by Dermot Davis
“No, not at all,” Simon responded, remaining seated. “We had just begun, actually. Come join us.”
As the two gents sat down, they greeted the others with nods and quiet hellos.
“Are you guys hungry or thirsty or anything?” Simon asked.
“Not at all, Simon, thanks,” Frank replied. “We can get to all that later. Let’s do this!”
“You know everybody here?” Simon asked.
“Everybody except…” Frank answered, looking at Dowling, as if trying to place him.
“You do know Gus,” Simon then said. “I’m sure he hasn’t changed much all these years. He was a member of the Frisco lodge back in the day.”
Both of the new men looked more closely at Dowling. They then looked to each other, as if looking for confirmation. “I’m sorry,” Frank then said. “Your name is Gus? I don’t recall?”
“I was just a member for a very short while, maybe twenty years ago?” Dowling said, smiling. “I don’t think I met you guys, either. I didn’t go to that many meetings.”
“Well, I attended every single meeting and I would have remembered… it’s not like we were a big lodge back then, right Herb?” Frank asked.
“Maybe five or six at the most,” Herb answered.
“Who do you remember?” Simon asked Dowling. “You remember even one name?”
“I don’t remember…” Dowling answered, not appearing to be trying.
“What did the serpent say to its tail before he ate it?” Herb asked Dowling.
Feeling tested, Dowling smiled nervously as every eye in the room focused hard upon his presence. “I never took any of the initiations,” he said defensively, knowing that even taking a guess at the answer would damn his case. “I accompanied my wife, once or twice.”
“Your wife was a member?” Herb asked.
“Yeah,” Dowling answered, hesitating before mentioning her name. “Abigail.”
A palpable sense of recognition caused the men’s heads to tilt upwards, their eyes widening. “Abigail Fletcher was your wife?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” Dowling responded, wondering to himself why they should know her by her maiden name.
Looking one to the other, as if thrown for an appropriate response, Frank looked back at Dowling, a look of suspicion in his eyes. “You, personally, never attended a meeting, did you?” he then asked.
“No,” Dowling answered, his cards all in. “I never did.”
“Do you mind?” Simon asked and, not waiting for a response, he grabbed Dowling’s arm. Rolling up Dowling's sleeve, Simon revealed the tattoo of the lodge insignia.
“I thought you said you weren't initiated?” Frank asked with grave suspicion.
Dipping his cloth napkin in some water, Simon applied it to the tattoo and rubbed it hard. The ink smudged and bled onto the damp cloth. His deceit now exposed, Dowling looked sheepishly around at the assembled members. Most reacted with stunned and confused facial expressions at this remarkable turn of events.
“I think you have some explaining to do, Gus… or whatever your name is?” Simon said, looking very disappointed with his new friend.
“Looks like we have an infiltrator in our midst,” Herb said. “Were any secrets exposed?” he asked, looking around at the others.
“No,” Simon answered firmly. “I had my suspicions from the beginning.”
“What’s your purpose here?” Herb asked Dowling. “Why this cloak and dagger, spy stuff?”
“I need to know what happened to my wife,” Dowling replied.
“You think we had something to do with that? Her… disappearance?” Herb asked.
“Yes,” Dowling answered, looking Herb in the eyes.
Sitting back in his chair, Herb sighed and looked around at the others. “I don’t know about any of you,” he said, as if lost for patience, “but I don’t trust this… spy. I don’t believe who he says he is and I don’t believe what he says he is doing here. Anybody?” he then asked, looking at each of the assembled. “You brought him here, right?” he asked Simon, who nodded his head. “So then it’s up to you, yes? What we do with him?”
“There is a procedure,” Simon said, looking at Dowling. “But at this point we do not know his level of threat.”
“Then you’ll have to take him outside. This is not the place for such… interrogation,” Herb said.
“Of course,” Simon said politely. “I may need some help,” he said, looking around for volunteers. As soon as he had said the word, “help,” all the men stood up and slowly approached Dowling. He swallowed hard and felt panicked over what might come next.
Dining at a gorgeous lakeshore restaurant Fiona and Andrew couldn't stop smiling at each other. Despite a dramatic and beautiful full moon, Andrew couldn't take his eyes off of Fiona. “Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked, not complaining.
“Staring at you, like what?” Andrew asked, smiling. “Like, maybe, I’m besotted by you?”
“Besotted?” Fiona said and giggled. “Where did you get that word from? Been reading Jane Austen or Shakespeare on the sly or something?”
“I think the word is appropriate and I stand by it,” Andrew said with a smirk. “This is a first for me and maybe I need to add a new bunch of words to my vocabulary.”
“You could maybe get a new word to replace the word bunch, I would suggest you consider it,” Fiona said, clearly flirting with him.
“I will do that, your highness,” Andrew said as their food arrived. “Thank you,” he said to the server.
“Enjoy,” the graceful waiter responded and left to attend to the rest of his busy section.
“I could get used to this,” Andrew said, looking at his elegant food and the overall, softly-lit, ultra-romantic surroundings.
“I always knew there was a gent buried deep within that good ol’ boy exterior of yours,” Fiona said as she munched on her salad.
“Good ol’ boy?” Andrew asked in surprise. “You think I’m like a good ol’ boy, red neck, hick, or something?”
“No, of course not,” Fiona responded quickly. “Just because a person is born, you know, into a poor family, doesn’t mean they are that person, you know?”
“What?” Andrew asked, an incredulous look on his face.
“I’m just saying that… I don’t know what I’m saying. How’s the fish? It looks amazing.”
“Sometimes I think you’re the world’s biggest snob, you know that?’ Andrew said without malice. “As hard as you try to hide it…”
“Oh, I don’t try to hide it, sweetie,” Fiona said lightly. “I can’t help my upbringing, no more than you can yours. I see the world through the eyes of the world that I was brought up in; same as you. I like it that we’re different. I like that you are you. I’ve no idea how the world looks to you or how it looked to you where you were growing up. I’m not judging you, you know that, right?”
“I guess,” Andrew said, uncertain of his feelings.
“Vive la difference, you know?” Fiona added.
“So, you’re like, slumming it, is that it? Being with me? I don’t follow,” Andrew said grumpily.
“No, sweets, that’s not it, at all,” Fiona said, leaning towards him and touching his hand reassuringly. “All I’m saying is that we had different upbringings. As a result, we have different viewpoints of the world. And I’m saying that I like that. I’m not saying that one is better than the other or one is more fortunate and the other less fortunate or something. Just different, that’s all.”
“So, being here, for example,” Andrew began, looking as if he were forming some thoughts in his head.
“Oh, look,” Fiona interrupted, as she directed him to look behind him to his left. “Night balloons,” she said as several brightly-lit balloons floated majestically across the cloudless night sky.
“Do they fly balloons at night? A bit dangerous, don’t you think?” Andrew commented.
“They’re racing each other. They’ll be flying all night,
maybe round the clock, even; twenty-four hours at least, most likely,” Fiona said brightly.
“How do you know all this stuff?” Andrew asked, not sure if he approved. “See, this is my point,” he then said.
“You were making a point?” Fiona asked playfully.
“Yeah,” Andrew said, pausing to gather his thoughts. “How is this going to work out? You and me?”
“How do you mean?” Fiona asked, her heart skipping a beat.
“This is not a first for you, is it?” he asked.
“Is what a first?” she asked back.
“All this,” he said, indicating their surroundings. “Fancy, fairytale places like this with linen table cloths and a view of a lake and mountains and stuff. Hot-air balloons all lit up, racing across the sky and a full moon, everything majestic and magical, like it was a painting in a friggin’ museum or something,” he said and smiled, as if hearing himself and realizing he was sounding foolish. “You know what I mean,” he then said. “This is all so normal to you, so every day ho-hum, that I feel like I want to throw up.”
“No, Andy, that’s so not true,” Fiona said in all seriousness. “I mean, no, this is not a first for me, eating some place like this. In fact, I’ve eaten in much nicer places. But you’d be wrong to judge me; this is a first, this is a first for me.”
“It is?” Andrew asked, cowed by his own insecurities.
“Yes, Andrew, this is so definitely a first. This is the first time I’ve been in an enchanting place like this where I’ve actually enjoyed and appreciated a place with linen table cloths and a view of the lake,” she said, smiling. “It’s the first time for me where I’m actually so giddy inside I can’t stop smiling. This is the first time for me where I can truly say that I feel alive."
Fiona paused to appreciate the smile breaking out on Andrew's face. "I do feel alive with you and I feel like I’m so much in love with you that, I swear, I don’t think I could live without you. You’re my first, Andrew. You’re my first One-And-Only… first in all things… first, first, first, first, first!”
Fiona could have kept repeating the word but as if Andrew couldn’t stop himself. He quickly leaned across the table and pulled her head closer so that he could kiss her. They kissed a long and slow and tender, erotic kiss that seemed to melt both their hearts into one.
“You are my first One-And-Only too,” he said as he pulled back just enough to look deeply and tearfully into her moist and tender eyes.
Chapter 11
Just before Professor Dowling woke up and opened his eyes, a series of brief images flashed through his mind. They were so jumbled, that he wasn't sure if the pictures were dreams or memories. He could see the faces of the serpent group, a struggle, a sense of being drugged, an interrogation, then darkness again.
With a splitting headache and feeling groggy, he opened his eyes more fully. It was dark. Feeling like maybe he had been given a drug of some kind, he realized that he didn’t know where he was. His arms were tied behind his back and he was sitting upright in a chair. With only a faint light seeping through a crack, at the bottom of a door, he looked around for possible clues. The dimly lit room smelt musty and he got a sense that where he was imprisoned was a basement or maybe a storage room of some kind.
When the door opened, revealing more light, he had to squint and turn his eyes away to prevent further pain shooting through his brain.
“How did you sleep?” Ursula asked as she entered, carrying what looked like a glass of water.
Dowling could now see that he was in a basement or maybe it was a garage attached to the house.
“Would you like some water?” she asked.
“What did you do to me?” Dowling asked. “I can’t remember a thing from last night. Was I drugged? Did you people drug me?”
“Funny how you have all these questions now when you yourself wouldn’t answer any of our own,” Ursula said. “I brought you some water, although, if you’d prefer, I could make some coffee.”
“How do I know it’s just water?” Dowling asked suspiciously.
“Suit yourself,” Ursula said as she placed the glass upon the ground and turned to leave.
“What are you going to do to me?” Dowling asked.
“What do you mean?” Ursula replied as if she felt insulted. “What are you going to do to me? To us?”
“What?” Dowling asked, feeling annoyed and confused.
“Mr. Dowling, you are the intruder here. You lied and tricked your way into my home for I-don’t-know-what purpose. You then created a scene and struggled with some guests at my dinner party… you should be grateful that I didn’t call the police.”
“You tied me up and held me against my will. That’s a punishable offense! I should be the one calling the police!” Dowling insisted.
“Then, go ahead and call them,” Ursula responded back. “We had an off-duty member of the security forces here last night, as a matter of fact.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Dowling said, struggling with the binds behind his back. “What are you going to do with me?”
“We wish you no harm, Mr. Dowling. You’re free to leave at any time. What kind of people do you think we are?”
“If I'm free to leave, then untie me, then,” Dowling said.
“I have your assurance that you mean us no harm?” Ursula asked.
“Of course!” Dowling retorted. “I’m a college professor, not a secret agent or something, for crying out loud.”
“Yes, you are a college professor," Ursula said, reaching for a knife. "We did manage to check your identity,” Ursula said as she bent down to cut his binds. “So far, you don’t have a criminal record. I suggest you keep it that way.”
“Thank you,” Dowling said as he reclaimed ownership of his arms and massaged them to aid his blood circulation.
“You’re welcome to stay for coffee,” Ursula said as she hit a button that slowly raised the garage door. “Or you can continue on your way, your choice.”
Unable to look directly at the streaming sunlight that increasingly shone in from the outside, Dowling stood up. Standing uncertainly, he held the chair for balance. He could now see that he was below ground and beyond the garage door, a ramp led up to street level. “I’d like to leave, if it’s all the same to you,” Dowling responded, still unsure if indeed he was actually being released. “I appreciate the offer and the hospitality.”
“We are good people, you know,” Ursula said kindly. “People of the light. If I were you, I’d be very careful deciding which side of the light or darkness that you choose to align yourself with.”
“Yes,” Dowling said, his mind still trying to wake up.
“Well, off you go, then,” she said, her hand reaching for the garage door button.
“Thank you,” Dowling said, and let go of the chair. Slowly walking up the ramp to freedom, he maintained a watchful eye out for other members of the group. Perhaps there was a parked van on the street from which they might appear or into which they might abduct him. The upscale neighborhood was quiet and deserted, however. It had a Sunday morning sense of sereneness, he thought.
Once away from the house and closer to a main road, Dowling considered his options. “What now?” he asked himself as he scanned the skyline for clues to his possible whereabouts. Seeing the silhouette of the city skyline provided him with direction.
As he walked towards the city, he pondered his earlier exchange with Ursula. He was surprised that he had been met by her alone, whom he could have quite easily overpowered, if it had come to that. Obviously, whoever these people were, they did not consider him a threat. Perhaps there had been others nearby, staying close, as backup, in case she had needed assistance?
Was it justifiable for them to have drugged him and kept him tied up in a basement? If he was in their shoes, would he have done the same or similar? Irrespective of who or what he judged these people to be, it was indeed true that he was the gate crasher, the interloper, the
one who had practiced deception. Was it unreasonable for them to assume the worst and act accordingly?
Even if he did report their misconduct to the police, with whom would the authorities most likely side? The out-of-town stranger or the local wealthy socialites who were likely well-respected? According to the law, every homeowner had a legal right to protect themselves and their property. In some cases, even deadly force was permitted. Additionally, what wrongdoing could he honestly accuse them of?
Had he misjudged these people? Despite so many unanswered questions echoing around his head, he shook his head and tried to clear it. He needed to plan his next move. Should he go back home or resume his pursuit of Andrew? Retreating back home, with his tail between his legs, did not seem like an option worth considering. His questions about Abigail would remain unanswered and he would be little or no help to Andrew.
He would find a way to continue on the road to Dodge City. If Andrew was indeed in some form of peril, at least he could do something, whatever he could, to provide his assistance. If the kid was not in any kind of jeopardy, well, a wasted trip to Kansas would probably turn out to be the best case scenario.
Cruising in their SUV, across the Kansas state line, Andrew smiled when he saw road signs for cities that he had only seen in movies: Topeka, Fort Smith, Oklahoma City. Seeing a road sign for Wichita encouraged him to break into song.
Fiona giggled and then joined in. Unable to remember the lyrics, they both made up some fresh ones. As they laughed and sang, they had little idea that her father was not far behind. Cruising in his SUV on the very same freeway, Simon listened to the cheerful strains of a Mozart concerto.
Further back, and traveling on the same route, Dowling dozed in a window seat of a half-empty Greyhound bus.
“So, what’s the plan here?” Fiona asked as she pulled off of the interstate.
“I can't believe we're here,” Andrew said, looking around at the strange and unfamiliar town.
“Welcome to Dodge City, amigo,” Fiona said playfully.
“Wow,” Andrew said as he saw a street sign for Wyatt Earp Blvd. “This is not what I imagined,” he said, sounding disappointed.