolled-up magazine, a pen, or virtually anything else the hand touches during an attack. He demonstrated how to tightly roll a magazine so that it became a baton and how to use car keys as a knife. Using the fast hand movements along with these makeshift weapons was lethal. These demonstrations whetted my appetite for more training.

  “Michael-san, I’ve trained you well in a limited time. I warn you that there might come a time when you must kill or be killed. That is the way of it. If that occurs, it’s your decision to make. No one can prepare you for the choice or consequences of taking another life. These you must learn on your own,” Sensei Fukui confided.