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The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 01

By: Rehnquist



INTRODUCTION

We've all no doubt read our fair share of Loving Wives stories where the husband, upon discovering his wife's infidelity, suddenly reveals himself to be a top-secret super spy with ten years of training as a ninja warrior before his distinguished career in with John Wayne in the Green Berets. So equipped, he wreaks fantastic vengeance upon the wife and her paramour, usually, at least in part, in the form of destroying lover boy's testicles with repeated phantom kicks to the gonads.

Sue me if you will, but I tend to enjoy these stories. Few of them are even remotely plausible, but they are still a nice fantasy.

Having been in the Army, though, and having also met my fair share of soldiers in the Airborne, the Rangers, and Special Forces, I've never met any of the superheroes for whom I root in the stories I read here. Also, while I'd probably dream of beating my wife's paramour half to death if she ever got herself such a thing, I'd still do no such thing. Sorry, but jail scares me a hell of a lot more than being called a wimp by an ex-wife who cheated on me.

Thus, please consider this my modest contribution to the genre. Yep, there's a soldier boy, a paramour, and a confrontation. Sure, none of it would probably go this way, but it still has--I hope--the stamp of plausibility. I've also thrown in some characters from past stories--including a descendant of Ernie the Pug from The Bar and Grill--love interests, flirty students, and main characters who are lost. This is the story of how at least a few of those lost characters find their way.

Sorry, but it's pretty slow going at the beginning, and there's no sex until the finale. The pace of the story is necessary, though, as it sets up the rest of what is to come.

It's also pretty long, and I'm sorry for that, too. I seem to have had diarrhea of the word processor on this one, and there only seemed to be a few natural breaks for multiple parts.

Thus, this is being submitted on consecutive days in three parts of roughly equal length.

As always, I ask that you all please take the time to comment, both good and bad. Obviously, the more detail to your comments, the better. Still, we're all pretty busy, so even just a few words of what you like or dislike is greatly appreciated.

CHAPTER ONE

My right hip hurt like a son of a bitch from the moment I awoke.

"Bad weather on the way?" Whitney murmured, her half-open eyes following my limping figure to the bathroom.

I only grunted in response.

Days like this were the worst. Most people looked forward to Spring, but not me. Spring meant cold and damp, which, in turn, meant that my old hip injury would ache almost constantly for two months or more. And my mind would be flashing back to those terrifying hours leading up to the cause of my hip pain.

After taking a leak, I stared at myself in the mirror while washing my hands. The face staring back at me was still somewhat chiseled. Okay, not really chiseled so much as not covered with sagging jowls and two or more chins like most of my contemporaries. My gray eyes looked tired and lined with a few crow's feet, my short-cropped hair was now sprinkled with gray, and the flab of my chest and skin was noticeable as my body began feeling the inevitable effects of age and gravity. Still, I was only seven pounds more than the day I'd graduated the Point, and my body seemed to be holding up as well as could be expected.

Everything except that damned hip. And the visions that would now be popping up more frequently and at the worst times.

"You okay?" Whitney said through her yawn, leaning against the doorframe.

"Yeah," I said, watching her stretch her tiny, lithe body behind me.

Any other day--and any other mood--and I'd have been sporting thoughts of a morning jump. There she was, her soft brown hair a tousled mess, her tiny, petite body covered only in an old tee shirt and a pair of skimpy panties. And beneath it all, I knew, was the sex drive of a tigress in heat, an unquenchable passion and joy for carnal delights that exceeded that of any woman I'd ever known.

"Your hip?" she said, now nudging me aside and reaching in the drawer for her tooth brush and the tube of paste.

"It's gonna rain today," I said.

"The dreams?"

"Bad," I confirmed.

"You were tossing and turning all night," she said.

She started to brush her teeth, and I reached for my toothbrush to join her in our morning ritual.

Once done, Whitney hopped into the shower while I shaved. After finishing and rinsing my face in ice cold water, I trudged down the hall to awaken Kyle and get him ready for the day.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting at the table, sipping coffee and reading the paper while Kyle ate his bowl of Corn Puffs and munched on a piece of toast.

"I got my second grade assignment," Kyle said with a mouthful of food.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," I said, lowering the paper.

He finished chewing. "I said I got my second grade assignment yesterday."

"And?" I asked.

"Miss Palmer," he said.

"So what do they say about Miss Palmer?"

"She's cool," he said. "Kinda old, though."

I tried to suppress my smile. A 7-year old's idea of old was relative.

"As old as me?"

He frowned. "Not that old. More like Mom."

"I won't tell her you said that," I said.

"Why?"

"It's not nice to tell women they're old. It's not nice to tell anyone they're old--man or woman--but especially women."

"Why?"

I shrugged. "Just one of those mysteries of life, little man."

"What mysteries of life?" Whitney said, buttoning the last button on her blouse as she entered the kitchen. She was perfectly coiffed and professionally dressed in a white blouse with gray skirt and jacket, ready for another day saving the citizens of Lincoln County from its felonious predators.

"Nothing," I said.

"Dad was saying that I shouldn't say people are old even if they are. It's not nice."

She chuckled, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Did you call your Dad old?"

"No," he said, ignoring my finger-to-lips shushing gesture. "I said you were old."

She laughed aloud at that.

"So you're not mad I said it?" Kyle pressed, shooting me a 'told you so' look.

"Your father's right," she said, pulling out a chair and sitting with us. "It's not polite."

Kyle said nothing to this, preferring to finish his cereal in silence.

"He got his second grade assignment," I said.

She raised her eyebrows, sipping her coffee.

"Miss Palmer?" I said.

Maggie nodded. "Sure. Kristin Palmer. She started four or five years back."

"Then how is she old like you?" I said, grinning.

"We graduated together," she said. "High school. She got her degree pretty quick, I think. Didn't start teaching again until she came back up here and got divorced, though."

"Same age?"

"Yep."

"So is she any good?"

Whitney shrugged. "Dunno. She was real popular back in school. Prom queen, head cheerleader. You know the type. We didn't exactly run in the same crowd. She didn't have as much time for books and studying. What, with her busy social calendar and all."

"Jealous?" I tweaked.

"Not any more."

"Meaning?"

"Tyler Collins?" she prompted. "The writer?"

I nodded. "Sure. Lives out on Twin Oaks Road somewhere."

She nodded. "Her ex-husband. The first one. The second one was a cop from around here. So no, I'm not jealous."

I nodded. "But she's a good teacher, right?"

"Not a clue," Whitney said, putting her coffee down and looking at her watch. "Can you hurry up? I really need to get into the office. Final preparations on that hearing today."

"What hearing?"

"The LaBruzzi drug case," she said, impatience creeping in. "Their motion to suppress the evidence."

I nodded, pushing back from the table, putting my coffee mug in the sink, and going back to hop in the shower and finish getting ready before relieving Whitney so she could get to the State's Attorney's Office. Then I'd finish getting Kyle ready for school, drop him off, and make my way to Rensinger Hall at Chadwick College for my morning Classical History II class.

In a nutshell, just another weekday morning around the Patterson household.

* * * * *

Driving to Chadwick, something was niggling at my brain.

It was Whitney. Her moods. She'd been more impatient, silent, brooding, always on the edge of saying something before pressing her lips in silence. Something was bugging her, and that something was more than the typical stresses of her job.

I mulled this over as I parked in the faculty lot and grabbed my briefcase.

The wrist on my watch confirmed I was twenty minutes early. As usual. Oh well, old habits die hard.

* * * * *

It was almost seven-thirty when Whitney walked in the door.

"You guys already eat?" she asked, hanging her coat in the foyer closet before turning to me.

"I fed Kyle," I said, marking my place in the massive tome on the Punic Wars before setting it aside and getting up to greet her. "He's in his room doing some homework. I decided to wait for you."

She gave a weary smile. "You didn't have to do that. You must be starving."

"You, too," I said.

She shrugged.

Her face was weary to the bone, a combination of frazzled and dead tired.

"Everything okay?" I asked, pulling her into my arms and giving her a hug. "You seem really . . . I don't know . . . distant lately. Something on your mind?"

She murmured something into my shoulder, then hugged me tighter and held me there. This was the same response I'd been getting for the past month. She just wouldn't open up.

"You wanna talk about it over dinner?"

She broke the hug. "It's nothing, babe. You know. Work. Same shit, different day. I guess it's all just getting to me."

Her face said more, though. It said that yes, she did want to talk about it, but she was afraid for some reason.

"The hearing go okay today?"

Her quizzical look flashed into a look of recognition. "The hearing. Yeah. Continued for another three weeks. Like what else is new, right?"

My eyes narrowed, and she tried to smile at my suspicion. "Welcome to life with the LaBruzzis, y'know?"

I didn't react, preferring to stare at her for more reaction.

Getting none save a look of wide-eyed openness, I nodded my head toward the kitchen.

"Come on. Roast chicken and grilled asparagus with lemon viniagrette await."

She spent a few minutes in Kyle's room while I got our plates ready. Five minutes later, we were seated across the table from each other, and the silence was deafening.

She picked at her food, and I barely touched mine.

"Is it okay?" I asked after ten minutes during which she'd eaten only three or four bites.

She looked up and tried to smile. "Yeah, Luke. It's really good. I guess I'm just not that hungry." She looked at my plate. "What about you? You feelin' okay?"

"Just the hip."

She nodded, then pushed her plate away.

"Let's go get Kyle tucked in. It's almost his bed time."

"Okay," I agreed, picking up her plate and mine, scraping the leftovers into a tupperware container with the rest of the chicken and asparagus before putting it into the refrigerator. When I turned back, I saw Whitney leading Kyle into the hallway bathroom to brush his teeth.

My suspicions from the morning were now turning to outright worry. Don't get me wrong: Whitney's hours were long and hard. Her promotions from traffic court to misdemeanor to felony had correspondingly increased her hours as the complexity and importance of her case load increased. Truth be told, she wasn't even that late, though her long hours had become more frequent in the past eight months since she'd made the jump to lead felony prosecutor.

Back in the bedroom, I stripped down to my underwear, a tee shirt, and a pair of reading glasses. Throwing my robe on, I went back and hugged and kissed Kyle goodnight, grabbed my book, and looked around for Whitney. I heard a scrape in the garage, and made my way there.

"You out here?" I said into the darkness.

She sniffled. "Over here."

I flipped on the light. She was in the corner, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her head turned away from me.

"Whit," I said, stepping onto the cool cement floor. "Baby, what's wrong?"

She just shook her head, and I could hear her crying.

I walked toward her, and she squeezed herself even tighter as I approached. Dread began coursing through my veins, the kind of cold, shivery feeling you have as you watch something terrible begin to unfold.

"What's wrong?" I said, my voice now a hoarse whisper.

"You're going to hate me," she said, her eyes staying glued to the wall opposite me.

"Why? What's going on here?"

Whitney's head dropped to her chest and she didn't answer.

"What have you done?" I pressed, not wanting to know, but afraid not to find out.

"I . . . we need . . . there's . . . ." She looked to me for help, her eyes pleading with me to back off.

Looking back on it, I'm not sure whether I made a mistake. To this day, I still sometimes wonder whether everything would've still happened the way it did if I'd just given her time to figure it all out on her own. If I'd left her alone to figure it out for herself--if I hadn't pressed for an immediate answer--would she have worked it through on her own and eventually been shaken into reality?

Unfortunately, I'll never know the answer to that. Whatever was tearing her apart so much was now tearing me apart, and I had to know what was going on. For my own sanity, she had to tell me why she was so upset and withdrawn.

"I'm your husband," I finally said. "I love you, and I'm here for you. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

She hesitated, her eyes pleading with me to let it be.

"This is only getting worse, Whit," I said, my voice cracking with emotion. "You're not talking to me anymore. I have no idea what's eating at you, and you won't share it. Is it me? Us? Something going on at work?"

She said something, but I couldn't hear her voice.

"What?"

She turned and faced me, her face a mask of anguish. "It's everything. It's you; it's me; it's us. It's work and bullshit and I'm just not happy."

Her words were like a slap in the face and a quick, solid punch to the solar plexus.

"Us?" I croaked. "What's wrong with us?"

She shook her head. "Not just us, not just our marriage. It's everything all together. It's just all getting so . . . I don't know. Stale? There's no spark, no excitement. Just drudgery."

I said nothing, trying to decipher what she was saying and what it meant for our family.

"I don't feel alive anymore, Luke," she pleaded. "It's like I'm just going through the motions. I mean, I love you. I love Kyle. But, well, it seems like my whole life is just in a rut. I get up, get ready for work, snatch a few minutes with you guys before rushing off to work. Then I get to spend ten or twelve hours a day trying to keep up with the rushing tide of scumbags who can't keep their shit together. Keep trying to lock 'em away until they get a fucking clue on how to behave. Then I rush home, manage to spend an hour at most unwinding while trying to get Kyle in the bath and the dishes done and then it's off to bed. Get up the next morning, repeat the cycle."

"I usually do the dishes," I said. "And the cooking and the bathing and the homework."

"I know," she cried. "That's not the point. You do. You manage to do it all when I can't help you. But then our weekends are spent around the house, getting stuff done to get ready for the next week. I just want it all to be different."

"Different how? Different job? Go for it. You know I'll support you."

She shook her head. "Will that really fix it all?"

My eyes narrowed. "What're you saying?"

"I'm saying that I think we should separate," she said, the tears drying and a firm look setting in. "I need some time to figure out what I want. What I need."

"And what about us? What about Kyle?"

She snorted at that. An angry snort. "Kyle doesn't need me to take care of him. He's got you."

"So you're just leaving him?"

"I'm not leaving him," she flashed. "I'm not abandoning him. I'm not running away from my baby."

"Then what are you doing?" I pressed, anger now overcoming my emotions as well.

"I'm taking time to get my shit together. Time to make sure I'm squared away so I can be a better mother for him."

I just stared at her, waiting for her to finish the thought. After a moment, I was left pondering what she had left unspoken.

"So you're not going to spend this time trying to figure out if you want to continue being my wife," I surmised. "You've already given up on us."

Whitney's lips tightened.

"Answer me."

"I don't know."

"Is there someone else?"

She hesitated, then shook her head.

"Who is he?"

"I said there was no one else," she hissed. "I haven't fucked around on you. I'm not seeing anyone."

"But you've got your eye on someone, don't you?"

She turned away, refusing to answer.

"And this separation," I said, building steam. "You're going to use it to see if maybe it'll work between the two of you. If it does, then you'll cut me loose, right? Or were you just gonna cut me loose either way."

"It's not like that," she said. Her voice was going flat, emotionless. Like she was steeling herself to confirm that it was exactly like that.

"And this separation," I said. "When does it start? Where are you moving to? In with him?"

"I don't know."

"Which part? Which part don't you know?"

She turned back to me, her eyes dead and her voice low and cool.

"I don't know when it's going to start. I don't know where I'm moving to. I doubt I'll be moving in with him, but it may happen. I just don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."

"What do you mean you haven't thought that far ahead? You're a fucking lawyer, for Chrissakes. Thinking and planning, that's all you fucking do for a living."

"You pressed me," she said. "I didn't want to tell you."

"Yet," I corrected her. "You didn't want to tell me yet. So what were you gonna do? Get all you ducks in a row, pack your shit, give me a peck on the cheek, and ride off into the sunset? After almost ten years together, that's really how you were gonna play it?"

She didn't respond, but her face told me that was exactly how she was going to play it.

"Fine," I said. "Do whatever the fuck you wanna do. It's pretty clear where I fit in your pecking order. And Kyle, too, for that matter."

"Don't you dare," she started.

"And as long as we're on that topic," I interrupted, "you should at least start giving some thought to what we're gonna tell Kyle here."

Her face froze at that, the rest of her interrupted retort cut off in her throat.

"It'll be both of us," I said. "And we'll both be polite and not point any fingers. But you're the one that's gonna plan the fucking strategy on this one, lawyer girl. Got it?"

She only nodded as fresh tears ran down her cheeks.

I watched her for a minute, all of my anger and fight leaving me.

This was like a weird sci-fi movie. Like Harrison Ford in Bladerunner. Was I a loving husband willing to give up without a fight? Or was I an unfeeling automaton not willing to wage a losing battle?

Me. West Point Class of '89. I'd fought, and been a part of, a victorious war. And every day for the rest of my life, my right hip would remind me of the personal costs associated with that war.

If I fought and won this war--if I fought for my marriage and managed to hold our family together--would I forever be reminded of similar costs? Would I see Whitney's regret every day for the rest of our lives? Regret that she'd stayed with us or that we were somehow--in her mind, at least--holding her back? Or would I be reminded every day with happiness in a stronger marriage and a happier son?

Too overwhelmed to consider the options and plan a course of action, I turned and left the garage.


The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 01



CHAPTER TWO

When I awoke the next morning almost an hour before the alarm, Whitney was curled up in bed beside me, snoring softly. That surprised me. The manual seemed to indicate someone should be sleeping on the couch here. Then again, what the fuck did I know? It's not like divorce was a common thing for me.

Nope. This was the first time.

I thought back to our wedding and the words of my best man.

"You sure this is what you wanna do?" my brother Mark said then.

I only smiled.

"It's not too late," Mark continued.

"Really," I assured him. "She's the one."

"Okay," he nodded. "Just remember: If there's one thing you never want to be, it's anyone's ex-husband. So no matter what it takes, you keep your shit together, okay? And make sure she does, too."

I only laughed. "Will you quit worrying?"

That conversation kept playing in my mind as I went to the hallway bathroom and brushed my teeth, shaved, and showered.

How could I do it? How could I keep my shit together when I didn't even know what I'd done wrong? How do I keep her shit together when she's already given up on us and--obviously--hitched her future to some other horse? I just had no idea how to proceed.

"Morning," Whitney said from the now-open doorway as I stepped from the shower.

Without thinking, I stepped back into the shower and draped myself in the shower curtain.

"Jesus, Luke," she said, her sad face turning angry. "It's not like I've never seen it before."

"Yeah," I said, fighting to keep my voice low and my emotions in check. "Back when we were lovers, right?"

Her anger turned to astonishment, like I'd slapped her in the face. Part of me was overjoyed at scoring a direct hit, the kind of hit I'd taken the night before; the other part of me was ashamed to be so intentionally striking back. After a few seconds, overjoyed won.

"Now if you'll excuse me," I said, "I'd like to finish getting ready. I'm pretty sure the master bath is still there if you need it."

She stared for a few seconds longer before closing the door.

* * * * *

I was dressed in jeans and a golf shirt, reading the paper and drinking coffee while Kyle ate his cereal and toast. Halfway through my second--and final--cup of coffee, Whitney appeared from our bedroom.

"Hey, Mom," Kyle chirped up.

"Mornin', sweetie," she said, stooping to kiss his cheek before turning to pour herself a cup of coffee.

I felt her eyes on me, but I just concentrated on reading the paper.

"You sleep okay last night?" she said.

Looks like the Cubs were going to have another shitty season.

"Dad," Kyle said.

I lowered the paper. "What, little man?"

"Mom asked if you slept okay last night."

"Oh," I said. Then I smiled at him. "No."

"Me neither," Whitney said.

I ignored her and went back to reading the paper. She gave a light sigh, and I sensed the energy leave her body.

"Can we talk?" she said.

I lowered the paper again, fighting to stay impassive in front of Kyle.

"About what?"

"Last night."

"There's more? You're gonna somehow top yourself?"

She shot glances to Kyle, who was busily munching his cereal while reading the comics page.

"Please?" she said.

"Now?"

She shook her head. "Later. Tonight, maybe. When I get home."

"Tonight then," I said, raising the paper back up and reading--for the tenth time or so--that the Cubs had no real pitching prospects and were still going to suck.

* * * * *

I was piling my notes and books back into my briefcase at the conclusion of 20th Century American History. I could hear the doors clanging as most streamed out, and I heard snatches of conversations between the few students who were still milling around, undoubtedly planning some party or date rather than plotting the theses of their term papers.

"You okay, Professor?"

I looked up. Heather Farley was standing a few feet in front of the lectern, her angelic face an exaggerated mask of concern. Twenty-one years old, an apparently natural blonde with long, straight hair all shiny and combed, and a body that would make Pope Benedict look more than once.

"I'm fine, Ms. Farley," I said. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"You don't seem fine," she said, her voice lowering so the others in the room couldn't hear her. "You seem distracted. And upset."

I tried to smile, but it never reached my eyes. You can tell these things.

"Welcome to life," I said, trying to introduce a measure of levity. "Some days just aren't as good as others."

Heather looked at me, saying nothing. Her bright green eyes bored into mine and held there, her lips pursing.

"So if there's nothing else," I said, breaking the reverie by snapping my briefcase shut, "I've got to run."

"If you need to talk to someone, I'm a real good listener."

"I'll keep that in mind, Ms. Farley."

"Okay."

She turned, scooped up her book bag from her desk, and walked out.

My eyes followed her ass every step of the way, and I finally took a breath as she disappeared into the hallway.

"Pretty sweet, huh Doc?" Tony Granger said, grinning broadly as I turned to look at him.

"Indeed, Mr. Granger," I agreed. "Pretty sweet indeed."

If the faculty lounge rumor mill was to be believed, Heather Farley had comforted at least one faculty member during her three years at Chadwick College. Before, I had always considered the offending professor a bit sleazy for taking advantage of her.

Now, I envied the hell out of him.

And I'm pretty sure he wasn't the one who took advantage of her. I was willing to bet it was the other way around.

* * * * *

"So who do I see?" I asked.

"And you're asking me why?" Doug Morrissey said.

"Because you've gone through this before."

"And you're asking me to re-live the whole goddamned thing?"

"No," I insisted. "I'm just asking you what lawyer I should call. I mean, come on man, I don't know shit from attorneys."

He sighed, his puffy cheeks and tendrils of whispy hair all sagging with the breath expelled from his lungs.

"Just tell me who you used," I pleaded with the English Lit professor.

"Don't use him. He was clueless. Absolutely pathetic."

"Well, did you see anyone else that may be worth a damn?"

He nodded, grimacing at the memory. "Germaine's attorney. Rebecca Galarza. She works for Erik Taylor. I think they're partners now."

"And their office is here? In Grant City?"

He nodded.

"And they're good? She's good?"

He looked at me, frowning. "Remember my sixty-one Triumph? My pride and joy?"

I nodded.

"I think Germaine used it to pay her legal fees. My car to pay her damned lawyers. And she got it in the divorce, along with most everything else."

"Sorry," I commiserated, thanking God I didn't have some beloved, cherished token to have to give up in the divorce. Well, nothing except my battle dioramas in the basement, but Whitney would never want any of those.

No, I had nothing to lose in the divorce.

Nothing except Kyle, which was everything.

"You okay?" Doug said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"What if I lose him?" I asked. "Kyle. What if she gets custody?"

He reached across the table and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Listen to me, Luke."

I looked at him, tensing at the tone in his voice.

"Is there any way this can be fixed? And I mean any way."

"I don't know," I answered. "Honestly, I never even saw this coming. I don't even know what the fuck is going on, you know? This is so totally out of left field."

He nodded, shaking his head.

"Because this is really going to suck, my friend. Big time. Take my word for it: As bad as you think it's going to be, it's going to be worse. So if you can stop it, I recommend you do so immediately if not sooner."

For the second time in twenty-four hours, I felt cold and shivery all over.

CHAPTER THREE

Kyle and I were hunched over the kitchen table, him working on an addition and subtraction worksheet, me filling out a client questionnaire I'd been given by the receptionist at Taylor & Galarza, Attorneys at Law.

Whitney walked in the door shortly after five. Kyle's face lit up, and he leapt from the table and ran to her.

"Hey, baby," she said, scooping him into her arms and hugging him tightly with her jacket still hanging from one arm. "How was school?"

"Okay," he chirped, then wriggled from her hug and ran back to the table, scooping up his homework.

My eyes followed him every step of the way, from the hug back to the table then down the hall to his bedroom where he was stashing his homework to finish later.

"Hey," Whitney said, placing her hand on my shoulder.

I turned and looked up at her, then looked at her hand on my shoulder. She snatched her hand away like my eyes were scorching her skin.

"Sorry."

I went back to the questionairre, dutifully filling in the blanks.

Whitney sat across from me at the table.

"So you didn't even bother waiting for us to talk, did you?"

I looked back up to her and raised an eyebrow. "Wait for what?"

"To see a lawyer." She nodded at the questionnaire I hadn't bothered to hide from her. "They're good, by the way. God knows you could've done a whole lot worse."

"Could I have done better?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. Not really my field. I only know what I hear around the courthouse."

I nodded.

"Why the big hurry?" she asked. "Why couldn't you at least wait for us to talk?"

I put the pen down and folded my arms over the questionnaire.

"Is it going to do any good?" I asked. "Have you already changed your mind? Decided to give us a chance maybe?"

I watched the emotions stream through her eyes and over her face. She was trying to think of the right thing to say, and her lips started moving a couple of times. But she was conflicted, clueless on how she wanted to proceed.

And that's why I had the questionnaire out in front of her. I decided the best thing to do was to force her to immediately consider the costs of her choices. Get her off the damned fence and get her thinking long and hard about what she was contemplating.

"Kyle, honey," I said over her shoulder to my son, who was running back out of his room, "can you go back into your room and finish that homework? Mom and I need to talk, then we'll all eat, okay?"

"Sure Dad," he chirped, then turned and went back into his room.

When I turned back to her, Whitney's eyes were on the table in front of her.

"Okay," I said. "You wanted to talk. We've got about a half hour before he's done with his homework and dinner's ready. So what is it you want to talk about?"

"Why are you rushing this?" she said. "You've already seen a lawyer, for Chrissakes. I mean, Jesus H. Christ, Luke, what's the sudden hurry?"

"If I hadn't forced the issue last night--if I hadn't caught you out there in the garage and made you talk to me--you would've never told me. Not until you were already gone. Not until you already had your own lawyer lined up and all your shit together, right?"

She said nothing, but her face confirmed the simple fact.

"Well, Whitney, I don't think I want to get blindsided again, okay? I don't want to show up one day with the locks changed or with you and Kyle gone to live your new life with my replacement."

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"Really? Really, you wouldn't?" I laughed. "That's funny. Then what is it you've already done?"

"I just told you I'm confused. I'm not happy, and I need some time to get myself squared away. For my own sanity."

"And you told me that getting 'squared away' probably includes another man. A man you're supposedly not already screwing and already making future--"

"I told you I wasn't doing that," she flared. "And I'm not. It's just been a . . . we've just . . . ."

Her face told me she'd already said too much and she knew it.

"You've just what, Whitney? Just held hands? Just had a few intimate lunches? Maybe just a hot make out session or two? What have you and Mr. Right just been doing?"

She pressed her lips together. "This has nothing to do with him."

"You're right. He's tomorrow's problem. No, this is all about you and me. All about you suddenly--and without even telling me why--just suddenly deciding you're not happy with me. So what is it you're not happy with? The fact that I'm the one who damned near single-handedly keeps this house running? Does the cooking and most of the cleaning and more than my share of the laundry? Makes sure Kyle's homework is done and he's fed and clothed? Is that what you're not happy with?"

"Your hours are lighter than mine," she said, her eyes avoiding mine. "You know that. It's always been that way. You never used to care."

"And I don't care now," I said, fighting to keep my voice low. "Don't you see that? When's the last time I bitched about any of this? Huh? When? Have I ever thrown any of this in your face? Ever insisted you cut back?"

She was silent.

"Well have I?"

"No, Luke. You've never done that."

"Then why, Whitney? What the hell is it?"

Tears were streaming down her face, and she shook with silent sobs. I got up and fetched the roll of paper towels, putting them on the table in front of her.

"Don't I at least deserve some sort of explanation?"

She nodded. "I just . . . I don't know. I'm just not happy."

"Then get a different job," I suggested. "Why are you starting with us? Instead of changing your job and seeing if that makes it better, you decide to change husbands? Families? That's really your first choice here?"

She turned and looked out the window, wiping her cheeks and blowing her nose and getting her emotions under control.

"If it's really everything like you said last night, then why don't you see if just changing one thing would fix it? Maybe get a different job? Maybe go into private practice and see if you can cut back on your hours or change fields of practice or something? Why are you trying to change everything?"

Her stare remained out the window, and her voice when she spoke was so low I had to lean over to hear her.

"I feel like running away sometimes. Getting away from everything and everyone. Just going, I don't know, maybe to a small cabin in the mountains."

Then her lips twitched, and a small smile played at her lips.

"Except when you're with him," I guessed.

The smile disappeared in a flash and her face froze at my accusation.

"You're not denying it, Whit."

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. "He's just so easy to talk to. He cheers me up, makes me think everything's going to be all right."

"Maybe because he's the one you've been sharing your problems with. Maybe because you haven't been talking to me for months now."

She turned and faced me. "But you've already got so much on your plate. You already do enough for us."

I smiled at that. "Really? If I do so much for us, then why couldn't you take just that one small step to save us? Why are you going to someone else for your comfort and allowing us--our whole family--to disintegrate? You really think I have so much on my plate I'd have resented the request to keep us all happy? Keep us together?"

Her body sagged like a puppet. Head, shoulders, posture, all of it just collapsed into the chair.

"But you already do enough. I feel so guilty all the time. Like you're the only one doing anything around here. Like you're Perfect Mom and Perfect Dad all rolled into one. Like I'm not even needed."

I reached my arm across the table. She stared at my hand for a moment, then placed her tiny hand in mine.

"If you want to do more," I said, trying to smile, "I'm more than willing to let you. Cut back on your hours some. Maybe just try to get home about this time every night. I'm more than willing to let you do more, take a bigger part in all the fun stuff you're missing out on."

"Like cooking," she smiled.

"And cleaning, homework, mowing the lawn. The whole shebang."

Her hand squeezed mine, and her head lifted.

"I don't know if I want to do that."

CHAPTER FOUR

The next night, Whitney again arrived home shortly after five. By five-thirty, we'd all eaten, and I got up from the table.

"Where are you going?" she asked as I walked toward the basement door.

"To the basement," I said. "You clean up for a change. I'm going to go play with my soldiers."

"I thought we could talk some more," she said.

"Then you know where I'll be," I said, not hearing whatever she was saying to my retreating back.

Once in the basement, I flipped on the lights and was greeted by a sight I'd not really seen or spent much time around for three years. Raising a son has a way of making you cut back on your hobbies.

Laid out before me in the long, narrow, low-ceilinged basement were a series of tables. On each table was a diorama of a turning point in time, the turning point of a great or famous battle from history.

I walked to the first table and stopped. Thermopylae. The Hot Gates. I had constructed the mountain to the west and the sea to the east. Along the narrow strip of beach, King Leonidas and his Spartan warriors, along with scattered soldiers from other Greek city-states, were waging a titanic struggle to hold off King Xerxes and his vast Persian Army. The Persians outnumbered the free Greeks fifty-to-one or more. And hidden in a meandering mountain pass, about to flank the brave Greeks, a string of Persians were creeping down toward them. The Persians had been given the route by a traitor. And so the brave Greeks were attacked from the flank and the rear and died to the man. The three days Leonidas and his men held off the Persians gave the rest of the Greek city-states time to plan and mouth their successful defense to the invasion.

I pondered this for a moment before going to the second battle scene from Gettysburg. No, this one wasn't Col. Chamberlain's valiant bayonet charge down Little Round Top, nor was it Pickett's suicidal charge up the exposed slope straight at the Union center. Instead, the scene was from the first day--nearly the first moments--of the battle. Brig. Gen. Buford's cavalry dismounted and fighting alongside the 1st Brigade of the 1st Division of the 1st Corps. The Iron Brigade. Together, they are fighting and dying to hold off the stream of Confederate soldiers from Archer's Brigade who are attacking them down the Chambersburg Pike, the main road into Gettysburg. By holding off this charge at great cost, the Union kept the high ground, which made all the difference for the rest of the pivotal clash. The cost, though, was great, including the best general in the Army of the Potomac. I leaned in and stared hard at the figures I'd crafted. The figures gathered around the splayed body of Maj. Gen. John Reynolds as he lay dead in the opening minutes of the battle, felled by a sniper's round or just a wild bullet from the clash. Because of their courage and sacrifice, the battle was all but preordained from the opening volley of bullets.

There were two more complete battle scenes, and one half-finished diorama. There was a cutaway view of the tunnels being dug--and explosives being packed--beneath both trench lines of the Ypres Salient, one of the worst meat grinders of World War I. In the other, Hannibal and his Carthaginian forces--along with various allies--were snapping shut their double envelopment of the superior Roman forces at Cannae. And thus the Carthaginians reached their zenith in the Second Punic War.

I barely glanced at those two. The meat grinder and the crushing double flanking movements were not nearly as poignant to me just then as the cost of traitors and the need to hold the high ground at all costs.

I stopped at the last table, running my fingers over the harsh, destroyed landscape of Stalingrad. It was all there on the biggest diorama I'd ever tackled: The stark shells of bombed out buildings, Pavlov's house, the tractor factory, rubble-strewn streets, the pocked hill at Mamayev Kurgan overlooking the remains of the city and the River Volga beyond. It had taken months to get the landscape just right, and the only figures inhabiting it were boats packed with reinforcements crossing the Volga amidst explosions of fake water. It was time to start making the various Russian and German soldiers and weapons, time to start populating the dying city with dying men.




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 01



I sagged, staring at the landscape. Dying city. Dying men. Dying marriage. Maybe dying fatherhood.

I turned at the sound on the stairs.

"Dad?"

"Over here," I said, trying to banish the thoughts from my mind.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm gonna make some soldiers."

"Can I help?"

"Sure." I waved him over. "Get over here, little man."

He gave a broad grin and scurried to my side.

"What's this?" he asked, his eyes wide at the stark victim of the Nazi onslaught.

"This is what happens when people hate each other," I said, pulling him in and hugging him to my side.

"They do this?"

"Uh huh."

He nodded. "It's pretty sad."

"Yep."

"So what're we gonna make?" he asked, his voice getting bright at the excitement of getting to work with me on these for the first time in his life.

"Time to start carving some soldiers," I said.

I spent the next two hours showing Kyle how to carve and shape soldiers from clay before making plaster casts of them for the ultimate casting process.

Whitney never came down.

After I got Kyle bathed, brushed, and into bed, I went back to the living room and pulled out my book on the Punic Wars.

The Third Punic War, I knew by heart, had started because Carthage had finished paying Rome reparations from the Second Punic War. Rome, with a growing population and no more reparations coming in, decided to feed its people by conquering Carthage and its rich farmlands once and for all. Thus, they ultimately besieged Carthage and starved its people out. When the Carthaginians surrendered, they were all enslaved and the city and its magnificent harbor razed. And Carthage simply ceased to exist.

It was gone.

Never to rise again.

And the Romans, who had commenced the war on false pretenses and through trickery, were forever burdened with the Punic Curse.

* * * * *

Kyle and I spent Saturday morning carving and shaping soldiers, making plaster casts, and pouring molten tin into the casts.

At eleven thirty or so, Whitney appeared at the base of the basement stairs.

"Do you think that's wise?"

"What?"

"Letting our son play with molten metal."

"He's not playing with molten metal," I said. "He's learning how to do something. Learning the right way. The safe way. And learning, in the process, what can happen if he ever does something the wrong way."

"Still," she said.

"C'mon, Mom," Kyle said. "He's not letting me pour it. I just get to hold the funnel is all. And I have to wear this."

He held up his tiny arm to show the massive fireproof mitt covering his tiny hand and arm to the elbow.

"And it's fun," he continued. "We're making soldiers."

"Well," she started, then just looked at us.

I turned back to pour the last cast.

"Ready?" I said.

"Uh huh," he confirmed.

I poured a stead stream of liquid metal into the funnel, my free hand over Kyle's as I held the funnel steady, my eyes peering in to see when the cast was full.

"Okay," I said, putting the pan aside and guiding his hand as he lifted and let the last drops fall harmlessly before moving the funnel and setting it into the pan.

When I turned back, Whitney was still there, a soft look on her face. Catching my eyes, her face went taut.

"Do you . . . are you two going to be doing some more?"

"You need us for something?"

She struggled, her eyes avoiding mine. "I . . . uh . . . well, I was going to run out for awhile. I was wondering if you could keep an eye on him for a few hours."

I stared at her, not believing the words coming out of her mouth.

"You said you wanted to spend more time around the house. With Kyle, at least."

Whitney's teeth were grinding, and she sighed. "I know, but I--"

"That talk," I said. "With Kyle. Take some of your time with Superman planning it, because it's going to be tonight. After dinner. So try not to be late, got it?"

She looked at me for a moment, then jerked her head in a tight nod.

"What talk, Dad?"

I looked down at Kyle. Worry was all over his face.

I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Don't worry about it, okay?"

His face said it wasn't okay.

"I really don't want to say more now, Kyle. It's a family talk."

"Like when I wanted a dog?"

"Sorta like that."

"But worse," he concluded.

"Yeah."

"Did I do something wrong?"

I scooped him up and held him tight.

"Not a thing," I whispered into his ear. "Not a damned thing, little man."

* * * * *

Whitney was home when Kyle and I got back from the park at three. If she'd spent the lunch hour screwing her new love, it didn't show. To the contrary, she was a bundle of nerves, sitting at the dining room table with her hands fidgeting back and forth through a cookbook and her eyes looking to us when we walked in before turning back to the cookbooks, then the windows, then us, and so on. She couldn't sit still.

"You wanna do this now?"

She shook her head. "I'd rather just talk to you for a few minutes."

"Why don't you go hop in the bath now," I said to Kyle.

"But Dad," he pleaded.

"Hop in the bath, get cleaned up and into pajamas, and we'll order some pizza and stay up past your bedtime watching movies, okay?"

The grin nearly split his face. "Deal."

"Okay," I said once Kyle was in the bathroom running his bath and I was seated at the table.

"I'm confused."

"About what?"

"About everything."

I nodded, saying nothing.

After a minute, Whitney spoke again. "It's just that--I don't know--it all seemed like such a great idea. Like this fantasy I had in my head and it was getting better and better the more I thought about it."

Still I said nothing; I just relaxed back and sank lower into the chair and watched her.

"Are you going to say something?"

"I'm listening," I said. "Trying to figure out what's going on here. Just like I've been trying to do for the past four days."

"I told you," she said. "I maybe got carried away with a fantasy world."

"And with another man," I added. "Someone else has been part of it. How actively you've been fantasizing with him . . . ."

"I told you. I haven't been screwing anyone else."

"Then what have you been doing?"

She looked out the window.

"That's what I thought," I said. "And still you won't tell me. All you'll tell me is that I'm no longer really the one for you. That I'm--for some unknown, undefined reason--a major reason why you're in a rut. But you won't tell me why. You won't tell me what I can do to help fix it. And you won't tell me how to compete with some fucking quasi-lover you refuse to name."

I leaned over the table, and her head jerked to face me, her eyes wide.

"I shouldn't even have to compete with someone else, Whitney. We're fucking married here. This isn't junior high school. We're not going steady like a couple of fucking pre-teens."

"I'm sorry, Luke," she said. "I can't help it. It's just . . . I don't know."

"Yeah. I remember. 'It's just how you feel.' But tell me this: Did you start feeling like this before he came into your life or after?"

"What difference does--"

"Because I'm wondering if you started feeling this way all on your own or if he helped you along in ditching me."

"It's not like that," she argued.

"See," I said, leaning back in the chair again. "There you go again. Defending this guy. This guy you won't tell me about or tell me what you've been doing with--or doing to. It's like you think you have some kind of fucking right to keep all of this secret from me. Tell me you're leaving me; tell me there's someone else; but then fail to tell me what I did wrong or who he is or what he is to you or what you're doing with him."

"I'm entitled to a life of my own, too," she argued.

"That's right, Whitney. You're entitled to a life of your own. And that's exactly what you're going to get. A life of your own. On your own."

Her eyes went wide. "What're you--"

"I've got an appointment on Monday afternoon. I'm going to retain them as my lawyers."

"But I don't--"

"You don't what? Don't want one? But you still wanna keep your little fucking loverboy on the side? Keep things from me? And you want me to continue living with a wife who suddenly doesn't love me anymore?"

Tears were streaming down her face. "Why are you pushing this? Why can't you just give me some time?"

Her face was a mask of anguish, completely conflicted emotions. It tore at me, took the wind from my sails and the anger from my bones.

"Do you really see any chance for us here?"

"I don't know."

"So there may be some chance?"

She nodded.

"Better than fifty fifty?"

"I don't know."

I thought back to what Doug had said. Whatever it takes, do it. Anything to avoid divorce. Anything to keep the marriage together.

"When do you think you'll know?"

She shrugged.

"Would you see someone? Maybe a therapist or a counselor or something?"

In an instant, her face was a mask of fury. "For what? You think I'm nuts because I may not want to be with you anymore?"

I bit back my tongue and took a breath. "No. I think that maybe you're suffering from depression."

"Because I'm not happy with us? Because I don't want to be married to you anymore?"

"And there you have it," I said, pushing back from the table. "You can't even tell me the truth."

"What do you--"

"Thirty seconds ago you said you didn't know. That maybe we still had a chance here. Now you're saying you don't want to be married to me anymore."

"That's not what I said."

"But it's what you meant," I said.

I walked around the table toward the bathroom to check on Kyle. She reached her arm out to stop me, and I froze.

Without looking at her, I said, "We'll give him one last happy night tonight. Get your shit together enough for the talk with him tomorrow."

Her hand gripped my shirt, trying to hold me there.

I reached down and pried her fingers off of me, then I continued to the bathroom.

I had twelve feet to get my emotions in check so my little boy wouldn't realize his world was about to fall apart.

CHAPTER FIVE

Say this for Rebecca Galarza: She was smoking hot. I mean the kind that distracts you; the kind of incredible beauty combined with that extra something that exudes a sexual aura that leaves you fantasizing about her the whole time you're in her presence.

She strode into the small waiting room and held out her hand.

"Mr. Patterson?" she said.

"Luke," I corrected her, trying to keep my jaw off my chest. She was mid-thirties, and dressed simply in a white blouse and tan slacks. Yet, the simple colors somehow served to accentuate her smooth olive skin and long, black hair. Her face was that of a classic Spanish beauty with high cheekbones, narrow chin, large, round, deep brown eyes, and full lips, and her body was that of a Playboy centerfold. Her breasts were obvious, but not enormous, and the rest of her seemed slim and perfectly proportioned. It was the way she held herself, though, and the way she looked at you. Direct, challenging. It was a look that dared you to jump in the sack with her and try to screw her brains out. A look that must have men lined up around the block for a shot at her. And none, I noticed from the empty ring finger, had yet leashed her in.

"So, Luke," she said after a moment, a smile playing over her lips and her eyes twinkling at my response.

"Right," was all I could manage.

She waved her arm toward a door, and I walked around her and into a conference room.

"Okay," she said, pulling a pair of reading glasses from her pocket and putting them on to read my questionnaire. "Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"I don't know."

She looked up and raised her eyebrow. "You don't know?"

"Seriously. Whitney--that's my wife--she tells me she's not happy. With her job, her marriage, me. Pretty much everything."

"Is she going through a bad phase of some kind? Death in the family or someone sick? Sudden pressure at work?"

I shrugged. "No one's died and no one's about to, either. Not so far as I know, at least. Still, I'm pretty sure I would've heard about it. Same thing with work. I mean, there's some kind of drug case going on now. Supposed to be a real big deal. The LaBruzzis?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Your wife's Whitney Patterson the prosecutor?"

I nodded. "That a problem?"

"Not really. It's just that most of the judges will probably recuse from the case. We'll probably end up with someone from out of county."

"And?"

It was her turn to shrug. "Hard to predict how another judge will react to certain things."

"But it's not a problem with your office?"

She shook her head. "I'll check with my partner, but I don't think so. I mean, we do some criminal stuff. Hell, I used to work with her before I started here four years ago."

"Were you friends?"

"Colleagues. We never had a drink or anything, though. So I wouldn't really say friends."

I nodded. "She says you guys are good."

She nodded, like such compliments were commonplace around the office. "So back to what's going on. Is there someone else?"

"Yeah. She says they're just friends, but she's let slip a few times. I'm pretty sure they're more than friends. How much more, I have no idea and she's not saying."

"Who is it?"

"She's not saying."

She pursed her lips, and I had a sudden fantasy of leaning across the table and kissing her.

Seeing my glassy eyes, she gave a smile.

"It says here you have a little boy together. Have you really thought this through?"

"In what way?"

She leaned over the table. "You sure you don't want to just wait a little while? Maybe see if she gets her head out of her ass?"

I shook my head.

"Pride? The other man?"

"It's not that." I paused for a moment, trying to put words to my jumbled thoughts. "Take that back: It's partially that. What it really is, though, is her adamant refusal to even tell me what the hell is going on. She's just . . . well, she doesn't want me anymore. I have no idea why, and she's not really telling me why. I mean, Jesus, I do everything for her. For us. For our family. I'm the one who takes care of Kyle; mostly, at least. I do most of the housework and everything else to help support her career. And the thanks I get is that she doesn't love me anymore."

Rebecca was writing furiously on a pad in front of her. "When you say you do most everything, including taking care of Kyle, let's get more specific."

"How?"

"Who makes his breakfast?"

"Usually me."

"Usually?"

"Nine times out of ten."

"Who helps him with his homework?"

"The same."

"Laundry?"

"Ditto."

"Dinner?"

"Ditto."

She stared into my eyes, and I saw that hers were ablaze with glee. "He's in first grade?"

I nodded.

"Did you go to the parent-teacher conferences?"

"Of course."

"Did Whitney?"

"She couldn't get out of the office."

She smiled. "You want custody?"

My eyes went wide. "Is that possible?"

"From what I'm hearing, it's not only possible, it's probable."

"Really?"

She gave a throaty chuckle. "The judge isn't going to care who has the pecker. You're both equal. Unless you're doing a pretty crappy job, though, the one who's taking care of him--we call that the primary caregiver--that's the one who gets custody."

I didn't know what to say. I'd assumed Whitney, being the mother, would almost automatically get custody. Now this Hispanic goddess was telling me that I'd probably get custody if I wanted it.

"Well?" she said.

"Well what? Of course I want custody."

"And you'll be able to handle it with your job as a . . . ." She flipped back to the first page of the questionnaire. "You're a history professor? At Chadwick?"

I nodded. "Yeah. And yes, I'll be able to handle it with my job."

"Sweet," she said, her face a gleeful mask. She wrote on the legal pad. 'Custody to LP.'

"Now let's go over your financials."

* * * * *

I was walking on air when I left the law offices of Taylor & Galarza. Was it going to suck? Yep. But it wasn't going to suck nearly as bad as I'd feared it would. The property split would probably be about fifty-fifty, the chances of alimony were slim, and--Thank You God!--I was probably going to be getting custody of Kyle.

I drove to the park to pick up Kyle. He was there with Sally Romescu, our neighbor, and her posse of children.

"Dad," Kyle cried out from the swings upon seeing me.

"Hey, little man," I said, walking toward him as he leaped off the swing and ran toward me and into my arms.

"You doing okay?" I asked as I held him to my chest.

"I guess so," he whispered into my ear, squeezing me tightly.

I squeezed him right back, knowing there would be times coming up when he'd again be crying as he had the day before. Sobbing uncontrollably at the loss of his family and of one of his parents.

"I love you," I said. "You know that, right?"

"I love you, too," he said, leaning back and looking at my face. "Can we go home now and make some more soldiers?"

"Absolutely," I said, letting him down as his weight began to make my hip ache.

I said our goodbyes to Sally, who seemed like the calm at the center of the storm with her four kids running around and screaming.

"Thanks," I said as we turned to leave.

"Anytime, Doc," she said.

Sally--and her husband Charlie--both called me Doc. At school, the students all called me Professor, but I was only addressed as doctor when being introduced to give some boring lecture or present a paper to my colleagues. Charlie and Sally, though, seemed somehow proud to be living next door to a real professor, like it was proof positive that an electrician and his wife, neither of whom had a college education, could still make it in America and live with all of us who got the educations.

So they called me Doc. Not so much to honor me in any way as to remind themselves of how good they had it.

Watching her patience around four screaming rugrats, though, it was I who envied them, and not for the first time. They made me realize how good they had it and how bad I now had it. They made enough money to live happily in a nice home and to spend time together and with their children. Their devotion to each other was obvious to all who saw them together, and I simply couldn't envision them ever being in my shoes.

And me in comparison? The only reason I had a doctorate degree was because it was the only way of really escaping my father's business; my family was collapsing around me; and I would soon be juggling a full-time job with full-time parenting.

So there you go: The bonus of seven years of higher education for both Whitney and me, and we were failures in the most important thing in our lives.

* * * * *

Again, Whitney was home by five-thirty.

"Hey, Baby," she said to Kyle.

"Hi, Mom," he mumbled back, not bothering to look up from his homework.

"That's it? No hug?"

He sighed, then got up, walked to her, and gave her a brief hug.

She tried tousling his hair, but he went back to his homework.

"What're you doing?" she said.

"Spelling."

"Need some help?"

"Dad already helped me."

She turned to me, and her face was sad.

I tried to feel bad for her, but I couldn't. Instead, I felt bad for Kyle. He wasn't old enough to really know what was going on, but he'd managed to figure out that Whitney was behind it all. Either that or he knew most of his time was spent with me and he didn't want to do anything to screw that up.

Whitney lowered her head and walked to the bedroom to change.

"You wanna come in here and help me for a sec?" I asked Kyle.

"Sure," he said, joining me with a smile all over his face.

"Here," I said, handing him a vegetable peeler. "Let's peel some carrots, okay?"

"Sure," he said, taking the peeler and starting in on the carrots.

"You know," I started, not really sure how to proceed.

"What?"




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 01



"She's your mother," I said. "And she loves you very much. More than you'll ever know until you have kids of your own someday."

He didn't say anything, but his bottom lip started sticking out.

"You should maybe give her a break, little man."

"Why? She's the one that's leaving, Dad."

I kneeled down beside him. "But it's not because of you, okay? You've got to believe that. She's not doing this because of you."

"I don't care," he said, his voice getting louder. "Who cares why she's leaving. All that matters is she's leaving. And I won't get to see you anymore."

Tears were welling in his eyes and running down his cheeks.

"Sure you will," I said, using my thumb to brush away his tears. "We'll see each other all the time."

"That's not what Tammy Palewski says. She says she never sees her dad. Never."

I pulled him in for a hug.

"But you're not Tammy Palewski, and I'm not Tammy Palewski's dad."

"But what if we move away? Then how will you see me?"

I held his shoulders and looked into his eyes. "I don't care if you move to the South Pole. I'm still going to see you. Got it?"

He nodded.

"If I have to wrestle polar bears and beat up the penguins, I'm still going to get to you, okay?"

He giggled through his tears.

"Why would you beat up the penguins?"

"Just let them get between me and you," I said.

He giggled some more, then went back to peeling.

"Dad?" he said after a few minutes.

"Yeah?"

"Can we make some more soldiers after supper?"

"We'll ask your mom. If she says it's okay, then we will. Fair enough?"

"I suppose so."

* * * * *

It was almost eleven before I went to bed. The lights were off, and I shed my jeans and was pulling on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms when Whitney spoke.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For talking to Kyle. Earlier. I heard you."

I grunted.

She was silent as I slid under the covers, and I laid there looking at the ceiling for a few moments.

"Luke?"

I said nothing. We'd been sleeping together in the same bed since the shit had hit the fan. It somehow seemed natural. But we hadn't spoken to each other. Talking in bed seemed somehow more intimate, and now unnatural.

"Why are you wearing pajama bottoms to bed?"

I thought about that. It wasn't something I'd been consciously doing. Not like using the other bathroom, which had been a planned affair. No, wearing pajama bottoms just seemed like the thing to do now.

"Are you still awake?"

"Yeah, Whit, I'm still awake."

She rolled over, and I could see her outline as she drew closer and her face was almost touching mine.

"I want you," she said.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not."

"Because you don't want me anymore?"

"I'm pretty sure it's the other way around."

"But I want you now."

I reached over and turned on the light, then rolled back and faced her.

"What's going on here?"

"I just . . . I don't know. It's just that we seem to be--I don't know--strangers all of a sudden."

I gave a bitter snort. "No shit."

"You know what I mean."

"No, Whit, I have no clue. I'm still trying to figure out how you can just wake up one morning and decide you want someone else."

"I don't want anyone else."

"Really? Could've fooled me."

"But I don't."

"Yeah. Well. I guess the point is that you really don't want me, either."

I slid out of bed.

"Where are you going?"

"The couch," I said, picking up a pillow. "This doesn't seem like a good idea anymore."

"Please," she said.

I looked down at her and saw now that she was naked under the sheets. She looked so sexy and vulnerable and . . . and . . . and I hadn't been laid in almost three weeks.

"Please, Luke," she said again, her hand reaching out and brushing over my erection.

I wanted to. More than anything, I wanted to shed my clothes and jump back into bed and fuck her until neither of us could walk. And I felt myself leaning toward her before all of the images of the past week began rushing to my brain.

"I'm signing the papers on Thursday," I said, my voice hoarse.

Her hand went still, and her eyes flashed with fear.

"What papers?"

"To start the divorce," I said. "They'll be ready on Thursday."

She pulled her hand back and cuddled in on herself in a fetal position.

"They said you can go to the Sheriff's office and pick them up. To avoid a scene having you served at work or here."

She gave no reaction, just a blank stare at a spot on the far wall. She was lost in her thoughts.

I looked at her for a moment, all carnal thoughts now banished.

Then I reached over, turned off the light, and made my way to the sofa.

CHAPTER SIX

"What's your hurry, Luke?" Doug Morrisey said.

"Hurry on what?" Peggy Marsh said as she slipped into the booth next to him and placed her tray on the table.

He looked at me for my assent before answering her.

"He's getting a divorce."

Peggy didn't react. Instead, she buttered her dinner roll and dipped it into the bean soup.

"Did you hear me?" Doug said.

"I heard," she said.

"And?"

She bit the roll and chewed, looking at me the whole time. When she swallowed, she put the roll back on her tray and spoke.

"You screwing around?"

"No."

"Is she?"

"Sorta."

"Sorta? Jesus, Luke, it's a simple question. Is she screwing someone else? Yes or no?"

"Probably not," I said. "There's someone else. Another guy. I know that much. She says they're not sleeping together, but I'm not sure if she's telling the truth."

"Then she's probably screwing him," she said, picking up her spoon and tackling her soup.

"She says she's confused," I offered, sipping my coffee. "She's in a rut. Not happy with work and with me."

Peggy just nodded, eating her soup and not saying anything.

"You think she's just going through something?" Doug asked her.

"Like what?" Peggy said.

"I don't know. Her . . . well, her period. Or depression?"

Peggy laughed. "Men. Anytime we act a way you don't expect, it's because our monthly visitor has come a calling."

"You know what I mean," Doug said. "Come on, you're the expert here."

She looked at him, then turned to me. "Okay, give me what you've got."

"I just did," I said.

"Has she been withdrawn?"

"Yeah. Two or three months."

"She been sleeping more than normal?"

"No."

"Her appearance slipping? You know, hair not done. Maybe looking a touch more disheveled?"

I shook my head. "None of the above."

"Then it's probably not depression," she said.

I sagged. This wasn't something that could be cured with counseling and some medication.

"Don't get me wrong," Peggy said. "It could be depression. Still, except being suddenly unhappy with her lot in life, there are no other signs that I can tell."

I nodded. "Fair enough."

"So what're you doing about it?" she asked once her soup was finished.

"I'm going in tomorrow to sign the divorce papers."

"Seems a bit quick."

"No shit," Doug joined in.

"It's a lot of things," I said. "Yeah, she only told me nine or ten days ago. That she wanted a separation and she was kind of seeing someone else. But I can't just sit back and do nothing. I can't just wait in limbo and let her spring it on me. I can't live in limbo."

"You need to feel like you're retaining some control over your life and your family," she said.

"Exactly."

"Including the control to be the one who ends it."

"I guess so."

"Why?"

I pondered this, my eyes going from big, chunky, bearded Doug to tiny, frail little Peggy. They were certainly an odd couple. Doug, the middle-aged, burly literature professor, divorced and a personal mess with a mind that scattered thoughts all over the place. Peggy, late-thirties and never married, with the precise mind and pinched looks not commonly associated with clinical psychologists. Oh, and the no-bullshit approach without excuses and qualifiers. She was very much a black-and-white person; there were no shades of gray and no excuses.

"You ever have the absolute love of your life--just totally out of the blue, without a clue it was coming--have her tell you she doesn't really love you anymore? That she's spending time with someone else, and that he's the only thing keeping her sane?"

"Yeah," Doug sighed. "Germaine."

"You?" I said to Peggy.

"Not really."

"Let me tell you something. It's horrible. I mean, words cannot even describe what that did to me. How suddenly empty and useless I felt. It was a whole ton of things, y'know? Like betrayal and like I wasn't good enough, like there's something wrong with me. Like how could she do this? If not just to me; it's to Kyle, too. Like she was suddenly a stranger."

"You're trying to understand," Peggy surmised.

"At first I was," I said. "Not now. Now I don't really care. Now I just--"

"Don't want her to stay in control of what happens here because you're not sure you can handle it. Because you don't want to go through that all over again."

"Bingo."

She shrugged. "Seems healthy enough."

"Really?" Doug and I said in unison.

"Sure." She finished her soda, slurping up the last drops, before putting her glass down and looking at me. "You're not a dumbass. I don't really know your whole history, but I can guess at quite a bit of it. And you're not likely to go running off half-cocked to just get revenge or try to hurt her back. You've thought this through, decided you can't play it by her rules and on her time lines, and you're taking control of the situation."

"Exactly," I said. "And that's good?"

"Don't see why not."

I looked at Doug, who seemed to doubt this.

"One other thing," Peggy said.

"What's that?"

"Remember, this is just a guess," she said, sliding out of the booth and picking up her tray. "I haven't talked with her or observed her or seen anything, so it's just a guess."

"Okay."

"But she's slept with him. Whoever this guy is, she's slept with him."

It was like a punch to the gut.

"It wasn't depression that drove her to finally confront you," she said. "It was guilt. Guilt about her double life. Guilt that while she's doing it--or at least did it--you were there taking care of everything for her."

I couldn't say anything. Whitney still insisted she hadn't slept with him, and I half-believed her. Not totally. Hell, who wouldn't have doubts. Still, she was so insistent.

"Maybe it was just once," Peggy continued. "Maybe a few times. It could still be going on."

"Last night," I finally said. "When I went to bed, she was still awake."

"And she tried to seduce you, didn't she?"

I nodded.

Peggy smiled. "Then the affair's probably over. Her guilt is probably overwhelming, and sleeping with you--having sexual relations with you--may help her expiate her guilt."

"But it won't," I protested.

"But she thinks it will."

Peggy hesitated, like she wanted to say more.

"What?" Doug finally prompted her.

"Just thinking," she said.

"Thinking what?"

"That I wouldn't want to be in your shoes right now."

"Why?"

"Because now your decision just got a helluva lot more difficult."

"How so?"

"Before," she said, "you filed for divorce in response to her rejection of you. Now, though, she's not rejecting you anymore. If I'm a betting man, she's trying to figure out how to get past everything--forget what she's done and get you to forget it, too--and just go back to the way it was."

"So now I really am the one pushing for the divorce. The divorce that she really--at least probably--doesn't want anymore."

Peggy nodded, then gave me a tight smile.

"Good luck with that one."

I just slumped.

* * * * *

"Where's Kyle?" Whitney said when she walked in the door.

"Next door," I said, staring out the window and watching him run around and play in the backyard abutting ours.

I listened to her hang up her jacket, then her footsteps approached me. I was surprised--and froze instantly--when she put her arms around my waist and hugged me from behind.

"I don't want a divorce," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"When did you quit seeing him?" I said, not moving.

She said nothing.

"When was the last time you slept with him?"

"I said I didn't do that," she said, her voice sounding tiny.

"You lied."

I unclasped her hands at my waist and turned to face her.

"So when was it? Saturday, when you had to run out for a few hours?"

She didn't say anything.

"Or maybe over an intimate lunch on Monday?" I pressed.

She just stared at me, her face begging me to let it be.

I stared back at her, not willing to give in until I had some answers.

"I said I didn't sleep with him," she finally said.

"Fine. You two didn't sleep together. When's the last time you fucked him? Or sucked his dick? Or let him eat you out? Huh? When was it, Whitney?"

She covered her ears with her hands. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Because I don't," I yelled. "Because I think you had an affair and you were all ready to leave me for him. But now I think you've changed your mind, and I don't know why. I don't know if it's because you really do love me, or if you just don't want to give up everything we've got."

"But I do," she yelled back. "I do love you, Luke. And I'm sorry. I just forgot about that for awhile."

I looked at her and could tell she was serious. Her face said it all. Her face and the rest of her body. She was pleading with me to just drop it all. To let it alone and forgive her and just go back to the way things were. To take her into my arms and hold her tight and tell her it would all be okay.

"Say something," she begged. "Please, Luke. Say you still love me."

"I never stopped," I said, all of the fight going out of me.

"I'm sorry," she said, throwing herself at me and hugging me tightly. "I'm just so sorry."

I didn't hug her back, and she noticed after a moment.

"Luke?" she said, looking into my face.

"I got in to see Rebecca early," I said. "I signed the papers an hour ago."

"But you can--"

"No, I can't. I won't, Whitney. I'm going through with it. You still won't tell me a goddamned thing, and there's no way in hell I'm going to just let it drop and spend the rest of my fucking life hoping it--whatever the hell 'it' is--hoping it doesn't happen again. I can't do that. I can't go through this again, and I can't live in dread of you doing it to me again."

She collapsed into a chair, sobbing and apologizing all in the same breath.

I went out to intercept Kyle and take him out for a burger.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A few things they never really tell you about divorce.

First, apparently it's common to still live under the same roof while the whole thing plays itself out in the courts. That's why Whitney got to live in the house until the final judgment even though everyone knew I'd be keeping the house. (It was a gift from my parents; they're loaded.) As such, Whitney had no claim to the house and wouldn't be getting any portion of it in the divorce, but she could still live there until the final judgment was entered and the judge agreed with what everyone already knew.

Second, even relatively simple divorces can take longer than you'd ever imagine. If everything was agreed upon up front, it could be over in three months or so. If even the smallest thing was still at issue, though, it could take a year and a half. A year and a half of still living in the same house, by the way. I still shudder at the thought.

Third, it's damned trying on everyone to still live in the same house while the divorce is going on. Doug was right: It sucked way worse than I'd ever thought possible.

So once the written discovery was done, and we all confirmed that we both knew most of the financial picture, Rebecca suggested a settlement conference to speed things up.

Imagine that: A lawyer trying to get it done quickly and cheaply with the least amount of pain. I know, it surprised me, too.

"Professor Patterson," Whitney's lawyer said, extending his hand to shake mine. "I'm Jim McNally. Whitney's attorney."

He was tall, late forties, full head of graying hair, and handsome as hell. Rebecca had already mentioned all of this to me, of course. His dashing good looks, easy charm, and instinct for the jugular. He was good, which still seemed like an oxymoron when discussing a lawyer.

"Call me Luke," I said.

"And I'm Jim."

He said hello to, and hugged, Rebecca. They seemed like old friends from way back. How do they do it? How can lawyers act so friendly with each other, then turn around and fight like hell against each other? They were all a different breed of cat, that's for sure.

We all walked into his conference room, and I saw Whitney already there, sitting and fidgeting.

"So," McNally said once everyone was seated, "how're we gonna fix this mess?"

He was looking at me, as was Whitney, but I said nothing. Instead, I did what I was told: I shut my fucking mouth--Rebecca's words, not mine--and let Rebecca do the talking for me.

"It's really pretty straightforward, Jammer," she said. "Joint custody of Kyle; Luke as residential parent; Whitney can--"

"Luke as residential parent?" McNally interrupted. He turned to Whitney, who avoided his stare.

"Luke as residential parent," Rebecca confirmed. "He's the one who's taking care of the boy now, so why change?"

McNally's eyes narrowed. This was clearly coming as a surprise to him.

"When you say he's the one taking care of Kyle now, you mean he's . . . ."

Rebecca turned to me and nodded.

"She means," I said, "that I'm the one who feeds him, helps him with his homework, goes to his parent-teacher conferences, gets him to the doctor and the dentist, gets him to school. You know: The one who takes care of him."

"And Whitney? You're saying she does nothing?"

I looked at Whitney, my eyes staying on her as I spoke. "Not at all. She helps out as best she can. But I'm only in class nine hours a week. I've got office hours another nine hours. Then I spend some time with research and meetings and the like. Still, my schedule works around his school far better, and I'm the one who takes care of it. Whitney words longer hours. Way longer hours. She helps out when she can. That's how it's always been with us."

He looked at Whitney, but she refused to meet his stare. After a moment, he turned back to us.

"All right, let's leave the issue of residential parent to the side for now. What about visitation?"

"Standard," Rebecca said.

He nodded, expecting this.

"Support?"

"Statutory," she said. "Nonresidential parent pays the residential parent twenty percent of net income. They can equally divide the cost of health insurance--or both keep him on their respective policies, for that matter, at their own costs. Equally divide uncovered medical expenses and school tuition and stuff."

He jotted this down on his legal pad, saying nothing.

"What about financials? The house?"

"Luke's nonmarital asset."

"You gonna give Whitney a disproportionate split based on this?"

Rebecca had warned me to expect this. Even though the house was mine, and there was nothing Whitney could do to get any part of it, the court could still take my total assets into consideration when splitting up the property. So because I had a house worth two hundred grand already, the judge could award Whitney a disproportionate share of the marital assets.

"What's she looking for?"

McNally looked up, hesitated, then spoke. "She's got a 401(k) plan."

Rebecca smiled. "I noticed that when I went through the discovery. Came as quite a surprise to Luke, too. He knew nothing about it."

I looked at Whitney, saying nothing about the newest bit of information that had come out in the divorce and wondering what other secrets she'd been keeping from me. She only stared at the legal pad in front of her.




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 01



"Yeah," McNally said unapologetically. "Well, it's there. Ninety grand. She wants to keep it."

"And everything else?"

"Fifty-fifty."

"Their pensions?"

"They each keep their own pensions. They're valued almost the same, so any paperwork to get 'em split would cost more than we're arguing about."

"Household furnishings?" 

"Kyle's things stay with Kyle," McNally said. "Wherever he ends up. And I don't really want to waste our time arguing about anything else, do you?"

"Not really," Rebecca said. "Still."

McNally looked at me. "You think you and Whitney will have any problem splitting the personal property?"

I looked at Rebecca, who nodded, then at Whitney, who still wouldn't look at me.

"No," I said, turning back to him. "You're right. So long as I can keep my own stuff, I don't care about the rest of it."

"Whitney?" he asked.

"That's fine," she concurred.

He looked at Rebecca. "Think you can give us ten minutes or so?"

She nodded, and we left the conference room.

On the sidewalk in front of the office, Rebecca lit a cigarette and inhaled.

"So it's going well?" I asked, my body a bundle of frayed nerve endings.

"Oh yeah," she said, exhaling and smiling. "Better than I expected."

"How so?"

"Remember what I told you up front? Don't lie to me?"

I nodded.

"Now you see why," she said. "The whole custody issue blindsided him."

"You mean she lied?"

"It's not really a lie," Rebecca explained. "It's really more like an inability to objectively see the facts. She thinks she's the great mom always there for everything--whether she is or not--and that's how she paints it. She's afraid--swear to Christ, all clients are--she's afraid he won't like her or something if he thinks she's a lousy mom. Also, she can't really admit to herself that you're the one doing most everything."

"But she's admitted it to me. I mean, Jesus, she's a lawyer. She doesn't already know this?"

Rebecca shrugged. "She's never been in private practice. And she's a mother, too. That usually overrides everything else."

"So she's lying to herself?"

"Sorta like that."

"And how do you know it's not me that's lying?"

"Did you see the look on her face when you got done talking?"

"Not really. Just that she kind of shrank in the chair."

"Bingo. If you'd been lying, she'd have challenged you. But she didn't say a word."

"And McNally? He realizes that?"

"Of course."

"And?"

"And he's probably advising her right now that she doesn't stand a chance in hell of winning a custody battle. And that even if she does, it's gonna cost her a goddamned mint."

I pondered this while Rebecca finished her cigarette.

It was closer to twenty minutes before McNally called us back in.

"The 401(k) split," he said once we were all seated. "You didn't really answer me, Becca."

She grinned. "I'm looking to make this global," she said. "Settle everything. Custody and all."

He smiled, but it was a painful smile. "And if we concede residential custody?"

She looked at me, and I nodded back at her.

"Concede residential custody and she can have it."

"And if not?" he asked, his eyes on Whitney as he asked.

Rebecca also turned to Whitney to drive home the point.

"If she doesn't agree, then we'll seek a fifty-fifty split of everything, 401(k) included, and we'll still end up with residential custody."

Whitney looked up, her eyes finding mine and holding there.

McNally looked at her. "You want a couple of days to think all this over?"

Her lips moved, but no words came out. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, and I thought she was going to break down. Before she did, though, she shook her head.

"Write it all up," she said, holding her emotions in check. "I'll sign it."

I didn't react, amazed it was all so simple.

It was early-August, little more than five months after Whitney first told me she didn't love me.

And now, with all of the written discovery in and all of our assets disclosed to the other, it took less than an hour around a conference table to settle up and neatly divide ten years of married life together.

I seemed somehow disappointed that it could all be so goddamned simple to just end a family.

* * * * *

Rebecca told me how we should do it, and that's how we were doing it on a hot Saturday morning two weeks later.

The settlement papers were all prepared and signed, and the final hearing would be in four days. We had to our personal property split up now or the hearing would be delayed until we could.

So there we stood, in the den, putting stickers on the things we wanted. Yellow dot stickers for her, blue dot stickers for me.

We'd already gone through the kitchen, dining room, and master bedroom. We had the family room, guest bedroom, and den left. Only a few words had been spoken, and we hadn't disagreed on a single item. It was a somber affair, and I was ready to go throw myself in front of a fucking train. That or just let her keep everything. It would be a lot less painful.

"Remember this?" Whitney said, her fingertips tracing the frame as she looked at it.

"I'll never forget," I said, staring at the ten-years-younger version of us sipping margaritas on the beach at Cabo during our honeymoon.

"Remember what we did after we finished those margaritas?"

I smiled, remembering as she stood, led me to a distant rock outcropping, and attacked me with her womanly wiles. She damned near fucked me blind a hundred feet from a crowded beach, and I'd been so lost in the moment I'd forgotten to put my trunks back on until we were almost caught.

She turned and looked at me, searching my face for an answer to her question.

"What happened, Whit?" I said, my voice choking. "What went wrong?"

"I don't know," she said, her voice a whisper as the smile at the happy memory faded from her face. "I don't know."

I brushed the tears from my cheeks, slapped a sticker on my desk and chair, and turned to her.

"You can have everything else," I said. "Everything."

"Luke," she said to my retreating back. "I'm sorry, Luke. Really."

But sorry wasn't cutting it anymore.

Five months later, and she still wouldn't tell me why.

Or who.

Or what, for that matter.

* * * * *

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Kyle," I said, worried by the tiny tone of his voice. We were sprawled out on opposite ends of the couch, our stocking feet touching, as we read out books.

"I'm still gonna see her, right?"

I folded the book against my chest.

"Anytime you want," I said.

"Promise?"

"She's your mother," I said. "I'll never keep you from her."

"Okay."

Thus ended Week One Post Marriage.

She'd missed visitation on Wednesday night so she could get her apartment unpacked and set up. When I offered her the weekend starting tonight, she'd declined so she could finish getting settled in.

"She promised to be here on Wednesday, right?"

I nodded. "She's just trying to make her place nice for you, little man."

His face said he didn't really believe me.

"Hey," I said, deciding that now was the time to spring the surprise on him.

"What?"

"You still want that dog?"

His face lit up. "You mean it?"

"Sure," I said. I'd been wondering for a few months how to get Kyle excited about life again. He'd always wanted a dog, but Whitney had always refused and I had never cared. Now that it was all over and Kyle wasn't getting any better, I knew it was now or never.

"What kind of dog?" he said, tossing his book on the floor and crawling up to me.

"What kind do you want?"

"I don't know," he said, his hands now on my shoulders pinning me to the couch, his face a wide-eyed bundle of excitement.

"Well, why don't we start looking around?"

"Tomorrow?" he said.

"That'll work."

"Man," he said, his eyes glazing. "A dog."

Then he hopped off the couch.

"Where you going?" I asked.

"Next door to tell Tyson."

"Back in fifteen minutes," I called to him as he ran out the door.

"Sure thing," he called back.

I didn't really know it at the time, but the next day would bring some pretty major changes into our life.



The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 02



Introduction. Okay, if you thought Part 1 was long, then this one's longer. Like I said, though: There only seemed to be two logical cutoff points. The good news for you, the reader, is that you only have to suffer through three boring chapters instead of four.

As luck would have it, I noticed in a comment to Chapter 6A of WWWM that it looks like Chapter 6B is being released at about the same time as this story is coming on line. (P.S. It's about time, DQS!!!) If any of you are like me, you'll be too busy reading about and analyzing how the Angel of Death has survived the nutjob cop to spend much time even thinking about this. Still, if you do have a few moments, I'd appreciate your comments and thoughts.

Thanks again. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

We were up bright and early the next morning.

Actually, Kyle was up bright and early, and he was doing his best to get me moving along as quickly as possible.

"Settle down," I said with a mouthful of toothbrush.

"But Dad," he said, standing next to me and combing his hair again. The kid had a thing for neat hair. "You promised."

"Nothing's gonna be open for a while, little man," I said, rinsing the toothpaste from my mouth and spitting it into the sink.

"Yeah, but--"

"But nothing," I said, rubbing scalding water on my cheeks to soften the stubble for my shave. "We'll have some breakfast, then we'll start searching for the perfect dog. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough," he said, running out of the bathroom to parts unknown so I could finish getting ready.

* * * * *

By one, we'd been to two pet stores in Rockford and the Winnebago County Animal Shelter. None of the dogs had excited Kyle all that much, though, and we decided to stop for lunch at the Grant City Tap before driving over to see if the Lincoln County Animal Shelter was still open.

We had just ordered some burgers and sodas when Kyle waved at someone behind me.

"It's Miss Palmer," he said.

"Your teacher?"

"Uh huh," he said.

I turned around and damned near fell out of my seat.

Two women who looked like sisters were waving toward us and smiling. I managed to raise my hand back, but I knew it came off as a feeble effort at best.

One of the women whispered something to the other, and they both grinned in unison.

"Pretty, ain't she?" Kyle said.

"I thought she was old?" I said, turning back to Kyle.

"Still," he agreed, "she's pretty. Even if she is old."

"Which one is she?"

He looked back at them, smiled and nodded his head, and looked back at me.

"She's the one in the pink shirt," he said.

"Who's the one in the pink shirt?" I heard from behind me. "Hello, Kyle."

"Hi, Miss Palmer."

I looked up at sparkling eyes and a bemused smile.

"I was asking him which one was his teacher," I said.

"Kristin Palmer," she said, holding out her hand.

"Luke Patterson," I said, taking her hand and holding it.

She was gorgeous, and I knew what Whitney had meant about her being the head cheerleader type. She looked like she could still be in college. Her face was oval, unlined, with bright eyes and an upturned nose. Her lips were expressive and all mysterious at the same time, like she was thinking something about you, and you only hoped she was thinking what you were thinking about her. Her face was framed by short-cut, light brown hair parted slightly off center and framing her features perfectly. And her body? Just. Fucking. Wow. Think healthy. Really, really healthy.

"So you're the famous Professor Patterson?" she said. "It's an honor."

I chuckled. "Just Luke. And I'm not so famous."

"I don't know about that," she said. "Kyle here says you're a war hero with the medals to prove it."

"Too stupid to duck," I said. "Nothing heroic about that."

"We're looking for a puppy," Kyle blurted.

She looked at him, and a softness came over her face. She adored children, I realized. You could see it all over her.

"And what kind of puppy are you looking for?" she asked.

"Not a clue," I said. "We were just going to have some lunch and go to the animal shelter. See if they've got anything there."

"Sounds like a plan," she said.

The waitress arrived with our burgers and sodas.

"I'll leave you men to it, then," she said. "Happy hunting."

I watched her walk away.

"See what I mean, Dad?"

"Huh?" I said, turning and looking at Kyle.

"Pretty, huh?"

I had to force myself to keep my eyes on him.

"Sure," I said. "I guess so."

We were almost done with our burgers when Kristin reappeared at our table.

"Sorry to bother you," she said.

I tried to finish chewing and gulp down my mouthful of food.

"No," I finally managed. "No bother."

"It's just that I was talking to Allysin. My cousin over there? She says she knows someone with a litter of puppies. There are three left."

"What kind of dogs?"

She smiled. "Pugs."

"Like from Men In Black?" Kyle asked.

"Where'd you see Men in Black? It's rated--"

"At Tyson's house," he said, then turned back to Kristin. "That kind of dog?"

"Those're the ones," she said, grinning widely.

"They're cool, Dad," Kyle said to me.

"Who's the friend?" I asked.

"Tim and Nicole Franklin," she said. "They own the Bar and Grill?"

I nodded. I'd been there a few times, and I was pretty sure I knew the owners by sight. They were about my age, and their kids helped out around the restaurant. Good food.

"So . . . ."

"Allysin knows them pretty well," she said. "You want, she can give them a call and see if it's all right for you to drop by?"

"Where do they live?"

"Out on Seven Oaks."

I looked at Kyle. "Well?"

"Let's go see 'em, Dad," he said, his half-finished burger and fries now pushed to the side.

"If it's not too much trouble," I said to Kristin.

"No prob," she said, and walked back to her table. I noticed she wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

"Dad," Kyle whispered, "you're staring."

I turned back to face him, a lopsided grin on my face.

His eyes went to the heavens. "Jeez."

I left the money on our table, then stopped at their table on the way out.

"Have a seat," the other one--Allysin--said.

"I don't want to interrupt--"

"We'll go with you," Kristin said. "Show you how to get there."

"They're expecting us in a half hour or so," Allysin said. "We've got time to finish our lunch, okay?"

I looked from one to the other, amazed at the resemblance between the cousins. Sure, I could tell them apart. Still, they were both absolute knock outs. And they both had that evil flash in their eyes and that way of expressing untold carnal promises with their lips.

* * * * *

We all watched Kyle giggling on the lawn as the three puppies--none larger than a gerbil--climbed over him and licked and nipped at him.

"They all like him well enough," said Nicole Franklin, "that's for sure."

"Maybe you'll take all three?" her husband said, his arm over her shoulders.

They were easy together, comfortable and happy and content. Talk about a devoted couple, I thought with a flash of pain.

I caught Kristin looking at me, and her face looked a lot like mine must've looked at that moment. Gone was the playful smile and sparkling eyes. Instead, she had a sardonic smile, a smile that told me she'd had this once and lost it.

"What d'ya think?" I asked her.

"I think you've got a choice to make here."

I nodded.

"The male," I said to Tim. "If it's okay, I think we'll take the male."

"Problem with women?" Allysin snickered, but Kristin shot her a glare. Something passed between them in a split second; something that turned Allysin's look to a forced smile.

"That's great," Tim said. "Let me go get you a crate to take him home in."

"That's not really--"

"Never bought a puppy before, have you?" he cut in.

"Nope."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Poor bastard."

"Tim," Nicole said, "don't talk him out of it yet."

"I'll get us some beers," he said, walking toward the garage. "Tell you all about how to train a puppy and take care of him."

I started to protest, but Kristin spoke before me.

"Sounds good," she shouted, her eyes on me as she said it. They were eyes that said, 'Sit down and shut up if you know what's good for you.'

I decided not to argue with those eyes.

A half hour later, I was comfortable with my newfound rudimentary knowledge of how to potty train and care for a puppy. The most basic lesson learned from Tim and Nicole was simple: I was fucked. For the next six months, until the tiny pug was older and trained some, I'd be busier than hell trying to raise a baby in addition to my own son.

I know what most of you are saying. Well fucking duh, idiot. What did you think it would be? To tell you the truth, I didn't think about it at all. I'd never had a dog before. As a child, the issue never came up. With Kyle, the issue arose and was shot down by Whitney. So there you go, sometimes things aren't as simple as we think.

The look on Kyle's face as he played with that tiny, wheezing ball of fur, though, told me there was no going back. He hadn't looked this happy--this full of unbridled joy--in months.

"I've never seen him like this," Kristin said, walking up beside me and watching Kyle play.

I sighed. "Yeah. Been awhile."

She put a hand on my arm, and I turned to face her. "Hang in there, okay? I know what you're going through, and it's tough."

I wanted to ask her how she could know, but then I remembered about her own checkered marital history. I couldn't remember if Whitney had mentioned it, so I wondered if she had any kids of her own. By the look on her face, though, I suspected she did. Either way, it was clear she knew just how tough this was on me and Kyle.

"Thanks," I said. "For everything." I looked back at Kyle and nodded toward him rolling around in the grass. "Especially for this."

"No prob."

* * * * *

The Franklins had given us enough food to get us through the night and the next morning. Also, we had a crate for the little fellow to sleep in until we could get to the store the next day and get all of the puppy-raising, dog-owning essentials. So Kyle and I just enjoyed ourselves in the backyard when we got home.

"What're we gonna name him, Dad?" he called out from the yard.

I pondered the question as I flipped the barbecued chicken and corn on the cob roasting on the grill in front of me.

"Well?" he said, scooping the little black-faced bundle of tan fur into his arms and walking to the deck.

"You got any ideas, little man?" I said, worried the squirming little pup would break free, fall, and die at any moment. Kyle kept a solid hold, though.

"Not really," he said. "I was thinking of a general or something. You know, like the stuff you're always reading about."

"Like General Lee?" I said.

He shook his head. "No. They said he's China."

"Chinese," I corrected. "He's from China, and things from China are called Chinese."

He ignored me. "So are there any famous China generals?"

I searched my memory, discarding most of the names that came to my mind.

"How about Sun Tzu?"

"Who's he?"

"Thousands of years ago," I answered, "he was a famous general who wrote a famous book."

"What was the book called?"

"The Art of War."

"And it's still famous?" he asked.

"Still used today."

He grinned. "And we can call him Sonny for short."

I ran my fingers through his head, then reached down and scratched the snorting midget behind his ear.

"Sonny it is," I agreed.

CHAPTER NINE

School for me started the next day. Not classes, but an endless series of meetings to get ready for classes.

When the afternoon meetings ended, I found myself in my office behind my desk flipping through resumes trying to weed out the finalists for my two research interns for the upcoming semester. They were paid positions--though the pay was, to be honest, beyond paltry--and the competition was fierce. More than forty students had applied, which represented about two-thirds of the seniors majoring in history or related areas.

After an hour, I had weeded it down to three finalists who would be interviewed for the two positions. Randall Meeks, Jeremy Scott, and Heather Farley. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, but you'd be wrong. Besides being incredibly beautiful, she was a solid writer and researcher, and she'd made Dean's List every semester so far. Her drop dead gorgeous looks were just a bonus.

I phoned the three of them and arranged for interviews the following morning, then shoveled some books and notes into my briefcase and made for home.

"Luke," I heard from behind me as I unlocked my car door.

Turning, I saw Doug Morrissey running up behind me.

"Wow," I said, taking in his now clean-shaven face and slimmed down figure. "Looks like the summer's been good to you."

He grinned. "Time to get off my ass and make a go of it again."

"Sounds like a good plan," I said, trying to keep the pleasant smile and failing.

His eyes narrowed. "Where you at in it?"

"It's over," I said.

His eyes widened. "So soon?"

"Yeah. Couple weeks ago."

He nodded, his face clouding over.

"I got Kyle," I said. "Joint custody, but he lives with me."

"You're kidding."

I shook my head.

"And the finances?"

"House was mine, so she didn't get any of it. Our incomes were close enough, so there's no alimony. Well, I let her keep a hidden 401(k), which is really why there's no alimony."

"And the rest?"

"Fifty-fifty."

He gave a bitter chuckle at that. "Told you that bitch Rebecca was good."

"She was," I said, "so thanks. Really. I would've been clueless. And she may have been a bitch to you, but. . . ." 

He nodded at my implication. "Tell me about it. Hotter than hell."

"Like she could trip you and beat you to the floor."

"With her panties already down," he added.

We savored our own visions for a moment.

"So," I said, then looked him up and down. "Looks like you're finally getting past it, though."

"I finally met someone."

"Really?"

His head bounced as the grin returned. "She's great."

"Do I know her?"

He shrugged. "Maybe."

I laughed. "What is this? Grade school? You want me to pass her a note in home room, you'd better clue me in."

"We'll see," he said, turning to leave me standing there.

For whatever reason, that's the first time I had hope. Hope that it would get better and somehow back to normal. Doug's divorce had been brutal, and he'd been down in the dumps about it for a couple of years. Now, though, he was almost back to his old self. He now looked a lot more like the easy-go-lucky, happy, bouncy guy with a zest for life and for living that I'd not seen in three years or more. He'd finally gotten over it.

It seemed to bode well for me. For the first time, I believed what everyone said: Someday I'd get over the anger and regret and bitterness and go back to being happy.

Of course, I thought as I pulled into my garage, Doug hadn't been spending all of his spare time as a single parent to a little boy and his even littler puppy dog.

* * * * *

Heather Farley sat before me, her legs crossed all prim and proper, the appropriate look of academic seriousness on her face. In her navy blue slacks and long-sleeved white blouse, she appeared to be a young professional rather than the bouncy Valley Girl-type she usually looked like.

"And what would be your duties as you understand them?" I said.

"Research and memos," she said. "Whatever topic you assign, I'd be responsible for researching the topic thoroughly, then preparing and submitting a memorandum encapsulating the salient points."

Encapsulating the salient points. See? There was a legitimate reason why she was a finalist. She was one hell of a lot smarter than most of her peers. And judging by her dress and demeanor--Jeremy Scott had shown up for his interview in jeans and a Phish tee shirt--she was one hell of a lot more mature, too.

"You've spoken to past interns?"

"Absolutely," she confirmed.

"And you know you could probably work for Professor Whitman?"

"I understand," she said, her eyes staring straight at me and holding the look. "But I don't want to work for him."

"He's the chair of the department," I countered. "It would certainly be far more prestigious on your resume for graduate school."

"True," she said. "But you'll soon be Dean of History, so that won't matter."

I leaned back in my chair. "And you know this how?"

She gave an enigmatic smile and brief shrug. "I just know."

I stared at her, but she didn't flinch. Yet, the look on her face told me she was dead serious, and that shocked me. I'd been in meetings on and off throughout the summer, and no one had mentioned the retirement of Hubert Whitman, a colossal figure at Chadwick who'd been teaching there since my parents were in diapers. Sure, he was certainly well past retirement age, but most of us agreed they'd be carrying him out of the school in a casket, and that was as it should be. He was still sharp as a tack and had more energy than many professors half his age, so the thought that he was stepping down was a bit farfetched.

"Fine," Heather finally said, "if you want to know I'll tell you. But this stays between us, okay?"

I nodded.

"He told me. Professor Whitman himself. I already interviewed for him yesterday. And while he offered me a position, he still recommended I meet with you. This may be his last semester, and he says you're likely to be the one taking over."

"Is he okay?" I stammered. "I mean, he's not sick or anything, is he?"

"Not a clue. He seemed fine to me. Same old Professor Whitman."

I nodded. "And he's already offered you a position?"

She snorted. "If you want to call it that. It would mostly just be cleaning up his papers and sorting things out. A career's worth of notes and that sort of thing. That's why he recommended I meet with you instead. He said most anyone could do it for him, and I shouldn't pass up the chance to actually get something out of this."

I looked at her, down to her resume, then back to her again. She raised her eyebrow, waiting for my decision.

"Fine. You're hired."

In a flash, the professional demeanor was gone and the schoolgirl giddiness was back. Intern positions could make a big difference in graduate school applications, and the higher up the professor for whom she interned, the more difference it made. As such, this was a big deal, and her excitement was common.

"Thanks, Professor," she said. "You won't regret it. Really."

"Now I'd like your opinion on the other two finalists," I said. "Mr. Meeks and Mr. Scott."

"Meeks," she said immediately. "Jeremy's way smarter, but he's lazy, too. Randy's a hard worker. A better writer, too. Jeremy will try to skate by, but Randy will bust his ass."

I nodded. That was my assessment, too. Almost to the letter. The problem with Jeremy Scott was that he'd never had to work for his grades. It had all come easy to him, and he wasn't used to going the extra mile on anything.

"Well, Ms, Farley," I said, pushing back from my desk, standing, and reaching my hand across to her. "Welcome aboard."

She pumped my hand in response. "Thanks, Professor."

"Don't thank me yet," I said. "I'll need you here tomorrow morning by eight-thirty."

"No problem," she smiled. "What're we gonna work on?"

"Don't know yet," I lied. "We'll know tomorrow morning."

"Fair enough," she replied, then gave a dazzling smile and sashayed out of the office.

It was going to be a very trying semester if I had to watch that ass on a regular basis, I thought, adjusting my package once she'd gone.

* * * * *

At five-thirty Wednesday, the doorbell rang.

"Your mom's here," I called into the back yard before going to answer the door.

"Hi," Whitney said when I opened the door.

"Come on in," I motioned with my head, stepping aside.




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 02



"Awkward, huh?" she said after a moment, her voice low and her eyes on the floor.

She had dark circles under her eyes, her pallor looked pale, and her hair was dull and lifeless.

"You doing okay?" I said, lifting her chin with my hand.

She looked up at me with a blank stare. "Sure."

"You don't look so good."

She looked around the living room, now stark and half empty after our property division.

"You need some new furniture."

"Probably this weekend," I said. "I'll probably go shopping while Kyle's with you this weekend."

She paused, then nodded.

"Hey Mom," Kyle said, running through the kitchen toward her with little Sonny doing his best to catch up from behind.

"What's this?" she said, leaning down and pulling Kyle into a tight hug.

Kyle was squirming with the pressure of her squeeze, and he managed to break free enough to scoop the bouncing puppy into his arms.

"He's Sun Tzu," Kyle said. "Isn't he great?"

She looked at me, then back to Kyle and the puppy. "Sun Tzu?"

"We call him Sonny."

Kyle held him out to Whitney, who took the writhing, wheezing little creature into her hands and stared at him.

"He's ugly," she said, smiling.

"He's cool," Kyle insisted. "Real cool."

She handed Sonny back to Kyle, who made faces at the dog before holding his cheeks closer to Sonny's face for an endless series of squealing licks.

"So he finally got his dog," Whitney said, her eyes staying on Kyle and Sonny.

"It's helped," I said.

"I see that."

We watched for a moment longer, but the silence soon became uncomfortable.

"Well, you two best be going," I prompted.

Her vacant stare jarred at that, and she turned and looked at me.

"You'll have him back by eight or so?" I asked.

"Somewhere around there."

"Give him here," I said, holding out my hands to Kyle.

He transferred Sonny to my arms, then turned and took Whitney's hand.

"So what're we gonna do?" he said to his mom as they walked out the door together.

I didn't hear her response, preferring to close the door behind them.

"No," I said, holding Sonny up and looking into his sparkling brown eyes. "What're we gonna do? Huh?"

His yipping response told me our plans had better include dinner.

* * * * *

"Has either of you ever read this?" I asked, sliding one copy each across my desk toward Randy Meeks and Heather Farley.

I, Claudius, by Robert Graves. They picked up their copies, looked at the cover, then flipped to read the book's description on the back cover.

"Never heard of it," Randy said, pushing his glasses up before running his fingers through his tangled hair.

"Me, neither," Heather said.

"It's about Claudius, a Roman Emperor who died in 54 A.D."

"And we're gonna be researching him?" asked Randy, confused. I preferred military history, and he must've had visions of researching some great historical battle.

I shook my head. "Not Claudius. Or the others, for that matter. No, I want you to read the book and tell me what you think we should be researching and writing about. Something that's not been covered in great depth."

"Based on this?" Heather asked, looking at the book again.

"Based on that," I said. "Read the whole thing by Tuesday and get me a memo on your recommendations. Each of you. And don't work together."

"So you want our own ideas?" Randy asked with no apparent aggravation at being asked to do this over the Labor Day weekend. "Not a joint effort between the two of us?"

"Precisely, Mr. Meeks. I want you to each read it and come up with a new angle of looking at the transition period from Roman Republic to Roman Empire. Any aspect of that transition. This book, while not history as such, can at least be useful in showing you how many things happened in history that we don't really teach. Or even know, for that matter."

He shot a glance at Heather, but she was already reading the first page of the book.

"So I'll leave you both to it," I said, waving them off.

Randy rose to leave, but Heather stayed still, locked in the book.

"Ms. Farley?" I said.

She looked up, her concentration broken. "Yes?"

"You don't have to do it here," I said. "You can probably go back to your dorm or apartment or whatever and work on it there."

She frowned, then shook her head. "If it's just the same to you, I'd rather stay here. My roommates are back and getting set up. I'll never be able to--"

"The library?" I suggested.

She smiled a dazzling array of teeth and sparkling green eyes. "Here's fine."

Randy looked from her to me, then back to her again. She was already slouched back into the chair reading again.

We gave each other a look. Women. Then he smiled, shook his head, and left.

"Tuesday then," he said on his way out.

* * * * *

By three, my last faculty meeting of the week was complete. There was still no word about Professor Whitman and the potential vacancy for Dean of History, and I was afraid to say anything to anyone or let on in any way that I knew something could be up. The other professors--Whitman included--likewise seemed to be going about business like there were no changes on the horizon.

"You still here?" I said upon entering my office. Heather had moved from the chair and was now behind my desk scribbling notes on a piece of paper.

"Uh huh," she said, not bothering to look up.

I watched her, amazed. It was clear she'd finished at least most of the book by now, which was no small feat. And given her frantic writing pace, it was also clear that she had a plethora of ideas for research projects.

"Can I have my desk back?" I asked, tossing my briefcase in the chair she had been sitting in when I'd left two hours before.

"In a sec," she said. She finished writing something, underlined a word three times, then looked up at me.

"Wow," she said, her face a mixture of wonderment and amazement. "How've I never heard of this book before?"

"Good question," I responded, walking behind the desk and looking at her notes. It was a series of questions. Very perceptive questions at that. "It's a classic," I mumbled. "One of the top works of the twentieth century by almost anyone's reckoning." 

"Jesus," she said, wheeling my chair back and hopping up, snatching the notes away before I'd finished reading them. "It's really . . . I don't know . . . inspiring, I guess. To think that you can do something like this with something like that."

"Like what?"

She laughed. "Roman history, Professor. I mean, come on. Have you ever studied anything so incredibly dry and boring in your life?"

Before I could respond, she threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly. "This is gonna be so much fun."

I froze, terrified of three things. First, that someone would walk through the door at any moment and I'd be in deep shit. Second, that her hug would last too long and she'd feel my soon-to-be-rampant hard on pressed against her. Third, and in apparent conflict with the latter point, that her hug would end anytime soon. It felt . . . well, you know.

I cleared my throat just before terror number two could rear its ugly head--so to speak--and backed away from her.

"Fun," I agreed.

She winked at me. "Tons of fun," she confirmed, then slid the book and her notes into a backpack which she slung over her shoulder. "Same time tomorrow?"

I tried to find my voice, but couldn't. She took this for a yes.

"Til then," she smiled. "Toodles."

She sashayed out the door, the sashay more provocative than the day before.

There was no doubt she knew her effect on me. Hell, she had that effect on any straight, post-pubescent male with a pulse. And she seemed more than willing to use it whenever the mood struck her.

CHAPTER TEN

I didn't really feel like going back to the office the next morning, beautiful blonde coed or not. Instead, I had two spare keys for the office made--one for each intern--and left them with Sarah, the secretary, bright and early the next morning.

With three free days over the Labor Day weekend now expanded to four, I spent the morning surfing the net for living room and master bedroom furniture ideas.

A few things that should be exceedingly obvious. First, I'm a guy, so I could care less if my furniture all matches the rest of the decor. Second, I'm a guy, so I don't really know what decor is to begin with, let alone how to match any of it. Third, I'm a guy, so shopping for furniture ranks right up there with flat beer and colonoscopies on my list of shit to avoid--pardon the pun.

To that end, God bless the internet. We have a few furniture stores in Grant City, including the ones in the shopping mall on the edge of town. Rather than wade through the shopping throng for hours the next morning, I decided to get some ideas up front, make sure they were in stock, and get it all done without hardly leaving the house.

Two hours later, though, I knew I was in deep shit. Apparently, furniture fabrics, styles, and colors are all written in a secret code that only women can understand. I, who can speak two languages and read four (English and Spanish; those two plus Latin and Greek, if you're curious) simply couldn't decipher what the hell they were describing. The pictures helped some, but not much. So with a sigh, I gave up.

Sun Tzu was sleeping in his crate in the corner of the den, his smattering of snores, grunts, and dreamy yips barely audible, yet strangely soothing. I decided to look through my e-mail, then crash for a nap before Kyle got home.

I had four e-mails. Heather and Randy both e-mailed that they were done reading I, Claudius and hoped to have me their preliminary notes by Monday morning. I e-mailed them back and said Tuesday was fast enough. The third e-mail offered to introduce me to the wonders of Viagra at a low introductory rate, which was more than a touch insulting. The fourth e-mail, though, would soon have me wishing I had saved the Viagra offer, because I was sure an erection was nowhere in my immediate future. Oh no, that fourth e-mail emasculated me all over again.

The message was from CLDLaw@lincty.net, and it was entitled "Saturday?" I clicked the message, not knowing what to expect.

"I know you're still mad at me," the text read. "but I really wish we could move past all of that. What's done is done and there's no changing it. Now that the dust is settled, though, I was wondering if you wanted to have a drink together or maybe even dinner. There's no reason we can't still be friends. Or more."

And just that quickly, all the pain of the past five months came crashing back down on me. Sure, I knew sooner or later I'd be seeing Whitney with other men. Hell, we were both going to be moving on, and it did no good to pretend otherwise.

This, though, was different. Way different. This was a reminder of that great unanswered question: What the hell had happened to my marriage? Reading the message again and again, I could glean no clues to help me answer that question, but I now had an e-mail address to investigate if I wanted answers.

I sat back, tense as hell and still trying to decide whether I should investigate this further when another thought occurred, a thought that all but directed my course of action. Namely, how had this e-mail come to my e-mail address? Actually, to the e-mail address Whitney and I used to share?

The answer came almost immediately: Whitney had opened another e-mail account; an e-mail account with a name close to our own.

I logged out of the e-mail account, then went through the log in procedure again. I typed "Patterson123@lincty.net." I stared at it for a minute, then added a 4. "Patterson1234@lincty.net." I typed in my password--hell, any password would work--and got "Invalid E-Mail Address." I deleted the 4 and stared.

It had to be close to our actual e-mail address. There was no way they'd been communicating through our home e-mail. Given how often I checked our e-mail, it was far too risky to use our own address. Still, it had to be close. Close enough where one extra letter or number--or one less, for that matter--would result in the e-mail coming to our regular address.

Five minutes later, I had it. "Patterson_123@lincty.net." That little underline made all the difference. Now that I had a valid address, time to figure out the password. I tried everything. Her name, my name, Kyle's name, middle names, parent's names, maiden names, all of the names with birthdates and social security numbers and anniversary dates and old phone numbers. Nothing. The message was always the same. "Invalid Password."

I looked at the clock on the wall. Almost three. Kyle would be home soon. Then my eyes drifted over to a small, brass nameplate, the paperweight I'd gotten for Whitney when she won her first jury trial. SuperLawyer. I remembered giving it to her, and remembered more vividly her giddiness and giggling and excitement as she placed it smack dab in the middle of her desk all those years ago. And now there it sat, dusty and ignored, forgotten on a shelf in the corner of my den. I wondered how long it had been sitting there, how long since she'd taken it out of her office and brought it back here.

Turning back to the screen, I typed it in. SuperLawyer. The second attempt, with all lowercase letters, and I was in. One click on the history of undeleted messages, and I was staring at a list going back eleven months.

"Dad," Kyle called from the front door, slamming the door behind him.

"In the den," I said, highlighting the whole list and clicking Print All.

"Hey, Dad," he said, steamrolling into the room and straight for the crate. "Hey, Sonny."

The pup was already up, standing, yipping at Kyle, his tail going a mile a minute.

"Come on," he said, opening the crate and running back out of the den, Sonny in hot pursuit.

I looked at the list of e-mails being printed, then to the door Kyle had just run through, then back to the e-mails. I clicked on a message dated March 19, 2010. The evening Kyle and I had stayed awake eating pizza and watching movies, Whitney silent on the couch the whole time. The evening a few hours after I'd told her I was going for the divorce.

"I know this is tough on you," he wrote her. "You've been so unhappy for so long, and now you're feeling guilty and sad. Sad at the shambles your marriage has become, guilty because your little boy is going to be going through this. I wanted more than anything to take you into my arms again today. Hold you and hug you and make tender, gentle love to you. While I understand your confusion, and how torn you are about finally leaving him, just remember how happy we will all be together. You, Kyle, and me. I want it more than anything in the world, and I know you do, too. We'll be the happiest family in the world when that day finally arrives."

I was right, I thought. She'd met him that day, but she hadn't screwed him. Not that day, at least. The e-mail strongly implied that they had already had sex by then, though.

I read her response to CLDLaw. It was from the next morning.

"He told me yesterday afternoon that it's over," she wrote. "Luke is divorcing me. We are telling Kyle today sometime. I don't know what to do. Last night we ate pizza and watched movies until Kyle fell asleep across Luke's lap. You should have seen them. They were so peaceful and content. As I watched them, I realized one thing. You and I don't have anything like what Luke and I have, and we never will. I don't know what I have been doing for the past two months, but it stops now. I do NOT want to see you again."

"Dad?" Kyle said from the doorway.

I looked up.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I tried to smile. "Nothing, little man."

I exited the e-mail and scooped up the thick stack of printed messages. "Just let me put this away, and I'll come out and play with you and Sonny, okay?"

His face lit up in joy. "Hurry," he said, running back outside.

I locked the e-mails in a drawer, then went out to the backyard to join Kyle and the Romescu clan all playing with Sonny. The poor little fellow seemed about to burst from the excitement of having five screaming kids all chasing him and throwing things for him and petting him. He looked exhausted by the love being showered upon him, and I envied him.

"It was a good idea, Doc," Sally said from behind me.

"It's taken his mind off of things, that's for sure."

She placed a hand on my shoulder. "It'll all get better, you know. It'll take awhile, but it'll get better."

I put my hand over hers. "Thanks."

"No problem," she said, reaching around and pressing a cold can of beer into my chest. "Now come on. It's Friday night."

We both drank our beers and chatted while watching the kids run little Sonny ragged.

* * * * *

"Did you feed him yet?" Whitney asked as she shouldered Kyle's duffle bag shortly after six.

"No. Figured you'd want to take him out or something."

"Probably just something quiet back at the apartment," she said. "It's been a long week."

"Tell me about it."

"Classes starting next week?"

I nodded, not really wanting to engage in small talk with her. She knew damned well classes always started immediately after Labor Day. And she knew Kyle hadn't been fed because he'd asked her where they were going the second she walked in.

"No furniture yet," she said, her eyes lingering across the great room and kitchen.

"This weekend."

She turned to me and gave a small smile. "That's right. You told me that."

Kyle raced back into the room, stopping at the couch before he came to us. Sun Tzu was sprawled on his side in the middle of the couch, still panting in exhaustion from the afternoon play session.

"Bye, Sonny," he said. He petted the dog, gave him a gentle kiss on the muzzle, then hopped up and ran to me for a hug.

"Have a good weekend, Dad," he said, squeezing me tightly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I said.

He took Whitney's hand, and she led him to the door.

"Have a good weekend, Luke," Whitney said.

"You, too," I said, then--bitterness finally rising to the surface--added, "Super lawyer."

She froze, then turned over her shoulder and looked at me for a moment. The look on my face must've confirmed her worst fears because she sagged, nodded, and led Kyle to her car.

* * * * *

Four hours and three beers later, I knew a few things.

First, Whitney had lied. She'd slept with him on at least a half dozen occasions.

Second, he was clearly a lawyer. A lawyer with a firm whose e-mail address was CLDLaw@lincty.net.

Third, there was a firm in nearby Sherman Oaks named Cahill Levine & Dunleavy. There were nine lawyers in the firm, and seven of them were men. There was no e-mail address listed on their web site.

Fourth, he'd chased her. Hard. And it took months before Whitney had finally succumbed to his advances.

Fifth, despite his repeated entreaties, she'd never taken back up with him after her e-mail of March 20.

Sixth, with the exception of the occasional digs from him about how I didn't really care for her feelings and ambitions, there was no indication what I'd done wrong. None of Whitney's e-mails--not a goddamned one of them--had said anything negative about me. Instead, I was more like an afterthought in all but her March 20 e-mail. In that one, I read more like a fond memory, sort of like a nostalgic look back at a happy Christmas memory from childhood.

There were still some things I didn't know, though.

First, who the hell was he? Neither of them had addressed or signed any of their messages back and forth.

Second, what started this? Sure, he'd chased her, but I had no clue if she'd first sent the signal she was available or looking.

Third, when did I go from being Whitney's husband and the love of her life to a fond memory? When did she quit loving me and why?

What the fuck did I do wrong?




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 02



It was almost eleven, and I was ready for bed. Then a thought occurred to me, though, and I decided to check it out.

I logged back into the secret e-mail account and clicked on the history. Sure enough, they were all now deleted. There was one message still in the box, and it was unopened. The content info line read simply, "Luke, I'm So Sorry."

I left the message unopened, clicked off the internet, and went to bed.

Fuck her. Let her wonder if I'd actually read them.

* * * * *

By nine-thirty Saturday morning, I was climbing the walls with boredom. Poor Sun Tzu had already been walked around the block to the tune of what seemed eleven miles, I had already read the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, my grapefruit-and-toast breakfast only took ten minutes, and I had nothing to do until the stores opened at ten.

"The park," I said to Sun Tzu. He did his level best to ignore me and hide.

"I'll carry you," I promised, finally catching him and holding him under one arm and his little cage under the other. He appeared partially mollified when I put his cage on the passenger seat, him in the cage, and went around to the driver's side. By the time the car was going, Sonny was snoring.

Five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Veteran's Park. There were a few people already there, some jogging on the paths and a few mothers pushing the children on the swings over to the side.

"Come on," I said, rousing the pup and holding him in my arms.

We took a leisurely stroll around the park, and Sun Tzu was content to lay in my arms and give sleepy looks to passing joggers. It was a warm morning, and the walk felt good; it definitely felt better than sitting in the living room staring at walls and listening to silence.

As we neared the swing set and the yells of happy children, Sonny's ears perked up and he pushed himself up in my arms, searching for the children. Once he spotted them, he started yipping and his tiny, curled tail began beating in rapid rhythm against my chest.

I was staring from Sonny to the children, smiling, when I saw her. She looked up and saw me at about the same time, and I froze.

"Hey," Kristin called, waving while she pushed a little boy near Kyle's age on the swing.

I lifted my head in greeting, just watching her for a moment. She seemed relaxed and easy around the boy, just happy with the simple pleasure of pushing the boy on the swing. I envied her, both her relaxed demeanor and the companionship of her child.

After a few minutes of watching, the little boy jumped off the end of the swing, tumbled through the grass, and got up smiling at me.

"Can I see your puppy, mister?" he said, running up to me with a lopsided grin.

"Sure," I said, bending down and releasing the pug.

"Come here, boy," he said.

"His name's Sun Tzu," I said.

"Sonny," he said. "I know. Kyle told us about him."

He was petting the dog, who was enjoying the company of the boy far more than he'd enjoyed my company all morning.

"What's that saying?" Kristin said, walking up. "'Something and snails and puppy dog tails; that's what little boys are made of.' I don't remember."

"Me neither," I said, standing.

"Alone this weekend?"

I nodded. "First time."

She gave a sympathetic smile. "Takes some getting used to."

"Yeah. So I'm noticing."

She bent down and petted Sonny, who all but ignored her in favor of the more rough and tumble attention of the boy.

"So this is what? Two Saturdays in a row, Luke? You stalking me?"

"Just killing time until the stores open," I mumbled, then decided to change the subject. "Your son?"

"Ben," she replied, standing up with her eyes on him the whole time.

"So you're in the same boat as me?"

She turned to me, her face unreadable, and nodded. "Pretty much."

"But at least it's your weekend, right?"

She shook her head. "I'm dropping him off at his dad's house in about twenty minutes."

I nodded, not sure how much more to ask. She was pretty--hell, drop dead friggin' gorgeous--and seemed nice. Add to that my loneliness and apparent isolation from anyone other than Doug in the same boat as me and I wanted to get to know her better. Still, I wasn't sure how to--

"So what're your plans for the rest of the weekend?" she asked, interrupting my thoughts. Her face was again polite inquisitiveness.

"Furniture shopping."

"Really," she said. "A man. Furniture shopping." She gave a chuckle. "I'd pay to see that."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really? Like lunch?"

Her eyes narrowed. Was it too open?

"I just . . . well . . . I mean. . . ." I let my words die the embarrassed death they deserved.

The smile came back. "So you're asking for help in furniture shopping, and in exchange I get to buy lunch?"

Before I could say anything, she answered her own question.

"Okay, Professor," she said. "Sounds like a plan."

"I'll buy the lunch," I offered.

She shook her head. "Nope. I opened my big mouth, and you called me on it. Fair's fair. Woman of her word and all that."

I smiled, glad for the company on what was going to be an otherwise empty and miserable day.

"So where do you live?" she asked.

"Winston Hill."

"House number?"

"Seven fifteen."

She looked at her watch, then at Ben and Sun Tzu. "Okay, how about I take Ben out to his dad's house and meet you back at your place in about a half hour. I can take a quick tour of the house--get an idea what you need and what style and colors--and we'll go look at some things."

"Sounds like a plan," I agreed, wondering how much time I'd have for a thorough cleaning before she arrived.

"Thirty minutes then," she said, holding her hand out for Ben. "Come on, honey. Time to get you off to Dad's."

I scooped up the pug and followed them to the parking lot.

* * * * *

While the house would never pass a West Point inspection, it was clean enough for normal human beings.

"You're right," Kristin said, leaning against the door frame and staring in at my empty bedroom. "Stark. You definitely need furniture." She turned and looked at me. "Where the hell do you sleep?"

"Sofa in the den," I said. "It's a hide-a-bed."

"That must be comfortable," she snorted. "Let's go."

Three hours later, the furniture shopping was almost done. Contrary to my initial fears, Kristin's selections for me--I really can't pretend I had a major say in any of it--were tasteful and masculine. Well, at least there were no floral prints, and the colors were mostly browns and burgundies.

"Okay," she said as we left the Lazy Boy store. "Recliners, entertainment center, dresser, coffee tables, and end tables are out of the way. Just the bed left."

"Wanna go back to Bergner's?" I asked.

"Sleep Comfort," she said. "Pricey, but worth it."

So off we went to look at inflatable beds, something I'd never even heard about.

"Lay on this one," she said, sprawling across one side of a massive king size bed.

I sprawled on the other side. "Comfy, but a little soft."

"Then watch this," the sales lady said, and pressed a button on a remote control in her hand.

I heard a whirring sound, and a minute later the bed was hard as a rock.

"Cool, huh?" Kristin asked, hear head turned to me and a massive grin on her face. A grin and sparkling eyes that mesmerized me.

"Very," I agreed. "But the king size? I mean, can't I just go with a--"

"Not a chance," she insisted, then her face softened. "You're gonna find someone else again, Luke. You really will."

I nodded, then her grin returned.

"And when you do," she continued, "you don't want her hogging you right off the damned bed, right?"

I grinned back. "Right."

"He'll take it," she said, hopping off the bed.

I laid there for a moment, wishing I'd gotten the smaller bed. The one that came with Kristin in it. And smaller so she'd be forced to curl up against me.

"You'll need a headboard," she said. "This comes with its own bed frame, but you'll need to make--or have someone else make--a headboard."

"Or you can buy a king size bed frame and just put this inside of it," the sales lady suggested.

Kristin shook her head. "Tyler's dad still does woodworking. He can build you something that'll be ready by the time this is delivered."

"Tyler's dad?" I said.

"My ex father."

"And he'll know how big to--"

"He's already done a few of them," she said. "I'm sure the measurements haven't changed."

I nodded. "Fair enough."

We spent the next ten minutes filling out the delivery instructions and paying for the new bed. Then, before I really knew it, we were standing in the hallway of the mall with people rushing by us. We were done. My house pretty much furnished in a little over three hours.

"Lunch?" I suggested.

"Something light," she said.

"I'll buy," I assured her.

"It's not that. I'm just not that hungry."

"Me neither. Still, if we don't eat something, we'll be starving in an hour or two."

Kristin looked me up and down as if appraising a racehorse, seemed to make up her mind on something, then gave me a grin as she hooked her arm into mine.

"Come on, hero man," she said, pulling me along. "I think I know just the place."

Fifteen minutes later, we were parked outside a small bakery on Grant City's main drag.

"How've I never noticed this place before?" I asked, getting out of the car.

"You're not from here," she said, leading me into the tiny bakery. "It's a well kept secret."

A plump woman with steel gray hair, pince nez glasses, and a white smock with matching apron smiled and leaned toward us from behind the counter as we approached. Five minutes later, we were seated at a tiny table in the corner, nibbling on fresh croissants and sipping hot espresso.

"How did I ever miss this place?"

Kristin grinned. "I told you: You've got to grow up here to find these little out of the way cubbyholes."

"So why don't you tell me about yourself?" I asked, afraid to look at her as I spoke.

"What d'ya wanna know?"

I lifted my eyes to meet hers, and she was smiling easily. "I don't know. I mean, I know you're a teacher. And I know you've got a little boy--Ben. I know you were married to the writer. Tyler Whatever-his-name-is."

"Collins," she said, the smile still there. "Tyler Collins. He was my first husband. My second husband was a cop, and that one didn't last very long. Ben is Tyler's son. Randy and I--he's the cop--Randy and I didn't have any kids." She snorted. "That one barely lasted long enough to even get all the wedding presents unwrapped."

Over the next half hour--the latter half spent walking the main drag together--Kristin told me all about how she'd gone through two husbands. How she'd grown lonely and impatient with Tyler; left him in Florida and moved back to Illinois; married Randy; had Ben, who ended up being Tyler's son; gotten dumped by Randy; begged Tyler for a second chance; started teaching; was turned down by Tyler, who instead married his editor; and spent the past five years plus raising her son and going on the occasional date.

"Questions?" she said when it was done, her voice soft and resigned.

I stopped and turned, looking at her. "This isn't an interrogation, Kristin."

"I know. It's just that . . . well . . . I mean, I've made some real major mistakes. Some mistakes that've hurt a lot of people. Not just Tyler and Randy. Ben, too. And Tyler's folks and my folks and my cousin and . . . well, a lot of people."

"Did you do it to hurt them? Intentionally hurt them?"

She shrugged. "Doesn't really make any difference, does it? The point is that I did hurt them. Because of me, they all suffered. Why I did it doesn't really matter. It just matters that I did it."

"And you don't think that they're even a little bit at fault for any of this? You think Tyler--and especially Randy--aren't even a little bit at fault?"

"Tyler, maybe a little. Not really, though. I really put him in an impossible position. Randy, quite a bit more. But still, none of it wouldn't have happened without me. If I'd had my head out of my ass--maybe been able to think it all through better--then I'd like to think I wouldn't have done it. But . . . well, I'm pretty sure I'd have still done it. Then, at least."

"And now?"

She shook her head. "Not a chance."

"So what's different?"

"Ben," she said, surprised I had asked such a stupid question.

"That's all?"

She started walking again. "Of course that's all, Luke. C'mon, you've got Kyle. You know what I mean. You think you'd ever do all that shit if it meant putting him through all of that again? If he'd have to go through a second divorce with you?"

"I didn't even want him to go through the first divorce."

"No," she said, her low, reflective tone matching mine. "If I'd known I was pregnant, I'd have never left. I'd have come clean with Tyler and begged him to forgive me and I'd have spent the rest of my life trying to hold my family together."

"You think he'd have forgiven you?"

"Dunno," she said. "I'd like to think he would've. He was always a great guy. Still is."

"You sound like you're still in love with him."

"Sure. Why not? He's Ben's father, and he's a great guy."

"But?"

"But he's moved on. He's got a new wife now, and they've got a little girl of their own now, too. So yeah, sure, I still love him. But it's really a fond love. A comfortable love. Not a burning passion. I gave that up. Our ship sailed, and even if it came back to port I couldn't get on again."

I was silent, and she didn't say anything else until we were in the car driving back to my place.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said.

"I don't know," I replied, eyes on the road. "I just can't help but thinking that maybe Whitney--she's my ex--that she didn't really think this all through."

"I don't know," Kristin said, putting her hand on my forearm. "Sounds to me like she changed her mind toward the end. Like she wanted to do what I wish I'd had the chance to do. Beg your forgiveness and try to spend the rest of her life making it all up to you."

I shot a glance at Kristin, then back to the road. "Just one thing missing," I said.

"I know. She didn't want to have to come clean in the process."

"Bingo."

We pulled into the driveway beside her car, and I shut down the engine.

"Luke?"

"Kristin?"

"If she'd have come clean," she said, turning to me. "If she'd told you everything up front, would you have forgiven her?"

I thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.

"Guess we'll never know."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I'd asked Kristin to dinner for that night, but she begged off. Dinner with her folks. She promised to call me the next day sometime, and I told her I'd be there.

So my first Saturday night alone consisted of Puppy Chow for Sun Tzu and a bowl of soup for me. Five episodes into the Band of Brothers box set, I put the pup in his crate, went back to the couch, and went to sleep.

* * * * *

One of the worst parts about growing old is my inability to sleep much more than six hours a night. As a teenager, most of my weekend was spent in bed until almost eleven. At West Point, of course, that changed dramatically: I was up by 0430 every morning. That's really early for those of you not acquainted with military time. The rest of my time in the Army was similarly spent in snatches of sleep. After the Army, though, I enjoyed sleeping until at least eight or nine most weekend mornings, and managed at least eight hours of sleep nearly every night.

Now, though, when I most needed to sleep my time away to avoid the unbearable emptiness of the house, you think I could sleep now? Not a chance.

So there I was at five thirty, walking a clearly irritated puppy around the block for the fourth time. A few hundred yards into the fifth trip around, a tall, elderly man in pajamas and a bathrobe was waiting for me from his front porch.

"You shouldn't do that," he called.

I stopped and turned to him.

"Do what?"

He nodded down at the wheezing puppy. "Walk him so much. Or so fast, either. He's a pug."

"And you know this how?"

He smiled a patient smile. "Because it's what I do. I'm a vet."

I looked down at Sun Tzu, then back to the man on the porch. Scooping the dog into my arms, I walked to the front porch.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to be snotty or anything."

He looked at me for a moment, then to the dog now snuggled into my chest.

"Allen LaCroix," he said, reaching over to pet the puppy.

He was about seventy, tall and gaunt, bald with a gray, close-cropped monk's ring of hair and reading glasses. His forearms, though, belied his age. They looked like bands of steel.

"Luke Patterson," I responded.

"Pugs have a shortened, soft palate," he explained, looking at me as he spoke, "so they're just not good at breathing. It's why they snore so loud. And wheeze and pant so much, 'specially in hotter weather. They get winded and overheated real easy, so you need to keep an eye on 'em in this weather. Make sure he gets plenty of water when you get him home. And you may want to check out the pads of his paws. They're probably swollen pretty bad. Ice them."

"But I only--"

"Walked him four times around the block today," he said. "I know. I counted. And you walked him for nearly an hour yesterday. Probably two and a half, maybe three miles you walked him. I saw that, too, while I read my papers near the front window. You'll kill him, son. Sure as shit, you keep it up and you'll kill him."

I nodded, terrified of what I'd nearly done. "I didn't know."

He smiled. "Most first-time pet owners don't have a clue. Someone shoulda told you, but they didn't. So now I'm telling you."

He scratched Sun Tzu behind the ears. "Water. First thing when you get him home--and you'd best carry him there. See how he's already panting so's he can't quit?"

He was, but he was also looking up at me with adoring eyes and--to my eternal shame--love and happiness and trust.

"Promise," I said.

"Okay, Luke Patterson," he said. "Just thought you should know."

"How'd you know I'm a first-time pet owner?"

He chuckled. "Because you're letting the dog walk you instead of the other way around. Next time you walk him, keep him cinched in tight to your side. If he tries pulling ahead, jerk him back. You've got a harness collar here, so you won't be hurting him none. You'll just be showin' him who's the boss."

He chuckled again, then waved and went back into his house.

I walked back home, got Sonny a big bowl of fresh, cold water, and put him down. He drank nearly half the bowl in no time, and his panting started to subside.

"Sorry, boy," I said, petting him when he was done. He wagged his tail, then went to the living room and curled up in the middle of the floor.

I, on the other hand, spent the next hour getting over the shakes that had overcome me. Christ, how would I have explained to Kyle why Sonny was dead?

As if enough shit wasn't going wrong in his life, he came inches from having me kill his dog.

Jesus H. Christ!

* * * * *

By nine, I decided to go grocery shopping. Do you have any idea how bored you have to be before grocery shopping actually becomes the highlight of your day?

I was in the produce aisle when I heard the familiar voice behind me.

"Ewww," Heather Farley said, reaching in and smacking the zucchini from my hands. "Don't buy that, Professor. It's gross."

I looked at her and laughed. "Good morning, Ms. Farley."

She gave a bright smile, as did the shorter brunette next to her.

"Morning, Professor Patterson," she intoned in mock schoolgirl.

"Okay. Fine. We're not in class. Call me Luke."

"And you'll call me Heather?" she said.

"And me Brandi?" the other girl asked.

"Fair enough." I turned back to the zucchini. "So what's so gross about zucchini?"

"Not zucchini," Heather said. "Just that zucchini."




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 02



"Okay, I'll bite. What's so wrong with that zucchini?"

She looked at me like I was hopeless. "It's crappy and grown with pesticides and insecticides and picked before it's ripe and ripened with gases and transported from God knows where and it's God knows how old. Get the picture?"

"Okay. And my alternative is?"

"Dude," Brandi chimed in. "Look around yourself. You're in the breadbasket of the Midwest. You drive down any road and within five miles you'll find farmstands all over the place. It'll be better and fresher and taste better and be better for you."

I looked from Brandi to Heather and back again. These girls seemed like clones with a passion for long, run on sentences.

"And fruit?"

"Melons are in season," Heather said, then flashed me a look that seemed to invite me to take a quick peek at her melons.

"Same farmstands?"

"Usually."

"And meat?"

Heather looked at Brandi and they nodded almost in unison. "Sure, you can buy your meat here. Not your bread, though. There's this bakery on Winsted Street? You know the one?"

I nodded. "Just went there yesterday for the first time."

They nodded knowingly. "That's your best bet."

"Come on," Heather said. "Follow us. We'll help."

"I'm pretty sure I can take it from here," I protested.

"Yeah. Right," Brandi snorted.

She rolled her eyes at Heather who rolled her eyes back in response.

So I spent the next half hour being guided around the grocery store buying almost nothing except milk, coffee, pasta, meat, and frozen vegetables (though only if those vegetables were out of season). And, strangely, it was fun. Heather and Brandi were a pair of chatterboxes, talking almost nonstop about classes, professors, boys, and the like.

Once through the checkout lane and into the parking lot, Heather turned to me.

"So you wanna follow us to some farmstands?"

I smiled. "No thanks. I'm pretty sure I can take it from here. And this time I mean it."

Heather batted her eyes at me. "What's wrong, Professor? Afraid of being left alone with the two of us for too long?"

"Yeah, Professor," Brandi joined in, putting an arm around Heather's waist and pulling her hip in close. "Don't think you can handle it?"

I felt the blood rush to my head, both in embarrassment and in sudden arousal. I tried to stammer, and they both started giggling.

"Okay then," Heather said, flashing a grin that offered promises of things I'd only heard about, "but if you change your mind, you've got my e-mail."

I barely managed a wave.

An hour later, now fully loaded up with fresh bread and croissants and some vegetables from a farm stand two miles out of town, I was back in my kitchen unloading my morning's haul. There were no messages, and I was more than a bit disappointed.

The phone finally rang, though, when I finished putting the groceries away.

"I was wondering when you would call," I answered.

There was silence, then Whitney spoke. "Oh. You were . . . uh . . . expecting someone?"

I deflated. "Yeah, sorta. What's up, Whit?"

"I was wondering if I could bring Kyle back today instead of tomorrow like we'd planned."

"Something wrong?"

She hesitated, then answered. "Well, he's pretty bored. And he misses his puppy, too. And . . . well . . . I've got a pretty big trial starting on Tuesday, and I'm thinking of getting an early start on final trial prep."

I thought about it for a moment, wondering if this would screw up any potential plans Kristin may offer.

"Luke?"

"Sorry," I said. "When're you thinkin' of bringing him back?"

"Now?"

I looked up. It wasn't even eleven yet. "Sure, that's fine. Whenever. I'll be here."

"Thanks, Luke," she said. Then, after a slight pause, she added, "I hope I'm not messing up something for you."

"I'll deal with it," I said.

"Sorry."

"See you soon."

I hung up. No good bye, no I love you. Just hung up.

* * * * *

Kristin called just after Whitney dropped Kyle off. He was in the back yard, playing with Sonny, when the phone rang.

"Hello."

"Morning, Luke," Kristin said.

"Good morning to you."

"So do you have any plans for today?"

I sighed. "Whitney just brought Kyle back. A day early."

She laughed. "Welcome to it. Might as well get used to it now."

"This happens to you a lot?"

"No," she said. "Not a lot. Sometimes, though. And sometimes it goes the other way. Sometimes I use Tyler as a babysitter if I have a hot date or something."

I pondered this, wondering how often she had hot dates.

"You there?" she asked.

"Yeah, still here."

"Well, do you still wanna get out of the house today?"

"You got something in mind?"

"I do, actually," she said. "Think you can handle being around my ex-husband and his new wife?"

"Say again?"

She laughed. "Tyler's invited me out to his house for a cook out. A Labor Day party. I mentioned I might be bringing a date, and he said fine."

"Yeah," I said, "but Kyle--"

"Is welcome to come along. Ben will be there--along with at least a dozen other kids--and Tyler's got a pool they can play in."

"And you won't be uncomfortable?"

"No," she answered. "This doesn't happen often, but it happens often enough that everyone's pretty comfortable with the situation. I mean, we're not all best buds or anything, but we get along and put up that front for Ben. And we still have a ton of mutual friends, so it's not really all that uncomfortable anymore."

I looked out at Kyle, realized Sonny was already tiring and needed a nap, and figured I had nothing better on my platter. Okay, that and I wanted to see Kristin in a swimsuit.

"So do I bring swim trunks?"

She laughed. "If you wanna swim."

"You bringing a swimsuit?"

"I guess you'll just have to come along and find out, won't you?"

* * * * *

An hour later, swim trunks and towels for Kyle and I in a duffle bag, we picked up Kristin in front of a small, neat house with perfectly maintained landscaping and a flawless lawn.

She opened the door before I could ring the doorbell.

"Come in for a sec," she said. "You can help me carry the beans and some stuff."

"Was I supposed to bring something?" I asked, following her through a neat and homey living room into a tiny, galley-style kitchen. She was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless, button-up blouse, and I appreciated the view of her smooth, toned legs and extremely nice posterior flexing beneath her shorts.

"Not really," she said, unplugging a crock pot on the counter and nodding for me to take it. "If you want, we'll stop on the way out and you can get a case of beer or pop or something."

"Fair enough," I agreed.

She scooped up a duffle bag of her own and her purse and turned. "Sorry, but there's no time for a tour now. Maybe next time?"

"Sure," I said, looking around one last time before following her out. "It's nice, though."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Cozy. And not too much."

"Who does your landscaping?" I asked as she opened the back door to my car and she and Kyle exchanged greetings.

"No one," she said, putting her things down on the back seat before taking the crock pot from my hands and putting it on the floor before turning to me. "I do it all myself. Keeps me busy when Ben's with his dad."

"It's real nice," I said, opening her door.

"Thanks," she said with a bright smile, sliding into the seat and buckling her seat belt.

* * * * * 

An hour later, I'd met most of the twenty or so adults at the party. Tyler Collins and his wife Marisa--she was an up and coming science fiction author, I was told--were pleasant and easy to talk with. Their home was pretty, but not too large or in any way ostentatious, and it sat well off the road on a five-acre parcel surrounded by hundred-year old oak trees.

"And you were in the Army?" Tyler said.

I nodded. "Got out in ninety-two."

"What did you do?" Marisa asked. She was pretty in a tall, gangly sort of way, and her smile was easy, but sly and half-hidden. Also, she didn't seem to speak much, but when she did it was direct and to the point.

"Infantry," I said. "Platoon leader."

She nodded, and Kristin spoke up.

"Kyle told the class he's some kind of war hero."

Tyler raised an eyebrow at that. "War hero?"

"Forgot to duck," I answered.

"That Kuwait and Iraq thing? Desert Storm?"

"That's the one," I confirmed. "Gulf War."

"Did you see battle?" Marisa asked.

I hesitated, then nodded.

"And you did something heroic?"

"No more than I was supposed to do."

Marisa's sly smile returned, and she fixed me with a stare. "Are we going to have to torture you to get the story out of you?"

I felt their stares and knew they wanted me to tell them some John Wayne tale of valor and honor and all that other bullshit. But I knew they wouldn't understand. None of them had been there, and you had to have been there.

Marisa sensed my hesitation, though, and let me off the hook. "You could learn something, Tyler," she said, still looking at me.

"And what's that, dear?"

"Mystery is a good thing."

"But I write mysteries."

"I mean in a person," she said. "Sometimes it's best to keep certain things to yourself."

He laughed. "And I'm what? An open book?"

I watched them, worried about a potential flare up. But her sly smile was now turned on him, and coupled with a softness in her eyes that showed she loved him just the way he was. And his confidence in receiving that look--in knowing her devotion to him--was also visible in his easy stroking of her arm.

"Not in you, Tyler. In your characters. Hold some things back. Let the readers wonder what the secrets are, and don't spill them all at the end."

He nodded at this, looking from Marisa to Kristin to me. Then his grin nearly split his face. "My harshest critic."

"So," Kristin said in the lull, "anyone going into the pool?"

"Are you?" Marisa asked me.

When I hesitated, Kristin flashed me a devilish grin. "I'm only going in if you're going in."

I looked at Tyler and Marisa, both of whom had lopsided grins on their faces, then back to Kristin. I really did want to see her in that swimsuit, I decided, and--assuming we were going to become at least friends--I was only putting off the inevitable.

"Where do I change?" I asked.

"Follow me," Kristin replied, taking my hand and smiling.

"If you're not out in five minutes," Tyler said, grinning and raising his eyebrows.

"He wishes," Kristin snorted back at Tyler. "He can use Ben's room. I'll use the hallway bathroom."

"Spoilsport," Marisa chided.

Five minutes later, towel wrapped around my waist, I walked back to the rear lawn of the house.

"You have the whitest legs I've ever seen," Kristin said.

"Like a ghost," someone next to Tyler said.

"Why the towel?" Marisa asked. "You wearing Speedos or something?"

I looked from her to Kristin to the others, then took the towel away from my waist.

They tried not to gasp or look shocked, but none of them managed to totally control their surprise.

"Like I said," I explained, looking down at my the jagged lines of scar tissue rising above the suit from my right hip and going down nearly to the knee of my right leg, "I forgot to duck."

Kristin drew near and reached out, her fingertips tracing the angry, knotted lines of scarring above my waist band.

"I'd rather you didn't do that just now," I said softly. "Something's liable to pop up in a most embarrassing manner."

The tension broke and everyone laughed. Then Tyler offered to let us go back in and take some more time changing if that was going to be the case while others just suggested a corner of the pool away from the children. And though Kristin seemed to take it all in stride, I was beginning to blush.

"Oh look," Tyler laughed. "Looks like someone's got a crush on someone."

"Tyler," Marisa warned, shooting him a glance.

"Sorry," he said, still chuckling. "Go on, you two. Keep an eye on the kids for awhile and we'll start grilling."

"Sure you don't want some help?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Positive. Just go have some fun."

* * * * *

After a half hour in the pool, mostly spent avoiding getting splashed, dunked, or otherwise jumped on by a dozen kids of all ages, Karen and I were sitting on the concrete slab with our feet dangling in the water.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, her eyes on the kids.

"No. The warm water makes it feel pretty good, actually."

"Is that why Kyle says you're a war hero?"

"No," I said, turning to look at her. Granted, it was only a one-piece suit, but she did a nice job of filling it out. "His mom told him that. The first time he saw the scars, he wanted to know what it was. That's what she told him."

"Does he know what it's from?"

"He knows as much as you."

"Does anyone else? I mean, besides Whitney, of course, and probably your folks and whoever was there when it happened."

"Nope. You've about covered it. Except I never told my folks."

Understanding now how quiet I kept the matter, she was tentative with her next questions.

"So are you?"

"Am I what?"

"A hero?"

"Tough to define, don't you think?"

She turned and fixed me with a stare. "Did the Army define it that way?"

I stared back, then nodded. "Yeah. I got my medal for it. Medals, if you count the Purple Heart."

"Which one did you get?"

"Silver Star."

"Is that a biggie?"

I shrugged. "Sure. Third highest one they give out."

She gave me a smile and a raised eyebrow.

"What?"

"So I guess you really are a hero then, huh?"

I chuckled. "No. Like I said, just too damned stupid to get the hell down."

I watched her face move closer, and I froze, my eyes getting wide.

She kissed me. Not a smoldering kiss; not really even a romantic kiss. Just a light brushing of her lips against mine. Whatever you call it, though, it was electric, and it was over before I could kiss her back.

Then reality hit, and I looked around. No one else had seen it, including Kyle.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "He wasn't looking."

I smiled, glad she understood and didn't mistake my reaction for rejection.

"Always wanted to kiss a hero, Luke Patterson," she said.

I felt the giddiness in my belly, a lightness that hadn't been there in a long time.

"That all you ever wanted to try with a hero?" The words were out of my mouth before I could check them.

Her grin got downright flirtatious at that. "Maybe if it's the right hero. You know, not just any old hero."

"So there are a lot of those around here to pick from? Heroes, that is?"

She laughed. "Good point."

* * * * *

By six-thirty, I was beginning to worry about little Sun Tzu. Sure, he'd sleep twenty hours a day when Kyle wasn't around, but he still needed to eat. Add to that a belly full of chicken, coleslaw, beans, and potato salad, and I was also ready to just crash and relax.

"But Dad," Kyle protested, "Ben wants me to spend the night."

I looked at Kristin, who shrugged.

Just then, Marisa came over. "Sorry," she said. "Ben asked a couple of hours ago. And it's okay with us if it's okay with you."

I looked from her to Kyle, then to little Ben standing impatiently and expectantly ten feet back, then back to Marisa. Okay, I didn't know them from Adam, but how dangerous can two authors really be?

"You're sure it's not a problem?"

She smiled. "Really. Ben wants him to stay, and we've got plenty of room."

"What time should I pick him up tomorrow?" I asked, at which time Kyle gave a whoop of joy and Ben pumped his fist.

Kristin chuckled, and Marisa grinned. "We'll drop him off at your place. Probably at about noon."

"Thanks," I said, which she waved off before giving me a hug and thanking me for coming.

I took five minutes to lecture Kyle on manners, being on his best behavior, and all the other crap my parents always lectured me about when staying at someone's house for the first time. He spent those five minutes rolling his eyes and waiting for me to finish so he could get back in the pool.

Most of the drive back to town was spent in a comfortable silence. It became a lot more comfortable when Kristin grabbed my free hand and put it on top of her thigh down near the knee. I shot her a look, but she was just staring straight ahead with a smile playing at her lips.

"So you wanna get a drink somewhere before you drop me off?" she asked.

"Sounds nice," I replied. "Can I drop by the house and feed Sonny first? And let him out of his cage for a few minutes?"

"Sure."

Five minutes later, Sonny was out of the cage and scampering around the backyard, sniffing every blade of grass before lifting his leg and claiming it as his domain.

"Got a beer?" Kristin asked from beside me on the deck.

"Sure," I said, going to the fridge and grabbing a couple of bottles of Amstel Light, popping the caps, and returning.

"One ice cold beer for the lovely lady," I said.

She took a long pull from the beer.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"Just getting my courage up," she said.

"For what?"

She took another long pull from the beer, then gave a tiny burp and giggled. "Sorry."

I snickered, then took a long pull from my own beer.

"You need some courage, too?" she asked.

"I don't know yet. I just figured if you needed some, then maybe I'd better get some, too."

"Oh really?"

"Really."

"Then let's see if either of us needed the liquid courage," she said, putting her beer bottle on the railing. She turned to face me, then shot a look at my beer bottle.

"Does this mean that. . . ." I said, my eyes on her while I put my beer bottle down.

She nodded, then stepped close, leaned in, and kissed me. No slight brushing of the lips this time. Oh no, this was the real thing. Gentle kiss with light pressure moving to a little more pressure and a slight parting of the lips. Then her tongue was out, tracing my lips until my tongue joined the duel. Her hands were softly running through my hair, and I put my arms around her, hands on her back, and enjoyed the moment.

Then, after maybe a minute, she broke the kiss and looked at me.

"Thanks."

"I think that should be the other way around," I murmured.

"It was nice."

"It was amazing."

She smiled, a happy smile, not the lascivious one. That told me she'd gone as far as she intended to for the time being.

"So did I pass the test?" I asked.

She searched my face to see if there was any hidden meaning in my words, which there wasn't, then gave me a peck on the cheek.

"It's not an audition," she said. "It's something I've wanted to do since last week."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't know if I liked you enough. Remember what I said?"

I nodded. "We've got children now. No sense in rushing into something that may only hurt them."

She nodded, relieved at my understanding. "So I'm sorry if you want more now, but I just can't take that chance. Sleeping together too soon just complicates things. Makes people . . . . I don't know. It just changes things."

"It makes them possessive," I said. "And too appreciative too early, I guess."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning if we slept together too soon, then you'd definitely become the rebound, which is not something either of us wants."

She thought about that and her lips narrowed, her eyes staring off to the side.

"Did I say something wrong?"

She turned to me and smiled. "No, Luke. Not a damned thing."

The smile looked forced, though, and I took a stab at her sudden anxiety.

"You know," I whispered, "just being the first one after my divorce doesn't mean you'll ever be a rebound. If we play this right--and assuming we don't hate each other in a few months--there's no reason we can't become best friends before we become more. And if that's in the cards, then so be it. If it's not, though, it'll have nothing to do with you being rebound or anything."

Her eyes sparkled with teardrops, but her smile told me I'd said just the right thing.




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 02



"Goddamn you're smart. No wonder you're a professor."

And she leaned in and kissed me again, only this one lasted longer than the first one. This one only ended when Sun Tzu decided to announce his presence by yelping and whoofing and bouncing up and down at our feet.

"Ouch," I said, breaking the kiss.

"What?"

"Little shit just nipped my ankle."

She laughed, then picked up her beer and took a sip. "Let's get him fed and go have that drink."

"Good plan," I agreed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

At eleven-thirty the next morning, Kyle bounded through the front door and made a bee line straight for Sonny, who was equally elated to see his big brother and best bud. They romped together out to the back yard.

"Hello," I heard someone call.

I walked from the kitchen to the living room and saw Tyler Collins standing in the doorway.

"Just wanted to make sure someone was home," he said.

"Come on in," I said. "Have a beer or a pop or something."

He smiled, shrugged, and stepped in, closing the door behind himself.

"Did he behave?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. "They had a blast. He may need a nap, though. Sorry, but they didn't fall asleep on the couch until almost midnight."

I chuckled. The joys of sleepovers.

"Name your poison," I said, opening the refrigerator so he could see inside.

"Just a Diet Pepsi, please."

I pulled out two and handed one to him. He popped it, took a drink, then placed it on the counter, leaning easily against the countertop as he did so.

"So what's it like being a bestselling author?" I asked for want of anything else to say.

"Busier than you'd think. There's the writing, then the editing. Then more editing. That's after I come up with the story idea and research it all first, of course. And while all that's going on, there's consultations on the movie scripts if it sells, book tours, talk shows, and the rest of the crap that goes into selling the book."

"Sounds pretty hectic."

"Way more hectic than I'd have ever guessed," he confirmed. He took another sip, then said, "And you? The life of a history professor?"

"Nine hours a week in class; maybe eighteen hours a week on average preparing for classes and grading exams and term papers; another nine hours a week of office hours to meet one-on-one with the students; and faculty meetings a couple of hours a week."

"That's not so bad," he observed.

"Then," I added, "there's the inevitable research and writing we do on our own, usually with research and editing help from student interns. You know, stuff for historic journals and the occasional small-press book."

"And that's how much more time a week?"

"Maybe fifteen hours."

"Okay," he said, holding up his hands. "It now officially reached the borderline of hectic and too much."

I shrugged. "It's not so bad. I can do a lot of the work from home. Class preparation and writing and stuff. And it doesn't really matter what time I do it here, especially now that. . . ."

He looked at me, heard my words, and saw the look on my face. He finished my sentence in his head, then said, "Yeah. That's how I got started writing."

I mulled over in my head how to ask the next question, but he saw the look on my face and grinned.

"So," he said. "You and Kristin are . . .?"

"Friends," I said. "For now, at least."

"Good idea," he said. "When I went through it--when Kristin left me--I was just . . . you know . . . ."

"Lost?"

"Or worse."

"So you would recommend?"

"Take it slow. Get to know each other. Talk. A lot. Talk about what you each want out of life and what you like and don't like and all the little shit that can suddenly become a big deal, y'know?"

"Sure." I took a sip, again unsure how to proceed. Tyler's face was an open book, though, so I just decided to say it. "She told me what happened with you two."

He nodded. "Pretty bad."

"But she says she's changed now. That she'd never do it again."

His eyes narrowed, and he looked at me long and hard before speaking.

"Did she say why?"

"That she couldn't put Ben through anything like that again."

He nodded. "Explains a lot."

"Like what?"

"Like her lifestyle since Randy divorced her." He finished his pop, put the empty upside down in the sink, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. "She was a selfish little bitch, Luke. Sorry, but it's the truth. But since her second divorce, she hardly dates. I mean, hell, this town's big, but it isn't that big. And Ben tells us almost anytime she has a date. We're not prying, y'know. But we're usually the babysitters when she does, so we have a pretty good idea. And we all still hang around pretty much the same places, so we'd know if she was with a string of boyfriends."

"But she hasn't been."

"Like a fucking nun almost. Like she's terrified or something."

"And you thought?"

He smiled. "I'd like to say I thought it was Kristin pining away for me, her lost love. But that's bullshit, of course. That would've stopped the second Marisa and I got married. Then we thought she just didn't want to be thought of as a tramp or anything. A MILF, I think they call it nowadays."

"And now?"

He shrugged. "Her reason makes sense. A lot of sense, actually."

"And?"

He patted me on the shoulder. "And I think it means she's not the selfish little bitch she was back then. I think it means she may have just finally gotten her priorities in order, and she's not putting herself at the top of that list."

I couldn't look at him when I asked the next question, both from embarrassment and from fear at the answer. "You know if she's seeing anyone else?"

"I'm positive she's not. Ben told me all about her and Allysin taking you out to get the dog. He said that was the first time she's ever even talked about another man or seemed happy about meeting one in ages. Maybe almost a year. And he notices those things. He's pretty protective, I guess. I'm pretty sure he wonders why she's not with someone again like I am."

I nodded, contemplating his words and taking all of this in.

"Still," he continued, "you gotta wonder."

"About what?"

He raised an eyebrow. "She's known you what? A few weeks?"

I nodded.

"And you two left together last night, right?"

"Right."

"And you spent the night together, right?"

I gave a sad shake of the head. "Two kisses. Good kisses. Hell, great kisses. Still, just two kisses, a beer here, two beers at the Bar and Grill, and home to our respective beds by ten."

He put on a look of mock astonishment. "Not even a handjob? A titty rub? Just a few kisses?"

I laughed. "Tell me about it."

He was still laughing when he left a few moments later.

* * * * *

Having Kyle back after only three days apart reminded me how much busier I was around the house when he wasn't with Whitney. And it reminded me how much happier, and not so alone, I was, too.

Also, it was fun spending the afternoon making Russian tanks and soldiers in the basement, and painting the cooled tin castings.

It's easy to see why the father-son bond simply cannot be overrated.

* * * * *

"Okay," I said to Heather and Randy, who were waiting in my office when I got there just before eight on Tuesday morning. "What've you got for me?"

Randy looked at Heather, who merely nodded in response. She reached into her backpack and handed me a neatly typed memorandum.

"And yours?" I asked Randy.

He wouldn't look at me, but Heather spoke for him. "We did it jointly. I ran into him Sunday night, and we spent most of our time going over our two memos. Our ideas were roughly the same, so we put it all together into one neat package for you."

I looked from her to him, then down at the memo. "That true, Randy?"

"Yes," he stammered.

"And this one memo contains all of your ideas? The ones you each had on your own?"

"Yes," he croaked.

I looked at Heather. "And why did you decide to do it this way?"

She shrugged, not the least bit perturbed by my cool demeanor. "Why should you read essentially the same thing twice? Time is money, you know, and this way you'll get all of the ideas and only have to read them once."

"And we did make the ideas more . . . well . . . more detailed working together," Randy added.

I looked at them both long and hard. In the past, I'd had interns who did this, but only because one of them was carrying all of the weight or they'd switch back and forth on the assignments, thereby only doing half the work during the internship for all of the pay and credit. That didn't seem to be the case here, though.

"Okay," I said, tossing the memo aside, "then tell me what you two think is the best idea for a new way to look at this period in classical Roman history."

"We'll do better than that," Heather said, damned near bouncing with excitement in her chair. "We even came up with a title. And it's enough for a book, too."

I raised my eyebrows. "Then don't keep me in suspense."

"Was Empire Inevitable?" she said.

"Meaning?" I said, holding my hand up for Heather to be quiet so Randy could answer.

He cleared his throat. "Meaning did the Roman Republic have to end. How many steps along the way could something have changed--little things and big things--that would've ended the brief monarchy Julius Caesar started and Octavian cemented? And why did it continue after Octavian--after Caesar Augustus--died?"

I thought about it. Not totally original, but still a ton of different ways to tackle it.

"That's it?" I asked.

"No," Heather answered before I could stifle her. "We compare it to a more modern transition from republic to dictatorship to show how history repeats."

"Okay, Heather, I'll bite: Which modern transition do we use?"

"America," she beamed triumphantly.

"Us? The United States?"

Her head nodded so hard I though her teeth would fly out. "Sure, we're not there yet. Still, look at the comparisons. Stratification of wealth. Military-industrial complex. The same tired old men--and some women--running our lives from Washington for year after year after year, and all of their campaigns financed by the super wealthy and the business interests. All so those super wealthy can stay in power themselves and use the rest of us to keep them there."

"That sounds a lot like conspiracy theory," I said, liking the idea but wondering what else was there.

"It's not," Randy said. "Think about it. The government waves the flag to keep everyone patriotic and focused on their pride as Americans. The Romans did the same thing. And every time there was a threat to the Empire--every time the people demanded a return to the Republic--the emperors did the same thing."

"Jesus, Professor," Heather exclaimed, "it's how Caesar took total control right from the very beginning. He played the rich off against the poor, promised both something he never really delivered on, and kept them both distracted by wars and pride and each other."

"And Octavian was even worse," Randy said. "He all but canonized Caesar before the people so he could follow through with the Civil War and keep power while executing all of his political foes."

I leaned back and looked from one to the other, impressed by their work.

"The story of Caesar wasn't really in the book," I observed.

"I know," Heather said. "But once the idea took root, I went back and did some quick reading on it."

"And you?" I asked Randy.

"He already knew all that," Heather answered for him. "My quick research consisted of reading a term paper he did for Professor Whitman's class last year."

I just nodded, still leaned back in my chair and looking from one to the other. But as I thought more about their topic, the more my smile widened. After maybe a minute of silence, they both started grinning, too.

"It's good, isn't it?" Heather asked.

"Uh huh," I said. "Maybe real good. There's been a lot written about the transition from republic to empire, but very little of it looked at it from the other side--from the view of what little things could've changed that would've prevented the whole slide to tyranny."

She shot Randy a look, and he blushed under her scrutiny. But the smile still didn't leave his face. I'm pretty sure he was happier about Heather's approval than about mine.

"Okay," I said, swinging forward in my chair, "here's how this is going to happen. You two spend the next week independently researching as many sources as you can about the conditions in Rome between, say, 100 B.C. and 47 B.C. Make that 110 B.C. Land reforms were getting under way around then. Stratification of wealth, wars, senators and ruling bodies, maybe even how it was all but hereditary even by that time. And you will do it separately, understand?"

"Understood," they chimed.

"Then get together and give me an outline. With sources. Nothing fancy. Just the basics, okay?"

They nodded.

"Then the following week, I want the same thing on the United States for post-World War II to the beginning of Bill Clinton's presidency. And include in that one as many names of long-terms senators and congressmen, high level bureaucrats, and their children or other close relatives in high government positions. Sound doable?"

"So long as they're just the basics," Heather said.

"Yeah," Randy chimed in. "We can't get that much depth so quickly."

"Just the basics for now," I confirmed, then gave them both a stern look. "But one other thing you need to include in all of that."

"What?" Randy asked.

"You've got your basic premise, okay? You're saying--I'm saying in an article or, more likely, a book--that the Roman Republic slid into dictatorship because of certain things, that altering any of countless little things could've changed that, and that those same certain things are now happening in America, right?"

They nodded.

"Well don't be totally sold on your hypothesis, okay? Just because we think that's the case, don't set out to prove it by ignoring all evidence to the contrary. If there are any differences, I want them, and I want them highlighted, underlined three times, and made crystal clear, okay? Even if there's a contradiction in the sources, I want the contradiction raised. Am I making myself clear?"

"Because that may change the hypothesis, but it still doesn't scrap the whole thing, right?"

"Exactly," I confirmed. "But if you want the whole thing to be a piece of crap, then ignore anything that disagrees with you and just bully ahead with your own set of facts. And make me look like an ass in the process."

"Being selective with your facts is for demagogues," Randy said, starting one of the sayings I harped on in classes.

"But it's not historians," Heather finished for him.

"For Chrissake," I said. "You two actually listened in class?"

They chuckled, but their excitement over my reception of their idea, and their new project, was written all over both of them.

* * * * *

After a hellish summer of misery and loneliness, the first day of classes was like slipping into a pair of old leather shoes. Familiar and comfortable. I knew what to expect, was happy to be where I was, and was relieved at the simple joy of teaching a group of young men and women who, for the most part, were equally excited about learning what I had to say.

It was nice.

Almost as nice as getting home to Kyle and Sonny.

My routine there was also quickly becoming easy and comfortable. Not to say it didn't have its moments of crisis and loneliness and bitter memories, because it did. Still, I was learning to deal with both present and past a little better each day.

Little did I know.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Look, Dad," Kyle said during breakfast, prodding his finger into the picture dominating page one of the Lincoln County Register.

"I know," I said, lowering the paper. "Your mom's on the front page."

"Why?"

"She started a big trial yesterday."

"What kind of trial?"

"Some men are charged with selling drugs. Illegal drugs."

"To children?"

I nodded. Kyle had a real soft spot for all children, which broke my heart lately given the predicament in which he now found himself. "Sometimes. To adults, too, though."

"And mom's trying to put them in jail?"

"That's right."

"Good," he said, smiling for the first time at the mention of his mom.

"That's right, too," I agreed. Then I thought of something else. "She may be a little late tonight, honey."

"Why?"

"Because of this trial. They sometimes run late."

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "That's okay, I guess. This seems pretty important, right?"

"But not more important than you, little man."

"I know. Just can't be helped, I guess."

"Exactly. But it doesn't mean she loves you any less."

"I know, Dad," he said, bored now with the conversation and turning back to the comics.

* * * * *

When Whitney hadn't called by six thirty, though, I was getting pissed off. Years of experience had taught me that trials--even major felony trials--usually ended for the day by five. That was more than enough time for her to get home, change, and come pick up Kyle. Definitely enough time for her to at least call.

I started calling her cell phone and office phone at five minutes to seven, but ended up only leaving a string of more frustrating messages.

By nine, I was too pissed off to even leave a message anymore. Kyle had been in bed for a half hour, sad and upset, and I dearly hoped she would answer so I could chew her ass but good.

But she still wasn't answering by nine thirty, and I just gave up.

What the hell did I expect? She'd blown off visitation early over the weekend, and it was now clear she was putting this trial ahead of Kyle.

Again.

Just like she'd put it all ahead of me and our marriage.

Still, she was doing this to her own kid?

You're shitting me, right?

* * * * *

My senior-level seminar--Twentieth Century Foreign Policy Decisionmaking--finished at two-twenty, and I was packing up my materials in the small classroom when I heard someone clear his throat. I looked up and saw a man and woman, both about my age and both dressed in slacks, dress shirts, sport coat on him and business jacket on her, with weary eyes and for him a natural slouch. She was pretty, tall and slim, with hazel eyes that looked tired. Oh, and I couldn't help but notice the bulges under their armpits from their shoulder holsters.

"Professor Patterson?" the man said.

"What can I do for you, detective?" I asked, snapping the briefcase shut and leaning against the lectern.

He shot her a glance, raised an eyebrow, then turned back to me.

"Shoulder holsters," I explained. "Neat haircuts, dressed in jackets. You're either police detectives--the officers usually wear uniforms--or rogue spies sent here to kidnap me. Since I can't imagine why a foreign government--or even my own, for that matter--would want anything to do with me, I figure you're detectives. Am I wrong?"

"Lieutenant Gavers," the man said, then nodded his head at the woman. "Sergeant Adams."

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

"Do you have a few minutes? We'd like to ask you some questions."

I looked at my watch. "I can give you fifteen minutes, then I have to get home before my son gets home from school."

He looked at her again, and she shrugged. Something passed between them, in his look and her shrug, and he turned back to me and started right off with the questions.

"Were you married to Whitney Patterson?"

"Yes."

"The prosecutor?"

"That's the one."

"And you're divorced now, right?"

"Yes."

"When's the last time you spoke with her?"

"Sunday morning," I said. "Somewhere around eleven."

"And what was that conversation about?"

"She wanted to drop Kyle off a day early. It was her weekend for visitation."

"Did that make you angry?"

"A little. But it ended up working out."




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 03



Introduction. So here we go, the final installment. As I told you all up front, this is my (concededly boring and long winded) take on the Rambo Revenge Scenario. If you're still with me through this final part, thanks for taking the time to read it all. If you're starting here, get your ass back to Part 1 so you know what's going on.

Also, please remember to take a few moments and comment on the story. I don't really care if you vote, but I do read all comments, and even try to respond to many of them. They really are the only payment we writers receive for hours of hard work.

*

Whitney's disappearance, and the resulting delay in the LaBruzzi heroin trafficking trial, was front page news in the Register. I read the article twice, looking at the pictures on the front page of both Whitney and of the LaBruzzis' defense attorney, Lawton Dunlop. He looked like a typical narcotics defense attorney, the type in all the television shows. Expensive blue suit, white shirt with French cuffs and diamond encrusted cufflinks, square jaw, wide smile with perfectly capped teeth, and hair perfectly coiffed and held in place with so much hairspray it could catch a bullet. He oozed slime from his pores.

Just as when I woke up, something in the article started that little worm in my brain going all over again. Something about the bare facts that Whitney had disappeared and Lawton Dunlop's demands for an immediate resumption of continuing the trial or declaring a mistrial, which he claimed would end in the permanent dismissal of all charges against his client.

When I held the paper up, exposing the front page to Kyle, the bombshell dropped.

"Why's Mommy in the paper?" he said. "And Charlie?"

I lowered the paper, my eyes narrowing. "Charlie?"

He pointed to the pictures on the front page. "Sure. Charlie. He's a lawyer like Mommy. He came over on Sunday morning while I was eating."

I flipped the paper back to the front page. Lawton Dunlop. I pointed to the picture.

"This is the man she called Charlie?"

"Yeah," he said, then went back to reading his comics, forgetting about his initial questions.

I, though, sat there dumbstruck. Charlie. Charles Lawton Dunlop. CLD. CLDLaw@lincty.net. It wasn't the e-mail address for Cahill, Levine & Dunleavy; it was Charles Lawton Dunlop's e-mail address.

Whitney had been fucking the LaBruzzis' defense attorney.

While the case was pending.

And now it was in trial--with a strong case, by all appearances--and Whitney had disappeared.

Sorry, folks, but it doesn't take a fucking rocket scientist to figure out why Whitney was suddenly missing.

I left the table to go find Gavers's business card so I could share with him my newfound information. Card in hand, I picked up the phone and stepped out onto the deck to make the call away from Kyle's ears.

Just before I started dialing the number, though, another series of thoughts began tumbling through my brain.

When did Dunlop begin going after Whitney? Presumed answer, once she was assigned to the LaBruzzi prosecution.

Why did he go after her? Presumed answers, to get inside information on the prosecution's case; to somehow get her off the case and get another, less able, prosecutor assigned; to conspire with her to throw the trial; all of the above; or some combination of the above.

If so, if he was already their defense attorney of record, why did Whitney even allow it to happen? That would've created a scandal that would've derailed her career.

Before dialing Gavers, I needed to do some research.

"What're you doing, Dad?" Kyle asked, putting his bowl and glass into the dishwasher.

"I'll only be a few minutes," I said, rushing to the den and clicking onto the net.

A search of the Register's archives gave me all the information I needed in less than ten minutes. When the LaBruzzis were initially arraigned, they'd had some attorney named Leland Smithers. Smithers had stayed on the case until three months ago, at which time Dunlop's name started appearing in the papers as the attorney for the defense. Three months ago, well after our divorce was filed.

My eyes stared at the screen, the anger surging through my veins.

That sleazy fucking prick had set out to destroy my marriage so he could get an advantage in securing the acquittals of a couple of fucking lowlife heroin dealers.

Driving Kyle to school, I reached my decision: Fuck Gavers and fuck the police and fuck Charles Lawton Dunlop.

This was personal, and I wanted my revenge.

* * * * *

My Thursday classes were both morning classes, and the second was finished by noon. To this day, I don't really remember much about the classes. I just stood there and rambled on about the whatever-the-hell-was-in-the-books-first issues, gave terse answers to questions posed, and damned near sprinted to my car when the second class was finally finished.

"Luke," I heard Doug calling from behind me.

I didn't stop, though. Instead, I waved, hopped in my car, and tore out of there. I needed to think, to formulate a plan. And, of course, to get as much information as humanly possible in the next five hours. I didn't want to rush off half-cocked and act on presumptions while discarding any facts that disagreed with my hypothesis. There was, I suppose, a chance that Charles Lawton Dunlop was not the mystery man. Still, the chance seemed slim. If nothing else, the additional information would give me the planning-stage intelligence vital to a successful operation.

* * * * *

Three hours later, I was in my den, head back, deep in thought. My research had turned up some interesting facts.

First, Charles Lawton Dunlop had been an attorney for fourteen years, and he was just shy of forty. He had been practicing criminal defense law his entire career, first with the Public Defender's Office, but on his own for the past nine years. His record on cases that went to trial was somewhere around fifty-fifty, which seemed awfully damned good. Most of his cases never went to trial, though. Rather, they were frequently dropped for no apparent reason. Moreover, the newspaper accounts of his trials strongly suggested that several of the jury acquittals were out of the blue.

Thus, it seems Dunlop had a shady background, which led to the obvious questions: How did Whitney not know about his background, and, assuming she did, why would she ever succumb to his advances without being more wary? That, of course, led me to the more depressing conclusion that she was ripe for the picking. That our marriage was already dead so far as she was concerned.

Second, the LaBruzzis were Carlo and Vincent. They owned a string of fourteen pizza parlors throughout the Chicago suburbs, and the news accounts strongly hinted they were connected to, if not made members of, the Chicago Outfit. In the newspaper pictures, Carlo was around fifty, short, chunky, and bald. Vincent was the younger by a few years, also short, but lean and wiry with thinning hair combed straight back and acne scars covering his cheeks and chin. Carlo looked like a waddling Porky Pig with fat lips; Vincent like a ferret-faced thug with thin lips. In both pictures, though, they looked dangerous; something about the way they impassively stared at the booking camera gave me the chills.

Third, the LaBruzzis were being tried in state court for distributing heroin through their pizza parlors, but the state court case was a warm-up for a larger federal indictment for RICO violations. The indictments for that had only come down the previous month and were predicated on the theory that the drugs were being shipped into the country--and then across state lines--with pizza-making inventory. Most speculation was that if the state case failed, the LaBruzzis would still go down on the federal case. Still, if they didn't beat the state case first, the results of the federal case would be irrelevant. They'd get fifty years plus on the state charges.

So I had a scumbag mob lawyer and his two mob clients. I had to figure out what they'd done with Whitney and, assuming she wasn't already dead, how to get her back. In the process, I had to connect Dunlop to the kidnapping--and maybe murder--without anyone finding out I'd done anything. Sure, Carlo and Vincent LaBruzzi had at least a hand in Dunlop's scheme that ended my marriage, but I still didn't want to run afoul of the mob. It would be nice to snare them in, too, but not a priority.

And that's when I began to have some serious doubts. If I was caught here, I was putting Kyle's life at risk. I didn't need a bunch of gangster assholes gunning for me and catching Kyle in the crossfire. I also didn't need to be on the run for the rest of my life, shooing my son from secret location to secret location.

I was about to give up when the doorbell rang.

"Professor Patterson," Lieutenant Gavers said when I opened the door. "May we come in for a moment?"

I looked at my watch. Ten after three. Kyle would be home any minute.

"This way," I said, leading them to the back deck. "Kyle doesn't know anything yet, and I don't want him to find out anything until we know what's going on."

Gavers, with the pretty Sergeant Adams in tow, followed me through the house to the back deck. I let Sun Tzu charge out ahead of us, then slid the door closed behind us when they got out.

"Heard anything yet?" I asked.

He paused, then turned to Sergeant Adams.

"We have a few follow-up questions," she said, flipping open her notebook.

I waited, glaring at them.

"Did your ex-wife wear any jewelry?"

I closed my eyes, picturing her. "Yes. A round, gold locket on a gold chain. There was a picture of Kyle inside."

She nodded, then made a checkmark in the notebook. Then she sighed and looked at Gavers.

He looked at her, his eyes narrowing, then turned to me.

"Why did you get divorced?" he asked.

"None of your business."

He sighed. "I'm afraid it is my business, Professor. It's very much my business. And unless you want us to arrest you and take you in for questioning of a more formal nature, you'll answer my question. Now, why did you get divorced? We know you filed. So why?"

I looked from him to her. Adams's face showed embarrassment at the whole thing, but Gavers's just showed patience. I looked at Adams when I responded.

"Because she said she didn't love me anymore. After all our years together, she just didn't love me anymore. She was bored. 'In a rut,' she said. I don't know why. I didn't beat her, I make good money, take care of the house and Kyle and her." I felt the emotion rising in my throat and fought to hold it down. My final words were a forced croak. "I still don't know why."

Adams looked at the ground, stock still, when I finished.

"Was she seeing someone else?" Gavers said, plodding forward.

"I don't know," I lied, then softened the lie. "Maybe. She wouldn't tell me. Just that there was someone, but it wasn't romantic. That's what she said, at least."

"Do you know who this somebody may have been?"

I turned and looked at him. He was staring at me intently, and I forced myself to maintain eye contact when I answered.

"Not a fuckin' clue."

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his right eyebrow rose.

"Any guesses?"

I shook my head. "Could've been anyone. Someone she works with, something like that. She worked long hours. She was always coming home at seven-thirty or eight. She had plenty of time."

He just stared at me. He knew I was lying. As much as I tried to hold it back, there was something in his face that all but forced the smirk on my lips. The smirk that told him, 'Yeah, I know you know I'm lying. Now try to do something about it.'

"You know," he said after a moment, "this paints you in a whole different light."

"How so?"

"She was cheating. You're divorced now, but you're still pissed. Furious, even. Furious enough to maybe wanna kill her."

"Really," I said.

"Really," he agreed.

"Good luck provin' it," I said, unable to keep from sneering at him. "I have a rock solid alibi for the whole damned night, and you know it. I saw the uniforms interviewing Sally Romescu next door when I got home. Or didn't you speak with them yet?"

"Maybe you got someone else to do it for you."

I laughed, a bitter, impatient laugh. "Yeah, right. I did a quick internet search for hit men who kill cheating wives, paid the retainer, and they came right on over."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Adams said, rejuvenated by Gavers's aggressive questioning.

"I know," I said. "Family member or ex-husband's the first one you look at. Makes sense. But you've already looked, and you know it's bullshit."

"You know," Gavers said, trying a different tack, "if you're withholding something--anything--you can be charged with accessory."

"Nice try, Lieutenant, but no dice. And fuck the obstruction of justice charge you're gonna threaten me with next, too. Good luck on both of 'em."

He just stared at me, his jaw finally flexing with his frustration and anger.

"So if we're done here," I said, seeing the front door open, "I think my son's home."

They both glared at me, but then Sergeant Adams recognized the futility of further questioning when I walked past them and back into the house.

"Hey, little man," I said, scooping him into my arms while they walked past me and let themselves out the front door.

We spent the next hour getting his homework done, then Kyle went outside to play with the Romescu kids and Sonny.

I spent the time thinking the whole thing through.

* * * * *

Point Number One: If I told the cops what I knew, they'd only bring Dunlop in for questioning. He'd never crack--c'mon, he's an attorney, for Chrissake. Worse, assuming he didn't crack, his only recourse would be to kill Whitney and hide the body somewhere it could never be found.

Sorry, but police rules favor the criminals. I, though, was under no such constraints.

Point Number Two: Yes, Whitney had apparently cheated on me and--worse, in my eyes, and the real reason for the divorce--rejected me, but that didn't mean I wanted my son's mother do die a horrible death. Assuming she was still alive, I had to save her. Also, I had to make damned sure I wasn't killed in the process. Sure, I wanted to live, but my bigger fear was leaving Kyle as an orphan.

Point Number Three: Assuming I could find Whitney and she was still alive, I had to accomplish all of this without anyone finding out--or even having the slightest suspicion--I was behind it. The mobsters scared me more than the cops, but both scared me plenty. Getting killed was bad, but going to prison for a long stretch was nearly as bad.

Point Number Four: I had to do all of this on my own. Conspiracies are only as strong as the weakest conspirator. Thus, the more people involved in any way, the more likely I'd get caught by someone.

That's when I went to the basement and opened my weapons safe, the beginning of a plan forming in my head. I pulled out the Colt AR-15 I'd owned for years. Laying it on a table, I field-stripped it, then spent the next fifteen minutes thoroughly cleaning and lubing the disassembled weapon. Next, I loaded three twenty-round clips with ammo, then stacked them next to the rifle. Next, Glock 9mm came out, and I repeated the process of cleaning and filling clips. Finished in little more than thirty minutes, I placed them all in a duffle bag along with a black ski mask, black sweat pants, black shoes, socks, and sweatshirt. I hesitated before deciding against the black shoe polish for my hands. That would be hard to explain away if I was caught, and it would be damned near impossible to thoroughly get off of my hands for a few days at least.

By the time I was done, the plan was almost fully formed. And that's when I remembered something, something I'd been ignoring and decided to check on just in case it yielded anything of value.

Strangely enough, it yielded a bonanza.

And it all but confirmed my hypothesis.

* * * * *

Once logged in, I clicked on the sole remaining e-mail, 'Luke, I'm So Sorry.'

"Dear Luke," she wrote. "By now you know it all. You know I lied. You know I cheated. You may have even figured out who he is. If you haven't, his name is Charles Dunlop. He's a lawyer, and a good one.

"I don't really know how it all got started. I remember being upset with you. With me, really, but I blamed you. I was feeling guilty. Guilty because you do so much, so many of the things that I always wanted to do. Taking care of the cooking and cleaning and Kyle. Those were things I should have been doing, things I should have at least been helping you a lot more with. On the other hand, I was a hair's breadth away from the top slot in the office. Chief of the Criminal Division. After ten years, I was so close to realizing my potential, and I felt guilty that I was realizing it at the expense of my family.

"So how did this become your fault? Because, I now realize, I blamed you for taking up the slack I left to pursue my career. I know: It doesn't make any sense. I see that now. But at the time, I was thinking that if you'd stood up to me more, if you'd have at least bitched about having to take care of everything, then I'd have been forced to cut back at work and spend more time doing the things I should have been doing all along. Pretty fucked up, right? Just writing this, it still doesn't make sense to me. I was blaming you because you were supporting me and my goals, and I was giving you very little in return.

"I don't know how Charlie spotted this, but he did. He saw my unhappiness, and he went out of his way to cheer me up. And to seduce me. And I let him.

"I wish I had an excuse, a justification that could somehow make all of this your fault. I don't. None of it was your fault. Your sole mistake was to be there for Kyle and me, to always give 110% without complaint.

"I know now the enormity of my mistake. Actually, I knew that Saturday I left you with Kyle to meet with Charlie. That's why I broke it off that day, and I wanted to come home and somehow get you to forgive me. But you didn't. I don't blame you for any of this. If the roles had been reversed, I'd have never forgiven you, either.

"I do know a few things, though. For example, I know my biggest mistake wasn't cheating on you with Charles. Sure, that was probably unforgivable. Nor was my biggest mistake refusing to just come clean and tell you everything, which was also unforgivable. No, my biggest mistake was in ever telling you that I didn't love you anymore and didn't want to stay married. The first two mistakes were probably deal breakers, but the third mistake was the super glue that sealed the death of our marriage.

"I want you to know that I will never forgive myself for any of this. For cheating on you, for refusing to come clean, and, worst of all, for ever allowing you to believe that any of this was your fault. The fault was mine and mine alone. So many times, after you filed for divorce, I wanted to tell you all of this. But I saw your pain every day, the pain I'd caused you. Looking at that pain, I knew I didn't deserve you back and that you deserved someone who would never do this to you. To this day, I can barely stand to look at you without my shame overwhelming me.

"In closing, Luke, I know that what I have done has ruined my marriage, my husband, my son, and all of us as a family. I wish I could take it back. I sit alone in my apartment every night dreaming of the past, and wondering what the hell I was thinking. I just wanted you to know, though, that I have one last trial coming up, and it's a biggie. I'm going to win it, and then I'll be offered the position I've always dreamed of--Chief of the Criminal Division. When they make me that offer, I'm going to resign. I'm going to re-dedicate myself to being a mother to our little boy. I only hope you won't prevent me from doing this. It is the only dream I now have to keep me sane, and I want to do my fair share so you can take the time to re-build your own life after my betrayal.




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 03



"With eternal shame and everlasting love,

"Whitney"

I'll admit it: My eyes were wet by the time I finished reading Whitney's confession. My mind was filled with what ifs. What if she'd have come clean that day? Would I have taken her back and tried to overcome her betrayal? What if I'd have paid more attention months before when she'd begun withdrawing? Could I have prevented the whole thing?

If. The saddest goddamned word in the English language.

Yet, now my suspicions had been confirmed. All I could wonder was whether Whitney had ever put the pieces together on Dunlop's nefarious scheme before she disappeared. And if so, how had she reacted upon learning that she'd destroyed her marriage to be with a man who didn't give two shits for her or her problems, but only wanted to gain the advantage in a criminal case?

My sadness turned to a simmering rage as I deleted the message and wiped all traces of it from my hard drive.

* * * * *

Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful in hiding my emotions when Kristin and Ben showed up. She took one look at me and turned to Ben and told him to go outside and play, her eyes on me the whole time.

"You know who it is, don't you?" she said when Ben was outside. "You know where she is."

I didn't move.

"What're you going to do?" she pressed.

"I need you to watch Kyle tonight," was all I managed.

"Luke," she pleaded, "you have to call the police. You can't do this on your own. Jesus, you'll get killed. Then where will Kyle be?"

I shook my head. "I can't really say anything, Kristin."

"Bullshit," she hissed, her eyes darting outside to make sure the boys were out of range before turning back to me. "You're gonna go out and act like some kind of friggin' cowboy--maybe get killed or at least shot or stabbed--without thinking even for a second about what'll happen to Kyle if that happens. What the fuck--"

"Bullshit," I hissed right back at her. "You think I haven't thought about that? But what happens if I call the cops, huh? I'll tell you. She gets killed so they can't get caught. That's what happens. If they haven't killed her already. Then what do I tell Kyle?"

"But Luke," she said, her eyes pleading with me to reconsider, "there's got to be another way."

I shook my head. "I've been thinking about it all day. Since this morning when I figured it all out. There's no other way, believe me. You think I want to do this?"

She stayed silent, her eyes pleading with me to not leave but the reality of my words sinking in.

"Trust me," I said, "I've thought about nothing but Kyle. And bottom line is this: I can never again look at Kyle if Whitney's killed--if he has to go to his mother's funeral--and I knew all along that maybe I could've stopped it. Or, if she dies, if I can at least catch the rotten fuckers who did this."

She was shaking now, the fear and enormity of the situation running through her face and limbs.

"Promise me you won't get hurt," she said. "Please, Luke. Promise me you'll be careful."

I tried to smile. "You just keep an eye on the boys tonight and I'll be back by midnight or so, okay?"

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and I brushed them off with my fingertips.

"Get yourself together," I said. "Keep an eye on the boys. It'll work out, okay?"

She nodded. "Okay."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I left at eight, just before the sun would set. This plan had to be carried out at night. I had no idea how many of them there were, where I was going, or what I would do when I got there.

Darkness and surprise would be my only allies.

As I pulled out of the driveway, though, I saw the car parked down the block slowly start rolling with its headlights turned off.

I had company.

I drove slowly, giving no one cause to pull me over and discover my cache of weapons. Getting caught would get Whitney disappeared for good.

Twenty minutes later, I drove slowly past Charles Dunlop's law office. There were no lights on and no cars in the parking lot. I kept my fingers crossed that he was home, and that he actually lived at the address listed in the phone book. My plan was risky, but it seemed the only way to lure him out and get him to lead me to Whitney or, in the alternative, her killers.

I was still being followed, and I finally made the identity of the driver when I cruised through a well-lit intersection. Sergeant Adams. I was right: They knew I was hiding the identity, and they had guessed I intended to do something about it.

Great, I thought, now I've got to avoid them while trying to save Whitney. I started running through scenarios in my mind, all of which depended on whether back-up would be joining the pretty detective.

It had been like this during my military career. Make a great plan, set the plan in motion, and something comes along to fuck it all up. Throughout history, the great tacticians had all been able to deal with the changes and improvise solutions on the fly. Unfortunately, I wasn't a great tactician. I was a West Point-trained infantry leader who had been permanently knocked out in my first combat engagement. I hadn't thought like an infantry soldier in nearly twenty years, and none of it was coming back as quickly as I'd hoped.

I pushed the newest developments from my mind when I pulled in front of Dunlop's house. The living room was lit up, and I saw a figure through the gauzy drapes moving around inside.

It was now or never. I mulled over the plan again, knowing that if I followed through and did not succeed I was signing Whitney's death warrant. There was no chance they'd keep her alive if they thought the cops were onto them. Likewise, there was no way to get them to tip their hands unless they thought the cops were onto them.

Deciding they'd probably kill Whitney either way, if they hadn't done so already, I pulled the disposable cell phone from my pocket and dialed the pre-programmed number. Dunlop answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"This is gonna be short and sweet," I said into the phone.

"Who is this?"

"Be quiet. This is a friend. That's all you need to know for now."

He paused, then asked, "What do you want?"

"You're being bugged," I said. "Office phones, cell phone, home phone."

He said nothing, and I plowed on.

"The wiretap warrants were signed this afternoon. Your name's all over one of 'em. You shouldn't have to guess whose names are on the other two."

"And you're sharing this with me--"

"Because I'll make myself known to you down the road," I said. "When I do, I'll expect you to show your appreciation. And your friends, too."

"And how can I believe you?"

"How can you afford not to?" I shot back. "Either way, this conversation's over with. I'm not saying anymore in case the bugs are already in place."

With that, I snapped the cell phone shut, pulled into the far end of the cul-de-sac, and waited to see if Dunlop took the bait. I didn't see where Sergeant Adams had parked, but I assumed she was outside the cul-de-sac where she'd see us both as we left. 

Ten minutes later, Dunlop strode out of his front door, looked left and right, then slid into his Cadillac and pulled out. I smiled, pleased with myself. I started my own car and followed the Cadillac, staying well behind him. And like a scene from Keystone Kops, Sergeant Adams followed behind me.

* * * * *

Within minutes, we were cruising down country roads at speeds nearing seventy. My worst nightmare, I realized as I threw the cell phone out the window and into a creek. If I try to keep up with Dunlop, Adams has a reason to pull me over and Whitney is never seen again. If I don't try to keep up with Dunlop, I lose him and Whitney gets killed.

That's when I made my first improvisation. I decided to keep up with Dunlop and hope Adams--and probably Gavers, too--would realize I was following the kidnapper. If they knew I was holding back on them, then they had to know who I was now following. I trusted them to let me keep following Dunlop rather than stop me and let Dunlop go.

I pressed my foot on the accelerator to catch up with the disappearing taillights in front of me. Two miles later, Adams had still not pulled me over. Instead, she was keeping pace with me about a quarter mile back.

I smiled, knowing none of us could lose each other on this long, lonely country road. Yet, just as I congratulated myself on nerves of steel, the Cadillac's taillights turned and disappeared.

I slowed down to fifty, not wanting to risk going past him too slowly if he was waiting in a turnoff ahead. Even at fifty, I damned near missed the half-overgrown dirt trail leading into the woods. A few hundred yards into the woods, I saw a brief flicker of bouncing red taillights, and I eased the car to a stop in the ditch ahead, pulling well off the road.

Adams had slowed down behind me. I pulled my mask down, grabbed the duffle bag, and was out of the car and into the woods before Adams saw where I'd gone.

I watched from the edge of the woods while Adams slowed down, then came to a complete stop in the roadway parallel with my car. She flashed a light into my car, spoke briefly into a cell phone, then pulled over in front of my car. I was well into the woods, walking a course parallel with the overgrown trail, before I heard her car door slam in the distance behind me.

It was a moonless night, and the undergrowth was still damp from the morning's rain. I was soaking wet from the waist down before I'd gone fifty yards, but my mind was charged with the adrenalin coursing through my veins. It had always been like this in the Army: The tense planning sessions followed by calm followed by tension times ten once the plan was set in motion.

This one was a lot more like that morning all those years before, though. The morning I went into combat across the Iraqi frontier. The morning I knew they'd be shooting back with real bullets and people were going to die. Then it was tension combined with a cold, numbing fear, senses so attuned and twitchy a mosquito fart at a hundred yards had me ducking and searching the darkness. Now, it was worse. Now, I was out of practice and out of shape and I'd lost the bravado of youth.

Three hundred yards in, the trail meandered to the left and reached a break in the woods. I stopped there, looking at the open space in front of me. Down a gentle slope no more than seventy-five yards in front of me was a rusty, dilapidated metal shed. The red Cadillac was parked in front, next to an old Ford pickup truck.

Without conscious thought, my eyes surveyed the terrain for tactical features and ideas. As I said, the shed sat in the middle of a small punchbowl in the earth, the ground sloping down to the shed from where I stood. Good for me; bad for them. I would have the high ground with the added bonus of forest concealment while they would be pinned down and unable to pass me without exposing themselves.

The vehicles, while not hiding the door into the shed, were parked close enough that they could make a run for the vehicles and, if they got there, have half a chance of getting past me. I couldn't fire at them if Whitney was with them--too much chance of hitting her. Thus, the vehicles needed to be disabled.

There was a propane tank sixty feet or so to the left of the shed. This had to be avoided at all costs. There could be no chance of a stray shot hitting the tank and possibly killing us all.

On the right side of the shed, I saw soft light coming from windows. There was nothing else there except bare grass up the gentle slope to the edge of the forest. Picturing the angles in my mind, I made my decision. If I was situated at the edge of the woods to my right, I'd have clear angles to see inside the shed and clear shots at anyone coming out the door toward the vehicles. The only downside was that a missed shot could hit the propane tank, but that didn't faze me. Seventy-five yards from a prone position down a hill with an AR-15? No matter how out of practice I was, there was no way I'd miss what I was aiming at from that distance.

My basic plan formed, I crept along the wood line to my left to commence my reconnaissance. Crouching low and staying on the edge, I circled around the punchbowl, keeping an eye out for sound and movement as I went. When I was opposite where I'd started, I took a deep breath, counted silently to ten, and scurried down the slope toward the shed.

"--say a fucking thing about offing her, man," I heard a whiney voice say from inside the shed.

The voice was clear--and slurring the words--and I assumed the windows were open. I smelled a strange odor coming from inside the shed--metallic and medicinal and off-putting.

"Don't worry," another voice said, yelling at the first voice. "You won't have to do it. Me, neither. They're coming themselves to take care of it. We just need to wait for them here."

"It's still a murder rap if we get caught, though," voice one whined. "I didn't sign up for no murder rap."

"And kidnapping seems okay to you? Murder's out, but you'll face twenty or thirty years for kidnapping? You're okay with that? Because I'm sure the fuck not okay with it."

"Ssshhh," voice one said. "You hear that?"

"There's nothing out there," voice two said, his voice still going low. "You've been smoking too much of your own shit."

"Fuck you."

I heard footsteps, then a shuffling and a muffled voice. A woman's voice, I realized, with her mouth probably taped shut.

It was Whitney, of that I was sure. She was still alive, and they were now doing what my phone call had spurred them to do. They were waiting for someone else to show up so they could kill her.

"Might as well take the blindfold off her," voice two said. "She won't be able to identify anyone after tonight."

"Let them do it," voice one pouted.

I'd heard enough, though, and didn't hear the response. I made my way back up to the edge of the woods and moved clockwise along the wood line. My eyes roamed the ground in front of me, checking firing lines to my right as I moved along. Seeing the open view of the doorway, I stopped, dropped the duffle bag, and retrieved my weapons.

The Glock went into my waistband in the small of my back. Then I laid flat, my body molding into the damp grass, my arms cradling the butt of the rifle into my chest. I sighted along the barrel, then flicked the safety switch to semi-automatic.

"This is where I'd have planted myself, too," Gavers said to my rear.

I froze, staying glued to the ground.

I heard his pistol cock behind me. "Drop the rifle. Now."

My body sagged as I flipped the rifle back to safe.

"When we came out of the woods," he said, his voice low and matter of fact, "you were already circling around. Pretty good, by the way, but you should've stayed lower and watched something other than the shed."

I heard the rustle through the undergrowth, then felt his feet on the ground behind me.

"Then I looked at it all and knew what you were doing," he continued. "Line of fire to keep them penned in. Good plan."

"She's alive," I said. "She's in there, and she's alive."

Off to my left, I heard someone suck in their breath. Gavers was silent for a moment.

"Did you hear her?" Adams said.

"Yes."

"Sure it was her?"

"It was a woman. Her mouth was taped or something. I didn't see anyone, but I could hear them."

"How many?" Gavers said.

"Two for sure. I don't think there's anyone else, but two for sure. One of them's Dunlop. The other's high on something."

"Meth," Adams said. "You can smell it. This place is a meth lab, sure as shit."

"Any more surprises before we cuff your ass to the tree over there?" Gavers asked.

"There are more on the way," I said. "They're waiting for someone else to show up. That someone's going to kill her and get rid of the body."

I heard a snort from Adams. "You're--"

But her voice was cut off when a pair of headlights broke from the edge of the woods and started slowly down the gentle slope to the shed.

"You don't have any rifles," I said, flipping the rifle back to semi-automatic fire.

"Don't do it," Adams said.

"You need me," I insisted. "It's just the two of you, and now you're outnumbered big time. And you don't have a rifle. They'll fucking kill her. You know they will. And without me, there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it."

I heard Gavers move, quickly and not so silently.

"You keep them pinned down," he whispered back at me before breaking from the edge of the woods. "And don't let whoever it is out of that fucking car."

Adams started to protest, then thought better of it. Instead, she crouched down next to me.

"You could've fucking told us," she said.

"And you wouldn't have been able to do shit," I said, my eyes focusing on the car slowing down near the shed.

I shot my eyes to the right and saw that Gavers was still exposed, less than twenty feet down the slope. Back on the car, though, I decided I couldn't wait.

I took a breath and squeezed the trigger. The car lurched simultaneously with the crack of the rifle, and I turned the barrel to the left. It took two shots to take out the left tire, but it left the car twenty feet from the other vehicles.

"What the fuck," someone shouted down below, and I saw the front door swing open. A tall, cadaverous figure stepped into the light cast by the open door, and I put a shot high up the door frame.

"Don't fucking hit him," Adams warned as the figure dropped to the ground and looked around wildly before scrambling back inside.

"Shut the fuck up," I hissed, turning back to the car and putting two shots into the grille. Steam started hissing from under the hood almost immediately. They were well and truly fucked now, and I knew it.

"He's there," Adams whispered, her voice losing all excitement and turning flat.

I glanced to the shed and saw Gavers, his back against the shed next to the window, pistol held high.

I sighted back to the vehicles in front of the shed and, in four shots, took out the front tires on the Cadillac and the pickup truck. For good measure, I put two rounds each into the grilles, and the Cadillac also started spouting steam.

I saw the passenger door open on the new vehicle--the one I knew contained at least one, if not both, of the LaBruzzis. I put a round into the door, and it slammed shut.

"He's pointing," Adams intoned.

I looked back, grabbing a clip as I did so, and saw Gavers holding up his hand and making a shooting sign toward the end of the shed nearest the vehicles. I slammed the clip home, aimed high on the far side of the shed, and pumped five rounds into the building. As I did so, Gavers extended his arms and pistol through the open window.

I saw only one shot, then Gavers was climbing through the window. The front door burst open at the same time, and Dunlop started careening around the vehicles and through the woods.

"He's getting away," Adams said. "By the propane tank."

I ignored both Adams and the fleeing figure of Charles Lawton Dunlop. My eyes stayed locked on the LaBruzzis. They were both still alive, and there wasn't a doubt in my mind they had weapons.

"You," I said, my eyes staying down the line of the barrel, "get your ass around behind them, then come in low. Stay in the tree line."

"But--"

"But they've got fucking guns, and Gavers is alone in that shed. If only one of them gets out of that car and to that shed, we've got problems."

Without another word, she sprinted off.

A minute later, I saw someone coming back out through the window. She was being shoved out the window from behind and falling with a sluggish thud to the ground four feet below.

I recognized the hair and the frail figure and, for the briefest of moments, allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief. Whitney was safe. For now. She started stumbling up the slope toward the woods opposite the cars, keeping the shed between her and the LaBruzzis. Good.




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 03



I turned back to the LaBruzzis. Behind their car, I saw a movement on the slope and knew Adams was coming down behind them. Needing to keep their attention on me, I fired five rounds into the front of their car.

Without warning, an arm reached out the passenger side of the car and squeezed off five rounds in my direction. I ate dirt, trying to dig myself in as deeply as possible. I heard the bullets hitting trees and ground only four or five feet to my left. They had finally seen my muzzle flashes and knew where I was. Though I knew pistols were worthless at that range, all it took was one lucky shot to send me to my maker.

"Drop your fucking guns," I heard Adams scream.

I looked up. She was standing behind and to the left of the car, her arms extended with her pistol pointing at them from behind.

"Now," she screamed. "Out the fucking windows. Now."

After a brief pause, I saw movement and thuds as the pistols hit the ground. Next, Gavers flew out of the building and took up position behind and to the right of the vehicle.

He said something, but I couldn't hear him. He said something more, and both car doors opened. Then the LaBruzzis stuck their arms out, followed by their bodies, and lay flat on the ground next to the car.

Once I saw them cuffed, I hopped up and grabbed my duffle bag. With a final look at the shed below, I turned right and began sprinting along the tree line.

When I saw her just inside the woods, I slowed down. Whitney was looking at the shed, shaking uncontrollably, her face a mask of horror.

"You'll be okay," I whispered as I drew nearer.

She twisted and shrank back, trying to make herself as small as possible.

I stopped in front of her and held my hand out for hers.

"It's me," I said from behind the ski mask. "You're gonna be okay."

In slow motion, her hand reached out to mine. When our fingertips touched, she jerked her hand away, then reached back and clasped me in a death grip.

"Come on," I said. "Let's get you back to them, okay?"

Whitney didn't seem to hear me, but she followed along without hesitation.

As we neared the shed, I stopped.

"You're safe now," I said.

Her hand squeezed mine tighter, refusing to let go.

"I've gotta get out of here, Whit," I said. "You've got to let go. You're safe now."

Still, she wouldn't let go.

"If I'm still here when back up arrives," I said, "it's gonna be bad. I'll get arrested. The LaBruzzis may come after me. They may come after Kyle, Whitney. You've got to let me go now."

That seemed to sink in, and Whitney released my hand.

"Remember," I said, my hand on her chin. "I was never hear. Got it?"

Her head stuttered up and down.

Without another word, I turned and sprinted to my right. Once back in the tree line, I made my way around the punch bowl and straight up the path toward the road.

I had to get the fuck out of there before any more cops showed up.

And I had to hope and pray that Gavers and Adams would keep their mouths shut.

* * * * *

Near the road, I heard sirens wailing in the distance. They'd be there any minute. Reaching in my pocket for the car keys, I heard a scraping from behind and turned. Without warning, the wind was driven from me as I was knocked backward to the ground.

"Who the fuck are you," Dunlop screamed, clawing at the mask on my face.

I said nothing, concentrating all my effort on breaking free of him.

He cocked his right arm back to punch me, and I pushed off with all my strength and rolled up and into him, nullifying whatever blow he had planned. Still he wouldn't let go. Rolling again onto my back, I felt the gouge of metal into my upper buttocks and knew what I had to do.

Continuing the roll, I reached back and brought the Glock out. Holding the gun like a rock, I pummeled Dunlop repeatedly on the side of the head until I felt his body go limp. Not waiting to check for a pulse, I scrambled to my feet and got in my car.

Fifteen seconds later, I was driving away from the sirens popping one after another over the rise in the road behind me. To my relief, I saw them all come to a halt near Adams's car parked on the side of the road.

Slowing back down to the speed limit, I took the very next left two miles up and made my way toward the last stop of the night before going home.

* * * * *

Dressed now in jeans, sweatshirt, and deck shoes, I stood on the edge of the abandoned gravel pit. The adrenalin was finally gone, and my body was overcome with fatigue. Still, I needed to get this as far out there as possible.

With a mighty heave, I threw the duffle bag with my clothes and what was left of the ammo as far into the black waters as I could. Then, silently, I watched it float for a moment before sinking with the weight of the five bricks inside. I'd already thrown the rifle's disassembled bolt mechanism into a creek on my way to the pit, and the rest of both weapons had been broken down and tossed down the various monitoring wells still littering the landscape around the pit.

I suppose if anyone ever found one, they'd have a good shot at finding them all. Still, I found it hard to believe any such efforts would ever be made. And the whole point would be moot either way if Gavers and Adams came for me. Though neither had seen my face, Adams surely had my license plates number from following me to the shed.

Still, better safe than sorry, right?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The living room was dark, and I tiptoed across the floor.

"Are you all right?" Kristin said from the couch.

I stopped, relieved and overcome with exhaustion.

"I'm fine," I whispered.

I heard her sniffle. Then a small sob broke from her lips, then I felt her squeezing me hard. Her robe and flimsy pajamas were so soft and warm, I just wanted to hold her against me forever. Quickly, though, my strength began to fade.

"And Whitney?" Kristin said.

"She's fine, too. Alive and for the most part unharmed."

"And . . . whoever it was?" she asked, breaking the hug.

I saw her shiny eyes searching mine.

"Cops got 'em," I said.

She hugged me again, but I began to sag toward the floor.

Feeling my collapse, Kristin helped me to the couch. Once seated, her lips were all over me, kissing my lips and nose and eyes and hugging me to her breasts.

"It's gonna be okay," she said to herself over and over again, as if she didn't really believe the words coming from her own mouth.

I didn't say anything, wondering when Gavers and Adams were going to show up to take me in.

I was too tired to care, though, and just allowed Kristin to wind down her pent up emotions.

"I was so scared," she finally said, sitting on the couch holding me.

"Me, too," I said, starting to nod off.

She saw my fatigue and brushed my cheek with the back of her hand.

"Go to sleep," she said, then pulled me sideways so my head was in her lap.

My last thoughts were how good it felt while Kristin ran her fingers through my hair and massaged my right shoulder.

So comforting.

So loved.

* * * * *

It was like a dream, but I knew it wasn't. From the moment I felt her warmth engulf me, I knew this was no fantasy.

Through half-open eyes, I watched Kristin slowly undulate her hips over me, her eyes on me the whole time. Her hand took mine and placed it on her pajama top, over her breast, and encouraged me to squeeze. I complied, and she tightened her lips as my other hand cupped her other breast.

All too soon, my breath got ragged with my impending release, and Kristin leaned in and kissed me long and hard.

"Let it go," she said, her hips moving faster now, her muscles clenching around me as her breathing, too, turned to gasps.

Soon, I was letting lose with a climax that melted my backbone and relaxed every muscle in my body. Every muscle except one, and Kristin took full advantage of my post-orgasmic stamina to attain her own release. Then, with me still lodged firmly inside of her, she leaned forward and kissed me.

Then, once again, the darkness washed over me.

* * * * *

I awoke on the couch, covered in a blanket with a pillow under my head. Sun Tzu was nestled into my chest, snoring lightly.

"Hungry?" Kristin said, leaning in close.

She looked bright and chipper, well-rested and happy as a lark.

I started to say no, but a low gurgling from my stomach awoke the pup who looked at me with terror on his face.

Kristin chuckled and didn't wait for me to answer. Instead, she disappeared toward the kitchen. Sun Tzu jumped off of me and followed her with his tail snapping back and forth, visions of dropped tidbits no doubt dancing in his head.

Sitting up, I tried to stretch the ache from my joints and the fatigue from my muscles.

"Hey, Dad," Kyle chirped from the table, his mouth half full of cereal and a broad grin on his face.

"Hey, Mr. Patterson," Ben chimed.

"Morning, fellas," I said, yawning.

"Sit," Kristin ordered, bringing me a bowl of oatmeal and a plate covered with eggs, bacon, and toast.

"Smells good," I said, sliding dutifully into the chair at the head of the table.

"Eat up," she said, smiling as she slid the food in front of me. She went back and poured a cup of coffee, then placed that, too, in front of me.

"You didn't have to do this," I said, starting in on the toast and eggs. "But I'm glad you did. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Kristin said, sitting at the other end of the table and sipping her coffee.

I ate my breakfast, polishing it off in record time, while Ben and Kyle chattered away about school and classmates and video games. Sonny darted around the table, yipping the whole time, waiting and praying for someone to drop something his way. Kristin sipped her coffee and took it all in with an easy smile on her face.

It was like a family, I realized. A lot like what Whitney, Kyle, and I had once had, just with a dog and another boy at the table. It was nice.

"So what're you going to do today?" Kristin asked as I stood and took my dirty dishes to the dishwasher.

"Just bum around, I suppose," I said, my chest tightening. I was surprised the police hadn't already appeared and dragged me away in handcuffs. "Hang around the house and get some paperwork done. Get my class notes in order for next week."

"I was thinking," Kristin started.

"We wanna order pizza and watch movies real late," Kyle interjected.

I looked at him. "We?"

"Me and Ben."

I turned to Kristin. "Thoughts?"

She shook her head. "If you've got other plans or want to do something else. . . . "

"Movies and pizza sound great to me. What about you?"

Her smile could've lit a city. "Sounds great to me, too."

"Then it's settled," I said, taking the boys' dishes and putting them, too, into the dishwasher. "Might as well plan on a slumber party, I guess."

I won't say the look Kristin shot me was pornographic, but I can confirm that it made me remember my dream-like release of the night before. I will also confirm that I would soon need a cold shower.

"I'll take them to school with me," Kristin said, putting her coffee cup into the dishwasher before turning to me. "You get some rest. You're gonna need it."

She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, then blew a light breeze into my ear.

I wanted to jump her then and there, but the boys ran out with book bags in hand and they were all gone before I could act.

* * * * *

I was dozing on the couch when the doorbell rang. My eyes flew open and turned to the clock. Just after ten.

I approached the door like a condemned man walking to the gallows.

"Professor Patterson," Gavers said when I opened the door.

Without a word, I stepped back and motioned him and Sergeant Adams inside.

"You got any weapons here?" Gavers asked once they were inside.

I nodded. "Gun safe in the basement."

He swept his arm. "Lead the way."

I looked at him, unable to read his expression. Adams was likewise a blank page. I turned and led them to the basement, flipping on the lights when we got there.

"Cool," I heard Gavers say as we wound our way between the battle scenes toward the corner of the long room.

"Whatever," Adams mumbled, bored with my hobby.

I spun the combination on the gun safe, then pulled it open and stood back.

Adams leaned in, then turned over her shoulder and said, "They're not here."

"Good," he shouted back, kneeling down and taking a close look at the tunnels filled with men on the Ypres diorama.

"Crazy fuckers," he said, then looked at me and smiled. "That must've been one rotten fucking war, huh?"

I nodded, wondering what they were setting me up for.

I heard Adams whistle long and low, and I turned. She had a small wooden box open in her hand, her eyes looking from me back to the medals inside.

"Suppose this explains it," she said to Gavers, who had by now moved on to study the Carthaginian tactics at Cannae.

His eyes turned to her, narrowed, and he walked toward us. Taking the box, he looked inside and then at me.

"Where's the citation?"

I frowned. Besides my fellow soldiers, Whitney was the only one who'd ever seen it, the only one who knew what happened that day. His eyes told me I'd better show him. With a resigned shrug, I reached between them and back into the gun safe, withdrawing the folder containing the citation. Without a word, I handed it to him.

Gavers ran his fingers over the cheap plastic folder, then flipped it open and read aloud.

"Department of the Army. This is to certify that the Secretary of Defense has awarded the Silver Star to First Lieutenant Lucas M. Patterson, United States Army," Gaver said. "First Lieutenant Lucas M. Patterson conducted himself with valor in the face of the enemy on 24 February 1991. While serving as a platoon leader for the 3rd Squadron, 2nd Armored Cavalry Regiment, VII Corps, First Lieutenant Patterson was part of the spearhead element invading Iraq. Shortly after crossing the border into Iraq, the lead elements were targeted with small arms fire and . . . ."

Gavers read the rest of the citation to himself, then he went back and read it again. Once finished, he handed the citation to Adams and fixed me with a stare. My eyes darted from him to Adams, who was now reading the citation, her eyes growing wider as she read.

"You held off--"

"Almost two hundred fucking men," Adams interrupted. "For a half hour, with only two other guys to help. And killed at least twenty-nine enemy soldiers in the engagement."

"All with bullets and shrapnel in hour legs and hips and belly," Gavers finished.

"You some kinda goddamned Superman or Rambo or something?" Adams asked.

"I'm a history professor I said."

They both continued staring at me.

I said nothing in response. Reaching over, I took the citation from Adams and tossed it back into the gun safe atop the box of medals.

Adams now looked at me with awe all over her features. Gavers, on the other hand, just gave an easy smile. He'd been there, I realized. In the Gulf War. He was about the right age, and he had the military bearing that never really goes away. They drill that shit into your fucking soul during Officers Candidate School.

"You got any coffee?" he finally said.

"Sure," I said, and led them back upstairs.

* * * * *

I watched them at the table while I ground the beans and poured the water into the coffee maker. They never said a word, but they exchanged more than a few glances and raised eyebrows.

For more than five long minutes, I stood at the counter watching them, wondering when the hammer was going to fall. Then, just as I reached for three mugs and the carafe of freshly brewed tar, I saw Gavers fix Adams with a stare.

"Well?"

"Yeah," she said.

I poured us all a cup of coffee, then sat at the table.

"How's Whitney?" I asked.

"A wreck," Gavers said, taking a sip of the coffee. "Dehydrated, mostly. Still pretty much in shock, too."

"She'll come out of it," Adams said. "Few days of rest and relaxation and she'll be fine."

"Except for the nightmares," I muttered, more to myself than to them.

"Yeah," Gavers said, staring into his cup of coffee. "They don't go away, do they."

I didn't respond.

"The LaBruzzis are in custody now," Adams continued. "Charged with kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment and a whole shitload of other things that'll keep them there forever."

"Dunlop?"

"Handcuffed to a bed just down the hall from Whitney," Gavers said. "Looks like he fell while trying to escape and hit the hell out of his head. A lot. Pretty bad concussion, but nothing really permanent."

I nodded, trying to hide my relief that this was how they had decided to play it.

"Strange thing about serious head injuries," Adams added, smiling. "Seems they wipe out short term memory. The worse the head trauma, the longer the memory lapse."

"He can't remember what he had for lunch yesterday," Gavers summed up. "Weird, huh?"

"Weird," I agreed.

"There was another guy there, too," Gavers said, now getting into his role and pretending he was telling all of this to a total stranger.

"Really," I said.

"Really," Gavers echoed. "Manny Samuelson. Local meth maker, dealer, and all-around scumbag du jour. Poor Manny."

"Dead?" I asked, not really caring if he was.

Adams started laughing. "Second asshole. Gavers here shot him in the ass, right next to the other one already there."

"Pretty messy," Gavers agreed, pinching his face in disgust.

"And how did you two crack it?" I asked, relaxing totally and taking a sip of my coffee.

"Just solid police work," Gavers explained.

"Following up the leads," Adams said.

I smiled from ear to ear. "Well done. Really, just well done."

"Thanks," Gavers chuckled.

"Tell our bosses that," Adams groused.

"Still," Gavers said, "I'd just love to know why Dunlop decided to drive out there after sundown. I mean, if he hadn't done that, we'd have never found her. Poor Sergeant Adams would've just spent all night alone in her car down the block."

I shrugged. "Maybe he needed to make sure nothing was wrong."

Gavers raised his eyebrows.

"Maybe," I continued, "he got a phone call that scared him. Maybe told him the cops were onto him and had wiretapped all of his phones. Something like that."

Gavers nodded, his eyes narrowing as he did so.

"Wonder who did that? I mean, pretty risky. A lot could've gone wrong."

I returned his stare, agreeing with his assessment and overjoyed that nothing had gone wrong.

"My guess would be that the longer she was missing, the more likely she was dead. Whoever did it probably wanted to get shit rolling before they killed her."

We were silent for a moment, all of us sipping our coffee.

"I wonder something, though," I said.

"Oh?" Gavers responded.

"Why was she still alive? I mean, why didn't they just kill her immediately?"

Adams answered. "Dunlop remembered all of that. They were going to make her leave a message sometime next week. Like Wednesday or Thursday. A message saying she was now convinced the whole thing was a set up--the whole case against the LaBruzzis--and she'd taken off because she didn't want to have anything else to do with it."

"Sounds a bit farfetched to me," I said.

Gavers shrugged. "They were fucked and they knew it. He'd cozied up to Whitney a long time ago trying to get information from her about the case. He wouldn't tell us how cozy, but we can fill in the blanks. Either way, that didn't really work so well. Then, once the trial got going, she was bending over backward from opening statements to hammer them. They figured their best shot was a mistrial. Once the jury is seated, if the mistrial is intentionally caused by the prosecution, jeopardy attaches and they can't be tried again. The whole thing goes away."

"Ballsy," I said.

We finished our coffee in silence.

"Well fuck it," Adams said, pushing back from the table. "Just wanted to let you know your boy's mom was okay and all."




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 03



"Thanks," I said, standing along with them.

"It's been a pleasure," Gavers said at the door, turning and shaking my hand with a firm grip.

"The pleasure's been all mine, I can assure you."

He smiled, then turned and walked toward his car.

"You ever wanna . . . you know . . . talk or something, give me a call, okay?" Sergeant Adams said, pressing her card into my hand and lingering over the handshake just a moment longer than was proper.

"Thanks," I said.

"Let's go, Sergeant," Gavers called out before sliding behind the steering wheel of the car in the driveway.

She gave a quick smile, then turned and walked to the car.

I watched her ass the whole way.

I mean, give me a break, okay?

She had her own handcuffs.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

On the following Monday morning, I was called into Professor Whitman's office.

"Your . . . er . . . former wife is doing well I take it?"

I nodded. "She'll be fine. She got out of the hospital yesterday."

"Good, good," he nodded.

Then he stared off to his right, out the window at students shuffling to and fro under the autumn sun.

"I'm going to miss it," he said.

"Miss what, Dean Whitman?"

Sorry, but I wasn't just pandering. Even the President of Chadwick never called Whitman by his first name. He'd been around too long and done too much for the institution to not be given his due.

He turned back and faced me, a peaceful smile on his lips.

"I'm retiring at the semester break, Luke."

Sure, I'd been expecting this. It still hit me in the chest, though.

"You're doing okay, right?"

He nodded. "I figure I've got another five or six years left. And I want to spend those years pulling together all of my notes and theories and writings gathered over the years. My magnum opus, so to speak."

I remained silent, and after a moment he continued.

"I'll be on staff still, of course. Emeritus status. That'll entitle me to a research assistant to help. But I'm giving up my teaching duties. And my position as Dean of the department."

"But you can still--"

"No," he said, his voice softening. "It needs to be someone who teaches. A scholar and a teacher both. And that's you, Luke. If you want it, that is."

I sat back. It would come with more responsibility, of course. And more pay, too. But I'd have one less class to teach to make up for the extra administrative duties I'd be assuming.

"I just . . . I think . . . you need to . . . ."

You ever know something was coming, but still weren't prepared when it came? That's how I was.

"You'll do just fine," he said, his smile calming me.

I smiled leaving his office, completely at peace for the first time in months.

My life seemed to be coming around.

I believed I could be happy again.

* * * * *

It was late October before Kristin again joined me in harmonious passion. We had spent the intervening month getting to know each other better and better, and friendship quickly blossomed to love.

On Thanksgiving weekend, she and Ben moved in with Kyle, Sun Tzu, and me.

Most of December was spent Christmas shopping.

We were walking down the crowded mall when a voice froze us.

"Professor," Heather Farley was calling, shouldering her way through the throng of shoppers, pulling Randy along behind her.

"Merry Christmas," I said, smiling.

"Merry Christmas," they both said in unison, her voice all chipper and Randy's a drone.

I introduced Kristin, and another round of holiday wishes followed.

"So," I said, wanting to get my shopping finished, "you two sticking around here for the holidays?"

Heather smiled at me, then turned to Randy, leaned in, and kissed him. "Yeah. He lives too far away for us to be together if we go home. We decided to just stay here."

Randy's bashful smile told me he was embarrassed at the riches Santa would soon be bestowing upon him. Strangely, Kristin's face was, if anything, even more adoring as she smiled at his blush.

"Good," I said, interrupting their thoughts. "Since neither of you is apparently all that busy, I've got some more things you need to get for me."

"You're kidding," Randy said.

"Not a chance," Heather agreed.

I shrugged. "If you change your mind. . . ."

They got away from us before I could try to foist more work on their holiday break.

"She has a crush on you," Kristin said, watching them walk away.

I chuckled. "Looks more to me like they're in love with each other. Which I'd have never seen coming, by the way."

Kristin elbowed me. "Men can be so blind sometimes."

I turned, leaned in, and pecked her on the cheek. "Blinded to all but you, babe."

She made a gagging gesture with her fingers in her throat.

I only laughed, then snuck a quick peak at Heather Farley's departing backside.

"All but me," Kristin said, seeing my sneak peek.

* * * * *

Whitney phoned three days before Christmas. We'd barely spoken since she'd gotten out of the hospital. She'd been tongue-tied every time I'd seen her, which was usually at the beginning and end of her visitation periods with Kyle. Every time she looked at me, she got a haunted look about her face. The haunted look deepened when Kristin was around.

"I was thinking," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"What, Whit?"

"Maybe he should be with you on Christmas Day. I'll just take him for awhile on Christmas Eve and get him back by ten or so."

"Not a chance," I said. "Ben's going to his dad's house, and Kyle's going with you. Kristin and I are going back to bed to catch up on all the sleep we're going to miss out on Christmas Eve."

"It's just that he's going to get bored spending all day and night with me," she said.

"Nonsense. He'll be bored here, too."

"He'll have his new presents to play with."

"He'll have them at your place, too."

She said nothing to that.

"What's wrong, Whit?"

She mumbled something, and I asked her to repeat it.

"I guess I'm just trying to figure out a way to pay you back."

"For what?"

"For everything, Luke. For taking care of Kyle; for saving me. Because I shit all over you, and you were still there for all of us."

"Saving you?" I said.

"Karen Adams and Aaron Gavers came and saw me in the hospital. Before you and Kyle got there. I knew it was you in the mask. I mean, fucking duh, right? When I brought this up, Karen told me the whole story."

"And?"

"And they made a couple of things pretty clear. Number one, they'd have never been able to save me on their own. It was your plan that tipped their hand--got Dunlop to go to where I was. Two, if I ever told a soul, you'd be in real danger. Not just the danger of prosecution, either. Danger of retaliation from the LaBruzzis."

"Kyle, too," I reminded her. "Kyle could get caught in the crossfire."

"I know."

"So let's not talk about it anymore, okay?"

"But you've got to let me show you I'm sorry. And thankful, too. For all of it."

I was silent.

"Please?"

"You want to show me you're sorry--maybe you've learned something? Fine. Then don't be late for your visitations. Don't blow them off. Spend as much time with Kyle as you can. He deserves a mother, too."

"But Kristin. . . ."

"Is not his mother. You are. Always have been, always will be. And when you're not there for him, he feels rejected. So you want to show me you're sorry and appreciative and all that shit I'm not asking you for? Fine. Don't leave me here to pick up the pieces because you've blown him off for visitation again. For any reason. From now on, Kyle needs to be first in your life, not your fucking job. Fair enough?"

She paused for a moment, then whispered, "Fair enough."

"Good," I said, calming down. "Then have a Merry Christmas and don't be late."

I heard her sniffle with tears. "I'll be there. And Merry Christmas to you, too. And Kristin and Ben."

We rang off.

* * * * *

Christmas morning was like being back in the Army.

Reveille consisted of Ben and Kyle jumping on our bed at shortly after four, all excited to go unwrap their presents from Santa.

Twenty minutes later, the sleep still in our eyes and mugs of coffee and hot cocoa all prepared, the boys tore into their presents.

Kristin and I had agreed to spend the same on each boy; to shop for and buy all gifts together; and to make them all from Santa. No need to create jealousy, and we wanted them both to know that neither of us would play favorites with either of them.

Such subtleties seemed lost, though, in the roomful of opened gifts. What wasn't lost, however, was that not all presents between Kristin and me had been exchanged.

"Dad," Kyle said, hands on hips and eyebrows raised, "when're you going to give Kristin her present?"

"After you leave," I said.

Kristin looked at me with raised eyebrows. Then a smile curled her lips.

"Strange," she said. "I've got a present for you, too, that only gets opened when they're gone."

"Really?" I said.

Her look told me she was serious, and that I'd really, really like it.

* * * * *

Whitney and Tyler appeared at the same time to pick up Kyle and Ben, respectively.

"So you're Whitney?" Tyler said, shaking her hand after wishing her a Merry Christmas. "The prosecutor who gave us all a big scare awhile ago?"

She looked at the floor, then nodded.

"Well I'm glad you're safe," he said, then paused, furrowed his brow, and looked at her strangely. "Strange coincidence. My first book was about something like that. About an ex-wife who disappears without a trace. But in that one the husband ran off and saved her."

Whitney's head shot up and met his eyes. Then her face softened, and she said, "I guess there just wasn't enough time for Luke to get in on the action."

He laughed. "Guess not. Still, I'm glad you're okay."

Whitney turned to me with a soft look. The haunted look was gone, replaced by a look she'd not bestowed upon me since well before Charles Lawton Dunlop had appeared on the scene.

I felt a pang in my heart for what had transpired between us.

But then Kristin placed her hand on my forearm, and the regret was replaced with calm satisfaction at where I'd landed in life.

* * * * *

"So who goes first here?" I asked Kristin once the boys had left.

"I will," she said. "Give me five minutes, then come into the bedroom."

The flash in her eyes told me five minutes on the dot. Not a second sooner or a second later.

Eyes on the seconds hand of my watch, I opened the door at five minutes on the dot. The sight before me took my breath away as all of the blood in my body raced to my rampant pecker tenting my pajama bottoms.

Kristin was laying in the middle of the bed, dressed in nothing save a large red ribbon with the bow over her silky soft tuft of pubic hair. Her arms were stretched wide above her head, handcuffed to the headboard Tyler's father had made.

"It's not much," she said, her eyes hungry and hips squirming as she spoke.

My response choked in my throat.

"It's on the dresser," she said, nodding toward the wrapped box sitting in the middle of the dresser.

"Can't I open this one first?" I said, making my way toward the bed.

"No."

I stopped, then walked to the dresser and retrieved the box. I carried it over to the bed and sat next to her.

"I'm not going to lie to you," Kristin said. "Since my second divorce, I haven't been totally celibate. Pretty damned close, though. And I needed some help to get me through a lot of lonely nights."

I tore the paper off and opened the box, looking inside with wonder.

She smiled. "When we moved in a month ago, I hid this from you. In the attic. I guess I was . . . I don't know . . . ashamed or something. But the past month--hell, the past four months--have been the happiest I've had in a long time. And I decided I didn't want to hide anything from you."

A lascivious grin was spreading across my face.

"So I didn't really buy you a present," she continued. "Not with money, anyway. Instead, I thought I'd give you . . . I don't know . . . my total trust. Access to all of my secrets. Let you know that I'm not hiding anything from you and that I never will."

I looked into the box, then back to her. While satisfying, our lovemaking to date had also been conventional. My mind now whirled, though, at the various possibilities contained in the gift box before me.

I reached into the box and pulled out a vibrator, holding it up in front of her and twisting the base.

"And what exactly do you want me to do with these things?"

I tickled the tip of the vibrator around the base of the bow, and her hips followed it.

"Anything," she said breathlessly, her eyes closing. "Anything you want. I want you to take me. Do with me as you will. Live out your wildest fantasies."

"Really?" I said, putting the vibrator aside and pulling out a slim, tapered vibrator with a large circular base tied to a bottle of lube. "And what's this for?"

She opened her eyes, looked at what was in my hand, and started blushing.

"Is this what I think it is?"

She nodded, looking like a shy schoolgirl.

I leaned in and kissed her, and she kissed me back. With my hands, I grabbed the vibrator and turned it on low, circling the tip over her nipples as we kissed hungrily and she started writhing on the bed with the sensations flowing through her breasts.

My lips trailed down, and I sucked one of her nipples into my mouth. It was already hard, but my oral ministrations made it darken and stand out still more.

"My clit," she pleaded.

The vibrator left her breasts and trailed down her stomach, where I ran it the length of her lips, up and down slowly in rhythm to her grinding hips. A few minutes later, my mouth followed the trail of the vibrator until I reached the bow covering the small, thinned strip of her mound.

Using my teeth, I pulled the ribbon and released it, and her hips rose from the bed to meet my tongue. I ran the vibrator gently over the nubbin of her clit, my tongue going below and taking gentle swipes at the glistening lips of her labia.

"Yes," Kristin hissed, then started groaning.

After a minute or two, my tongue moved up and joined the vibrator, which I now held over the hood of her clit while my tongue took feathery swipes at the engorged nubbin before me. Within seconds, Kristin was gasping and groaning through an explosive climax.

Giving her time to settle down, I stood and shucked my clothes, then kneeled on the bed next to her head. Without hesitation, she turned her head and sucked me into her mouth.

I groaned at the moist heat and tingling sensations of her lips and tongue, my hand on the back of her head as I helped hold her head in place. Soon, though, her mouth left my cock and she looked me in the eyes.

"More," she said. "Please."

"For you or me?" I asked.

"Both of us."

I turned on the bed, positioning my hips over her mouth while lowering myself back to her pussy. We were both soon nearing orgasm, and I began to pull my hips up and away from her mouth.

"No," she pleaded. "Please. I want to."

Surprised, I lowered my hips back to her mouth and renewed my oral assault on her clit with vigor. My hands were cupping her ass, squeezing her cheeks and holding her pussy in place.

Soon, her hips were bucking and she was shrieking around my cock, her mouth sucking me harder and deeper than I thought possible. Just as her orgasm subsided, my own hit, and I lifted my mouth from her and gave a long, low groan as I shot stream after stream into her mouth.

She sputtered with the effort of taking it all, and I pulled out as the last shots hit her chin.

"Sweet Jesus," I panted, rolling to the side before flipping around and facing her.

"No shit," she said. "Like wow."

With my fingertips, I dabbed up the cum on her face and held it in front of her. Her eyes on mine the whole time, she sucked the ends of my fingers.

"That's the hottest thing I've ever seen," I said. "Probably the hottest thing I've ever done."

She smiled. "I'll bet we can top that."

I laughed. "I'm not twenty," I reminded her. "It could take awhile."

"Get him back up here," she said. "I'll have him going again in no time."

She wasn't kidding.

Ten minutes later, my cock rejuvenated, Kristin turned over with her shoulders on the bed and her ass in the air, and my mouth now attacking her from behind, I smeared lube over the anal vibrator.

"Slow," she said as the tip of the smaller vibrator pressed against the crinkled knot of her ass.

Slender though it was, I had doubts it would fit, particularly at the fatter end of the taper. Little more than a minute later, though, with Kristin emitting a deep, satisfied groan the whole time, the circular base of the vibrator was pressed firmly against her ass.

"Now," she said breathlessly. "Put it in me now."

I knelt behind her, my glazed eyes taking in the sight before me. It was the naughtiest, sexiest, most incredibly erotic thing I'd ever seen. I wedged my head against her lips and, in one slow, steady surge, entered her molten depths.

Kristin started bucking in orgasm before I'd even bottomed out, and I kept up a steady rhythm through her most intense climax of the morning. After a couple of minutes, I realized that her orgasms were now coming one after the other, like a steady stream of electrons firing off through her body, and I reached down and pulled the vibrator nearly out of her bottom before pressing it back in.

This caused Kristin's bucking to explode in intensity, the whole time her voice pleading me to go harder and faster and just please keep doing it. I did, but she was soon overwhelmed with the sensations and her body began to sag in exhaustion.

"Switch," she said, turning to me with her eyes still on fire. "Please hurry."

I knew what she meant. I pulled the vibrator from her ass and replaced it with the head of my cock. Pressing against her, she opened up and accepted the entry with a long groan.

I slowly buried myself in her perfect, incredibly tight, heart-shaped ass. Reaching to the side, I picked up the other vibrator, turned it on, reached down, and touched it against her pussy. Kristin shrieked and bucked, driving me the rest of the way inside her.

"Yes," she hissed. "Yes, yes, yes."

She was moving back and forth against me of her own volition, setting the pace. I was mesmerized by the sight of my cock sliding back and forth in her ass, charged with excitement as I'd never been before.

"I'm cumming again," she warned, then started bucking even faster.

Her ass was clenching and unclenching around me as the orgasm pulsed in waved over her body, and I, too, felt my body go taut as I again released shot after shot deep within her.

With a final groan from Kristin, we collapsed together onto the bed.

"Goddamn, Luke," she panted, gulping in air as my cock shrank from her.

"Yeah," I panted, still trying to catch my breath as well.

"I'm not gonna walk right for a week."

I kissed her. "Thank you. It was . . . well . . . it was like nothing I've ever experienced before. Any of it."

She smiled, her eyes still closed. "Me neither. But I've had a lot of time over the past few years to build up some really good fantasies."

I chuckled. "It was time well spent."

* * * * *

I awoke to Kristin kissing me, her hands now somehow free of the handcuffs.

"So where's my present?" she said.

I opened my eyes. She was dressed in pajamas and a robe.

"Let me get cleaned up," I said, sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

"Already did that for you," she said. "Just throw on your pajamas."

I pulled on the flannel pants, then went to the top shelf of my closet. Retrieving the small box, I turned and held it up to Kristin.

She saw it, and her eyes immediately glistened with tears as her mouth turned to a sad smile.

"Please tell me it's not . . . ."




The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 03



I hesitated, then handed it to her.

With trembling fingers, she began opening the small box. Once it was unwrapped, she opened it and looked at the ring within.

"I want to get married," I said, my eyes on her the whole time. "You're my best friend. You've been there for me through the worst of times, and now I want you to be with me for the best of times."

She looked at me, then back to the ring.

"But my past," she said.

"I don't care. It's past."

The tears really started flowing at that. "I don't want to hurt you, Luke. I'm . . . I'm damaged goods."

I cupped her chin and turned her head to face me.

"You made some mistakes," I said. "Sure, they were major mistakes, and they were probably mostly your fault. But that was then. Years ago. You're not that person anymore."

"But what if I am?"

I shook my head. "People learn from their mistakes," I said. "I believe that; I really do. And you've learned. You'll never do it again."

"But how can you know?"

"I just know."

She looked at the ring, then at me, then back at the ring.

I waited for her, tensing up, my chest ready to explode.

Imperceptibly at first, then more vigorously, she started nodding her head. And crying. And laughing, too.

"I never want to lose you."

I hugged her to me. "And I never want to lose you."

Finis