Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  Together they are becoming demigods.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Cools again awakes in his car. This time he’s in a superstore parking lot, where within the mind-numbing fog of a hangover he tries to revisit the night before, remembering only transitory pieces.

  I was at the Shelter.

  Sitting alone in the dark, spiritually weary… Phone rings…I’d thought she’d given up.

  I switched to coffee, put away the coke, ate part of a meal.

  I knocked on her door. She was waiting with open desire; soon we were naked, united, loving.

  We were resting under a thin sheet. I told her everything. It felt good to let go. For a moment I sensed another path, another destiny. She seemed to understand; her words were soft, but they held insinuations, scoffing at my feeling sorry for myself. I began to argue, hinted at future atrocities. The cocaine and anger were calling. I exploded into a scathing torrent of words—words I wish I could take back.

  Then I was barreling down the highway, snorting cocaine from the palm of my hand, mad at the world, mad at Joshua, mad at Chelsea, mad at myself. I started screaming, “Fuck him! Fuck her! Fuck my life! I’m going to find some piece of shit and beat the pain into him. The only one who can stop me is the devil himself.”

  I realized I was only a few blocks from the El Rancho, a drug-infested billiards bar. My tires skidded over the curb. I snorted another handful. Every cell in my body was raging. I stepped in, prepared for war. Loud music blared; women were dressed scantily; the natives were watching. I wore the stare of death, sniffed the cocaine in my nose, demanded the bartender to give me a bottle of tequila, slapping a hundred on the counter.

  “I can’t give you the whole bottle, man.”

  “Then take a fucking bottle and pour the whole fucking thing into as many shot glasses as it takes!”

  He began to pour. I swallowed three in a row. This caught the notice of the regulars. Unsociable behavior moved my way.

  “Hey! Hey, aren’t you that cop?”

  I didn’t acknowledge him or even turn around, only took another shot.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you. Aren’t you that cop? Mr. Cool or something?”

  “And what if I am!”

  “Yeah, I knew it was you.” He looked around at the other men, speaking loudly, “So how does it feel to waste your life framing an innocent man?”

  I spun off my stool and punched him in the nose. Crack! Blood spurted all over his cheeks. He staggered back. I advanced, grabbed his shirt collar, and landed four more heavy blows to his face. I forced him to the ground, yelling, “Say something stupid—I dare you! Say one more stupid fucking thing!”

  “Go fuck yourself, dirty cop!”

  Then I cannot remember anything more. Why can’t I remember? What did I do?

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Hiding away in Europe, the renowned duo hasn’t a care in the world. They fritter away their days without rule, blowing money like spoiled children and taking in all the sights. Joshua whisks her away to Paris on a fairytale romance. Then off to Monaco to gamble with their ill-gotten fortune, followed by a tour of Egypt’s pyramids and other ancient sights—never staying more than a night in any one place. They spend an evening in a villa off the coast of Italy, and then to Prague, where they meet another young couple who suggest they must experience Amsterdam. And the next morning they’re off and running, eating and drinking their fill of the local delights—one of them being the unrestricted Afghan heroin.

  In their hotel, as they lie in bed, skin pressed to skin, and high, Joshua mumbles his love for her. He tells her how he would be forever lost without her and that if she were to die, he’d commit suicide to be joined with her once again. Kimberly, so loaded she cannot reply with words, tells him all he needs to hear with her caress. And there they stay for the next few nights, doing the drugs of the heavens and making love, bothered by no one, not even the maid who obeys the “Niet Verstoren” sign hanging outside their door.

  Each day they pay careful attention to all news broadcasts. Joshua dribbles over every word, good or bad. But underneath the surface, he holds some jealous sentiments concerning the growing popularity of his new wife. Everyone is beginning to seem more interested in what life was like for her on the ranch than for him in prison. They’re now calling her the Sister of Mystery, as they repeatedly dub in segments of her interview with Tabatha Sterns, in which she vaguely insinuated some possible girl-on-girl escapades at the getaway.

  Finally one evening Joshua confronts her about it. He asks softly, “Kimmy, when you were at the ranch did you…you know, did you fool around with any of the other girls?”

  She smiles to him with a luster.

  “Did you?”

  “Well…There was this one silky woman there named Paloma. A tall, thin black woman from Georgia, she was always touching me and lauding over my figure. She made me feel warm and sexual, the way you do. And whenever I would go to her room, she would dress in my presence—she wore browns and purple lace.” Kimberly stares off, continuing, “I often felt myself wanting to touch her skin. Then one night we were up late, peering through a provocative lingerie book—it was from France or somewhere. And the girls in it were young and fresh. Paloma kept telling me how delicate I would look wearing them, and I was starting to fantasize of what she wanted from me. So I began touching the girls in the pictures, my fingers brushing over their flesh. She asked me if that’s how and where I liked to be touched, and I said—”

  She then stops due to his peculiar reaction. She would have normally expected him to be turned on, but instead he appears to be preoccupied. She asks him what’s wrong.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, something’s wrong. Are you jealous over what Paloma and I were doing?”

  “No…well, no…But is that the way Trace would touch you?”

  Kimberly instantly becomes infuriated. “Do not do this, Joshua! It was your plan, remember? You’re the one who told me to do it. I did it for you. I did it for us!” She pauses for a time. With each passing moment, her emotions rise, while he feels increasingly guilty for bringing it up.

  She stands over him. “I can’t believe you would ask me this when it was all your idea! This is all your fault Joshua. And now you want to ask me things. What do you want to know? How good a lover he was? Did I like fucking him? Did he make me come? I don’t even want to think about. It’s over—done!” She starts crying. “I only love you, Josh…you and only you.” Then she runs to the bedroom, and before the door slams shut, she yells, “You know I would do anything for you; then you take advantage of me like this!”

  Joshua slumps quietly in his chair amid plenty of unwanted noise inside his head. His anxieties elevate as he struggles to restrain the images of Trace and Kimberly from his mind. It’s been itching at him for some time now. So he smokes some more of the heroin off of a piece of tinfoil and gazes through the hotel room’s skylight. It loosens him into a state of bliss. Then he smokes more than he should and closes his eyes. There his feelings and symbolic thoughts meld into pictures—stories of joy and boyhood fun.

  It’s summertime in Idaho. The heat drops down upon the Clemsen farm by day, and The Andy Griffith Show plays on their color television set at night. It’s a world that is safe and fulfilling—an open meadow for the grand adventures of little Frankie.

  Ever since hillbilly Abe and Sally stole him away from a life of inopportunity and left him with his new family, he’s finally been able to be a normal young boy. He spends his days playing in the sun with Billy, his new brother, and Trixter, the family dog. The two boys have in a short time formed an unbreakable bond. And although neither of them realizes it, they both benefit from being followed around by their sister, Bobby-Sue, who asks them countless questions. The three of them are inseparable in doing their chores around the farm and helping Mrs. Sue Clemsen prepare homemade meals. And Jake Clemsen even gets little Frankie his own calf, which he names Moo-Moo and tends to daily.
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  On weekends they go to baseball games at the high school, where Mrs. Clemsen retells her favorite story to her friends: the day her little Frankie, the boy who wouldn’t speak, said, “I love you,” to her—his first words since the incident. And how she’d responded with a burst of tears and hugs, how she held him firm, not letting go for five minutes straight, only releasing her clutch to call the fellow members of her church to report the miracle—their gift from Jesus. And that how, in just a few short weeks, he was speaking well, like he’d never had a problem. Except for some occasional crudeness, she would add in a lower tone; you know…his past learned responses that Jake and I had to deal with in short order.

  Occasionally she tries learning of his past. And even though he hasn’t yet opened up to her, she finds no need to rush him. She simply trusts that someday, when he’s ready, he will share his secrets. But little Frankie isn’t holding out on her; he really cannot remember much of anything, since most of his past is hidden from him as well. He’s only left with a haunting and vivid likeness of a beautiful woman who wears long, flowing, blond hair. Though he believes the image comes from the preaching at church, the figure in his mind is that of what a worldly woman would look like.

  Suddenly, he, like looking directly into a camera lens, turns to Joshua within the dream and says something. It’s something Joshua knows to be of great importance; however, he cannot understand the boy’s utterances.

  Then the imagery shifts—days turn to months and years. Joshua speed-dreams, seeing little Frankie attending school, where he makes many friends, particularly with the girls in his class, and is adapting well to his new environment by getting good grades, becoming a valued member of the Clemsen family, as well as proving himself a role model for Billy and Bobby-Sue.

  And now at the age of twelve or so, his voice begins to change—a voice that’s full of energy and optimism. And no one would ever believe he had a speaking problem before. Nowadays the only trouble is that no one can shut him up. He speaks out about everything from politics to social issues to Jesus. He tells of his aspirations and love for life, counsels his siblings, and quotes scripture. Some think he’ll be a great preacher someday. And little Frankie believes this as well. He also believes he will see the woman in his mind someday.

  Joshua stirs to the sounds of Kimberly rummaging loudly through her purse. He sits up, rubbing his face.

  “Who’s little Frankie?”

  “What?”

  “The name you keep saying in your sleep, little Frankie—who is he?”

  Joshua doesn’t answer. He gets up; his stomach feels sick—needing more of the smoke from the tinfoil. He has some and shares it with Kimberly. Tranquility once again surrounds him. He lies back with his eyes closed and, in a malleable voice, says, “Maybe I’ll tell you about him someday…But for now, I just want to go home.”

  She thinks about it for a second, then replies with a concession. “Sure…We can leave now if you want, but on one condition…When we get home, we need to clean up some and quit drinking all the time.” She slaps him on the shoulder.

  Joshua just nods and lies back, enjoying the heroin now coursing through his body, when she adds, “I’ll call and make the arrangements at the airport…You need to get ready to play your part.” There’s no response. “Are you listening to me? Joshua, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes. What? Yeah, you said I need to play my part…my part in what?”

  “What we talked about…or don’t you remember? Our plan to make a scene at the airport on our way out…Remember, we want everyone to know we were here getting high, and then we are going to cause a disruption in the terminal?”

  Two and a half hours later, at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport, the young, high, drunk, missed, and apparently distraught couple makes a spectacle of cursing and belligerence—a performance played well enough to make headlines throughout the world.

  There’s something about the “trouble in paradise story” everyone gravitates to.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  At the Seattle Police Department, the next morning, Detective Michelle Robertson puts down her morning paper, complete with aligned photographs of what the editor refers to as the “Siconolfi-Amsterdam-Connection.” Rumors are they were caught trying to board the plane carrying a large amount of illegal drugs. But it is all of little concern to her now, as she stares at her cell phone resting on her desk. What should I do? Should I warn him? God, why is he such an asshole?

  Grudgingly she pushes send, somewhat hoping he won’t answer. Four rings, five, six—

  “Hello.”

  She can clearly hear a hung-over and beaten voice on the other end—wherever that may be. “Did you know that your name came up in today’s morning briefing?”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, and I’m to pick you up on assault charges if I see you. What did you do?”

  “I…I was working out some problems.”

  “And how’s that working out for you? I’ll tell you how it’s working out,” she yells over the line. “It’s gotten you some felony charges—that’s how!” Then she hears a distinct noise. “Are you…did you…just snort something?” He doesn’t answer. “Brad, are you doing drugs? Tell me.”

  “Did I ever tell you I really miss you?” Now it’s Michelle that doesn’t answer, only sighs on the other end. “Well, I do…I miss you a lot, Michelle…and…And I want my life back.” She can hear the desperation in his voice. “Can you help me?” he begs.

  She breathes hard into the phone, rendering her frustration. There’s a moment of silence. They can feel each other over the airwaves. “I’ll talk to Captain and see if we can take down the guy you beat half to death. He went to the hospital you know. He had broken teeth, a broken nose, and needed many stitches for his eye socket.”

  “He was a street punk!”

  “Oh, you’re so tough, aren’t you?” Cools says nothing. “And you’re right; he is a street punk. His name is Ramon Jaurez, and he’s a gang member. And if you can promise me…promise me, Brad, that you’re going to stop this rampage of yours, I…I will think about picking him up and have him drop his charges against you for me dropping whatever charges I get on him.”

  “I love you, Michelle…I fucking love your sweet ass.”

  “Don’t give me your bullshit, Brad! Promise me this bullshit is going to stop.”

  There’s a pause as he considers the commitment. Then he replies, “I promise.”

  “Okay…good. Also answer me this: have you been following the Siconolfis?” Again he doesn’t answer. “Brad, have you? Because I’m sure you’ve heard they returned last night from Europe.”

  Click.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  A couple of days whirl by in deep slumber as they come off the heroin and alcohol. Joshua wakes in the late afternoon but doesn’t get out of bed. Instead he watches Kimberly sleep for a few quiet minutes. He likes that her hair is starting to grow back nicely. And he loves her immensely. Still there’s the nagging thought that she’s a liability. I want to trust her, but can I? Can I trust her to never say a word about what we’ve done and do what we need to do?

  She begins to wake. He just stares at her, grinning, and says, “I want to tell you something. I want to tell you who little Frankie is.”

  “Is that the name you were saying in your sleep?” she asks curiously.

  He then tells her everything—sharing also that he believes the good nature of the boy somehow balances his inner wickedness.

  “That is beautiful, Joshua. But I love your inner wickedness. And why didn’t you ever tell me about this before?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you’d think it was silly.”

  She holds him lovingly. “I don’t think it’s silly at all. And actually I just realized something about you.” She searches his eyes. “And that is what a wonderful father you would make.” His reaction is unresponsive. Kimberly presses forward, revealing her desires. “You know I said I wanted to ope
n a French restaurant, but what I really want is a little Frankie…a little Joshua. And I would be a good mommy, and the world would love our child. We could get off the drugs and start acting normal.”

  Then Joshua adds to her excitement, saying, “Yeah, I can see it now: little Joshes and Kimmys running around here playing. We could guide them and teach them.”

  “So do you think it’s a good idea then?” she asks anxiously.

  “Yes, it’s a great idea! It’s such a great idea in fact, I’m going to call some reporters right now and tell them the news!”

  “I love you so much,” she shouts, jumping out of bed and dancing about the room.

  They make love. And later they’re spotted shopping about the malls. Kimberly is absolutely beaming, like a woman who has all of life’s problems solved. And she loves being seen publicly, totally in love, spending the day with her husband shopping for new maternity clothes. Before they left, they’d decided not to call and report their impulsive decision to have a baby; rather, they will let the media figure it out on their own.

  Joshua plays his part flawlessly, given that he’s not nearly as excited about the plan as he pretends to be. There’s a voice of wisdom that speaks to him, whispering what he must do.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  The next and final evening, reporters and the paparazzi leap from there vans as Joshua unexpectedly comes into view at his front door. He stands still, casually waiting for them to assemble around him; then he feeds them a prepared speech. “Antisocial!” He lets the word dangle in the breeze. “Antisocial is a conspiracy slogan from the psychological-propaganda machine, intended to make us all drones!”

  “Are you and Kimberly having a baby?”

  “Was this all a scam?”

  “We want to talk to Kimberly!”

  Ignoring their questions he steps back through the doorway, silencing the crowd by shutting the door. Then a few minutes later, the red Lotus revs its engine, squeals out of the garage, and speeds away. Alone Joshua does some late-night shopping from one store to the next until once again he sees the black Mustang. Earlier this morning he had a loyal fan that works at the DMV run a check. And sure enough, one Bradley Cools owns the same car.