Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy

by R. E. Schobernd

  Walter had overheard the conversation and entered the room, sitting down at the red Formica topped kitchen table. “Clay maybe you haven’t heard this, but in addition to what was in the newspapers and on television, the talk on the street is while Tony Giliano was in the hospital he hired a professional killer to get even with some Russian gangsters who shot him. He ordered the killing of those fourteen people and God only knows how many more. Some of the Chicago policemen come in the shop to get haircuts and several of them have said this hired killer is one of the coldest blooded people they’ve ever come up against. Why, one of those people they slaughtered was a woman. And the police say members of the Russian gang continued to disappear, or were found dead for three months after those first murders. The police are baffled and haven’t been able to charge anyone for a single one of those killings. There are rumors on the street some young local killer was hired to take over in Giliano’s absence; but no one is saying who the person is. Do you understand the kind of people you’re dealing with? They’d just as soon slit your throat as look at you if they get it in for you. They don’t have moral qualms about killing anybody.”

  Margaret got back into the conversation before Clay could reply. “Clay, we love you and don’t want to see you get hurt, or get lead into trouble. If those people have the opportunity to profit from your involvement in some crooked scheme they won’t think twice about using you for their own personal gain. And Son, if you were to get involved with them and commit some horrible act, well, I just don’t know what I’d do; even though you are my own flesh and blood and I love you dearly.”

  “Mom, Walter, I promise you I am not going to work for Tony in his business. I’ve heard the same rumors you have Walter, and I know how serious they are. In fact, as I was starting to tell Mom earlier, I’m thinking about looking at other kinds of work to get into. I’m going to go away for five or six weeks and try some different things. I can work at other kinds of jobs, maybe find a job where I could work my way up in a business. I’m planning to leave sometime early next week.” Walter and Margaret both started to talk at the same time, but Clay held both hands up and silenced them. “I know I could stay right here and do the same thing, but I’m young and single, and this is a chance to travel and see some parts of the country I haven’t been to before I settle down with someone.”

  Walter spoke up first, and was in agreement with Clay, “I think it’s a good idea and you’ve got my support. If you need some money to tide you over let me know and I’ll make you a loan. Take all the time you need.”

  Margaret sat chewing on her lip, waiting until Clay had taken his package down to his room before starting in on Walter, “I don’t agree with you on this” she said sharply. “He could have stayed right here and changed jobs until he finds something he’s more suited to.”

  “Yes, he could have. And he‘d continue to hang out with Tony Giliano. This way he gets out of town for awhile and breaks the tie, even if for just a month or so. I’d rather see him find a job in another part of the country if it means getting away from those gangsters. Because mark my word, if he doesn’t he’s going to end up in trouble.”

  Margaret was looking for something she could take some solace in and said “Well, he did mention settling down with someone didn’t he?”

  Down in his room, Clay lay on his bed and thought about the white lies he had just told his parents. Technically he could argue he hadn’t told them out right lies, but his conscience told him it was a pile of bull. Lately, situations had been arising with increasing frequency where he was being forced to lie to them routinely in order to keep them out of his private life. “And what a life it is. I’m a hired killer,” Clay said out loud to himself. Since Tony’s shooting and his role as vigilante he had bumped heads with his mother more and more often about his involvement with Tony. Since he didn’t intend to alter his life, the only choice was to back out of theirs. He'd need to separate himself from them so they wouldn’t be privy to his actions. He was drifting further and further away from Margaret. He would never have believed it would ever happen. But it was happening and he was preparing to cut her out of his life even further. Funny, how changes seemingly so unrelated can have such an impact on other aspects of life. Who could have guessed that he would develop a knack for killing people? He still didn’t know when it developed fully. Why him? Why was killing the first thing he'd done well and actually took pride in?

  When Margaret and Walter had gone to bed and were lying beside each other she spoke again about Clay. “I’m concerned about Clay. You’ve been very good to my son and I appreciate your effort. You’ve done a good job raising him, and being a father for him.”

  “I told you when we got married I expected you to be a mother to my kids and I would assume the role of Clay’s father. We’ve both carried out our end of the bargain and we have good kids to prove it. Clay has drifted into dangerous territory, hanging out with a bunch of hoodlums, but he’s a good kid with a good head on his shoulders. He’ll get straightened out and do all right. Just be patient with him and give him some growing room.”

  Walter reached over to his nightstand, turned out the light, and rolled over toward Margaret. Circling her body with his arm he pulled her close and gave her a series of kisses while running his hand up and down her back from her shoulders to her butt, where his hand finally stopped.

  Margaret chuckled and said softly, “I guess now you want payment for being a good father? Well big boy, and I do mean big, I want equal payment for being a good mother too!

  Half an hour later, after Walter had gone to sleep with a smile on his face, Margaret was still awake. She couldn’t put Clay out of her mind. I hope I’m worrying unnecessarily about Clayton. I just wish he hadn’t been drawn to Jimmy Giliano, and hadn’t become so involved with Tony she thought to herself. Walter has been a model father to him, but they never did hit it off, although Walter did everything a father could do to foster a close relationship. Scouting, baseball, camping, fishing and then football, always available to talk things over, help with homework, and provide counseling when needed. Even though he had his own son, Walter Jr., he always avoided showing any favoritism to either one. I used to feel guilty about accepting Walter to be his stepfather, but I know for a fact his birth father wouldn’t have tried nearly as hard as Walt has. He still gets discouraged because Clayton seldom shows any outward signs of affection or acceptance of a father son type relationship. Now Clayton is an adult and he chooses to spend more time with that damned Tony Giliano than he ever spent with Walt. He never asked Walt to go to a ball game, play golf or just go out for a beer. I’m actually surprised Walt is still concerned about his actions and how it could affect his future. Affect his future! I just pray to God he has a decent future. I live in fear he’ll get even more involved with those outlaws. I don’t know how I’ll make it if he commits some horrible crime. I pray he doesn’t get in trouble with the law and get sent to jail because of his connection to Tony and his thugs. Please, please Clayton don’t let me down.

  On the day before he was to arrive in Knoxville Clay drove south from Chicago, across Indiana and Kentucky into Tennessee. After spending the night at a motel a few miles east of Nashville, he arose early the next morning, ate breakfast at a truck stop and drove to the Knoxville airport. The truck was left in the long term parking lot where he got a cab.

  He arrived at the bus station at eight thirty in the morning. The old station was typically dirty and had a worn out look; a place where few people would feel comfortable upon arriving, and most would be eager to leave. Clay bought his ticket to Asheville and stopped at the news stand to buy a magazine, picking out one about firearms. Walking to the concession area he bought a large Styrofoam cup of black coffee and took a seat at a small table near the far wall. The articles in the magazine were interesting, but some of the terms he was reading were new to him; muzzle velocity, drop, foot pounds of force and the other technical lingo were things he would have to learn more about. H
e was wondering if he would be contacted before he got on the bus, or when he arrived in Asheville. At nine thirty he had finished his second coffee and decided to move. He left the table in the concession area, stopped by the rest room, and then took a seat on a bench out in the terminal waiting area. He had just gotten seated when a woman sat down beside him and said “Well, hi there stranger, I haven’t seen you for a long time” Clay looked up at the woman and stared blankly for a few seconds, then replied “I’ll be damned; it was in Miami, wasn’t it?”

  After boarding the bus the pair sat next to each other near the back and chatted casually as if they were old friends, each making up things to say, playing on what the other one had just said. There were only eight other passengers on the bus; most of them had taken seats near the front upon getting aboard. The woman appeared to be about thirty six or thirty eight and wore no makeup. She had her long black hair pulled back and tied off, and would probably be attractive if she wanted to be. She was wearing a pair of designer jeans with designs stitched on the rear pockets, a thin, faded, blue flannel shirt, laced hiking boots, and a well worn, short, brown leather jacket. Her skin had a medium tan; she was about five feet seven inches tall, slender and appeared by her quick and graceful movements to be in good physical condition. He had been told to address her as Joan and she called him Joseph. She was saying “I’m so surprised and happy to see you here.”

  Clay, feeling rather cocky and playful replied “Good, we can plan to have sex tonight, like we did our last night in Miami.”

  The woman smiled and reached over to gently take his left hand in both of hers, giving it a soft squeeze. She slid her left hand down the top of his hand toward the beginning of his fingers. Suddenly she grasped his two smaller fingers, and bent them back until an expression of acute pain replaced the one of surprise on Clay’s face. “Watch your mouth” was all she said, softly and quietly but with enough firmness to make him take her seriously. She released his hand, lay back against the seatback, relaxed, and closed her eyes.

  Clay flexed the fingers on his pained hand to see if there was any permanent damage or if anything was broken. Christ, I was just joking he said silently to himself, and then he too leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes; keeping the fingers of both hands loosely curled into fists in his lap.

  The arrival time in Asheville was listed on the bus schedule as two o’clock in the afternoon for the one hundred and fifteen mile distance. The highway wound through low tree covered mountains of the Appalachian range causing the bus to take much longer than the distance would seem to require. In addition to the rugged terrain to be traversed, the bus stopped at every town on the route, and even between towns to take on or discharge passengers. Shortly before one o’clock, the woman nudged Clay out of a light sleep and said “Wake up, we’re getting off here.” He pulled the blue bag out from under the seat in front of him, and stepped out into the isle. Standing beside his seat he allowed the woman to exit and walk in front of him toward the bus driver. Clay followed and listened as Joan direct the man to let them off at the next road to the right, about a half mile ahead she guessed. The bus pulled to the shoulder of the two lane black top highway and came to a stop where a gravel side road intersected. The door across from the driver opened for them and the driver left the bus to retrieve Clay’s suitcase from the luggage compartment. As the bus pulled back onto the highway Clay followed Joan away from the roadway to the edge of the woods. Joan leaned against a huge oak tree with her right leg straight and her left leg bent at the knee with her foot against the tree trunk.

  After a minute of silence while she stared at him Joan said, “You certainly don’t look like a killer.”

  Clay didn’t know how much she knew about him and didn’t comment, choosing to ignore her comment and continue looking across the road into the forest.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here? I mean, most of the men who come to train with my husband look like they were born to be mercenaries or soldiers of fortune, traipsing around the world playing their little war games. They get their jollies hurting and killing people; it gives them a feeling of power over others. You don’t have the cruel, sadistic look they have in common. You look like a clean cut kid who just walked out of your senior prom.” She paused a moment, “And why are you getting special treatment? What are you planning, to warrant solo training?”

  Before he could think of an appropriate reply she exclaimed, “Oh, what the hell! Come on. We need to get going.”

  Clay tossed the gym bag to Joan, picked up his suitcase and followed her across the highway, up a steep, weed covered embankment and into the trees. She headed deeper into the forest and he followed in silence. He ws at ease in the shadows and random patterns of light filtering through the thick foliage of the green canopy above them. It reminded him of the times he and Jimmy had spent in the woodland on Tony’s farm in Illinois; times when he shared deeds and thoughts in the confidence of a trusted friend.

  Fifteen minutes after entering the forest the pair arrived at an old trail Clay surmised to be either a past remnant of logging operations, or a trail used by some division of a state or federal park service. The woman got in the drivers seat of an older model Army Jeep and started the engine as he got seated. Joan put the vehicle in gear, revved up the engine, and popped the clutch. The Jeep hurtled along the narrow, rutted dirt road, bouncing over tree limbs and through mud holes, narrowly missing tree trunks on either side of the twisting roadway. Clay hung on to any hand holds he could find and jammed his body into the hard seat back. Wildlife was abundant and Clay saw deer frequently as well as smaller animals; squirrel, fox, groundhog and hundreds of birds.

  The Jeep wound through the dense forest valleys for twenty minutes, switching trails several times, until the trail they were on intersected with a gravel road. Joan turned to the right, and after three or four miles the gravel road became a blacktop surface. In another five minutes the jeep slowed at a large rock abutment on the left and turned off the road to the right, into a private gravel lane. After several dozen yards Clay could see buildings in the near distance through the trees. The jeep slowed and entered a large meadow containing a two-story log house, an oversized three-car detached garage and an even larger metal building behind the first two.

  The front door of the house opened and a man walked out onto a covered porch spanning the entire length of the house.

  “My husband.” his driver informed him.

  Clay saw a man near forty years old, about six feet tall who weighed around two hundred ten pounds, wearing boots, jeans and a green plaid flannel shirt. He had blond hair cut short in a crew cut, firm square jaw, and blue eyes set in a wide tan face. Lean and muscular; his movements reminded Clay of a jaguar he had seen at the Chicago Zoo; a solitary animal whose stealthy movements were quick and graceful; a natural killing machine.

  The man gave Joan a hug and a kiss, and then extended his right hand out to Clay. “Call me Joe. You don’t need to know our real names and we don’t need to know yours.” He pointed at a pair of Labs, one black and the other golden” These two are Blackie and Sis.”

  Joan handed the money bag to her husband and they headed into the house while Clay retrieved his luggage from the Jeep and then followed.

  Inside, a southern/country décor gave the house a homey feeling; informal, neat and very relaxed. Joan showed Clay to the upstairs bedroom where he would sleep. He put his suitcase beside the bed and went back downstairs. Standing in the living room, he looked in the adjoining rooms and saw the pair standing in the kitchen.

  Joe asked, “Would you like something to drink, water, coffee, tea, soda, beer?”

  After all three had opened their long necks, they walked back out to the front porch and sat down in Adirondack chairs, arranging them in a conversation circle so they could see each others faces while they talked. Blackie had approached Clay, sniffing the back of his hand hanging down along side the chair.

  Joe started the conversation, “Sinc
e we’re going to spend the next month in close quarters I’d like to know some things about who you are and what kind of person you are. But first I’ll tell you some things about me and my background. I enlisted in the Army when I was eighteen and moved into the Rangers after getting recommended by my Lieutenant. I found a home there, and excelled in the small tight groups we worked in. I liked working and living with a select group I could trust with my life, and be secure in the knowledge they were among the best trained of any Army. We performed covert operations around the world, entering foreign countries to free political prisoners, or assassinate people our government targeted; among other things. Then I took a discharge, and joined the Central Intelligence Agency. I continued doing basically the same thing, but for a whole lot more money than a soldier got paid.”

  “During the years I began to see officials at middle and lower levels of the agency making deals and arrangements for their own gain. I felt some of them were contrary to the best interest of my country. I got sick of what they were doing, but knew if I tried to blow the whistle on them I’d first be discredited, and then eliminated. Eliminated by the very people I worked beside in the field. As I looked back I wondered how many other agents I might have killed, under orders, because they were attempting to do what was right.”

  Standing up, Joe walked over to the end of the porch to spit and remained there a full minute, looking toward the woods. Clay had a profile view of Joan setting in a rocker with both hands on the beer bottle held in her lap. Her head was facing downward, and he thought he detected a pensive, almost sorrowful expression; as if she was suffering as much as the storyteller while listening to details from a past she had lived through with the man she loved.