Recurrence

by Dave Norem

  He returned to Mobile and met one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. He had acquired a mild interest in history, and Mobile intrigued him. Her name was Camille, and he met her in a public library when they accidentally backed into each other while bent over to read book titles.

  At first it was red faces and apologies. Later they found themselves facing each other two tables apart after a heavy woman left her seat. They made eye contact and when he saw the trace of a smile on her face, he couldn’t help but grin at her. A moment later they were both trying to stifle laughter from the incongruity of the situation. By mutual agreement, and with hand signals, they stood and moved to a smaller table in a remote corner where they could talk without disturbing others.

  She was wearing an above-the-knee red skirt with hose, red half-heel pumps, and a white, short-sleeved, button-down blouse. The color combination accented her dark-honey skin tone and flawless complexion. When she stood, he allowed her to precede him and noticed her shapely legs and the rounded rump he had bumped into.

  She laughed softly as he followed her, and he loved the lilt to her voice and the sparkle in her golden-brown eyes. She had perfect white teeth and lush, but not overly full, lips. Her hair was shiny-clean, shoulder-length, and silky straight. It was a glistening raven-black color, almost blue-black.

  He completed his survey, taking in her high breasts and narrow waist, before his eyes returned to her rear. He flushed and was glad she was facing away from him.

  Camille told him that she was a college student studying history for a class. She noticed his appraisal of her and continued, telling him that she was a mixed-race blend of Acadian French, American Indian, and Irish.

  She looked him directly in the eye and continued: “And maybe a little bit of Negro.”

  He looked at her delicate features and his grin only got wider, “So, you’re an American.”

  She laughed again and appraised him as well.

  He told her that he had recently finished a three-year hitch in the Army and traveled south to visit his grandfather, only to find that he had died. He changed dates and places just enough to remain anonymous and cover his lack of employment. He gave her only minor details of his parents’ deaths, not mentioning a sister.

  Her family was intact and lived in Atmore, just north of the Florida line. He laughed again, interrupting her, and told her that Florida had been his original destination and that something had compelled him to drive southwest instead.

  “Now I know what it was,” he said.

  She gazed across at him with her lips slightly parted in a half-smile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please continue about your family.”

  She continued while he gazed at her. She told him that her father was a cotton farmer, and her two older brothers worked on the plantation with him. She said they were comfortable but not wealthy. Her entire family lived within a hundred miles of Atmore and had always either farmed or fished, with the women all being housewives.

  She told him that she was twenty years old and wanted to be something more than a housewife, to see more of the world. So far, a hundred miles was as far as she had ever been from home. She said that she had an academic scholarship and was pursuing a master’s in business administration. This was her sophomore year, and she would soon have a teaching certificate. With it, she could support herself while finishing her studies.

  Before they realized how long they had been talking, a librarian asked them to leave, as the library was closing. It was a Friday evening, and he offered to take her to dinner and to drive her home afterwards. To his surprise, she accepted the dinner on the condition that they travel by taxi. Their day of acquaintance continued, and he enjoyed her company immensely.

  During the after-dark taxi ride to her apartment, they kissed passionately in the back seat. He couldn’t believe his incredible luck at finding her. After they broke the kiss, she began brushing her hair. Moments later, the hairbrush fell from her hand onto the floor of the car, on the side opposite him.

  He leaned over and down to retrieve it and kissed her exposed knee as he did. He brushed his lips down along the side of her leg before grabbing the brush. He was giddy from the actions and from the delicate perfumed scent of her. She sighed softly, and when he handed the brush back to her she smiled and dropped it again.

  When he bent down again, her skirt was six inches higher. He followed its hem, kissing her for a longer time, feeling the texture of her nylon with his tongue. He felt her hand working through the short hairs at the back of his neck, massaging it; and he had to stop: afraid that he would lose complete control.

  To his frustration, she would not let him come in, or even get out of the taxi when they arrived. The blood was still pounding in his ears when it sunk in that she was telling him they didn’t know each other well enough yet and that she would be gone to her parents for the weekend. She gave him her phone number but made him promise not to call until Monday afternoon.

  He spent a long weekend unable to concentrate on anything in the library or to read one of the paperback books he kept in the car. Sunday, he drove and explored beaches, settling on Gulfport, Mississippi to swim and sunbathe. He ignored more than one shapely female who gave him the look while passing. He never thought at all about fishing.

  Monday afternoon he waited until after three o’clock before calling, determined not to appear too anxious. He was still unsettled and half-angry from her teasing. When he did call, she told him that she would like to go out, but early, and, again, only by taxi. He felt that it was odd, but a small price to pay for the time he would spend with her.

  She opened the door to her apartment in the two-story converted older home only a few inches at first and placed her finger to her lips for him to be quiet. Barefoot, without makeup, and in a long thick rose-colored bathrobe, she looked even more enticing than she had on Friday.

  Without shoes, she wasn’t as tall as he thought. When she reached up to throw her arms around his neck for a kiss, the bathrobe gaped open, giving him a glimpse of her bare breasts and belly. Her body pressed against his and he was sexually aroused, knowing that she was completely naked under the robe. He tried to reach into, and under it, but she pulled away.

  She told him that he was early, and he would have to wait while she took a bath. A tall pile of clothes, some with the tags still attached, occupied the only chair, so he sat on the bed. He watched as she turned her back to him and gathered items from the dresser. She smiled over her shoulder at him but didn’t speak as she went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  When he could no longer hear the bathwater running, she opened the door slightly and a cloud of steam billowed forth. He couldn’t see into the room from where he was sitting, but he didn’t stay there long.

  She was far more knowledgeable and willing than he would have imagined and just what he needed to pull him out of his emotional slump. For him it could not have been better.

  Camille would not let him come back to the apartment again, meeting him in the library or at a restaurant instead. She willingly went to his motel room twice during the next week and traveled in his car to do so. The first time she saw it though, she was visibly upset that he’d driven it to her apartment that Monday afternoon and had left it parked nearby during their tryst.

  Since she’d told him they would be going out by taxi, she had assumed that he would be arriving in one. They hadn’t gone out at all, but he would have had to call one from her apartment to do so. He was mystified at her not allowing him to come back to the apartment and wanting to leave and arrive only by taxi. He was beginning to see her in a different light.

  John did not see the man until Tuesday of the following week. Camille had again left him on his own for the weekend, and he had become suspicious of her activities. He didn’t know what her unusual behavior meant, but he intended to find out. He stood and watched her apar
tment discreetly until she left. John was following at a distance, when he realized that someone was following him in turn.

  The man was middle-aged, white, and nondescript in appearance. John continued his surveillance and the other continued as well. The man seemed aware that John knew of his presence, but neither man attempted to intercept, or evade, the other. John was even more curious and realized that there might be others as well. He was unable to detect anyone else though.

  Camille met him at the library for another tryst the following day. He took her on a surprise tour along the Gulf Coast to a different motel. She never questioned why he did this, appearing to take men’s behavior in stride. Their passion was as intense as ever, but still, neither professed to be in love with the other.

  During the departure, he thought that a Volvo may have been following him in the city, but once on the open road, he could spot no one following. Back in Mobile, he placed her in a cab before midnight.

  I realize that I am going to suffocate and recognize it as a blessing. The pain is so intense! ……………… so intense! …………………… I Welcome Death!!!!

  That night the nightmare returned. It had been a long time since the last recurrence.

  They had made a date for Friday, but she wouldn’t affirm the time. When he called late Friday morning, she begged off, saying that she had to shop for a birthday present for her mother. He had positioned himself to watch her apartment within minutes of the call, and it wasn’t long after he arrived that he saw his anonymous observer in place as well. Again, he saw no others.

  She left her apartment the instant the taxi arrived, and John had to race to his car, nearly losing sight of it while doing so. His follower had been scrambling as well, and now John saw the Volvo following him as he followed the taxi. He disliked having his personal car exposed, but there was no time for a safer alternative.

  Camille’s taxi took Highway 56 west out of the city to the airport where she exited with no luggage. John made a quick glance to see which terminal, and then sped on past to find the closest available parking space. He found, and squeezed into, a nearby diagonal-striped corner with no more than three inches to spare on either side, not concerned with being ticketed.

  He saw the Volvo speed past, the driver out of luck on finding a similar spot, as he climbed over the trunk of his own car to get clear.

  Entrances to the terminal areas were through narrow gates, and John saw her head and shoulders fifty yards beyond one to the right. As he neared the gate, a heavyset black man wearing a tan polyester suit came in quickly from the left side, on a collision course with him. The man was obviously intent on beating him through the gate.

  John was irritated but gave ground reluctantly rather than incur the delay a confrontation would cause, allowing the older and bigger man to pass through first. John followed close on the man’s heels until clear of the gate, then reached ahead with his foot, and tripped him.

  The black man fell to his hands and knees, dropping a soft leather briefcase from his left hand in the process. John immediately hovered over him, apologizing loudly, pretending to assist him to his feet.

  The man scrambled on all fours, grabbed his briefcase, and sprang up quickly. John had already felt the gun and harness under his suit coat, suspecting that one would be there. The man backed to the side while turning to face him but made no move toward the gun. He was in his early forties and slightly taller than John, with short hair and a closely cropped full beard.

  “Hey man, what do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  It was the modulated voice of a person of education and without accent.

  John turned and started toward the direction in which Camille had disappeared. “Sorry, I’m just trying to catch up with some friends before they board.”

  “Wait,” the man said.

  He grabbed John’s arm just above the wrist, but John pulled free of the loose grip.

  “You can catch me on the way back; it’s the only way out.”

  The delay was just enough for someone else to grab his other arm.

  A different voice said, “Don’t raise a ruckus; we just want to talk to you.”

  John turned his head just enough to see that it was the white man who had been following him on foot before, and most recently in the Volvo.

  Looking at him up-close, he saw sandy-colored, thinning hair, regular features, and a tan that matched his hair color, giving him the indistinct look. He was dressed in a tan corduroy sports coat over brown corduroy slacks, the coat blending with his hair and complexion. The ensemble seemed designed to camouflage his presence. The man’s voice was soft with a slight southern accent.

  John still didn’t feel threatened by the two men but knew that maybe he should be. Without tensing up, he allowed the men to guide him away from the gate, brushing the second man’s grip aside also. In all likelihood, Camille would pass back through before long, unless she flew away.

  He was certain that the men were some kind of law enforcement but was not sure if they were after him. If they were, he wanted them relaxed in his presence before he attempted to escape.

  When they were clear of the foot traffic and against the wall, the black man positioned himself beside John. The white man reached inside his jacket and produced a leather bi-fold case. Flipping it open with practiced ease, he displayed a badge and picture identification card on opposing sides.

  “John Kimmel, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said, allowing only enough time for John to get one good look at each item.

  The black man stated, “Washington, also FBI.” He didn’t bother to display his credentials or didn’t want others to see him doing so, John surmised.

  He feigned surprise, “What do you want with me?”

  “We know enough about you Mr. Bowles,” Kimmel replied.

  John was relieved that they were using the alias that he’d bought the car under and not his real name.

  Washington observed him deadpan, while Kimmel continued, “We’re not interested in you personally, just what your relationship is with Camille LeMieux.”

  That surprised John, but the surprise was only at the name. He had never asked what her last name was, and she had never told him. He knew just enough about history to know that the name might as well be Smith in France or in southern Louisiana.

  “Why,” he asked?

  Washington spoke his first full sentence that was not a question. “We’ll tell you, but let’s go back through and sit down. You’ll tell us what we want to know, too.”

  John didn’t really want to tangle with the FBI, but he didn’t want to appear eager to cooperate either. When they seated themselves in the lobby he said, “You’ve seen her and she’s a knockout. It should be obvious what our relationship is.”

  Kimmel smiled at the description of her, “How long have you known her?”

  “I met her two weeks ago today,” he said with no reason to lie. He was prepared to tell them the same story about himself that he had told her, but only if necessary.

  “Pretty fast operator, are you?” Kimmel asked.

  John ignored him and turned toward Washington. “OK, I’ve told you. Now you tell me.” He felt that Washington was the senior man and hoped that he hadn’t been embarrassed enough from being tripped to become an enemy.

  “What do you do for a living Mr. Bowles?” he asked.

  “I was just recently discharged from the Army and haven’t really looked for a job yet.”

  “Vietnam?” Kimmel asked.

  He nodded in a lie.

  Washington spoke softly while watching him closely. “Kill anyone?”

  “No,” John’s response was immediate. He continued, “What difference would that make? It was a war over there.”

  They were both gazing at him intently now.

  “Uh huh,” Washington said. “You we
re pretty slick about patting me down. I thought you might have seen some action.”

  John laughed, “Well I was an MP in Saigon. I saw lots of action; I just wasn’t part of it.”

  Both men visibly relaxed. Washington ran his hand over his hair and said, “Shit.”

  John was relieved, because he had gotten the name Thomas Bowles as arresting officer from an MP arrest report. The report had followed a soldier from Vietnam to Germany.

  The FBI men could verify the Bowles name and MOS, but unless they fingerprinted him, they would never know the difference. His bald-faced lies would hold up.

  Now he returned to his question. “Tell me why you’re after her.”

  “We’re not after her. We were just making sure you didn’t interfere with her.” Washington said.

  “What did she tell you about herself?” Kimmel asked.

  John saw no reason not to tell them, so he answered. “She’s a twenty-year-old college student with a scholarship, and she’s working toward a master’s in business administration. Her father and brothers are farmers and her entire family has been around Atmore, Alabama, for generations. She wants to make her own way and see some of the world—that’s it.”

  “Well your little chocolate cookie isn’t who she says she is,” Kimmel stated.

  Washington, who glared at Kimmel when he made the “chocolate cookie” remark, turned back to John.

  “She’s not a prostitute, but she is a kept woman. She is the mistress of a high-level mobster. He’s a dangerous and influential man, from here to Galveston, up to Memphis, and over to Pensacola.”

  John saw Kimmel’s face redden but focused on Washington. He said, “Damn, just what I needed. Who is he, and what’s he into?”