The Butterfly Effect

by D. F. Roberts

  "He probably bugged your room so he would know your reaction. What did he want?” I asked.

  "Money—at first. My face, my body is my legacy, Martin. I was a top model. Some pictures of me with an exposed breast are still making the rounds on the Internet, and that infuriates me. But no nude photographs of me exist, let alone images of me performing depraved sexual acts. I paid him what he demanded. My reputation was worth the expense."

  "How much?” I pressed.

  "The first time, a half million dollars. Totally, I've paid him nearly a million. I made top dollar for a number of years, Martin, and I invested the money wisely. Also, my boutiques are very successful. If he doesn't get too greedy, I am willing to pay. But then...” She swallowed.

  "Then he wanted something more,” I said completing her sentence for her.

  She nodded. “He called last week. I told him I couldn't pay him any more—not for a while. I told him if he asked for too much, too fast, he would kill the goose laying the golden eggs. He laughed. He didn't want money, not this time. This time he had set me up with a man. Be nice to the man, he told me, do whatever the man wanted, and he wouldn't bother me again—a lie, I knew. He'll never stop, Martin. Never!"

  "I agree. Did you meet with the man?"

  "Not yet. The meeting is set up for next weekend in New York City."

  "Do you know the man's name?"

  She shook her head. “No. I asked, but Evan refused to tell me, told me the name of the man was immaterial. Will you help me, Martin?"

  "Yes. But I'll need time, a month, maybe more. Have you agreed to meet with this man?"

  "Yes, but I have no intention of honoring my commitment. I won't become a whore to protect my reputation."

  "Good. If you had refused, I would ask you to call and agree to his demand. Don't worry. You won't meet with the man. We'll devise a different reception for him."

  "How? How can you help me, Martin?"

  I smiled. Everyone I agreed to help asked the same question. My answer was always the same.

  "The butterfly effect, and a little help from my friends."

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  Chapter Five

  Reaction rarely varied.

  "What do you mean by the butterfly effect?” Jill asked.

  "I'm a mathematician,” I said. “My specialty is chaos theory."

  "I understand mathematician, but..."

  "Chaos theory asserts that small changes can result in large differences. It also states there is an underlying order in all that surrounds us. Many assume the everyday definition of chaos applies, but chaos in mathematics is defined as non-linear dynamics."

  "I still don't understand,” Jill said, thoroughly frustrated.

  Christie bounced into the room in her altogether.

  "Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Mom, a UPS man is at the door."

  Ruth grinned. “Well answer the door then, and take the package."

  "Mom! I'm naked!"

  We all laughed. Christie blushed.

  My sister rose. “I'll be back in a moment. I'm expecting a package from my PUBLISHER=-the art work for my new novel."

  "Christie,” I said. “Do you remember what I told you about the butterfly effect and chaos theory?"

  "I think so. Chaos theory claims that the fluttering of a single butterfly's wing today produces tiny changes that over a period of time could cause a tornado to happen a month from now, or conversely stop a tornado from happening that would have happened otherwise."

  "Excellent. You have a good mind, Christie. The butterfly effect is also known as sensitive dependence on initial conditions. Even a miniscule change in the initial conditions can dramatically change the long-term behavior of a system. We're going to change your ex-husband's systems, Jill. Tiny changes here, tiny changes there, so that a month from now, disaster will strike. Your ex won't know what or who hit him if we do this correctly."

  "Is Uncle M going to help solve your problem, Jill?” Christie asked.

  "Ah, huh. I don't know how, Christie, even with your erudite explanation of the method he plans, but I trust him."

  "Good. Uncle Martin, if you need any wings fluttered, I'm you're girl,” the naked imp said with a mischievous grin.

  I loved the little scamp to pieces.

  "I don't know enough yet to know if you can help or not. If there's some wing fluttering you can do, I'll call on you."

  "Promise."

  I smiled. She knew I never broke a promise to her. “I promise, as long as your mother permits your involvement."

  "Cool.” She bent and gave me a quick little-girl kiss. “Thanks, Uncle M.” As quickly as Christie entered, she left the room. Sometimes her youthful energy made me feel old.

  I looked at Jill. She trusted me. That might change when she realizes how much I need to get into her head, her memories, her past. I sighed. My enquiries couldn't be avoided.

  "To make this work will take a lot of your time, not an hour here or an hour there. Will it irreparably hurt your business if you absent yourself from it for the next month?” I asked.

  "Not as much as the money Evan is draining from its coffers. I'll do whatever it takes, Martin."

  Maybe, maybe not, I thought.

  "In a few minutes, I will call some of my friends and start putting together my team. The operation starts today—now in fact. First we'll gather information, mounds of it, and some of the information will appear to be arcane or apparently useless facts and figures. A portion of this information will be inconsequential and ultimately discarded. Then again, a small tidbit of data might make the difference between success and failure. We won't know what to discard and what is important until we amass enough facts to make reasonable judgments. Unless we have all facts necessary, our assumptions will be flawed. Also, I'm going to get very personal with you, and you can't lie to me, Jill, even by omission—especially by omission. I know from experience you won't like some of my questions, and I know you won't want to answer some of them. When I'm finished picking your mind, I'll know as much about you as you do yourself, maybe more because I will dredge up facts you've forgotten. Will you cooperate?"

  "I told you, Martin, I'll do whatever it takes."

  "Okay. I'll make my calls now. Make arrangements with your business, and we'll go to work."

  "What about your work, Martin?"

  I smiled. “One of my friends will handle what needs to be done. He's on the list of calls. This operation—we need a name for it—will consume all my time until it is successful."

  Ruth returned.

  "We need a base of operations, a headquarters, for the next few weeks. At the appropriate time, we'll move everything to New York. We can use my home in Phoenix or your home, Ruth. Jill's home in Houston can't be considered. During the first phase, we must be anonymous."

  My statement was a query. Ruth understood.

  "I want to help, Martin. Jill is my friend. You're welcome to use my home as headquarters.” She giggled. “Sounds military. Do I salute?"

  I didn't laugh. “Some strange individuals will wander in and out. Are you certain?"

  "Will Christie be in danger?"

  "No, not at all. The first half of the operation is perfectly safe. When we move to New York, that could change, but I doubt it. Mostly, you'll merely lose some of your privacy for a few weeks. Incidentally, Christie wants to flutter a few wings. If it's safe, may she help?"

  Ruth grinned. “My home is now your headquarters, Martin. And Christie can help. I wouldn't want it otherwise. She's very bright, you know, and can be useful in her way."

  "Operation Monarch,” Jill said. “The name for the operation. What do you think?"

  "Operation Monarch it is,” I said. The name had been used twice before.

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  Chapter Six

  We walked along the Mississippi River levee. I didn't want others to hear my questions or Jill's answers. She wore a pair of shorts and a halter-top that made it
difficult for me to concentrate if she walked ahead of me. Her model-perfect legs and tight, round butt elevated my libido, but the state of my libido wasn't the reason for our stroll. I needed to pick Jill's mind. This would be one of many sessions I would have with her. I started with what I thought was a simple, unthreatening question.

  "Tell me about your ex-husband. How did you meet him?"

  She flinched, didn't speak.

  "Jill, it's a simple question."

  "The answer isn't simple.” She grimaced and then looked at me from the corner of her eyes, fearful, even shy. “Okay, I made a promise, and I'll keep it. You might not like me very much when I'm finished, Martin."

  She sighed and started her story. “I met Evan at a low point in my life. I had been working nonstop, hopping around the globe from one shoot to another, from one runway to another, for over three years—a member in what some people call the jet set. I fucked every man or woman I wanted, hundreds of them. So many I can't name them all. Orgies were not uncommon. I started taking pills to keep me going, and then some more pills to help me sleep. A few acquaintances, men I had been with, became HIV positive. That scared me. I was a mess, Martin, and I knew it. I believed Evan offered me stability, a way out of the whirlwind, the degenerate lifestyle I had assumed. And for a few years, our marriage worked."

  "Whoa, you didn't tell me how you met him and you're nearly divorced."

  Again she looked shy, like she wanted to hide. Finally she spoke. “Damn it, Martin, if you must know, I met him during an orgy in Paris. He brought a young girl with him. She was the hit of the event. He said she was sixteen, but I suspect she was younger. She tasted younger. I was the first to dive between her legs. While I was giving her cunnilingus, Evan fucked me. The girl he brought with him made the rounds. I've never seen one so young so accomplished in the ways of sex. Evan ignored her and lavished all his attention on me."

  "Let's talk about the girl. Do you remember her name?"

  Her auburn locks shook from side to side. “No, if she used a name, it was probably an alias. I used an alias. We all did."

  "What do you estimate her age at the time?"

  "Fourteen, maybe thirteen. She was developed, but not completely. Her breasts weren't fully formed, and she still carried a slight amount of baby fat. Her hips had not broadened. She was a girl, Martin, not a woman. Like me when you and I first made love."

  "Did you ever see French again with a girl that age?"

  "Yes, even younger. That was one of many reasons I left him. He seemed to prefer girls to women. I didn't make a big issue of it. We had an open marriage; neither of us was faithful, but over the years his extra partners seemed to get younger and younger."

  Interesting, I thought. The fact that he prefers girls to women could be useful. “Jill, try to remember the details of some of your ex-husband's young girlfriends—names, ages, what they looked like, any detail. It could be important. Use a yellow pad and entitle it Evan's Girls, and write down everything you can think of."

  She nodded, more confident, more open now that she wasn't the subject of my enquiries.

  "Did anyone take pictures at any of the orgies you participated in, overtly or covertly?"

  Her eyes turned inward as if looking back, visualizing her history. “No, at least none that I know about, and they would have surfaced. The pictures in Evan's package were pictures he took that night, Martin. You believe me, don't you?"

  "Of course. It was a question I had to ask. Did your ex ever ask you to pose for him in the nude when you were married?"

  Her lips twisted into a crooked grin, sardonic but appealing. “Yes, quite a few times. I always refused. Playboy offered me quite a bit of money to pose nude for them and I refused. It isn't that I'm a prude about nudity. When I'm staying with Ruth, we usually shuck our clothes around the house. I merely didn't want my public image cheapened. I had cheapened myself enough with my wild years, so the public's concept of me was more important to me than more money from a smut peddler who creates jack-off fodder for Joe Construction Worker."

  Anger glinted, infused her expression. Her refusal of the Playboy offer pleased her, gave her pride, and she needed pride, coveted it.

  "What happened after you met him?"

  "After that evening, he courted me. I had never been courted with so much enthusiasm, so much attention to detail. Flowers, jewelry, gifts of all sorts. He seemed devoted to me and gave the impression he adored me. Two months later, he asked me to marry him. As I told you, I was tired of the rat race and wanted to settle down. My lawyers drew up an airtight prenuptial agreement that Evan signed without hesitation. Evan was and is an accomplished fashion photographer, Martin, very much in demand. He didn't earn anywhere near what top models make, but he wasn't hurting. And the prenuptial agreement protected my money. I signed the one his attorneys prepared for him, as well. We were the archetypical modern, professional couple."

  We walked in silence for a few steps. I looked at the river for the first time—the mighty Mississippi, now a dirty waterway filled with the debris of man. A fish flopped near the bank, which gladdened me. The river still succored life.

  "Do you think of me as a slut now, Martin?"

  This always happened. The person I helped wanted me to like them, apply lofty characteristics to them in my mind, and at the least, not think ill of them. Every person is both good and bad. Some are more bad than good. And some are more good than bad. In truth, I preferred the person slightly more bad than good. Substantially good individuals are boring and tend to be self-righteous.

  "Are you a slut now?” I asked.

  "I'd like to think I'm not, but I was a slut back then."

  "I agree with both premises. Once you were a slut. Now you're not. Should I think of you as an ex-slut or a non-slut? You decide, Jill."

  "That's mean, Martin.” If a pout could appear regal, it would ape Jill's expression.

  I laughed. “Yes it is. Before we're finished, you'll think of worse adjectives to describe me. For example, I'll be intrusive, demanding, and unreasonable, using nice words. You'll think of some not-so-nice words to take their place. If Operation Monarch has a chance for success, we can't worry how we think about each other. Let me give you a clue. What do I call those individuals I have helped in the past, like I'm helping you now?"

  "Your friends."

  "Bingo! They are my friends, and I love every one of them, some more than others because some individuals are more loveable than others. Frankly, I think you're eminently loveable."

  She smiled, but her smile still slipped to the side, half cynical, half with mirth. “Point taken. What's your next question?"

  I grinned. “Give me a minute. Thinking about you at an orgy gave me a hard-on."

  She struck my shoulder. It even stung.

  "You're incorrigible."

  Ah, a natural smile—mirth only, not a breath of scorn.

  "Okay, next question. I can't discern an ulterior motive for French to court and marry you other than your nubile body. Don't take that wrong. Your luscious body and bright mind would be enough for many men, but not your ex. He's an evil son-of-a-bitch. He would have one or more other reasons to make you his wife. You've ruled out your money, which he seems to want now, your money and your humiliation, but you haven't alluded to other reasons. You're keeping something from me. Remember, I said that lies of omission were as destructive as a straight out lie."

  "I don't think I'm purposefully keeping anything from you, Martin. I believe you now know my deepest, most shameful secret—my sluttish years. Let me think."

  I watched a crane take off from the banks of the river while Jill rummaged through her memories. Will she lie, I wondered.

  "Maybe this,” she said. “Being tied to me romantically made his star shine brighter. The demand for his work tripled. After I retired six months after we married, the demand dropped off dramatically, below what it was before he knew me. We had some rough times for a while, not financially, but emotionally. I
didn't associate the problems with the drooping demand for his work, but now that I look back on it, I believe that's exactly what caused them. At the time, I believed it was because I was gone a lot. I spent months on the road away from him building my new business, but upon reflection, our marriage would have failed years before it did if I had actually lived with him fulltime. Also, with the publicity I created for Jill's Boutiques, his star started to shine again, not as brightly as before, but almost. Besides, I paid a lot of his bills. I had more money than I needed, and I was generous."

  She didn't lie; she didn't know his ulterior motives.

  "All right. Start another yellow pad entitled Associates. Nothing will be more important. Write down everyone he knew, friends, relatives, colleagues, anyone. He's not a nice man, Jill. Evil men associate with other evil men. Is there someone in particular that gave you the creeps?"

  "Oh, yes, but they're a couple. Frank and Karen Able. They are slimy, Martin. I don't know why I feel that way, nothing they did gave me evidence to feel the way I do about them, but I cringed when they dropped by. Also, Evan kowtowed to Frank. I always thought that strange. I suppose you want a pad on the Ables?"

  I nodded. “Now you're getting into the spirit. If the Ables are as slimy as you felt, and if they're evil like Evan, they could be another key to success. Where does Evan do his work? Does he have a studio?"

  "Yes. He rents a loft in Greenwich Village."

  "Is it secure?"

  I changed tactics, decided to use a series of rapidly fired questions.

  "I think so. I know he has a burglar alarm and bars over the windows."

  "His negatives are valuable. Where does he keep them?"

  "In a large, fireproof safe in his studio."

  "Does he have a safe in his home?"

  She shook her head. “He does have a safe deposit box in a bank."

  "Where do you believe he keeps the negatives of the photographs he took of you when you were drugged?"

  "Probably the safe, but they could be in the safe deposit box."

  "Where does he keep the key to the box."