From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 3
Dana sat on the couch at her friend, Lori's house. Lori had been a bride's maid at her wedding and Dana had returned the favor a month later. Now Lori and her husband, Rick, sat at the table and looked at her, not knowing what to say.
“I screwed up,” said Dana.
“Yes, you did,” replied Lori. “Won't he forgive you? Maybe if you went to him.”
“He won't even talk to me. He wants to know the name ...”
“So, tell him!” Rick raised the volume of the conversation, eliciting a harsh look from Lori.
“He'll kill him,” said Dana. “He's got a gun.”
“Oh, he wouldn't actually kill him,” said Lori. She knew Mike; he couldn't do anything like that any more than Rick could. Of course, she wasn't cheating on Rick in their bed with a stranger, either.
“Yes, he would, he will. I've never seen him like this.” Dana hung her head and let the tears flow. Lori and Rick looked at each other. Neither had a clue what to do.
As night fell, Dana was wide awake on Rick and Lori's couch, Mike was wide awake at the kitchen table and Sheriff Willis was fast asleep in his bed next to his wife, Martha.
By eleven-forty-five that night, Mike Emerson was on his third glass of rye whiskey; not a short, polite glass, but a large, soda-sized glass. He had nearly polished off the bottle.
“My jeans, my wallet, my keys, my wife,” he kept repeating. He had emptied all his accounts and canceled his cards. It was unlikely the thief ― of his wallet, jeans and wife ― would spend more than the two hundred dollars now. If he tried to use the cards he would find them closed. If he tried to use the key, he would find new locks.
Mike positioned the butt of the rifle on the floor, resting his chin on the barrel as his hand slid slowly down to the trigger housing. But if the man wanted to take his truck, he could do that ― he had the key. Mike's finger found the trigger and felt the small ridges in the metal. He wondered, if he were to pull the trigger, if his head would be blown off, or would the bullet just rattle around in his skull, making scrambled eggs of his gray cells. He smiled to think of Dana having to clean up his blood and brains from the ceiling.
Mike sighed a heavy sigh, leaned forward, a ringing in his head, his finger on the trigger of the rifle and let his head fall forward. The barrel was just above his ear when the gun went off, putting a hole in the ceiling and a different ringing in Mike's ear.
Mike stood up, opened the bolt freeing the spent shell, put another bullet in the chamber and closed the bolt. He picked up a small bag of things he had packed, went out to his truck, got in and drove out of the driveway into the night. The .22 rifle was on the seat beside him.
At midnight, the Sheriff's Office got a call that a single gunshot was heard from Mike's house. Sheriff Willis was called and hurried over there to find two deputies waiting at the locked door. They had to force the door to get in. They found a single .22 caliber shell casing on the living room floor and no one inside the house. No blood, no body, no Mike.
“I've got to question him,” said Sheriff Willis to Dana. They were in the front doorway of Rick and Lori's house. Dana was wearing Lori's housecoat, her hair hadn't been touched since her restless sleep, and showed it. Her face was wrinkled from the sheets and puffy from crying.
“Can't we leave him out of it?” she pleaded.
“He's in it, up to his neck. This has gone beyond a one-time fling gone wrong, there was a shot fired and Mike is missing.”
“Randy Turner,” said Dana. She sighed heavily. “He lives in town. He's an old friend from school. We didn't mean this to happen; it just did.”
As a reporter for the local paper, I was called to the scene by my editor and asked to see if this was really a story for the Shady Point News. I dutifully wrote down the name “Randy Turner.” From town, I thought. Interesting.
Usually people from town didn't come to Shady Point, they didn't consider it a vacation or even interesting. They went to the shore or into the mountains or Disney World. Shady Point was for people who never saw a mountain or a lake. Three-quarters of the houses are empty most of the year, absentee owners who come to get away from the big city or kept as rentals for the peak season.
“Any luck with Turner?” I asked Sheriff Willis.
“It's not a story, it's a spat. Just leave it alone.”
“Mike's gone missing. His boss hasn't seen him, he hasn't been in touch with his wife or with you. So I have to ask, any sign of foul play from the boyfriend?”
“He's not a boyfriend, I don't know what he is.”
“Is he a suspect?” I was half asking as a reporter but also because I live there too. If one of Shady Point's residents was suspected of foul play to another, it was news, but it was also terrible.
“No, he's not a suspect. He's a person of interest, a possible source of information in a missing person's case, nothing more. Like I said, it's not a story.”
At Randy Turner's place in the city, it became a story.
Turner was recently divorced, living with his sister after the breakup until he moved into a less-than-attractive set of row townhouses. He was paying a staggering alimony to his ex-wife of barely three years. He had indeed gone to school with Dana but there was no sign that the two had been close.
It was shortly after Mike disappeared that Randy Turner returned home to find “Adulterer” written in marker on his door at eye-level. He stopped for a moment to look at the marking when a bullet struck the house right next to the door. Randy Turner frantically turned the key, threw open the front door and dove behind the couch.
The call went out on the police scanner, my editor heard it and called me. It was fifteen minutes later that I stood behind the yellow barrier tape at Randy Turner's townhouse.
“What are you doing here, Calvin?” asked the Sheriff.
“Might ask you the same thing, Sheriff Willis. As for me, it's a story now.”
“Just a related happening, not a story.”
“Someone shooting at Randy Turner with a .22 caliber bullet. You don't call that a story?”
Sheriff Willis was trying to ignore me. A large man in rolled shirtsleeves came up to the tape. The badge on his belt showed he was a Sergeant of Detectives.
“He doesn't know anything. He hasn't heard from Emerson since the incident, either one of them.”
“Um, Sergeant Gillespie, this is Jake Calvin, reporter for the Shady Point News.” Sheriff Willis emphasized the word 'reporter' for the Sergeant. The Sergeant was suitably impressed.
“Press, eh? Well, nothing much to write about. Looks like a random shooting, probably someone celebrating the Fourth of July early.”
“And calling his shots, eh?” I asked, indicating the single word written on the door. “Looks like he meant to miss. At that distance, it's hard not to.”
“Supposition is not your job, Mr. Calvin,” said Gillespie. “There is nothing to support a theory that this incident is connected with any earlier incident.”
“Except, of course, the presence of Sheriff Willis.” I smiled at Gillespie.
“Found it, sir,” came a shout from across the street. A small group of police had been searching the grounds of the opposing apartment complex and the bushes that surrounded the buildings. One of the officers was now crossing the street with his tiny find raised high.
“It's a shell casing,” he called to the Sergeant. “Twenty-two caliber, just like you thought. No other sign of Emerson.”
Gillespie looked at me like the cat was out of the bag. “See?” he said to me, “No sign of Emerson. So it's not related. No need for you to be here.”
Gillespie walked off with Sheriff Willis toward the townhouse where the shaking Turner was surrounded by police, drinking coffee like it was a cold, winter night. But it wasn't a cold, winter night, it was late spring and it was hot. After a few minutes talking with Turner, Sheriff Willis came back to the tape.
“You still here?”
“It's still a story.”
“It's a dead end. He didn't see anything, didn't hear anything, just something hitting the house, then he dove inside.”
“Yeah, but still, Turner has been served. Mike Emerson knows who – and where – he is.” The look on Willis' face told me that he knew I was right. The game was on.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Scandal at Shady Point
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 2
Randy Turner had been in love with Dana since he first saw her in history class. When his folks moved to the city, he changed schools and Dana took up with Mike. Randy hadn't seen her since. Now he was lying beside her all sweaty and warm. He felt as if he had completed something, like he could strike an item off of a list and move on with his life, now that it was complete. He had wanted to bed her since junior year; now he had.
But the front door opening made them both sit up. They didn't look at each other, they jumped up in different directions. Randy scooped up his tighty-whities from the floor and put them on, then his shirt. He looked for his jeans, then remembered he had left them in the living room. He picked up his boots and one sock. The other one wasn't within his field of vision and he wasn't going to waste valuable time looking.
Dana had thrown on her cleaning shift and ran out to cut off her husband, closing the bedroom door behind her.
“You're all sweaty and I'm in the middle of cleaning our bathroom.” Dana said, pushing him away before he could smell another man's cologne on her. “Go on into the other shower and get cleaned up before you even try to kiss me.”
When the door closed and the shower could be heard running, Randy Turner came out of the bedroom with his boots in his hand. He grabbed the jeans from the back of the couch and pulled them on, trying not to make a noise or fall down. He barely got them zipped when Dana motioned to him from the front door.
“Go!” she whispered, and she pushed him out, closing the door behind him.
Randy Turner wasted no time running, barefoot and holding his boots, to his dusty gray Honda up on the road. He jumped in, pulled the visor down and caught his keys in his right hand. Randy pulled out into the lane, thankful that it was a quiet Saturday afternoon and not a busy weekday. He was hoping none of the neighbors had seen him leave. He wondered if anyone had witnessed their innocent meeting at the book store or the way they warmed up to each other at the coffee shop next door. He hoped none of Mike's friends observed one thing leading to another until they fell into bed, heaving and sweating, entwined like grapevines.
Randy Turner pulled the up to the curb in front of his small townhouse, turned off the engine and sat, staring out of the windshield. Once inside the house, he threw down his boots, flopped on the couch and reflected on the mess he had made of things. “But at least,” he thought, “I got out of there without getting caught.”
Still it didn't feel right. He didn't feel right. Even his pants didn't feel right. There was a lump in his jeans that didn't make sense. He felt the front pocket and found a set of keys ― truck keys, and a house key. Randy could feel the blood drain from his face. These were not his jeans!
When Mike came in, he had in a long, dusty case from the garage. In the case was a rifle. He was one of the few residents of Shady Point who did not have a firearm handy, but that changed now, he had his old rifle in the house. He opened a box of .22 shells, pulled the bolt, loaded a shell into the chamber and closed the bolt. Dana heard the sound. She shuddered to hear it.
“Sooner or later,” he said, calmly to the bedroom door, “you will tell me who he is. Then I'll kill him.”
The locksmith charged triple to come out on a Sunday. Mike didn't care.
“Double-key, I want to be able to lock the door from both sides,” he said.
“Sure, no problem,” replied the locksmith.
Mike sat in the large, central living room, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, keeping an eye on every door and window, in case the culprit should come back to speak to his wife. He doubted the man would show up at the door to return his wallet and keys.
“I'm sorry,” Mike imagined him saying, “I got your jeans by mistake when I was stumbling over myself getting out of your house after banging your wife.” Yeah, Mike could just imagine that apology going down.
“All done,” said the locksmith.
Mike stood by the door watching the locksmith drive away. He closed the door and locked it with his new key. “No one's getting in – or out – of this house now,” he thought.
“Harry,” Mike told his boss on Monday morning, “I'm taking some time. I've got leave coming, so I'm taking it.”
“Everything OK, Mike? Is Dana OK?”
“I'll get back to you on that.”
“Well if there's anything I can do...”
“Thanks, Harry. I'll let you know.”
Mike hung up the phone. The call was a courtesy to Harry; Mike didn't care about the job – not anymore. He still had on the same khaki pants and shirt. He had slept on the couch in them. He nibbled at snacks, but wasn't hungry. He hadn't drunk much of the whiskey, most of it was left. He wasn't drowning his sorrow, he was numb to it.
If he had thought about it, he would have wondered if Dana was hungry, but he didn't think about it. He didn't think about her at all.
At nine, he showered in the guest bathroom. He heard Dana moving about the house. When he came out, he saw the bedroom door open; Dana was not in sight. Mike went into the bedroom, dressed in clean slacks and a shirt and left for the bank; without his wallet, there were arrangements to make.
Upon his return, Mike found Sheriff Willis waiting for him outside the house. Sheriff Willis had caught Mike and Dana necking after the prom a few years back, warned Mike not to drive drunk at his bachelor party and later, attended their wedding in his only fitting suit. Now he was at their door in his uniform.
“Dana tells me you've locked her in,” said Sheriff Willis.
“I locked the door to keep strangers out. If she was inside when I did it, then there you are.”
Mike took out his house key and went to the front door. He opened it to find Dana standing there in blue jeans, cloth shoes and a large, cable-knit sweater. She had been crying. She wore no makeup and her hair was pulled back into a hasty pony-tail. She looked terrified.
Sheriff Willis stepped through the door and looked from Mike to Dana.
“Doors open, Dana,” said Mike. “If you want to leave, no one's stopping you. There is one thing I'd like to know: the name of your lover.”
Dana turned pale as fear overcame embarrassment. Sheriff Willis looked from her to Mike, sizing up what he had to deal with. Dana ran past them out of the door, up the drive and onto the road.
“Let me talk with her. Maybe I can help you sort this out,” said Willis.
“If she won't tell me, I'll find out sooner or later,” said Mike, throwing the keys on the counter. “Until then, she can stay out there for all I care.”
“Mike, don't do anything hasty. Let this simmer some, you and Dana have a good thing going. Don't let one stupid mistake screw it up.”
Mike just looked at the sheriff with lowered eyes, tight lips and clenched fists. It was plain that the conversation was over.
All through the night, Mike's demons danced through his head, keeping him only half asleep. His jeans, his house, his wife; his anger. The man had taken his wallet and keys. He could steal his truck anytime, but he couldn't get into the house, not anymore. He could still get into his wife, though, wherever she was. So what! He didn't care anymore. He was cold and numb. Priorities had shifted.
Episode 2
Randy Turner had been in love with Dana since he first saw her in history class. When his folks moved to the city, he changed schools and Dana took up with Mike. Randy hadn't seen her since. Now he was lying beside her all sweaty and warm. He felt as if he had completed something, like he could strike an item off of a list and move on with his life, now that it was complete. He had wanted to bed her since junior year; now he had.
But the front door opening made them both sit up. They didn't look at each other, they jumped up in different directions. Randy scooped up his tighty-whities from the floor and put them on, then his shirt. He looked for his jeans, then remembered he had left them in the living room. He picked up his boots and one sock. The other one wasn't within his field of vision and he wasn't going to waste valuable time looking.
Dana had thrown on her cleaning shift and ran out to cut off her husband, closing the bedroom door behind her.
“You're all sweaty and I'm in the middle of cleaning our bathroom.” Dana said, pushing him away before he could smell another man's cologne on her. “Go on into the other shower and get cleaned up before you even try to kiss me.”
When the door closed and the shower could be heard running, Randy Turner came out of the bedroom with his boots in his hand. He grabbed the jeans from the back of the couch and pulled them on, trying not to make a noise or fall down. He barely got them zipped when Dana motioned to him from the front door.
“Go!” she whispered, and she pushed him out, closing the door behind him.
Randy Turner wasted no time running, barefoot and holding his boots, to his dusty gray Honda up on the road. He jumped in, pulled the visor down and caught his keys in his right hand. Randy pulled out into the lane, thankful that it was a quiet Saturday afternoon and not a busy weekday. He was hoping none of the neighbors had seen him leave. He wondered if anyone had witnessed their innocent meeting at the book store or the way they warmed up to each other at the coffee shop next door. He hoped none of Mike's friends observed one thing leading to another until they fell into bed, heaving and sweating, entwined like grapevines.
Randy Turner pulled the up to the curb in front of his small townhouse, turned off the engine and sat, staring out of the windshield. Once inside the house, he threw down his boots, flopped on the couch and reflected on the mess he had made of things. “But at least,” he thought, “I got out of there without getting caught.”
Still it didn't feel right. He didn't feel right. Even his pants didn't feel right. There was a lump in his jeans that didn't make sense. He felt the front pocket and found a set of keys ― truck keys, and a house key. Randy could feel the blood drain from his face. These were not his jeans!
When Mike came in, he had in a long, dusty case from the garage. In the case was a rifle. He was one of the few residents of Shady Point who did not have a firearm handy, but that changed now, he had his old rifle in the house. He opened a box of .22 shells, pulled the bolt, loaded a shell into the chamber and closed the bolt. Dana heard the sound. She shuddered to hear it.
“Sooner or later,” he said, calmly to the bedroom door, “you will tell me who he is. Then I'll kill him.”
The locksmith charged triple to come out on a Sunday. Mike didn't care.
“Double-key, I want to be able to lock the door from both sides,” he said.
“Sure, no problem,” replied the locksmith.
Mike sat in the large, central living room, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, keeping an eye on every door and window, in case the culprit should come back to speak to his wife. He doubted the man would show up at the door to return his wallet and keys.
“I'm sorry,” Mike imagined him saying, “I got your jeans by mistake when I was stumbling over myself getting out of your house after banging your wife.” Yeah, Mike could just imagine that apology going down.
“All done,” said the locksmith.
Mike stood by the door watching the locksmith drive away. He closed the door and locked it with his new key. “No one's getting in – or out – of this house now,” he thought.
“Harry,” Mike told his boss on Monday morning, “I'm taking some time. I've got leave coming, so I'm taking it.”
“Everything OK, Mike? Is Dana OK?”
“I'll get back to you on that.”
“Well if there's anything I can do...”
“Thanks, Harry. I'll let you know.”
Mike hung up the phone. The call was a courtesy to Harry; Mike didn't care about the job – not anymore. He still had on the same khaki pants and shirt. He had slept on the couch in them. He nibbled at snacks, but wasn't hungry. He hadn't drunk much of the whiskey, most of it was left. He wasn't drowning his sorrow, he was numb to it.
If he had thought about it, he would have wondered if Dana was hungry, but he didn't think about it. He didn't think about her at all.
At nine, he showered in the guest bathroom. He heard Dana moving about the house. When he came out, he saw the bedroom door open; Dana was not in sight. Mike went into the bedroom, dressed in clean slacks and a shirt and left for the bank; without his wallet, there were arrangements to make.
Upon his return, Mike found Sheriff Willis waiting for him outside the house. Sheriff Willis had caught Mike and Dana necking after the prom a few years back, warned Mike not to drive drunk at his bachelor party and later, attended their wedding in his only fitting suit. Now he was at their door in his uniform.
“Dana tells me you've locked her in,” said Sheriff Willis.
“I locked the door to keep strangers out. If she was inside when I did it, then there you are.”
Mike took out his house key and went to the front door. He opened it to find Dana standing there in blue jeans, cloth shoes and a large, cable-knit sweater. She had been crying. She wore no makeup and her hair was pulled back into a hasty pony-tail. She looked terrified.
Sheriff Willis stepped through the door and looked from Mike to Dana.
“Doors open, Dana,” said Mike. “If you want to leave, no one's stopping you. There is one thing I'd like to know: the name of your lover.”
Dana turned pale as fear overcame embarrassment. Sheriff Willis looked from her to Mike, sizing up what he had to deal with. Dana ran past them out of the door, up the drive and onto the road.
“Let me talk with her. Maybe I can help you sort this out,” said Willis.
“If she won't tell me, I'll find out sooner or later,” said Mike, throwing the keys on the counter. “Until then, she can stay out there for all I care.”
“Mike, don't do anything hasty. Let this simmer some, you and Dana have a good thing going. Don't let one stupid mistake screw it up.”
Mike just looked at the sheriff with lowered eyes, tight lips and clenched fists. It was plain that the conversation was over.
All through the night, Mike's demons danced through his head, keeping him only half asleep. His jeans, his house, his wife; his anger. The man had taken his wallet and keys. He could steal his truck anytime, but he couldn't get into the house, not anymore. He could still get into his wife, though, wherever she was. So what! He didn't care anymore. He was cold and numb. Priorities had shifted.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Scandal at Shady Point
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 1
The scene was all too familiar: yellow tape everywhere, uniforms holding back curious onlookers and police cars parked at odd angles, their lights telling the world something terrible yet terribly interesting was going on. The coroner's car was just pulling up. I checked my watch: 11:28 PM. I had made good time from Shady Point.
“Keep back, sir, if you please.” The officer was polite but firm.
“Press.” I held up my identification.
“Shady Point News?” the officer asked, incredulously. “Never heard of it.”
“Still, I've been following this story since it began. I know the parties well. In fact, I know Sergeant Gillespie. Is he here?”
The officer turned, looked through the crowd and motioned. “Gillespie!”
A large man in a gray overcoat sighed and lumbered over to the tape.
“Thought I'd see you sooner or later, Calvin. You'll have to keep back, we have a dead body here and I can't let anyone in.”
“Did Emerson finally get his man, then?”
“I can't discuss it. You know that.”
A car pulled up. In the back I saw the faded but familiar face of Dana Emerson. I had been the photographer at her wedding three years before. She had aged 30 years in those three.
“What's she doing here?” I asked Sergeant Gillespie.
“She's here to identify the body,” Gillespie replied, looking sadly at the woman who accepted the officer's hand as she stepped from the police car.
Dana Emerson was shaking badly and leaned on the officer as she crossed the street to the place where the body lay surrounded by forensics people in police vests.
“They were the happiest couple you ever saw,” I said, half to myself.
Gillespie turned to me, “What? Who?”
“Mike and Dana Emerson, at their wedding. He was so in love with her he could hardly contain himself. She went to her wedding a virgin, I heard. She was waiting for him and only him. It was story-book.”
“Didn't turn out so good, did it,” Gillespie said, looking back to the woman being helped under the yellow tape by the officer.
“Can I talk with her?”
“We'll see what kind of state she's in. The public's right to know is going to take a back seat to the feelings of Mrs. Emerson tonight.”
“Yeah,” I nodded.
I understood. After all, the Shady Point News wasn't a big-city paper and I wasn't a hot-shot reporter with a killer instinct. The News was a weekly handout, mostly advertising and stories people brought in. My job was largely rewriting the bad copy that accompanied bad photos. It was unusual that I went out to find a story. Gillespie knew that. For me to drive from Shady Point was a rare occurrence. But not the only occurrence; I had done it before.
I thought back to when the whole thing turned sour.
Mike had been loading and unloading his red Chevy pickup truck for most of the day, taking things to the church for the raffle coming up on the following weekend. He picked up from folks who lived year-round at the lakeside village of Shady Point, loaded their boxes, then took them to the church and unloaded them. If Wally Tollison hadn't brought his truck along as well, it might have taken twice as long. With Wally's help, it possible for Mike to go home and surprise Dana, his bride of eight months, with a Saturday night dinner out. Dana ran to meet him at the door, in her cleaning smock, with hair in her eyes.
“You're all sweaty and I'm in the middle of cleaning our bathroom.” Dana said, pushing him away before he could give her a hello kiss. “Go on into the other shower and get cleaned up before you even try to kiss me.”
Mike patted her on the behind, then went to the guest bath. He dropped his shirt on the way, threw his jeans over the back of the couch and left a trail of everything else on the way to the guest bath.
When he came out, he picked up the jeans from the arm of the easy chair and went into the bedroom as Dana was finishing tidying up the bed.
“Wally brought his truck. He was a big help.”
“That was nice of him,” Dana said, distracted.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No, nothing. What would make you think something was wrong?” she replied, turning toward the bathroom to close the door.
Mike slid his hand into the back pocket of the jeans; stopped, looked up, then checked the front pocket. They didn't feel right. They didn't have truck keys in the front pocket or his wallet in the back. These were not his jeans!
Mike held the jeans in both hands and looked at Dana. Dana had stopped, frozen in her tracks. She looked frightened; Mike had never seen her like that.
“Did you do something with my jeans?”
Dana said nothing. Her mouth was open, her eyes were wide.
Behind Dana, Mike saw into the bathroom. He pushed by Dana and opened the bathroom door. It had not been cleaned, it looked exactly like it did earlier that day when he left, right down to the wet towel on the floor.
Mike turned around, holding the jeans up in his left hand.
“These are not my jeans,” he said calmly but pointedly. Dana gulped, stepping back.
“My wallet was in my jeans. It had two hundred-some dollars in it so we could go out and have dinner. My truck keys were in those jeans, and the keys to the house. These are not my jeans. Whose jeans are they? And why doesn't he have them on?”
Mike stepped toward Dana, who took a step back through the door to the couch, stammering.
“I... I'm... Mike, I'm really...”
Mike closed the bedroom door.
Dana could hear him moving about. She didn't know what to do. She felt exposed in her cleaning shift and bare feet, so she went to the spare room for a dress and slippers; she had moved them there to make room in the big closet. Now they were the only clothes available; Mike was in the bedroom and she wasn't going in there.
When Mike came out, he had put on a pair of khaki pants and a shirt. He had the sheets from the bed in his hands. A look of shock was on his face; a stare as if he was looking at something far away. Dana watched from the door of the guest room, fearful to say anything or take a step.
The jeans were on top of the sheets, folded. Mike went to the Kitchen, took out a large, plastic bag and put the sheets and jeans into the bag. He set it on the floor next to the kitchen door and turned slowly to Dana.
“Now!” he said, soft and low. “Who was in my bedroom? Who was with my wife and left in my pants? Who has keys to my house?” Mike raised his voice slightly. “Who is opening my wallet and spending my money? Who has taken my life?”
He stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for an answer. Dana burst into tears and ran crying to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She heard Mike moving around, then the front door slammed, the truck started and Mike drove off.
“He found the spare keys,” Dana thought.
Episode 1
The scene was all too familiar: yellow tape everywhere, uniforms holding back curious onlookers and police cars parked at odd angles, their lights telling the world something terrible yet terribly interesting was going on. The coroner's car was just pulling up. I checked my watch: 11:28 PM. I had made good time from Shady Point.
“Keep back, sir, if you please.” The officer was polite but firm.
“Press.” I held up my identification.
“Shady Point News?” the officer asked, incredulously. “Never heard of it.”
“Still, I've been following this story since it began. I know the parties well. In fact, I know Sergeant Gillespie. Is he here?”
The officer turned, looked through the crowd and motioned. “Gillespie!”
A large man in a gray overcoat sighed and lumbered over to the tape.
“Thought I'd see you sooner or later, Calvin. You'll have to keep back, we have a dead body here and I can't let anyone in.”
“Did Emerson finally get his man, then?”
“I can't discuss it. You know that.”
A car pulled up. In the back I saw the faded but familiar face of Dana Emerson. I had been the photographer at her wedding three years before. She had aged 30 years in those three.
“What's she doing here?” I asked Sergeant Gillespie.
“She's here to identify the body,” Gillespie replied, looking sadly at the woman who accepted the officer's hand as she stepped from the police car.
Dana Emerson was shaking badly and leaned on the officer as she crossed the street to the place where the body lay surrounded by forensics people in police vests.
“They were the happiest couple you ever saw,” I said, half to myself.
Gillespie turned to me, “What? Who?”
“Mike and Dana Emerson, at their wedding. He was so in love with her he could hardly contain himself. She went to her wedding a virgin, I heard. She was waiting for him and only him. It was story-book.”
“Didn't turn out so good, did it,” Gillespie said, looking back to the woman being helped under the yellow tape by the officer.
“Can I talk with her?”
“We'll see what kind of state she's in. The public's right to know is going to take a back seat to the feelings of Mrs. Emerson tonight.”
“Yeah,” I nodded.
I understood. After all, the Shady Point News wasn't a big-city paper and I wasn't a hot-shot reporter with a killer instinct. The News was a weekly handout, mostly advertising and stories people brought in. My job was largely rewriting the bad copy that accompanied bad photos. It was unusual that I went out to find a story. Gillespie knew that. For me to drive from Shady Point was a rare occurrence. But not the only occurrence; I had done it before.
I thought back to when the whole thing turned sour.
Mike had been loading and unloading his red Chevy pickup truck for most of the day, taking things to the church for the raffle coming up on the following weekend. He picked up from folks who lived year-round at the lakeside village of Shady Point, loaded their boxes, then took them to the church and unloaded them. If Wally Tollison hadn't brought his truck along as well, it might have taken twice as long. With Wally's help, it possible for Mike to go home and surprise Dana, his bride of eight months, with a Saturday night dinner out. Dana ran to meet him at the door, in her cleaning smock, with hair in her eyes.
“You're all sweaty and I'm in the middle of cleaning our bathroom.” Dana said, pushing him away before he could give her a hello kiss. “Go on into the other shower and get cleaned up before you even try to kiss me.”
Mike patted her on the behind, then went to the guest bath. He dropped his shirt on the way, threw his jeans over the back of the couch and left a trail of everything else on the way to the guest bath.
When he came out, he picked up the jeans from the arm of the easy chair and went into the bedroom as Dana was finishing tidying up the bed.
“Wally brought his truck. He was a big help.”
“That was nice of him,” Dana said, distracted.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No, nothing. What would make you think something was wrong?” she replied, turning toward the bathroom to close the door.
Mike slid his hand into the back pocket of the jeans; stopped, looked up, then checked the front pocket. They didn't feel right. They didn't have truck keys in the front pocket or his wallet in the back. These were not his jeans!
Mike held the jeans in both hands and looked at Dana. Dana had stopped, frozen in her tracks. She looked frightened; Mike had never seen her like that.
“Did you do something with my jeans?”
Dana said nothing. Her mouth was open, her eyes were wide.
Behind Dana, Mike saw into the bathroom. He pushed by Dana and opened the bathroom door. It had not been cleaned, it looked exactly like it did earlier that day when he left, right down to the wet towel on the floor.
Mike turned around, holding the jeans up in his left hand.
“These are not my jeans,” he said calmly but pointedly. Dana gulped, stepping back.
“My wallet was in my jeans. It had two hundred-some dollars in it so we could go out and have dinner. My truck keys were in those jeans, and the keys to the house. These are not my jeans. Whose jeans are they? And why doesn't he have them on?”
Mike stepped toward Dana, who took a step back through the door to the couch, stammering.
“I... I'm... Mike, I'm really...”
Mike closed the bedroom door.
Dana could hear him moving about. She didn't know what to do. She felt exposed in her cleaning shift and bare feet, so she went to the spare room for a dress and slippers; she had moved them there to make room in the big closet. Now they were the only clothes available; Mike was in the bedroom and she wasn't going in there.
When Mike came out, he had put on a pair of khaki pants and a shirt. He had the sheets from the bed in his hands. A look of shock was on his face; a stare as if he was looking at something far away. Dana watched from the door of the guest room, fearful to say anything or take a step.
The jeans were on top of the sheets, folded. Mike went to the Kitchen, took out a large, plastic bag and put the sheets and jeans into the bag. He set it on the floor next to the kitchen door and turned slowly to Dana.
“Now!” he said, soft and low. “Who was in my bedroom? Who was with my wife and left in my pants? Who has keys to my house?” Mike raised his voice slightly. “Who is opening my wallet and spending my money? Who has taken my life?”
He stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for an answer. Dana burst into tears and ran crying to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She heard Mike moving around, then the front door slammed, the truck started and Mike drove off.
“He found the spare keys,” Dana thought.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Luna Nightmares
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 7
At the arraignment, I plead guilty. A murmur was heard behind me. I didn't turn. I knew who was there. Alice was there. The kids were not. They were with their grandmother, Ted's mom, who was home crying.
The judge struck his gavel and the room got quiet. He spoke. I didn't hear it. I'm sure he said something, but I have no idea what he actually said. I knew more or less what he said, that I would be going away for 25 years to life for premeditated murder. Somehow, the fact that I had lost everything didn't hit me, either that or I just didn't care. I had lost most of it anyway.
The guard lead me from the table to the door off to one side. I couldn't help a last glance over my shoulder at Alice, standing to leave the courtroom. Her face was contorted with pain and she cried out to me, “Why?” The guard tugged at my arm and Alice turned to go through the large double doors. I replied, though she could not hear me, “Because I love you and the kids.”
The sign on the wall by the dispensary says, “Now accepting test subjects for a new anti-depressant, Lunaxypryn. Sign up at the dispensary.”
“Unless I'm mistaken, that's pure Luna-C,” I mutter.
The sign-up sheet is on the table, a pen on a chain next to it. I pick up the pen. Before I can write, a hand reaches out and takes mine. It's an old man, short with wire glasses. His prison grays are starched stiff and look new, though I know he has been there a long time.
“They'll make you sign a waver. Last two tests they did every subject died. They covered it up, called it a construction accident. The first one wasn't pretty. The second was quieter, but those guys are still dead.”
I shrug my shoulders, as if 'so what'. The old guy lets go of my hand. He backs off, distancing himself from the crazy man who is putting his name on the paper of certain death.
I feel something I had not felt in a long time, a smile. I'm smiling. Ted and I engineered Luna-A, then Luna-B and finally Luna-C. Now I will get to see if it works or if it'll have similar results. Secretly I hope it will have the same result as Luna-A, so I will get to experience what Ted did in his last minute. I would like a painful and wretched death. But just as much I hope it's a Luna-B death, so I could just slip off quietly. Either way, I know that I have been the engineer of my own fate and that my nightmare will soon be over.
The End
Episode 7
At the arraignment, I plead guilty. A murmur was heard behind me. I didn't turn. I knew who was there. Alice was there. The kids were not. They were with their grandmother, Ted's mom, who was home crying.
The judge struck his gavel and the room got quiet. He spoke. I didn't hear it. I'm sure he said something, but I have no idea what he actually said. I knew more or less what he said, that I would be going away for 25 years to life for premeditated murder. Somehow, the fact that I had lost everything didn't hit me, either that or I just didn't care. I had lost most of it anyway.
The guard lead me from the table to the door off to one side. I couldn't help a last glance over my shoulder at Alice, standing to leave the courtroom. Her face was contorted with pain and she cried out to me, “Why?” The guard tugged at my arm and Alice turned to go through the large double doors. I replied, though she could not hear me, “Because I love you and the kids.”
The sign on the wall by the dispensary says, “Now accepting test subjects for a new anti-depressant, Lunaxypryn. Sign up at the dispensary.”
“Unless I'm mistaken, that's pure Luna-C,” I mutter.
The sign-up sheet is on the table, a pen on a chain next to it. I pick up the pen. Before I can write, a hand reaches out and takes mine. It's an old man, short with wire glasses. His prison grays are starched stiff and look new, though I know he has been there a long time.
“They'll make you sign a waver. Last two tests they did every subject died. They covered it up, called it a construction accident. The first one wasn't pretty. The second was quieter, but those guys are still dead.”
I shrug my shoulders, as if 'so what'. The old guy lets go of my hand. He backs off, distancing himself from the crazy man who is putting his name on the paper of certain death.
I feel something I had not felt in a long time, a smile. I'm smiling. Ted and I engineered Luna-A, then Luna-B and finally Luna-C. Now I will get to see if it works or if it'll have similar results. Secretly I hope it will have the same result as Luna-A, so I will get to experience what Ted did in his last minute. I would like a painful and wretched death. But just as much I hope it's a Luna-B death, so I could just slip off quietly. Either way, I know that I have been the engineer of my own fate and that my nightmare will soon be over.
The End
Luna Nightmares
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 6
Ted opened the door, “Phil? What's up?”
“You know,” I was thinking fast but talking slow, I hadn't thought this through. “I'm just perplexed by this whole thing and I thought, you know, that we have, you know,” I realized that I had said 'you know' three times in a sentence. “that we don't spend any down-time together. We used to do that, and I thought it would be a good idea ...” My eyes fell on a cut-glass decanter of Scotch on the counter, “... if we could just have a drink together...” I looked at Ted, an innocent smile crossing my face. Ted just looked back at me. It seemed like an hour, but it was only a few seconds before he spoke.
“Sure, Phil, it's a little early for me, but I have no plans, so why not. I'll get us a glass.” Ted took out two short glasses with heavy, cut-glass bottoms. They were part of the set with the decanter. He poured two of what I knew to be first class Scotch and added water from a bottle in the fridge. As he opened the fridge door to return the bottle to the shelf inside, I emptied the pink envelope into Ted's glass. I watched the few tiny crystals disappear into the Scotch.
“Here's to a successful test and a popular product,” I said, lifting my glass.
“I'll drink to that,” responded Ted, drinking half the glass in a gulp. I drank as well, looking around for something to take the attention off of the glass, just in case there was a taste.
“Have you redone the kitchen?”
“Nope. It's the same as the last time you were here.”
“Hmm! That was Thanksgiving...” I realized that I had brought up a memory of Carol and decided to stop there. “Well, I must have forgotten what it looked like, you keep it so nice, it looks new.” I smiled, taking another sip.
Ted finished his drink on that cue. We stood there regarding each other. Then Ted got a look on his face; he stiffened, moving his hand to his belly. His face questioned what he felt, then the answer was written in his eyes. Ted looked straight at me. His mouth opened. I expected him to ask, 'What have you done?' but he didn't, he just gagged and his eyes lost focus.
Ted convulsed and fell on the floor, writhing out of control. I stepped back, giving him room to flail against the floor and cabinets. He spat up some ugly, colorless gunk and jerked to a stop. His arms and legs, hands and feet were all at right angles; his fingers splayed. Ted spasmed once, twice, a third time and then released across the floor, completely limp. The eyes were open.
Standing there, watching my friend of so many years, I couldn't help but feel that this was the right thing to do. In his front pocket, I pulled the paper, torn from the pad at work, with a corner missing. It said, “I love you and the kids.” It was exactly like my dream, only it was Ted on the floor, not his wife and kids. I reached into his shirt pocket and took out the blue envelope.
“Ted? Are you home?” sang Alice, coming in the front door. I ran to stop her from coming into the kitchen. She was surprised to see me. “Phil! Uh, how nice to see you. You haven't visited in a while. Where's Ted?”
“Alice, you've got to go upstairs.”
“What are you talking about?” Alice gave a shallow laugh, then became afraid. “What's going on? Where's Ted?”
“Alice, just go upstairs now. Everything will be all right, but I need you to go upstairs right now.” A noise at the door revealed my worst fear, the kids were with her. “Alice, go upstairs and take the kids. Please!”
“Phil, you're scaring me.”
“Go! Now!” I cried.
“Tyler, Spencer, come with mommy.” Alice reached her hands for her children and lead them upstairs, her face pale, her eyes wide with fright.
There was only one thing for me to do; go to the phone and dial 911.
“911 Operator,” said a male voice.
“I've just killed my best friend,” I told him.
Episode 6
Ted opened the door, “Phil? What's up?”
“You know,” I was thinking fast but talking slow, I hadn't thought this through. “I'm just perplexed by this whole thing and I thought, you know, that we have, you know,” I realized that I had said 'you know' three times in a sentence. “that we don't spend any down-time together. We used to do that, and I thought it would be a good idea ...” My eyes fell on a cut-glass decanter of Scotch on the counter, “... if we could just have a drink together...” I looked at Ted, an innocent smile crossing my face. Ted just looked back at me. It seemed like an hour, but it was only a few seconds before he spoke.
“Sure, Phil, it's a little early for me, but I have no plans, so why not. I'll get us a glass.” Ted took out two short glasses with heavy, cut-glass bottoms. They were part of the set with the decanter. He poured two of what I knew to be first class Scotch and added water from a bottle in the fridge. As he opened the fridge door to return the bottle to the shelf inside, I emptied the pink envelope into Ted's glass. I watched the few tiny crystals disappear into the Scotch.
“Here's to a successful test and a popular product,” I said, lifting my glass.
“I'll drink to that,” responded Ted, drinking half the glass in a gulp. I drank as well, looking around for something to take the attention off of the glass, just in case there was a taste.
“Have you redone the kitchen?”
“Nope. It's the same as the last time you were here.”
“Hmm! That was Thanksgiving...” I realized that I had brought up a memory of Carol and decided to stop there. “Well, I must have forgotten what it looked like, you keep it so nice, it looks new.” I smiled, taking another sip.
Ted finished his drink on that cue. We stood there regarding each other. Then Ted got a look on his face; he stiffened, moving his hand to his belly. His face questioned what he felt, then the answer was written in his eyes. Ted looked straight at me. His mouth opened. I expected him to ask, 'What have you done?' but he didn't, he just gagged and his eyes lost focus.
Ted convulsed and fell on the floor, writhing out of control. I stepped back, giving him room to flail against the floor and cabinets. He spat up some ugly, colorless gunk and jerked to a stop. His arms and legs, hands and feet were all at right angles; his fingers splayed. Ted spasmed once, twice, a third time and then released across the floor, completely limp. The eyes were open.
Standing there, watching my friend of so many years, I couldn't help but feel that this was the right thing to do. In his front pocket, I pulled the paper, torn from the pad at work, with a corner missing. It said, “I love you and the kids.” It was exactly like my dream, only it was Ted on the floor, not his wife and kids. I reached into his shirt pocket and took out the blue envelope.
“Ted? Are you home?” sang Alice, coming in the front door. I ran to stop her from coming into the kitchen. She was surprised to see me. “Phil! Uh, how nice to see you. You haven't visited in a while. Where's Ted?”
“Alice, you've got to go upstairs.”
“What are you talking about?” Alice gave a shallow laugh, then became afraid. “What's going on? Where's Ted?”
“Alice, just go upstairs now. Everything will be all right, but I need you to go upstairs right now.” A noise at the door revealed my worst fear, the kids were with her. “Alice, go upstairs and take the kids. Please!”
“Phil, you're scaring me.”
“Go! Now!” I cried.
“Tyler, Spencer, come with mommy.” Alice reached her hands for her children and lead them upstairs, her face pale, her eyes wide with fright.
There was only one thing for me to do; go to the phone and dial 911.
“911 Operator,” said a male voice.
“I've just killed my best friend,” I told him.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Luna Nightmares
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 5
Not drinking the night before agreed with me. I felt better.
“Rensler's in the office. Better come,” said Ted as I poured a cup of coffee.
I felt a chill run through me. Charles Rensler was the board liaison. When they wanted to tell us something, it was Mr. Rensler who came out of the elevator and into our lab. Not Charlie or Chuck, but Mr. Rensler. He didn't know a test tube from a shoe horn but he gave the orders, or at least relayed them.
In the lab, Rensler was leaning with one hand on the table, as if he had been waiting for me to finish playing with myself. He looked disturbed, but then he always looked that way.
“Gentlemen, we are going into testing in a week.” (“Ready or not,” said the word-bubble over his head.) “You have been playing with this new concoction long enough. It's time to take it to the subjects. We want this ready for market before the snow falls.”
Rensler's eyebrows were furrowed, admonishing his wayward children who never did as they were told. He had already decided that we were holding up this project on purpose. He had made up his mind about us; we were bad.
“It's not ready,” said Ted.
Rensler flared, his eyes wild. “Well, get it ready! The board wants to know if we've made a mistake with you two. The holidays are a stressful time and we want our new anti-depressant out and on the market in time to deal with it. You get it ready to go or it's you who will be going. No more hold ups, no more excuses.”
Rensler strode to the door, turned and put one hand on the door, he was making his grand exit. “We're calling it 'Lunaxapryn' and it had better be ready by the time the box is printed.” Rensler exited with a flourish, punctuating his commands with a loud march to the elevator. 'Click, clack, click, clack!' The sound of our doom.
“That man has no idea what he is doing,” said Ted, shaking his head. “If the six o'clock news mentions our product it won't be good for anyone.”
“Are we sure about it? Is there something we don't know?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Ted, as if it was obvious, “We don't know how many will die when they start taking this!” Ted turned his back to me, walking forcefully to the back of the office, picking up samples of “C” in green envelopes. He was trying to compose himself enough to actually do something. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him slump. His shoulders dropped; Ted was shaking his head.
“You OK, buddy?” I asked.
“Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just peachy!” Ted stood up, squaring himself around and picked up the daily log. “I'm logging out, leaving a little early.”
“OK, Ted. You've put in enough hours to do that. Say hi to Alice.”
“Yeah,” said Ted, taking off his lab coat. “Tomorrow, same time.”
“You bet!” I replied, trying to be as light and casual as I could. I watched him go down the hall.
The pad caught my eye. There was a corner still attached to the top where the paper tore off. Ted had ripped a piece off and left a corner. My thoughts went back to my dream, to the paper with the missing corner.
I looked over the line of envelopes on the desk: colored envelopes with the active ingredient of each generation, concentrated for analysis. There were three green envelopes of “C” and one pink of “A”. The blue envelope was missing. I remembered my dream, Ted slipping that envelope into his pocket. A chill ran through me.
Returning to the pad, I recalled an old movie I saw on one of those sleepless nights, where the detective used a pencil to discover what was written on a pad. I took the pencil from the drawer and lightly ran it over the pad. There, in the impressions left by Ted's pen, was the note he had taken with him. “I love you and the kids.”
My heart went to my throat. I couldn't breathe. I steadied myself against the table. There had to be a way to stop him! I took the remaining envelope of Luna-A and put it into my pocket. I threw my white coat over the chair and ran to the nearest exit, my short-cut to the parking lot.
It was before rush hour and the traffic was still light. I figured Ted wouldn't be driving fast, but I was. My hands were shaking and there was sweat on my forehead. I couldn't think where the tissues were. The radio was on and a distraction. I switched it off and veered to the right, narrowly missing a car slowing to turn. I tore through the last intersection on a yellow light, beating the red by the skin of my teeth.
At Ted's house, I pulled up and turned the car off. Ted's Cherokee was already there. The quiet was thunderous. I could hear myself sweat.
Episode 5
Not drinking the night before agreed with me. I felt better.
“Rensler's in the office. Better come,” said Ted as I poured a cup of coffee.
I felt a chill run through me. Charles Rensler was the board liaison. When they wanted to tell us something, it was Mr. Rensler who came out of the elevator and into our lab. Not Charlie or Chuck, but Mr. Rensler. He didn't know a test tube from a shoe horn but he gave the orders, or at least relayed them.
In the lab, Rensler was leaning with one hand on the table, as if he had been waiting for me to finish playing with myself. He looked disturbed, but then he always looked that way.
“Gentlemen, we are going into testing in a week.” (“Ready or not,” said the word-bubble over his head.) “You have been playing with this new concoction long enough. It's time to take it to the subjects. We want this ready for market before the snow falls.”
Rensler's eyebrows were furrowed, admonishing his wayward children who never did as they were told. He had already decided that we were holding up this project on purpose. He had made up his mind about us; we were bad.
“It's not ready,” said Ted.
Rensler flared, his eyes wild. “Well, get it ready! The board wants to know if we've made a mistake with you two. The holidays are a stressful time and we want our new anti-depressant out and on the market in time to deal with it. You get it ready to go or it's you who will be going. No more hold ups, no more excuses.”
Rensler strode to the door, turned and put one hand on the door, he was making his grand exit. “We're calling it 'Lunaxapryn' and it had better be ready by the time the box is printed.” Rensler exited with a flourish, punctuating his commands with a loud march to the elevator. 'Click, clack, click, clack!' The sound of our doom.
“That man has no idea what he is doing,” said Ted, shaking his head. “If the six o'clock news mentions our product it won't be good for anyone.”
“Are we sure about it? Is there something we don't know?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Ted, as if it was obvious, “We don't know how many will die when they start taking this!” Ted turned his back to me, walking forcefully to the back of the office, picking up samples of “C” in green envelopes. He was trying to compose himself enough to actually do something. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him slump. His shoulders dropped; Ted was shaking his head.
“You OK, buddy?” I asked.
“Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just peachy!” Ted stood up, squaring himself around and picked up the daily log. “I'm logging out, leaving a little early.”
“OK, Ted. You've put in enough hours to do that. Say hi to Alice.”
“Yeah,” said Ted, taking off his lab coat. “Tomorrow, same time.”
“You bet!” I replied, trying to be as light and casual as I could. I watched him go down the hall.
The pad caught my eye. There was a corner still attached to the top where the paper tore off. Ted had ripped a piece off and left a corner. My thoughts went back to my dream, to the paper with the missing corner.
I looked over the line of envelopes on the desk: colored envelopes with the active ingredient of each generation, concentrated for analysis. There were three green envelopes of “C” and one pink of “A”. The blue envelope was missing. I remembered my dream, Ted slipping that envelope into his pocket. A chill ran through me.
Returning to the pad, I recalled an old movie I saw on one of those sleepless nights, where the detective used a pencil to discover what was written on a pad. I took the pencil from the drawer and lightly ran it over the pad. There, in the impressions left by Ted's pen, was the note he had taken with him. “I love you and the kids.”
My heart went to my throat. I couldn't breathe. I steadied myself against the table. There had to be a way to stop him! I took the remaining envelope of Luna-A and put it into my pocket. I threw my white coat over the chair and ran to the nearest exit, my short-cut to the parking lot.
It was before rush hour and the traffic was still light. I figured Ted wouldn't be driving fast, but I was. My hands were shaking and there was sweat on my forehead. I couldn't think where the tissues were. The radio was on and a distraction. I switched it off and veered to the right, narrowly missing a car slowing to turn. I tore through the last intersection on a yellow light, beating the red by the skin of my teeth.
At Ted's house, I pulled up and turned the car off. Ted's Cherokee was already there. The quiet was thunderous. I could hear myself sweat.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Luna Nightmares
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 4
Ted's Grand Cherokee was already in the parking lot early next morning.
“What're you doing here at this ungodly hour?” asked Ted, looking up.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I replied.
“Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come in and make sure we weren't on the wrong track again. You?”
“About the same,” I said, trying to find something to look at.
“Too many voices in my head,” said Ted, returning to whatever he was working on before I came in.
“Me too. Is it warm in here, or is it me?”
“It's you. The air kicked on more than an hour ago.”
“You've been here more than an hour?” I asked, “How did you get in?”
“I got them to give me a key; I've been coming earlier lately.”
“But you're here when I leave.” I was wondering if I might not be right, there was something wrong with Ted.
“Not for long, I usually follow you out. It's just that we came up with Luna-A and Luna-B. Now we've got “C” and I don't want to be the guy who killed a bunch of subjects with three products in a row.”
“I share some of that blame, you know. And we're not alone here, we have a large staff of people, anyone of which could have discovered the flaws in “A” and “B” and didn't. You can't carry this all on your shoulders.”
“I'm not, Phil,” said Ted, getting up and reaching for his empty coffee cup, “I'm just trying to make sure we don't have to formulate a Luna-D.” Ted left for the coffee room.
In the trash, were two blue envelopes. Ted had been using some of the “B” samples. Had Ted been retesting? But we discovered what was causing the results in “B”. Why would he have Luna-B out?
At the end of the day, Ted seemed fine and normal. He even left at a reasonable time. Ted gave me a wave and ambled off to his Grand Cherokee. It looked like another world to me, his gleaming clean Grand Cherokee, knowing that he would go home to the beautiful Alice who would have dinner on the table. Two endearing children would run in to hug their daddy and the cares of the day would fade into oblivion without the use of artificial nerve-dullers.
I drove my aging wreck to the poor side of town where I nuked a burger and fries meal that didn't live up to it's advertising. Settling down in front of the television, I reached for the bottle of hooch, then stopped myself. No, three didn't do it, four certainly wouldn't. I would try my theory and have none.
Just before I toddled off to bed, I breathed a quiet prayer that Carol would fall in love and get remarried, then I could have my paycheck back and could move out of that lousy neighborhood.
The breeze through the window was just right, the bums were quiet and there were few cars at that late hour.
Then the dreams came. I saw the table, Ted's kids slumped over and Ted with his note, roughly torn from the pad at work and carrying it's chilling message. The blue envelope fell from his hand to the floor. My gaze followed the envelope to the floor. Then a strange cry entered the scene and I woke up to a siren passing; an ambulance going by. I turned and looked at the clock – little after three in the morning. I got up and went to the couch, turning on the television. There was nothing on, so I turned it off, laid back on the couch and drifted off.
Episode 4
Ted's Grand Cherokee was already in the parking lot early next morning.
“What're you doing here at this ungodly hour?” asked Ted, looking up.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I replied.
“Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come in and make sure we weren't on the wrong track again. You?”
“About the same,” I said, trying to find something to look at.
“Too many voices in my head,” said Ted, returning to whatever he was working on before I came in.
“Me too. Is it warm in here, or is it me?”
“It's you. The air kicked on more than an hour ago.”
“You've been here more than an hour?” I asked, “How did you get in?”
“I got them to give me a key; I've been coming earlier lately.”
“But you're here when I leave.” I was wondering if I might not be right, there was something wrong with Ted.
“Not for long, I usually follow you out. It's just that we came up with Luna-A and Luna-B. Now we've got “C” and I don't want to be the guy who killed a bunch of subjects with three products in a row.”
“I share some of that blame, you know. And we're not alone here, we have a large staff of people, anyone of which could have discovered the flaws in “A” and “B” and didn't. You can't carry this all on your shoulders.”
“I'm not, Phil,” said Ted, getting up and reaching for his empty coffee cup, “I'm just trying to make sure we don't have to formulate a Luna-D.” Ted left for the coffee room.
In the trash, were two blue envelopes. Ted had been using some of the “B” samples. Had Ted been retesting? But we discovered what was causing the results in “B”. Why would he have Luna-B out?
At the end of the day, Ted seemed fine and normal. He even left at a reasonable time. Ted gave me a wave and ambled off to his Grand Cherokee. It looked like another world to me, his gleaming clean Grand Cherokee, knowing that he would go home to the beautiful Alice who would have dinner on the table. Two endearing children would run in to hug their daddy and the cares of the day would fade into oblivion without the use of artificial nerve-dullers.
I drove my aging wreck to the poor side of town where I nuked a burger and fries meal that didn't live up to it's advertising. Settling down in front of the television, I reached for the bottle of hooch, then stopped myself. No, three didn't do it, four certainly wouldn't. I would try my theory and have none.
Just before I toddled off to bed, I breathed a quiet prayer that Carol would fall in love and get remarried, then I could have my paycheck back and could move out of that lousy neighborhood.
The breeze through the window was just right, the bums were quiet and there were few cars at that late hour.
Then the dreams came. I saw the table, Ted's kids slumped over and Ted with his note, roughly torn from the pad at work and carrying it's chilling message. The blue envelope fell from his hand to the floor. My gaze followed the envelope to the floor. Then a strange cry entered the scene and I woke up to a siren passing; an ambulance going by. I turned and looked at the clock – little after three in the morning. I got up and went to the couch, turning on the television. There was nothing on, so I turned it off, laid back on the couch and drifted off.
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