Blood Relations

by Michelle McGriff

  Fifteen years had indeed been a long time to worry about a lot of things. Glancing from her window out over the campus, she wondered if in fact she’d actually stopped worrying or just put the memories away. In the last few years she had moved up the career ladder, taking one promotion after the next until she was dean. She’d not had time to worry about what she couldn’t change ... like the past. Nonetheless, she’d started dreaming about the past again. Painful dreams that woke her in a sweat. She tried talking to Chance about them but he wasn’t having it. He wasn’t about to take that trip down horror avenue.

  She’d been raped on this campus, and to this day she wasn’t sure she’d recovered. She’d surely challenged the memories by staying on this campus this long—working here as if to say, “Bring it on, I got a handle on it.” But even now, sometimes she found herself on the wrong end of the campus or parking lot and again the panic would wave over her.

  Chance is probably right. It has been long enough to let the past go, Rashawn reasoned as she ran her hand over the red leather of her wing back chair. The knock at her door brought her back from her reverie instantly. It was a light tap followed by the door opening. Renee, her secretary, stuck her head in and grinned. Renee was a young black woman, maybe around thirty, but she had an old soul, that Rashawn knew. Renee reminded Rashawn a lot of her baby sister, Shelby.

  Shelby was barely forty, but since retiring from a pro basketball career a few years back, she acted like a senior citizen most of the time. Perhaps it was the word “retire” that had gotten to her, or maybe it was the life she was living with her husband and daughter in Eugene, Oregon, where her husband coached at the junior college. It was a quiet life, Shelby had told her. Rashawn wondered if her own life could ever get so subdued, what with a house full of teenagers all the time. Thanks, Juanita, for the extra kid, Rashawn balked internally.

  Yeah, Juanita was an old-school home wrecker, still playing the same old games and up to the same ol’ tricks. It was a constant battle to keep Juanita out of her life while helping Chance do his part as a father to her son. Yes, Rashawn would say her life was rockin’ most of the time.

  “I was going to head on home if you don’t have anything else for me to do,” Renee said. Rashawn wasn’t used to having a secretary, and over the last few months since taking the position as dean, she’d not really used Renee to the fullest.

  Never had Rashawn thought her job as a teacher would end her here one day—dean of an esteemed private school in northern California. Years ago, however, this very same school, Moorman University, had been the source of great agony and trauma in her life. Here on this very campus, she worked alongside a rapist and the father of her son, Reggie. However, Moorman University had been redeemed for its blame in her pain, for here within these hallowed halls, she’d met her husband—Chance Davis—and had been, literally, given another chance at life, love, and happiness. Chance was a good man. He’d raised Reggie as his own, along with a daughter they shared, Rainey. He’d been a good father to Chance Jr., too, despite her vote still being out on that paternity test result. Sometimes Rashawn wondered if her life and brain weren’t still suffering from the effects of the date rape drug she’d been subjected to during yet another attack by a demented terrorist, Allen Roman. Sometimes Rashawn noticed how obsessed she was with the same thoughts rolling around her head, over and over, replaying the same scenes in her mind.

  “So are you all packed?”

  “You bet. I can’t wait to get away. I need a change of scenery. My brain is stuck seriously on stupid I think.”

  Renee chuckled. “I just love retreats. I’ve never heard of a literary retreat though.”

  “Oh, it’s one my sister is involved with. She moved out to Arizona to write novels and there’s a woman there who hosts these retreats for book clubs every now and then. I’ve gone before. They’re wonderful—good food, laughs, and you get to meet some really fascinating people who write really good books.”

  “Really, now why didn’t I know your sister was a novelist?”

  “I don’t know, she’s pretty good. She writes mysteries.”

  Renee twisted her lip. “Oh, that’s why ... fiction. I never read fiction. It’s so far from real life.”

  Rashawn chuckled. “You can say that again. But I read them. After all, she is my sister. Besides, sometimes you need that little step outside reality.”

  “Now that’s sisterhood. Me and my sister are just not close. It’s almost as if we have different parents. It gets crazy sometimes.”

  “Well, Reggie is the same way. You’d think I wasn’t his mother sometimes, the way he fights me on things. Like this college thing. He is insistent on going to some out-of-state university instead of Moorman. Can you imagine? But that’s not going to happen.”

  “Oh my gosh, Reggie? It’s already that time? It seems just yesterday he was a toddler and—”

  Just as if his ear may have been burning, Rashawn’s office phone rang with his new cell number blinking. “It’s him. I just got him a new BlackBerry. He must be playing with it.”

  As Rashawn answered the phone, Renee pointed at the clock and then to the door to indicate that she was leaving. Rashawn nodded. As Renee backed out of the door, she looked almost as if any second she would curtsy. Renee was a precious sort.

  “Hi, baby, what’s up?” Rashawn said into the phone.

  “I got a call from U of O. They want me to come visit this weekend!”

  “What?” she asked. The air was suddenly quiet, as if the imagined soft, soothing elevator music of her mind stopped with the zip of a needle over vinyl. The silence snapped her mind back into reality. “The University of Oregon?” Her voice peaked on a high note. “In Oregon?”

  “Yeah, Mom, we talked about this already. My college plans? We agreed they were like, my plans. We talked about them.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And, well, I wanna go up and see the campus. They want me to come see the campus. Do you know what that means? I could end up playing for the Ducks.” Reggie was excited, and Rashawn fought hard to keep up with what he was saying.

  “Wait, wait. I’m going on vacation this weekend and—”

  “Mom, this is about me, okay? It has nothing to do with your vacation.”

  “I didn’t say it did.” Rashawn didn’t like what he was implying. “Have you spoken with your dad?”

  “Chance? Puh-lease, he’s not gonna want to go. He hates the train, and—”

  “No, I mean have you ... The train? And what have I told you about calling him Chance.”

  “Mom, it’s all worked out. Me and some of my buddies are gonna train it up there this weekend and stay over winter break. They say it’s already snowing up there. It’s gonna be the shhh ... er, mad fun,” he corrected.

  Rashawn’s lip curled. “Mmhmm. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Oookay. But talk about what?”

  “Everything, Reggie. University of Oregon was not the school I had in mind for you. Plus, young man, lately your attitude has been pretty . . . stank.”

  “Yeah, okay, well, we’ll talk later, Mom.” Reggie took on a manly tone. “But right now I’m about to call my pawdnas so we can get our plans straight ... if you don’t mind.” She hated that tone. He reminded her of his biological father when he would take on that patronizing air, that correcting tone. Considering Reggie had no idea who he was, he was a lot like him sometimes.

  Allen Roman, a distinguished professor, a scholar, a genius—a crazed lunatic who broke the law in the name of science, using human subjects in an mind-control experiment gone very, very wrong—he was Reggie’s biological father. The memory instantly chilled her bones. He’d been deported shortly after all he had done had been revealed. Instead of making a name for himself in the world of science, he selfishly used his genius to further his own interests. He had drugged her repeatedly, raping her over a period of months. He had driven his brother insane, causing an alter ego to burst forth from his
subconscious, a violent and menacing, murderous personality who referred to himself ironically as Doc. Doc, in his confusion, believed that he was in love with Rashawn and needed to protect her from Roman who, he knew, was raping her. He began stalking her, which caused her to believe he had been the one to rape her. The night Doc viciously attacked Chance in a jealous rage, Rashawn shot him—killing him. She was cleared of murder and in the end Roman was deported. Just a few years later they’d gotten the report that Roman, too, was dead. The nightmare had finally ended. Rashawn dreamed about all of it for a long time, but soon the dreams ended. However, lately, they had started up again, and seeing the resemblances of that madman, Roman, in Reggie didn’t help.

  Chapter 3

  Ovan was on the case. He was never far from it, actually. But now it was official, thanks to friends in low places; he’d been assigned. The thought of being the one to put a stop to the sick and crazed Allen Roman had kept him awake at night with excitement. While everyone else thought they were safe, believing that Roman had died, Ovan knew it wasn’t true. Allen Roman had not died in Jamaica where he’d been banished to many years ago.

  For the last few years, Roman had been in London raising hell under a new identity—that of Dr. Seymour Lipton. Ovan, too, had settled there, following his every elusive move, waiting for the chance to get assigned to the case. Although Ovan’s home base was South Africa, where he was born, he made a living traipsing the world in search of law breakers who could not seem to be captured by the standard means of law enforcement. He loved his work and his partners, Maravel and Julia. Both women were geniuses with computers and masters of disguise—never short on ideas and identities. So when news of the “mad scientist” hit the airwaves, Ovan knew immediately he wanted to be on the case. Personal reasons more than logical ones pushed him forward. Ovan wanted to put a stop to Allen Roman.

  A few months ago, apparently feeling the heat of Ovan’s chase, Roman faked his death again. It had taken all of his creativity, but Ovan had the body exhumed. To the shock of everyone around, the body in the casket was not the black man, Allen Roman, but that of the real Dr. Seymour Lipton—a Caucasian man. It took all but an act of Parliament to get an autopsy, since Dr. Lipton had no living family. Nonetheless, it was completed, and proved that Seymour had died from heart failure. As does everyone, sooner or later, Ovan thought to himself at the time.

  “They weren’t looking hard enough,” Ovan pondered aloud. “I know Roman killed him.”

  What he didn’t want them to find in the body of Dr. Lipton, Ovan wasn’t sure. But he knew in his heart that it was only a matter of time before something would link Roman with more than just fraud ... It would link him with murder. There is no way Dr. Lipton died of natural causes.

  With time, Roman’s reasons for murdering the good doctor would reveal a renewed mission of Roman’s own design—of this Ovan was sure. Ovan had plans to stop Roman before he carried any of it out. Like the chase of cat and mouse, this case had Ovan globetrotting in pursuit.

  Allen Roman: the phantom so many wanted to believe was not a threat to international security. Poppycock! People need to stop believing he’s so bloody powerful and maybe he’ll stop being so. International—yes. Threat ... only if you let him be.

  Ovan kept his eyes open—wide—and today he’d hit pay dirt. Dr. Craven Michaels was pronounced DOA—heart attack. Normally it would have gone unnoticed, except he knew firsthand that Craven was in no danger of dying of a heart attack. Heck, she nearly gave me one on our encounter. The women had the endurance of a mule! Just the thought of her thick thighs, and beautiful brown eyes closed from reasons other than sexual satiation made him sad—no, it pissed him off. He knew who was responsible for Craven Michaels’s death. It was none other than Allen Roman. Although the police had only seen the obvious, the crime scene had Roman’s name written all over it. Her being healthy one moment and dead the next, and having all but confessed to have been working with Allen Roman ... Well, the coincidence was just a little too great for his taste. And everyone thinks I’m crazy.

  No, Ovan wasn’t grasping at straws here. Craven had told him about the strange proposition requesting the use of her surgical expertise. She had brought her partner on board, and now regretted it. Why she regretted it, she hadn’t fully explained ... well, not in a way Ovan completely understood. Talking to Craven was difficult at best. “Who performs private surgeries?” he asked, smoothing back his soft waves in the mirror. He was exhausted but trying to play it off. Yes, she was a healthy woman indeed.

  “I just love your accent. Who’da thought London would produce someone as exciting as you,” she purred. “Mmm, yeah,” she moaned from where she lay, still writhing from the pleasure-filled hour she’d just had while he ... drilled her . . . for answers.

  Ovan turned from her vanity and adjusted the towel around his tight abs. He was small set but very well put together with a nicely defined musculature—and not to mention healthy libido. Just the sight of Craven was arousing him, but he had to leave. He had to get back to work (well, she’d been a work out, but he meant real work).

  He’d gotten plenty of information out of her ... plenty to work with. If nothing else, he knew Allen Roman was in the city.

  She licked her lips, noticing his thick manhood rising. She curled her finger for him to come to her, to please her again. But he stood his ground. He needed just a few more answers, first. “Fine.” she acquiesced. “Yes, sometimes I work for cash—such as in this case. It was a lot of cash, so I said, ‘Yes, I’ll perform the transplant outside my hospital’s insurance network.’ Sure, it’s kinda ...” she wavered her hand side to side, “unethical, but, I am licensed so—”

  “Where? I mean where would you do this ‘unethical’ stuff? You can’t possibly find hospitals to let you ...” Ovan stopped speaking at the sight of her stalking toward him on all fours, like a cat. Her large breast dangled, swaying hypnotically back and forth. He gulped air.

  “No. I have a cabin, in Oregon. It’s set up—”

  “You perform procedures as complicated as organ transplants in your cabin?” he asked, fighting the two brains—one that ruled each of his heads.

  “Sometimes. I have a partner, but sometimes it’s just better to work ... how should I put it?” She put her finger to her lip and then grinned, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “Alone. Cash and carry. My cabin is out in the middle of nowhere, so yeah, we do surgeries there.” Craven’s smile resembled a naughty teenage girl caught in the bathroom with a cigarette. “I guess it’s illegal but whose gonna tell? You? It doesn’t really seem like you’re the type of law man who sticks real close to the book. Besides, I do what I do when someone needs me to do it and I do it well—no complaints. Like now, I know you need me to perform an emergency procedure on that right there. It looks painful.” She pointed at his lower anatomy. “And I’m ready, willing, and able to take care of that ... no charge.” She winked.

  “What about your partner? What’s his take on this whole thing?”

  “Honey, my partner wouldn’t enjoy this as much as I would. Trust me, he ain’t hap-hap-happnin’ like you are,” she giggled.

  “I didn’t mean this ...” Ovan stammered. “I meant ... never mind. You’re one wicked woman. What’s his name?” Ovan said, fighting the pull of her eyes.

  “Now, come on, Ovan, you want to know too much. First you wanted to know who’s paying me. Now you want to know my partner’s name. It’s just too much. Next you’ll want to know where I put the money that dude gave me as a retainer and directions to the cabin. Besides, I just told you my partner’s name—you were not listening,” she whined, rising to her knees and wriggling her tight body, giving her breasts and hair a hearty shake while running her hands over her flat stomach, as if she was growing uncomfortable in her own skin. Craven looked Ovan over from head to toe and took in air deeply, wantonly. She was getting antsy now. She was done talking business. Ovan was not too tall, lean, and rather wiry, which came in handy a
t times like this. Many people were taller than him and therefore underestimated him, especially women. Some said he looked a lot like the performer Prince, which he often used to his advantage—his large bedroom eyes and long lashes gave him a look of innocence that was sorely misinterpreted. He was far from innocent, and as far as any other resemblances to Prince, well, he wasn’t that vocally talented either.

  Craven had gotten out of bed and shook her thick hair wildly again, seductively, before placing her hand on her hip and again curling her finger back into her direction.

  “Just give me one name,” Ovan asked, taking only one step, battling the draw of her seduction. “Your partner or your benefactor.”

  She stepped closer, noticing his manhood tenting the towel wrapped around him. “I’ll tell you after.”

  He moved forward, the peak of the towel standing between them now. “Is one named Allen Roman?”

  “I said I would tell you after,” she growled, biting playfully at his bottom lip. She was taller than him by a couple of inches, but nothing seemed to be a problem for the limber woman.

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” he asked, pinching her pointed nipples.