d, and then turned my attention to Lou. "I prefer playing hold 'em online. Do you have any idea why?" "I do not," he said. "No physical tells," I said. "I do not have a poker face." He laughed. "There are other reasons," I said. "For example, I can play whenever I have free time. I usually play after I put Piper down for the night. The gambling site I use is off-shore. I don't use it because it's off-shore. I use it because the other players cannot check my hand history, which would be disastrous with my method of playing. I can sit in on a game and quit at any time unless I'm playing a tournament. In tournament play on the gambling site I use, I either lose my buy-in or win the whole shebang, less the house rake-off, which is 10%. There's no prize money for third, or second place, my preference. Fortunately, I consistently win more than I lose." "So, if you average $3,000 a day, you make..." He paused. "Do you play every day?" Lou said. "No, I probably average between five and six nights a week, but let's say five. I play from one to three hours." "So it'll take you a little over thirteen weeks to make enough to pay me for my land?" Lou said. "Yes, except your land isn't the only expense I've got to cover beyond the purchase price of the other land parcel and the construction costs of my house and outbuildings. That's why I wanted the year." He nodded. "Why coach and teach? It pays a pittance?" I smiled. "True, but I enjoy the challenge. Last Friday before the game in Winnemucca, I told my assistant coach that a coach has to be a leader and a teacher. He leads the team and teaches the players on the team how to play a position as an individual and work with the team to win. I teach them how to win not only at the game of football but also at the game of life. A coach should teach his players how to become better human beings first and better football players second. That's the challenge, Lou. So what if it pays a pittance? The satisfaction I gain in meeting the challenge is a more important payment than currency." I chuckled. "And the government can't tax that payment." He nodded, and then turned to his niece. "Liz, draw up a purchase contract. With a twenty percent down payment, I'll carry back the purchase price less the down payment for five years with four equal annual payments plus eight percent interest. No prepayment penalty." He looked in my direction. "Does that work for you, Coach?" "It does," I said. "Good," he said. "Now that's out of the way, let's talk horses. How many horses will you need to make the ranch profitable?" "One exceptional stallion and fifteen brood mares for breeding, and I'll train five other horses for shows. I'll do the shows to make my horses more valuable and consequently the ranch more profitable." Lou looked at Elizabeth. "Why are you still sitting there like a lump? Go type up the purchase contract while I talk horses with this young fella." Elizabeth said, "The two of you talking about horses is more interesting than a dull legal document staring back at me from the monitor on my computer." "I should hope so," I said. "Piper, would you like to come with me?" Elizabeth said. "Uh-uh. I want to listen to horse talk," she said and giggled. Thank heaven for little girls. While we talked horses, it became quickly apparent that Lou Hailey knew as much as or more about horses than I. "Have you trained horses for competition?" I asked. "I have, but mostly I was the rider. Won some reining competitions when I was younger." "How about that! That's my specialty. Done any pole bending?" I said. "Not as a rider. Trained an appaloosa for Nez Perce Stake Races, though. Let's see. That was 'bout twenty years ago in Idaho." "Sounds like you know your way around horses. Listen, I'm going to need a ranch manager/trainer. Do you know anyone that could handle the job?" "I'd take the job, but I'm too durned old." He raised one busy eyebrow. "Got anything against a woman doin' the job?" "No." "Got a lady friend. Mabel Grant. Don't know how old she is; she won't tell me. But I figure she's 'bout fifty, give or take a year or two. Been around horses all her life. Been a trainer. Been a rider. Moved here to take care of her old pa. He was a boozer. Lost his ranch up somewhere around Reno, and he ended up here. Don't know why. He died last winter. Mabel's stuck. No money. She's workin' as a waitress right now, putting together a stake to hightail it out of here. 'Spect she'll leave come spring. Good woman, smart as a whip. Between you and me, I'd rather she put down roots in this neck of the woods." "Elizabeth!" I said, loudly. She stuck her head in the room. "You bellowed?" I chuckled and said, "Yes. Do you know Mabel Grant?" "I do." "Would she make a good ranch manager/trainer?" "She would." "Thank you. You can return to your affair with the computer monitor now." "Humph!" she huffed and disappeared. "I'd like to meet Mabel," I said to Lou. "When?" he asked. "I won't need a ranch manager until I have a ranch," I said. "I can't start building until spring, and it'll take me six to eight months to build the house and outbuildings, so the ranch won't go into operation until next fall. If Mabel and I come to an agreement, however, I'll use her as a consultant during the design and construction phase of the ranch. I'll also pay her consulting fees to travel with Piper and me on buying trips." He nodded. "That might work for her." "I have no time tomorrow or Tuesday. How about Wednesday evening?" "I'll set it up. Where?" "The coffee shop at the Jailhouse Casino," I said. He laughed. "That's where she works as a waitress." "Oh, that won't work then. Elizabeth!" She walked into the conference room carrying a file. "What now?" "May I use this conference room to interview Mabel Grant Wednesday evening?" "Yes. Here's the purchase contract." She sat down, gave me a copy, and another copy to Lou." I read it carefully and saw no problems. Lou barely glanced at the document. I signed my copy and slid it across the table to him. He did the same with his copy. "I'll cut the check for the down payment tomorrow, Lou. My accountant says I've got to open a bank account for Dream Catcher Ranch, LLC, before I write anymore personal checks for the business." He glanced toward Elizabeth. She said, "That'll work. I have to draft a few more legal documents besides the Offer to Purchase to close this transaction anyway, and Coach, with the out in this offer if you can't come to agreement with the seller of the seven acres, this sale can't close until after the inspection period on that deal." She looked at her uncle. "Which means, Uncle Lou, that this sale will close at the same time as the other transaction in approximately thirty days." "Works for me," he said. "Me, too," I said. I glanced at Piper. "Ready to go home, pumpkin?" "Are you finished with horse talk?" she said. "We are." "Let's go home then," she said. I entered two tournaments that night, won one of them, lost the other. Net gain: $8,000. ------- Chapter 5 They're trying to kill me with the stink. One of their experiments must have gone haywire. When they switched brains, the person died. That's what happened; that's what I smell. Rotting human flesh. Sickening. The aliens can't smell it. I asked them; they can't smell it. They said I was hallucinating. No way. They must smell different than I smell. I shouldn't have asked. They stuck me with a needle. Fuckers. I hate that. I'll take their fucking pills, but I don't want their needles. The needles knock me out. While I'm out, they do weird things with me; I know they do. Anal probes, that sort of thing. Or worse. Probably planning to switch bodies again. Next time they knock me out, I'll wake up with a cunt. They'll put my brain in the body of a girl. He sneered. Don't want to be a pathetic, simpering cunt. This weak body is bad enough. A body with a pussy would be worse. "Aaron, stand up," an alien said. He stood up. Didn't want the goddamn needle. Didn't want to become a worthless female. "Walk to the dining hall, Aaron." He walked, wishing they'd bury that body. How can I fuckin' eat with that stink? I'll throw up. He giggled. That'd teach them. No, if I threw up, they'd knock me out. "Sit down, Aaron." He sat down. "Eat." He put a bite of food in his mouth with a fork. Don't gag! Don't... Vomit spewed all over the table. The fat man next to him threw up next, then the crazy old hag who pretended to hold a baby all the time. He giggled. Shit happens. Should have buried that rotting body. Or burned it. Yvonne wanted to be cremated when she died. Sick. Stupid cunt. ------- We sat in a conference room in the administrative offices of the school. Someone was covering my English class; Tom handled that. Robyn Clark had accepted Tom's invitation to the meeting, and also at Tom's request, Sheriff Kenneth Hansen had joined us. I'm a big man; Sheriff Ken is bigger. In appearance, he looks like a typical redneck, Southern cop, so much so that at first glance, I expected him to refer to me as Boy. Appearances can be deceiving. He was a well-spoken man, polite, logical, and level-headed. He also knew about my memory loss, so I didn't have to deal with that subject. Robyn Clark was her typical self: stylishly dressed, beautiful, cynical, and aloof. "Coach, you called this meeting," Tom said. "I did. Friday, when I landed in Winnemucca for the game, I discovered that two of my first-string players had been suspended for dealing drugs." "Humph," Robyn snorted. "What do you want? Their suspension lifted?" I gave her a hard look. "I'm saddened that you have such a low opinion of my character, Robyn. I called this meeting because, with my memory loss, I was unaware of the drug problem in the high school." I slumped back in my chair and sighed. "I'm a football coach. A coach, especially a high school coach, should teach his players how to become better human beings first and better football players second. This afternoon at a team meeting, I planned to announce a zero-tolerance drug policy. If any of the boys on my team are involved with drugs, I want to know about it, not to protect them, but rather to remove them from the football team. However, upon reflection, I realized that a zero-tolerance drug policy has the potential of destroying the life of one of my boys before he can be salvaged. Accordingly, I wanted a discussion with each of you regarding the policy before it's announced this afternoon." Robyn looked like I'd driven a railroad spike into her head. I stifled a chuckle and turned to Tom. "From what I was told, the school doesn't have a zero-tolerance policy. You suspend a student the first time the student is caught using drugs on school property. The student isn't expelled until the second time. Correct?" "That's correct for marijuana," Tom said. "For harder drugs, expulsion is immediate. Currently, other than marijuana, meth is the drug of choice." "I believe there is a meth lab somewhere in the county," the sheriff said. "I also believe that at least one of the students in this school is a meth dealer. Coach, marijuana is relatively benign when compared to drugs like meth or heroin. We've got some of that, too, although so far, to our knowledge, none of the students in this school is a heroin addict. Cocaine has also filtered down to the students of this school, but it's nowhere near as prevalent as meth." "What about designer drugs like ecstasy?" I said. "We had a problem with ecstasy last year. So far, we've been lucky this year," Tom said. I nodded. "I think I understand. Correct me if I'm wrong, but unless caught in the act on school property, the school turns a blind eye to marijuana use but comes down hard on students involved with harder drugs." Tom said, "I suppose that's true for drug users, but dealing is another matter entirely. We place marijuana dealers in the same category as students using the harder drugs." "Then why did you merely suspend Peter and Terry? Why didn't you expel them?" I said to Tom. "They're innocent until proven guilty," Tom said. "After their day in court, they'll be expelled. Coach, they were caught red-handed, so to speak. They're guilty, no doubt about it, so neither of them will set foot on the school grounds again." I looked at Robyn. "Have you been able to save anyone?" My question surprised her, but she recovered quickly and said, "Yes." "Good," I said. "What about alcohol?" "What about it?" Tom said. "It's a drug. It's illegal for students to drink alcohol. Does the school have a policy regarding beer and hard liquor?" "We treat alcohol like we treat marijuana," Tom said. "Orville classifies cigarettes as a drug," I said. "Smoking on school grounds will get a student suspended," Tom said. I chuckled. "Is that why crowds gather across the street from the school between classes?" "Yes, and some of the smoke coming from their mouths is from burning marijuana, not cigarettes," Tom said. I nodded. "Are these policies working?" "Yes," Tom said. "No," Robyn said at the same time. All eyes turned toward her. She shrugged and said, "Drug use is increasing, not decreasing." "That's not a result of school policy, Robyn," Tom said. She said nothing. "Do you think our policies should be altered?" Tom said to her. "I don't know, maybe." She looked at me. "Are you serious about initiating a zero-tolerance drug policy for the football team?" "I was; I'm not so certain now." "If you do it, would the policy include alcohol and cigarettes?" she asked. "No," I said without hesitation. "Alcohol and cigarettes are not illegal substances. Granted they're illegal for teenagers, but not for adults. But I've found that if you treat teenagers as adults, they'll respond accordingly. If you treat them as children, they'll rebel. The zero-tolerance drug policy would include any drug illegal for adult use. I would, of course, stress that the school policy regarding alcohol and cigarettes would still be enforced. If any of my football players is caught drinking booze or smoking cigarettes on school property, which to my mind includes motel rooms during away games, that player would be turned over to Tom for suspension from school. The player would be allowed back on the team at the expiration of his suspension. On the other hand, a player caught using an illegal drug, including marijuana, relatively benign or not, would be kicked off the team permanently, and then turned over to Tom for punishment in accordance with school policy." Robyn nodded and said, "Do it." Tom held up his hands, palms out. "Hold it right there," he said. "That policy would decimate the team, Coach. I think marijuana use is more prevalent than you realize." "What's more important to the school, Tom? Teaching our athletes how to succeed at life or winning football games?" I said. "Condoning drug use, including marijuana, lends tacit acceptance by authority figures to perform illegal acts. I don't believe that's the lesson we want our athletes to learn." "He's right, Tom," Sheriff Ken said. Tom slumped in his chair, and said, "Okay, I'll go along with your zero-tolerance drug policy for the football team, Coach." "Tom, I'm probably going to lose some players for another reason," I said. He frowned. "What reason?" "Football players, for the most part, are bigger and stronger than the rest of the students in the school. Some of them tend to be bullies. Orville tells me that in the past before my memory loss, that I protected some bullies on the team. That changes right now. I won't have a bully on my football team." Tom groaned and said, "Coach, where are you keeping your pod?" Robyn and I laughed. The sheriff smiled. I looked at the sheriff. "Sooner or later, do bullies end up in your jail?" "Yep," he said. "Sooner more often than later, and some of them end up in prison doing hard time." I said, "The bullies on the team—I have the names of two of them—will be given an opportunity to change their behavior. If they don't learn how to treat others with respect, they won't be welcome on the team. After the team meeting when I'll be announcing my modified zero-tolerance drug policy that will include marijuana use but won't include alcohol and cigarettes, I plan to have a little chat with Cal Jensen and Larry Foreman. It's possible that one or both of them will not be suiting up this afternoon." I turned to Robyn. "Do you know of any other bullies on the team? If so, I'll include them in the conversation I plan for Cal and Larry." She nodded. "Cory Tidwell is probably a bigger bully than Cal or Larry, although Larry is almost as bad as Cory." I looked at Tom. "She's got Cory pegged, Coach," he said. "At least he's second string," I muttered, which elicited some chuckles from around the table. ------- I tossed a football to Jeff Weaver. "That's the game ball from Friday, Jeff. I've signed it, Orville, too. Perhaps other team members will sign it, as well. You earned it. You stepped up after Terry was suspended for dealing drugs. You gave the game everything you had in you. In fact, you stopped Winnemucca at the goal line seconds before the game ended. I'm proud of you." Orville started the applause, which quickly morphed into hoots and hollers. Jeff fondled the ball and looked like he could leap tall buildings. "Okay, settle down," I said. "I have an announcement. Starting today, each member of this football team is subject to a zero-tolerance drug policy. That being said, let me explain the policy in detail." I went on to describe the policy as I'd developed it during my morning meeting with the sheriff, Tom, and Robyn. "If any of you feel that you can't abide by this policy, there's the door." No one stood up and walked out. "Any questions about the policy?" I said. "I have a statement, not a question," Paul Williams said. Paul was our first-string center. My nod indicated that he should continue. He said, "To my way of thinking, booze is worse than marijuana." I heard murmurs of agreement. "Your thinking is probably accurate, but I didn't want to treat any of you as children," I said. "Huh?" Paul said. "You might be a teenager and therefore too young to drink, but to my way of thinking, you're a young adult, and that's the way I'll treat you. Adults can legally use alcohol. Adults cannot legally use marijuana. In crafting the drug policy I had to consider whether I would treat you as adults or children. I chose the former. If you don't like the marijuana laws, after you graduate from high school and go out into the world to meet your future, get involved and change the law." Greg, our quarterback, said, "Will you do random drug testing?" "No," I said. "What I'm going to do is trust each of you to abide by the policy ... until I can no longer trust one of you. If by your actions you lose my trust, you will also lose the privilege to play on this football team." I looked around the room. "Any other questions or statements?" The room remained silent. "Okay, go suit up." By prior agreement, Orville stopped Cal, Larry, and Cory from leaving. Then Orville left the room. Once alone with the three young men, I said, "It has been brought to my attention that the three of you think you are tough guys. Was I misled?" Silence. "Come on, are you tough or not?" I said. "I'm tough," Cory said. "Me, too," Larry said. "What's this about, Coach?" Cal said. I walked up to Cal and slapped his face, not with brutal force; the blow wouldn't leave a bruise, but he knew he'd been slapped. I watched intense anger fill his eyes. "That pissed you off, didn't it?" I said. He was too angry to speak, but he nodded. "Would it surprise any of you if I said that I'm tougher than you, all three of you, combined?" They said nothing. "I am, you know. I'm bigger than any of you, and stronger. I'm also proficient in krav maga, a form of martial arts developed for the Mossad, Israel's equivalent to our CIA. Krav maga is one of the skill sets that survived my memory loss." I had, in fact, studied krav maga for five years when I was Aaron MacDonald. "If the three of you attacked me at the same time, I'd take all three of you. If you don't believe me, you can try. We can go to the mats in the gym right now. Want to try?" None of them took me up on the offer. "Cal, did my slapping you show disrespect?" I said. He nodded, and then said out loud, "Yes." "Do you believe what I did was wrong? As a moral issue, I mean. Did I do a right thing or a wrong thing?" "It was wrong." "How did you feel after I slapped you?" "Angry. And confused. And I wondered why you did it," he said. I looked at Larry. "How would you feel if I slapped you?" He said nothing. I turned to Cory. "What about you, Cory?" Cory remained silent, as well. "I don't remember what I was like before I tangled with lightning, but I've been told I was a bully," I said. "I have no way of knowing if the characterization was accurate. I do know that the label, accurate or not, disturbed me. Can any of you guess why I was disturbed by the label?" Cal said, "Because the label made you less of a man, not more of a man." "Precisely," I said. "I was upset because I also believe that a bully is a coward. I didn't like to think of myself as a cowardly bully. I prefer to think of myself as a good and decent man. Just as important, I'd prefer that others consider me a good and decent man." I sat down on a bench facing the three young men. "I've been told that the three of you are bullies. Would any of you agree with that assessment?" "I'm not a bully," Larry said. "Neither am I," Cory said. "I just won't take any shit." Cal lowered his eyes. He didn't speak, and he wouldn't look directly at me. Cal, I believed, could be salvaged. I wasn't confident the other two were salvageable. "Since the moment I opened my eyes after getting struck by lightning, I've tried to treat everyone I meet with respect. If I was a bully before, I am a bully no longer. Cal, I apologize for slapping you. I did it to make a point. Will you accept my apology?" "Yes," he said. "Here's the deal, men. I won't tolerate druggies, and I won't tolerate bullies, not on my football team. From this moment forward, I want each of you to treat everyone around you with respect. Do not physically or verbally abuse anyone. Got it?" "Got it, Coach," Cal said. I looked Larry in the eye. "Yeah, I got it, Coach," he said, but reluctantly. I switched my gaze to Cory. "I got it, but I still won't take any shit," he said. I sighed. "Cal, Larry, go suit up." After they left, I said to Cory, "What do you mean when you say that you won't take any shit?" "You know," he said through tight lips. This is a very angry young man, I thought. "No, I don't know what you mean. Please explain." "I don't like being hassled," he said with his fists clenched tightly. "Please explain to me what you mean by being hassled," I said. "Like you said, when someone disses me." "You mean when someone shows you disrespect by putting you down, making you less of a man than you are?"' I said. "Yeah," he said. "How do they do that?" I said. "By making fun of me, laughing at me." "How do they make fun of you?" "I'm ... ah, slow," he said. "A dummy. They call me dummy. And I'm overweight, not so much now, but last year I was fat. They still call me fatty, or chubby, or a blubber." He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. "I'm not dumb, Coach. I've got dyslexia, so I don't read very well, and I'm not fat now, just a little overweight. I used to take it. I won't take that kind of shit anymore." I scratched my head. Then I got it. "So when someone shows you disrespect, you tear into them?" "I guess." "Has that worked? Has that stopped the disrespect?" "Some. A little," he said. "But it's also tagged you as a bully," I said. "I guess." "Because you tore into students smaller than you?" "Yeah." He smiled through his tears. "Some of them were bigger, though." I chuckled. "Okay, I understand better now. I don't know how yet, Cory, but I'm going to help you with this problem. Do you believe me?" He used his meaty knuckles to wipe the tears from his eyes. Then he looked me in the eye and said, "Yeah, I believe you." "Good. Give me a few days to come up with a plan. Until then, no more fighting. Deal?" "Deal," he said. "Okay. Go suit up." Being a coach is easy, I thought. Being a good coach is very difficult. ------- That evening Piper and I sat down to superb home-cooked dinner that Agnes had prepared: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and yellow corn, topped off with homemade apple pie alamode. Agnes ate with us. I'd just finished dinner and was complimenting Agnes effusively when my cell phone rang. The delectable Danielle was calling me. "Got a counter on your offer for the seven acres, Coach," she said. "The seller wants $125,000." "Fine, if he successfully drills for water and brings power to the property," I said. When Danielle said nothing, I added, "Just kidding; that would complicate the sale. The asking price was $20,000 an acre. I offered the seller approximately $15,000 an acre. Now he wants approximately $18,000 an acre. Let's split the difference. At $16,500 an acre, the sale price would be $115,500. Counter with $115,000, Danielle, and for what it's worth, I won't go higher than that number. I can get by on the twenty acres I bought from Lou. I'd rather have the highway frontage and the additional acreage, but it isn't absolutely necessary." "I hear you, Coach. I'll present your counter verbally and call you back." "I've got an appointment outside the house, but I'll leave my cell phone turned on." My appointment was with a teenage soccer player named Helen Sanford, the girl Orville recommended for a place kicker. When I knocked on the door to her house, I was prepared to eat humble pie. A distinguished man opened the door, not a teenage girl. "Hello," I said. "I'm Coach Windom." "Come in, Coach. I'm Helen's father, Ralph Sanford." I shook his offered hand. I had my Stetson in my other hand. Appropriate. I had arrived with hat in hand. Ralph Sanford was about six feet tall, dark hair and eyes, broad-shouldered but a little out of shape, from sitting at a desk, probably. I guessed his age somewhere in the late-thirties. I took a seat in the living room, and he left to retrieve Helen. She didn't bounce into the room. She strode in on solid legs, but her strides were not heavy. She moved with grace. She wore her blonde hair short, and she had a girlish figure. I labeled her cute but steady. Intelligent, too, her sparkling dark eyes told me. We greeted each other, and she sat down. Her father stayed in the room with us. "I'm told," I said, "that before lightning crackled out of the sky and erased my memories that I was a know-it-all, a bully, and a misogynist." Ralph Sanford smiled. Helen didn't. "Those labels were probably accurate. I was also told that I'd loudly proclaimed that I would never allow a girl on my football team. I don't know when or from whom I acquired such a sexist, inappropriate attitude, but when and from whom don't matter. It's a stupid position to take, and it's just plain wrong. "I hired a private detective to investigate my past. He had some success, and last week I spoke to my mother on the telephone. From that one, short conversation, I can't say I know her, but I definitely liked her. I don't believe the sexist attitude came from her. My father is in prison. He killed a man in a bar fight. Most likely, he taught me how to be a bully and a misogynist, but laying the blame at his feet without any evidence other than his unfortunate circumstances, wouldn't be fair, either." I twirled my hat in my hands and continued, "Helen, I'm here with hat in hand to ask you to please put aside your displeasure with me and consider joining the White Pine High School football team as a place kicker." She glared at me. "What happens if you get your memories back? Will you assume the ... ah, personality you had before you were struck by lightning?" "I don't know," I said. "I may have acted like a sexist brute before, but I'm not stupid. Surely I'm smart enough to realize that I am a better person now than I was before being struck by lightning and that it would be in my own self-interest to continue not being a know-it-all, a bully, and a misogynist. I have friends now; I had none before. I'm respected now; I don't believe I engendered much respect before. What's more, I believe the lightning strike kicked all the anger out of me along with any memories of my past. Will the anger return with the memories. I hope not, but if it does, I'll employ professional help to show me how to manage the anger." Her stoic expression softened, but she had another point to make. "You're not the only sexist on the football team." I chuckled. "That's for sure." She laughed with me. "Helen, this afternoon I figured out that being a coach is easy but being a good coach is very difficult. Would you like to hear my definitions of a coach and a good coach?" "Yes," she said. "A coach teaches the members of his team how to be better football players. A good coach, especially a high school coach, teaches his players how to become better human beings first and better football players second. I could be wrong, but a young lady on the football team should provide ample opportunity for me to teach the other players on the team how to be better human beings. Will you help me do this?" She smiled while shaking her head. "You should sell used cars, Coach. Yes, I'll help you." "It won't be easy," I said. "I know. It will be very difficult." I stood up and held out my hand. She took it, and we shook on the deal. My cell phone rang as Ralph Sanford was walking me to the door. I fumbled around and finally answered the call. "Coach, it's Danny. The seller accepted your counter." "Excellent." "You'll need to sign off on the final offer." "Do you run?" I asked. "Huh?" she said. "I run every other day for exercise. Do you run?" "Oh, as a matter of fact, I do." "How about bringing the paperwork I need to sign with you and run with me tomorrow morning?" I said. "All right. Where and when?" "The track at the ball field at seven," I said. "See you then," she said. "Good job, Danielle," I said. "Thanks. Goodbye." After I hung up, I noticed that Ralph Sanford looked curious. "That call was from my real estate agent," I said. "I made an offer to purchase seven acres off Great Basin Highway. The seller countered, and then I countered back. She called to tell me my last counter was accepted. I plan to build a home and develop a little horse ranch on the property." "Will you need any financing?" Sanford said. "No, I'm paying cash," I said. "What bank do you use?" "Bank of America," I said. "Come see me. First National might be a better bank for you." "I'll do that," I said. When I arrived home, Piper was in bed asleep. Agnes was reading. "How was your first day?" I said. "I had a good day," she said. "Your daughter is a treat to be around. She's polite, smart, and good-natured." "I agree, but then I'm biased in the extreme. I might have time tomorrow during my lunch period to look at cars. I'm thinking a sedan would be best. What do you think?" "A sedan would be fine," she said and yawned. "Thanks for staying with Piper tonight. I could have taken her with me, but..." "Oh, pshaw, I was just doin' my job, Coach. I'll be on my way now, though. Seven o'clock comes early." "Ah, could you be here by six-forty-five? I'm meeting someone for my morning run at seven." "No problem. Goodnight, Coach." I lost at hold 'em that night. I didn't buy-in for a second tournament, though. I wanted to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for my sort-of date with the delectable Danielle early the next morning. ------- Danielle arrived at the ball field wearing layered sweats and running shoes. I too wore sweats, but just one layer, if I didn't count my sheepskin coat, that is. Not a designer label anywhere. I liked that. I could see my breath in front of my face, and the sky was overcast, the clouds low and heavy and dark. Peaceful rather than ominous, though, and beautiful in an understated way—like Danielle. "It's going to snow," Danielle said as I read the final counter offer carefully. Only the price had changed from the initial offer, so I signed the document. "Later this morning, I'll get the seller's signature and the deal will be done." She put the document in a file, and locked it in her car. "Let's run." "Gotta warm up first," I said. "I have a bum knee. A football injury, I think." "Are you getting some of your memories back?" she asked. "No." I told her about the investigator I hired and what he'd uncovered while we did some stretching to warm up. The ground was icy cold, so we cut short the warming-up exercises and started to run. We ran side by side, but we didn't talk. Talking and running don't go together. I did cut the length of my stride a little so she could keep up, and keep up she did. We ran a mile—four times around the track—before she faltered. "Had enough?" I said. "Yeah," she huffed and slowed down. She stopped, leaned over and put her hands on her knees. "Go ahead; run some more if you want," she said between gasps. "No, I'm finished, too," I said. "I have to meet with the guidance counselor at school before the first bell rings." "Robyn?" Danielle said. "Yes." I chuckled. "She doesn't like me. Danielle, I don't think I was a very good person before a bolt of lightning came down out of the sky to smite me. From what I've learned, I was a know-it-all, a bully, a misogynist, an angry man most of the time, and I probably cheated on my wife. I asked Orville why Robyn didn't like me, and he told me that I got fresh with her and she slapped me silly. It's weird. Now, I know that I don't know it all, far from it. I detest bullies. Last evening, I talked to a teenage girl into joining the football team as a place kicker, when before I proclaimed that I'd never have a girl on my football team. I'm rarely angry, except when I see injustice unfairly applied, and deep down I know that monogamy is best in a marriage. I love my little girl to pieces. I don't know her, not really, but I love her. She gives my new life purpose." We'd recovered and had started to walk together toward our vehicles. As we walked, I told Danielle why I was meeting with Robyn. "I hope she can help. Cory is an angry young man, probably like I was an angry older man before lightning hugged me. That bolt of lightning took all the anger out of me along with my memories." "Have you come up with a plan for him?" "Yes and no. He's overweight. I can change that with exercise and diet if he'll cooperate. And as I said, I'm meeting with Robyn to address his anger and learning disability." "Find him a girlfriend," Danielle said. "Huh?" "He was fat and is still considered a dummy, Coach. That being said, I'll bet you a dollar to a donut that he's never been laid. Hell, he's probably never been kissed or even held a girl's hand. And teenage hormones are raging. Find him a girl who has had similar problems, and you'll save two teenagers, a two for." "Two for?" I said. "Yeah, a two for one, like birds in bushes." I laughed heartily, but I knew intuitively that she was right. By then we were standing by our vehicles. I thanked her for running with me, telling her that it took the lonely out of my early morning run, and asked her if she'd run with me again without the excuse of some real estate documents. Halleluiah! She said yes, and we agreed to meet the same time and place on Thursday morning. So far, it'd been a pretty good day. ------- A strange first date, Danielle thought as hot water pelted her from the showerhead. The shiver that rippled though her body wasn't caused by cold air. She wasn't cold; she was hot! Aroused! Her arousal had started when she'd first seen Big John that morning. He looked silly in baggy sweat pants and a sheepskin coat with a cowboy hat on his head, but twinges of arousal had still rippled through her when she saw him. Then he spoke, and his sonorous, deep voice had turned her into mush. She'd tamped down the sexual heat, though, by reminding herself that he couldn't be trusted, that he'd cheated on his wife, that he was macho bully. She'd run around that track with him wishing he wasn't the man that Peggy had described: a cheating bully. Then after the run he'd verified Peggy's warnings by admitting that he'd been a bully and a cheat and more. But with each admission, coupled with each statement of how he'd changed, her arousal had moved up a notch until her entire body flushed with need. Then he'd told her how he wanted to save a teenage bully on his football team. The idea of getting the boy laid came to her because she wanted the same. She wanted Big John to cover her, move inside her, fill her oily depths with... Under the steamy water, she touched herself and moaned as the fantasy came together in living color in her mind, including the sensations she imagined: his masculine scents, the feel of his large hands on her, the sound of his breathing in her ear and the rush of air from his nose and mouth along her neck, his lustful moans of pleasure as he moved over her, his lips around... Later, as a fluffy towel removed the droplets of water from her body, she made a decision. She wouldn't rush it, but it was inevitable. The attraction was too powerful, her mind and body's reactions to the man undeniable. She didn't love him, but she wanted him, wanted him more than any man she'd ever met. And he wanted her. She'd seen the need in his eyes when he looked at her. Would love come? Would love follow lust? Maybe. But at that moment in time, love was unimportant. Love didn't matter at all; maybe it would never matter. Lust mattered, though. Satisfying the overwhelming need that had blossomed inside her mattered a lot. She smiled, a small, wicked smile, as she gazed at herself in the cloudy mirror, and another fantasy started. She palmed both heavy breasts, and then strode naked and with purpose from the bathroom to her bed. Again? her mind asked. You'd better believe it, her body replied. ------- Chapter 6 A comparison was inevitable I suppose. Danielle resembled Cindy Crawford; Robyn reminded me of Courtney Cox. The resemblances were weak, though. Danielle looked more like the girl next door. Robyn presented a put-together look. Of the two, Danielle excited me more—physically. Conversely, Robyn's mind intrigued me more. Both women were beautiful and confident and intelligent. Robyn had consented to give me a few minutes of her time before school started, so I sat in front of her desk like a naughty student. "I talked with my bullies yesterday," I said. She didn't respond, so I continued, "I think Cal can be salvaged. I don't believe I got through to Larry, and I need your help with Cory." When she still didn't respond, I told her about my conversation with Cory. "Were you aware of his learning disability?" "Yes, but it wasn't diagnosed early enough to help him very much. He was taught to read phonetically, which doesn't work well with dyslexics," she said. I nodded. I'd suspected not much could be done with the learning disability, but I had some suggestions. "What about voice to text software on computers?" I said. "And vice versa? That technology has advanced considerably in the last few years. That's not a memory, by the way. I researched the software on my laptop before I drove to the school this morning. Are any of his textbooks available in digital formats?" She looked shocked. "Coach, that's an excellent idea? I'll check this out this morning. If his textbooks aren't available in digital format, perhaps the publishers can provide a digital copy because of the special circumstances. Cory isn't the only dyslectic in the school. With this suggestion, you've probably helped other students, as well. Thank you." "You're welcome. Cory isn't dimwitted, Robin, not by a long shot; he's a smart young man, but he can't learn like his fellow students. I figure if we can help him with his learning problem that he'll start feeling better about himself. This should also help reduce his anger. Robyn, he's flat out angry with everything and everyone. He's been teased for years, not only because he appears dimwitted to others but also because he was fat. As he said, he's not fat anymore, just overweight. Still, he reacts to the smallest insult, usually violently. Physically tearing into someone who makes fun of him is the only thing that has worked to reduce the number of taunts coming his way, but now he's been tagged with the bully label. I think the right exercise program and a good diet can solve the overweight problem. I can design the physical training program. Whom can I approach regarding diet?" "Talk with Gloria Sanger. She teaches home ec." "Thanks. I came to you for help with his anger. Robyn, he needs anger-management therapy in the worst way. Any ideas?" An introspective expression entered her pretty face. "The school has nothing to offer for anger management, but Ely Mental Health Center might. I'll check. If they do, the school will not cover the cost." "What is Cory's home life like?" I asked. "Don't know," Robyn said. "Why?" "Perhaps his parents have health insurance that will cover the cost." "Oh," she said. "I'll talk to Cory about health insurance if the Mental Health Center can help him manage his anger." I rubbed my hands with glee. "I love it when a plan starts to come together." I grinned—rakishly, I bet. "There's one more element to the plan. This idea wasn't mine. My real estate agent joined me for my run this morning. When I told her about Cory, she said that he probably just needed to get laid, more than anything." Robyn's jaw dropped, but then she suddenly hooted with laughter. I chuckled with her but said, "I'm sure that getting laid is not a humorous concept for Cory. Remember, he's been fat. He has a learning disability. The other kids make fun of him. As Danielle said, he's probably not even held a girl's hand, let alone got a kiss from one." "Danielle? Are you referring to Danny Kurt?" "Yes. Robyn, teenage hormones are hurling through Cory's body like race cars in the Indy 500, and being a social outcast, he has no outlet for his urges except masturbation. That's got to make him angry, too." "Are you buying some real estate?" she asked. "Yes. About finding a girlfriend for Cory, here's my idea..." "I thought you were broke," she said, interrupting me. "I was. I'm not anymore. Do you want to talk about me or talk about possible solutions to Cory's problem?" She grinned and said, "Both. Coach, you've managed to shock me silly, not once but quite a few times. You're not the man I knew before you were struck by lightning." "I should hope not. That John Windom wasn't a very nice man." "No, he wasn't. What happens when you start remembering everything?" I shrugged. "I don't know, but along with those memories, I'll also have memories of my time since being struck by lightning. Hopefully the recent memories will make me realize that I'd be happier with the new me than I would be if I reverted to the know-it-all, bully, misogynist, and angry man I was before." "Misogynist?" "Yes. The football team needs a place kicker. One is available, a soccer player that, according to Orville, can kick a football a mile. The problem is the place kicker is a girl. You probably know her, a transfer student named Helen Sanford. Anyway, according to Orville again, when she was suggested for the place kicking position, I proclaimed loudly that no girl would ever play football on my team. That makes me a sexist, at the very least, and from other misdeeds I've uncovered in my past, I took my self-definition beyond sexist to misogynist. I met with Helen last evening, by the way. She has agreed to join the football team." When I noticed another dropped jaw, I laughed and said, "I just shocked you again, huh?" "Yes, big time. Are you dating Danny?" "No. I might later. Remember, my wife was murdered a week ago. I don't remember the woman, so I'm not grieving, but regardless, I don't think I should start dating. Do you?" "No." "May we return to Cory's problem now?" "Yes. No. You were broke; now you're not. What happened?" I sighed. "While cleaning the hovel I live in, I found a file that listed a gambling web site and some off-shore bank accounts. I don't know why, but the skill set that allows me to win consistently and big playing online Texas hold 'em poker survived my memory loss. Some skill sets didn't survive, the finer points of football, for example. Why I remember one skill set and not another, I can't tell you." "If you gamble long enough, you'll lose," she said, spouting a phrase I'd heard frequently from others living in the community, a community that offered legal casino gambling. "Maybe, but since I found the file, I've made enough to pay cash for seven acres of land off Great Basin Highway. I plan to build a home for my daughter and me on the land and develop a small horse ranch. Raising and training show horses is another skill set that survived my memory loss. Danielle helped me purchase the land." "Everyone calls her Danny," Robyn said. "I know, but I don't see her as a Danny. Danielle fits her better. I don't have much time before my class, Robyn. Can we... ?" "Right. Back to Cory. You want to get him laid." My jaw dropped for a change, which tickled her. "You couldn't be more wrong," I said. "I'm a coach trying to solve a problem for one of my players. I want to find him a girlfriend. Whether he gets laid or not, is up to him and the girl. It occurred to me that there has to be a girl in this school with a correctable overweight problem. I'll design a training program for her, as well as Cory, and the girl and Cory can work out together. That's it. That's as far as I'll go. I figured that you could point the right girl in my direction. I'd prefer that the girl comes from you instead of me." She grinned. "Very Machiavellian of you, Coach." I ignored her characterizing that I was conniving and said, "It wouldn't hurt if she's also a little brainy and would consent to do a little tutoring. If not, could you isolate some other tutors for Cory? Tutors of the female variety?" "I'll think about it," she said. I glanced at my wristwatch. "Gotta go!" ------- Robyn set the phone on its receiver and smiled. She'd made a list of the students struggling with reading that had been diagnosed with dyslexia. Then she'd checked their schedules and made a list of the textbooks used in their classes. Using her computer, she then searched for and found the publishers of the books, making another list that included the name of the publisher and a contact phone number. Then she started dialing. Only two of the twelve publishers couldn't provide her with digital copies of the books being used, and one of the two told her that they'd check to see if the digital copy sent to the printer could be made available to her. Every publisher told her that there would be no charge for the digital copies, and in fact, had promised to e-mail the books to her. "Coach," she breathed, "you are a genius." Also quite a man ... now, she thought. She stared at her phone. Should she, or shouldn't she. Why not? She dialed. "Carver Real Estate," a voice said. "Danny Kurt, please," Robyn said. "Who may I say is calling?" "Robyn Clark." "Just a moment, please." Robyn waited. "Robyn, how are you? I've been meaning to call you today, but I've been very busy." "Can you talk now, or should... ?" "I've got the time now. After our run this morning, Coach told me that he was going to meet with you about one of his players, Cory Tidwell, I think Coach said." "We met. He told me that you said Cory's problems would be solved if he got laid." Danny laughed. "Yes, I said something like that. Put angry, young Cory next to a needy and naughty girl his age, and Cory won't be angry anymore and much easier to be around." "Coach said you helped him buy some land," Robyn said. "I did. I also helped him lease another house. He'll be moving the first of the month." Danny's voice lowered when she spoke next. "Robyn, Big John turns me on big time." "Big John?" "Yes, that's my secret name for Coach." Danny giggled. "Don't tell him, okay?" "My lips are sealed. You know he isn't a very nice man, don't you?" "He told me that you didn't like him. Well, I do. I like him a lot. I've heard what he was like before he lost his memories..." "I take it you believe the amnesia story," Robyn said, interrupting her. "I do." Danny chuckled. "Peggy, my broker, doesn't. That woman was born skeptical and turned into an all-out cynic. Here's the way I look at it, Robyn. If Big John is faking it, I like the man he's portraying. If he's not faking, I like the man, period." She's making sense, Robyn thought. "Oops, gotta run, Robyn," Danny said. "Let's get together for a drink one evening this week." "Let's," Danny said. After she hung up, Robyn sat in silence, thinking. Big John, huh? The name fits. When he strides back and forth on the sidelines of the football field wearing that sheepskin coat of his with a Stetson on his head and cowboy boots on his feet, he makes every other man in town look like a wimp. Careful, Robyn, right now he's too good to be real. Big John. I think there's a song named Big John, about a coal miner, I think. The Big John in the song saved his co-workers during a mine cave-in while sacrificing his own life. Not this Big John. This Big John is self-involved... Ah, hell, admit it, girl. This Big John turns you on, too. Not that I'll do anything about it. To start with, I would never jump Danny's claim. She got to him first. Still, if he stays the way he is now, if he gets real, and the ore runs out of Danny's claim, I just might take a run at him, stake my own claim. She stood up and walked out to the bullpen in the administrative offices. "Evelyn," she said, "would you call Nora Daniels from her class. I'd like to meet with her now, and then I'd like to meet with Cory Tidwell. I'm running a little behind, so you might have Cory waiting for me when I finish with Nora." "Will do, Ms. Clark," the happy and plump Evelyn said. Nora is perfect for what Coach has in mind. She's overweight and unhappy, but she's as sharp as a tack. I'll tell her that Coach told me about a training program and diet he was putting together for Cory, and that I'd thought of her and asked Coach if he'd set up a workout schedule and diet for her, as well. Nora could workout with Cory, if she wants. I'll also tell her about Cory's learning disability, ask her if she'd tutor him. Then I'll meet with Cory and tell him about the text to voice software, and... ------- E-Lee Ford, Lincoln, Mercury (What's with the cutsie names for businesses in this town?) had a new Lincoln MKZ with all the extras at an almost reasonable price—after I walked away a half-dozen times. Before I wrote a check for the car, I called my accountant. "Josh, it's John Windom," I said. I think my name confused him for a second or two. "Oh! Coach! What can I do for you?" "I'm buying a car. Should I pay for it with a check from the business account or my personal account?" "What kind of car?" "A Lincoln MKZ. Josh, let me be straight with you. I had not planned to buy a car right now, but I hired a woman as a cook/housekeeper/nanny. She needs transportation to drive to the grocery store and to take care of other chores, and she'll also be taking Piper, my daughter, to school and picking her up after school. I'll use the vehicle at other times, sometimes for purposes unrelated to the business and other times for business purposes." "Are you leasing it or buying it?" "Buying it, paying cash actually. My credit sucks, Elizabeth tells me. I believe her. I had to buy a CD at the bank for collateral before they'd give me overdraft protection on my debit card." "Buy it with a check from your personal account. When you use the vehicle for business purposes, you can take the mileage deduction. About your employee, she'll need to fill out some paperwork. When I see you this evening, I'll give you the forms she must complete and sign. Will she be cooking for any ranch hands?" "Maybe," I said. "I'm meeting a possible ranch manager/trainer Wednesday evening in Elizabeth's conference room. When I design the structures for the ranch, I'll include a small house for her separate from the main house. Whether she'll eat with us or do her own cooking hasn't been discussed. The nanny will live in the main house. I figure any other ranch hands will commute, but that could change." "All right. I'll see you this evening, Coach." After writing a check for the Lincoln, I told the salesman that I'd pick up the car that evening. Agnes could ride with me in the pickup so I wouldn't have two vehicles with one driver at the dealership. I glanced at my wristwatch. My lunch period was all but over, and I hadn't eaten. I stopped by MacDonald's on the way back to the school. The world is getting too much with you, I told myself as I waited in line at the drive-through to pick up my Big Mac meal, supersized of course. John Windom's taste buds told me that I didn't like MacDonald's hamburgers. I enjoyed the milkshake and French fries, though. It was snowing when I pulled into the school parking lot. ------- At the start of my free period before football practice, I knocked on Robyn's office door. She told me to come in. "It's still snowing," I said as I sat at a chair in front of her desk. She nodded. "Have you made any progress with our Cory problem?" I said. "I have. By this time tomorrow, I should have digital copies of all of his text books on my computer. The publishers promised to e-mail them to me. I also met with Cory. He was truly excited about the text-to-voice software that would read his textbooks out loud, and was amazed that he could dictate his essays to the computer and that the computer would type them for him. He told me that would save him hours of study time every night. That he studied so hard surprised me, Coach. He puts in three to four hours of study time daily. You were right. Cory Tidwell is no dummy. The effort we'll expend to save that young man will be worth every minute of our time. I told him the text-to-voice and voice-to-text software was your idea and a part of your plan to help him." "That's great news, Robyn. Does he have a computer?" "No, but he thinks his parents will buy one for him. Did you talk to Gloria about a diet for him?" "Not yet, haven't had the time. I bought a car during my lunch period. I'll try to meet with her before football practice." "No need. I spoke with her. She's preparing a diet for Cory and Nora." "Nora?" "Nora Daniels, the overweight girl I picked to workout with Cory." "Ah," I said, drawing out the word. "You've been busy." "I have. At first Nora was opposed to working out with Cory. She's ... well, frankly, she's afraid of him. But after I explained his situation, she understood. She can empathize. The other kids make fun of her, too. She also agreed to help Cory with his school work. She's a computer whiz, Coach. She'll also help him select and set up his computer, and help him select and install the voice-to-text and vice-versa software." "That's better than great news," I said. "What about anger management therapy?" "In plea-bargained cases that don't include jail time, the courts demand that wife batterers and other violent men undergo anger management therapy. These men are referred to the Ely Mental Health Center. I spoke with the psychologist at the center who presides over the group sessions for these men. With his parents' written permission, Cory would be allowed to enroll in and participate in the sessions. He also said that if a man wants to stop being a wife batterer and truly wants to control his anger and tendencies toward violence, that they can usually help the man achieve at least partial success. He said that Cory sounded like a good candidate for their therapy." "Did you discuss this with Cory?" "No. I didn't talk to the psychologist until after I met with Cory." "All right. I'll speak to Cory on this issue this afternoon. I might recommend Cal for the therapy, Larry, too, if he comes around, but I have my doubts regarding Larry. I don't know Nora. Would you tell her to meet me in the weight room in the gym tomorrow morning at seven?" She chortled. "That's early." "That's the only time I have to meet with them," I said. "Okay, I'll tell her," Robyn said. "Good job, Robyn. You're very good at what you do. Thank you." "No, thank you, Coach." She sighed. "I'm the guidance counselor for the school, and that's what I do for the most part, guide the brighter students, help them with college applications, and guide the students that are not college bound into work-study programs. It's not very often that I can help a ... ah, a troubled student, and I've never been able to help a student with dyslexia. Your software suggestion will help four other students in school, besides Cory. I'll have digital textbooks for them in my e-mail, as well." "Some of these kids are poor, Robyn. Their parents might not be able to buy them a computer. Maybe the school can buy the software and set up a time for those kids to study in the computer lab." I laughed. Her jaw had dropped again. She grinned. "Yep, you shocked me again. I'll talk to Winston Brown. The computer lab is his baby." ------- I met with Cory in my office before football practice. He was already aware of parts of my plan, but I presented the plan as a whole. "Do your parents have health insurance, and if they do, are you covered under their insurance?" I asked him. "They have health insurance, and I'm covered, but I don't know if the insurance would cover anger management therapy for me," he said. "If not, how much does it cost?" "I don't know, but Ms. Clark can find out for you. Talk to your parents tonight, and if their insurance won't pay for the therapy, check with Ms. Clark, tomorrow. Did Ms. Clark tell you that you'll have company for the workouts I'll design for you?" "Yes, Nora Daniels. She needs to lose weight like me. The other kids make fun of her, too, 'cept she's not slow, like me. Ms. Clark said if I let Nora workout with me, that Nora would help me with my school work." Cory lowered his eyes. "I've got a problem with that." "Oh? What problem?" I said. "I ... ah, I get all tongue tied around girls." "Then don't think of Nora as a girl, think of her as a friend with a similar problem, a problem you can help her solve while solving the same problem for yourself." I chuckled. "You tell me that Nora frightens you. Ms. Clark told me that you frighten Nora. Seems to me that, number one, there's nothing to be frightened about, and that, number two, conquering your fears should be an additional goal to losing weight and managing your anger. Training starts tomorrow morning. Meet me in the weight room at seven." He frowned. "I got no way to get to school at seven, Coach." "Where do you live?" He told me. "I'll pick you up at six-forty-five," I said. "Training will be different on alternate days. You'll workout with weights tomorrow. On Wednesday, you'll run. Weather permitting, you and Nora can run anywhere you wish. On inclement days, you can run in the gym. Ms. Sanger is designing your diet. Check with her, and I want a copy of the diet. Okay?" He nodded. "What do you think of my plan, Cory?" He sucked in air. "A little overwhelming?" I said. "Yeah, but ... ah, I want to try, Coach. I need to lose some more weight and the software you suggested sounds like a life saver. The anger management therapy worries me, but ... if there's a way for me to do it, I will." "Good. That's it. There's a team meeting before practice." "Ah, Coach, it's snowing out there. There must be four inches of snow on the ground." Shit, I'd forgotten about that. "We'll use the gym," I said. "Oh, okay." He left my office, and as he was leaving, Helen Sanford walked in, nodding at Cory as he passed her. "Hi, Helen," I said with a smile. "Any second thoughts?" "Second and third and fourth," she said. "But as you can see, I'm here." "Good. In a minute, I'll announce to the team that we now have a place kicker. Please wait here until I'm ready to introduce you. It'll only be a minute or two." "Okay." I grinned and said, "I'll be going into used-car salesman mode, setting the stage for your grand entrance, so to speak." She laughed—nervously. "Don't be nervous. Remember, between the two of us, we're privileged with the opportunity to teach some sexists how to change their behavior." She smiled. "I like the sound of that." On the way to the team meeting, I ran into Orville. "Will we be practicing in the snow this afternoon, Orville?" I asked. "No." "How about some conditioning work in the gym?" I said. He smiled. "That'd work. Was that Helen Sanford I saw going into your office?" "Yes, our new place kicker," I said. "At your suggestion, Orville, I ate some humble pie." He laughed. "The team meeting should be interesting today." It was. I used my self-deprecating speech about how I used to be a sexist and a misogynist, and I involved the players. "Larry, define sexist for me," I said. "A woman's libber," he said, which created a lot of laughter. "I guess that's possible," I said when the laughter settled down. "I looked the word up in a dictionary. A sexist is someone that believes that one sex is inferior to the other in a variety of attributes. In other words, a person who shows disrespect for the opposite sex because the person believes his or her sex is superior. From this definition, with a show of hands, how many of you, at one time or another, have been a sexist?" I raised my hand. No other hands in the room reached for the sky. "Come on. Am I the only one here brave enough to admit that I've been a sexist at one time or another?" Orville raised his hand. "I'm surprised, Orville. Tell us about it." "There was a time that I believed that women could not be as good at mathematics as men. Then I met Dr. Karen Smith. She was awarded the Ruth Lyttle Satter Prize in Mathematics in 2001 for her outstanding work in commutative algebra, which established her as a world leader in the study of tight closure. The prize was also awarded for her more recent work which builds new bridges between commutative algebra and algebraic geometry via the concept of tight closure." I noticed a few crossed eyes around the room. "I think you just told us more that we needed to know, Coach Canton. Thanks anyway. Your example of a sexist attitude is good one. Anyone else?" A few hands went up, then a couple more. "Good. I won't embarrass you by asking you to describe your sexist moments. Now, who can define misogynist for me?" My question prompted no response. "Humph," I said. "I just called myself an ex-misogynist, and no one asked me what it meant. The dictionary definition of misogyny is a hatred of women as a sexually defined group." I took a deep breath and looked from one young man to the next around the room. "Why am I discussing sexist attitudes and misogyny with the football team of White Pine High School, you're probably asking yourself. Right?" "I'd like to hear the answer to that question, Coach," Greg said. "Patience. I'll tell you in a minute, Greg. First tell me what would have happened if Jeff had not made the tackle that stopped Winnemucca from scoring during the last few seconds of the game?" Greg said, "We would have lost the game." "Correct," I said. "Why?" "Duh!" he said. "They would have beaten us 13 to 12, or 14 to 12 if they..." I could see that a light bulb had suddenly turned on over his head. "Go ahead, finish what you were going to say," I said. "We would have lost by one or two points because they had a place kicker and we don't," he said. "Bingo! Give the man a cigar! Orville, please have Helen join us," I said. When Helen walked out of my office, I said, "Gentleman, please welcome the new place kicker on our football team." Stunned silence dominated the room for a few seconds, and then I heard the first sexist grumblings. "A girl," Larry muttered quietly. "This team is turning into a bunch of pussies." "You've got that right," Cal said. "Football is not a game for girls." I stuck my face in front of Larry's. "You, young man, are a sexist. No, you're worse. You're a misogynist," I snarled. I turned to Cal. "Explain yourself," I said. "She'll get hurt, Coach," he said. "She's a place kicker. She won't be blocking or tackling or running with the ball. And the rules of football penalize roughing up the place kicker." "She could still get hurt," Cal said. "She's willing to take that risk," I said. "Are you willing to allow her to take the risk?" He lowered his eyes and said, "Yes." "Good. Then I suggest that you apologize to her," I said. He looked up and found Helen with his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "If you're willing to risk being injured, who am I to tell you that you can't take the risk?" "Your apology is accepted," Helen said. I looked at Larry. He was furious. He knew I was going to demand an apology from him, and he didn't like it, not even a little bit. He didn't like it because he wasn't sorry. He'd believed what he said. "I'll talk with you after the team meeting," I said to Larry. "Does anyone else have a problem with a young woman on our football team? Speak up now, or forever hold your piece." When no one spoke, I said, "Okay, suit up, but in gym clothes. We'll be working out in the gym today." I heard some grumbles. I think they had assumed that practice would be cancelled. Tough. Life wasn't fair. Why teachers and other authority figures told their charges that life was fair or should be fair had always boggled my mind. The only fair part of life is the fact that life is equally unfair to everyone. I met with Larry in my office behind a closed door. "What am I going to do with you, Larry?" I said. "You're a cowardly bully but won't admit it. You're a sexist, probably a misogynist, and won't admit it. Will you admit that you feel angry most of the time?" He said nothing. "You're so angry right now that you can't speak. Right?" I said. He nodded. "Take a big breath and let it out slowly." Surprisingly, he complied. "Good, now do it again, and at the same time, unclench your fists. Good. Now, while you continue to breathe deeply, close your eyes and think of a peaceful place, somewhere you've been where you felt at peace." I waited. "Are you in that place?" He nodded. I waited a while longer. Then I said, "Now open your eyes." He did. "Larry, you are an angry young man, and I'm not talking about what just happened in the team meeting. I'd like to help you, but I can't ... unless you tell me what is making you so angry." He said nothing. "From what I've learned about my past, the time before I lost my memories, I too was an angry young man. Because I had to notify my wife's relatives and mine about her death, I hired a private investigator to find these relatives. My wife had an address book in her effects. In it, she listed contact information for her relatives and my mother. I called my mother. While we were talking, I asked her if I had a father. She told me that yes, I had a father, but he was in prison. He killed a man in a bar fight when I was twelve. He also beat my mother, and my mother told me I wasn't immune from his wrath. I suspect my anger came from my dysfunctional home life, but I can't be positive. I'd truly like to know, because I also suspect that when my memories resurface I might become an angry man again. I don't want to be an angry man, Larry. I like the respect I'm paid now. From what I understand, not many respected me when I had my memories. It's difficult to get respect if you're angry all the time. I'm not going to demand that you tell me why you're angry. Hell, you might not even know yourself. What I will demand is what I demanded when we talked about you being a bully. You will treat everyone around you with respect, and that includes Helen Sanford, no make that especially Helen Sanford." He sat silent, but I could see that most of the anger he'd brought into my office with him had dissipated. "I will tell you that you can learn to manage your anger. I just showed you one management technique. There are others. If you wish, I can point you at some folks who are professionals in anger management. Are you interested?" "Does it cost money?" he said. "Yes." "Can't do it, then," he said. "I hear you. Okay, go suit up." I chuckled. "With this talk, you probably got out of some calisthenics." As Larry walked out of my office, I told myself there was one thing Larry wasn't. With money being such a large issue with him, he wasn't the meth dealer in the high school. Was the meth dealer on my football team? Getting rid of the dealer would help, but closing down the meth lab would help a lot more. I decided to do some research on meth labs and recipes on the internet later that evening—maybe. I had to take Agnes and pick up the car from the dealership, and then meet Josh to talk about how to account for my income and expenses properly for both the ranch and my gambling businesses. I also wanted to play two tournaments of hold 'em. I had to pay for the new car, or rather replenish the funds I'd expended to buy it. Yep, the world is getting too much with me. ------- Piper liked the new car. She said it smelled nice. Agnes was more effusive. "Go grand!" she gushed as she ran her hand over the leather seats. After we ate dinner, another tour de force prepared by Agnes, I took Piper with me to meet Josh Wellington because I didn't feel like I was spending enough time with the little girl. She seemed happy to tag along. Wellington was a short, rotund man with very white skin, thinning gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and a generally happy expression. I liked him, and we agreed on retainers for his services. I gave him two checks, one from the Dream Catcher Ranch account, and one from my personal account. I wanted him to keep the books on my gambling business and other personal income and expenses, as well. He'd prepared a chart of accounts using Quick Books, which he felt would be adequate software for the business account. I was familiar with the software, so I was happy. I opened my laptop and turned it on, and he handed me a copy of the software. "That you don't have a banking relationship disturbs me," he said as the laptop was installing Quick Books. I told him that I'd met Ralph Sanford and briefly described the meeting. "That'll be a first, a girl on the high school football team," Josh said. "There are some macho men around town that will take umbrage at that." "Probably, but after she kicks a few field goals and extra points, the furor will die down." "I agree. I think it's great. Listen, I know Ralph at First National. Want me to give him a call?" "Couldn't hurt," I said. "Quick Books is installed," I said. With another CD in his hand, he said, "Let me take over your computer now, and I'll install the chart of accounts." I think he was surprised that I knew about charts of accounts and was conversant with Quick Books. I drove away with the government forms Agnes needed to fill out as my employee. Josh said that he'd handle her payroll, including all the paperwork and reports required. After I read Piper a story and put her to bed, I hopped on the internet and worked through one tournament. I lost. Then I researched meth, meth labs, and meth recipes. I made a copy of the short and long term affects of meth abuse, and another copy of the ingredients and supply list to make the drug, all of which appeared to be available over the counter from various types of stores. It was late, but I joined another hold 'em tournament anyway, and won. ------- Chapter 7 They kept him drugged with pills. He knew that. And occasionally in the past when he could, he'd faked swallowing them. Never again. He'd take the meds when he was instructed to take them. Meds was the alien word for pills. One time, he'd managed to skip the meds three days in a row. On the third day, he became violently sick. While lying on a bed wishing he could die, he overheard some aliens talking about his symptoms. They'd guessed that he hadn't taken his meds because the symptoms he exhibited could be caused by a sudden withdrawal of meds. So he took the meds without complaint, but that didn't stop him from wondering what the meds did to him. The day after skipping the night meds, he woke up with a partial erection. That's when he realized that one of the things the meds did was suppress his libido. He couldn't remember the last time he had been horny. His thoughts drifted back into his past, back to when he occupied his real body. Yvonne. Yvonne could get him hard. She spent him into the poor house, but she was a sexy piece. He could see her in his memories. The meds didn't kill memories, just dulled them, but they did nothing to dull his fantasies. He'd tried to jerk off, and he'd managed a full erection, but it wilted before he could climax. He reasoned that real sex, sex with a woman, would give him what he wanted. But none of the female experiments in the building appealed to him. Not the old hag pretending to hold a baby. Not the fat broad that skipped like a girl and pretended to jump rope all the time. And certainly not any of the female aliens. The thought of sex with an alien made him sick. Then one day, a new experiment arrived. Grace. The aliens called her Grace. Her blonde hair was stringy, and she wore no makeup, but she was young and slim, and when he looked at her he could feel some arousal. That's when he started to experiment with the meds. He pretended to take some of them and actually took others, and tested the results, finally determining that if he skipped two of the meds at night, he woke up with a full erection the next morning. He still couldn't achieve an orgasm, but he came closer. A woman's body, a pussy was needed to give him full release. Grace's pussy. He had one other thing going for him. Like him, Grace had figured out that not speaking, not moving until being told to move was the smart way to act around the aliens. Tonight's the night, he thought. ------- The snow on the foothills around Ely played tag with the light shining from the early sun, glistening, then fading to gray, but never black. Rugged, sienna-colored boulders, pushed up through the earth's crust from the liquid heat of the mantle during an explosive moment long past, and now poked up through the snow and competed with the olive-green teardrops that were cedar trees. The foothills were greeting-card beautiful. The streets in the little valley that housed the town were dirty and ugly, though, and they weren't completely clear of snow and ice. The pickup did some slipping and sliding. I'd ask around. Did the folks around here put on snow tires in the winter? Cory and Nora looked like they were still asleep when I walked into the weight room at the school the next morning. Cory had called me the night before to tell me he wouldn't need a ride. Nora was picking him up, a development I applauded silently. I introduced myself to Nora. I'd never met her. She was a big girl, but like Cory, she wasn't obese. She had a perfect face. By that I mean that all of the features in her face were perfectly symmetrical. She did have two small scars, one on each cheek, probably from acne. I pictured her as svelte in my mind's eye, and nearly gasped at the vision of an ugly duckling morphing into the swan she could become. As Aaron MacDonald, I'd worked with a personal trainer, so I elected to use his approach and demeanor. After they stood on the scale to determine their weight, I measured the various parts of their body with a measuring tape. I didn't have the device that tested body fat, but the size of their waists embarrassed both of them. "No need to be embarrassed," I said. "If you persevere, you'll soon be good candidates for a body-beautiful contest." They didn't believe me. "Did I go too far?" I asked. "Yes," they parroted, and then laughed together—a good thing. Until then, they'd been quiet and tense. "What? You don't see yourselves as centerfolds in Playboy and Playgirl magazines?" They laughed some more. "That's the spirit I want to see. Cory, Nora, the expression 'no pain, no gain' is accurate. You're going to experience some pain. You might as well have some fun while your bodies are screaming at you to stop whatever you're doing to make yourself svelte." I paused. "Svelte. I like the sound of that word. It sort of rolls off my tongue and gives me the shivers." They laughed again. "So, work hard, be diligent, but have some fun in the process. That's an order. Okay?" "Got it, Coach," Cory said. "I like fun," Nora said. "Fun is a good thing." Then I took each of them through some exercises using free weights to determine their strengths and weaknesses, jotting down notes after each exercise, and complimenting them whenever possible. Cory had good balance; Nora didn't, but she had grace. Then I had an epiphany. Working with weights and running were essential, but some combination exercises that include elements of tai chi, yoga and pilates might help. I groaned. More research on the net was needed. I told them I'd have a training schedule the next morning, but they should plan on running, not working out with weights. "I'd like your workouts to match mine," I said. "I run on Thursdays, so I'll be running with you tomorrow. Friday will be your first session with the weights. Did Ms. Sanger give you your diets?" It had been bitter cold outside when I left the house, and snow was still on the ground, so my upcoming morning run with Danielle would be cancelled. "No, today sometime, she promised," Nora said. "Like Nora said," Cory quipped. "Good, I'll see you here tomorrow morning at seven, Nora. Cory, I'll see you at football practice this afternoon." I had time for another chore before my home room class, so I hot-footed it to the administrative offices. Tom was in, and he agreed to see me. I gave him copies of the short and long term affects of meth and the meth recipe I'd downloaded off the net the previous night. "It occurred to me that the high school meth dealer is probably dealing because he's an addict," I said. "I wanted to know what to look for in a user, thus the affects of using the junk. You probably know more about this than I, but I made a copy of the affects for you anyway. The recipe surprised me because meth can be manufactured with over-the-counter drugs and household supplies, but the list also gave me an idea. This is a small town. Unless the people making the meth are getting their supplies out of town, a little investigative work should produce some names to check out. Notice the supplies I highlighted in red: Contact 12 hour capsules, Heet, muriatic acid, iodine tincture 2%, and Red Devil lye. Who has been purchasing those items in Ely? The drugstores and any other store that sells non-prescription drugs should be told to watch for heavy buyers of Contact capsules and iodine tincture 2%. Heet is sold by auto supplies stores. It's a gas-line antifreeze and water remover. Muriatic acid is used to clean concrete, probably sold by hardware stores. I don't know who sells Red Devil lye, but it can't be available in too many places in town. Waddaya think?" "Red Devil lye was used for making soap, but because of its use in the manufacture of meth and other reasons, it was taken off the shelves, which didn't stop the meth cookers. It or a substitute is available on the Internet," Tom said. "Coach, why did you go to all this trouble?" I sank in the chair. "Because someone is selling meth to students in this high school. Because that someone is destroying young lives, and I want him stopped." I sighed. "Okay, I'll back off and leave this to the professionals like you and Sheriff Ken and his deputies." I stood up. Then an unrelated question came to mind. "On another subject, Tom, what do you know about Larry Foreman's home life?" Tom snorted. "What home life? The whereabouts of his father is unknown. He lives with his mother. She's a drunk. He takes care of her the best he can. They're on welfare, and he works nights at a convenience store. His days off are Thursday and Friday so he can play football." "Shit," I muttered. "What's the problem?" "I jumped all over him for being a sexist when I announced that Helen Sanford was joining the football team as a place kicker. Then I preached to him about being angry and told him he could get help to manage his anger. He told me if it cost money to forget it. Out of ignorance, I handled him and the situation badly." Tom emitted a short laugh and clapped me on the shoulder. "Welcome to the club of frustrated educators who care, Coach." "Thanks a bunch. Do you know the condition of the football field? Will it be available this afternoon for practice?" "Nope, but if it doesn't snow tonight, you'll be able to practice on it tomorrow afternoon, and the last game of the season with the Fallon Greenies will take place on Friday as scheduled." I was so stunned that I sat back in the chair. "What?" Tom said. "I didn't know Friday's game would end the season." Tom frowned. "No memories, Tom, remember?" I said. He laughed riotously. When he settled down, I said, "Am I scheduled to coach anything else for the rest of the school year?" "You'll have some free time during basketball season, but you're coaching the track team." Great, that's just great, I thought sarcastically. I know less about track and field than I did about football when I found out I was the head football coach. "Will I have an assistant coach?" I said. "You bet," Tom said. "Pick anyone from the faculty that will be willing to work with you, or needs a little bigger paycheck, or both." ------- "Hello, Tom. Do you have a problem at the school?" Sheriff Ken Hansen said. He'd just returned a call from Tom Early. "No, no problem or at least no current problem that needs your attention. Listen, a curious thing happened this morning. Coach came marching into my office with a meth recipe that he'd found online. He'd marked a number of the ingredients and suggested that in a town of this size if we investigated who was buying the highlighted ingredients that we might track down the meth cooker. One of the items on the list was Red Devil lye." "Red Devil lye was taken off the market over three years ago, Tom," the sheriff said. "I know, and when I informed Coach about that, it took all the wind out of his sails. He said he'd leave the investigation in your hands." "Good," the sheriff said. "As a general rule, meth cookers are a violent bunch of cretins. Coach is big, and I'm sure he can handle himself, but a small lead projectile from a zip gun can take down the biggest man. Meth cookers are generally recidivists, and they don't use zip guns; they're more sophisticated. Their weapons of choice are of the illegal variety, by that I mean automatic firearms." "I hear you, Sheriff," Tom said. Hansen had taken the conversation off topic. To redirect it, Tom said, "Another item on Coach's list is muriatic acid." "I don't remember all the ingredients that go into making meth, Tom, but we track the sales of a number of them, Contact 12-hour capsules and similar cold medicines, for instance. By law, the drugstores must require buyers to display a picture ID, and then write down the buyer's name." "Do you track muriatic acid?" "No, not like we track Contact or Sudafed capsules and other cold medicines that have been put behind glass at the pharmacies." "Coach said the acid is used to clean concrete, probably sold by hardware stores. You might want to check the hardware stores in town for someone who has made more than one purchase of the acid." "We did that, Tom. The meth cooker isn't buying muriatic acid from any paint or hardware store in Ely." "Okay, just a thought, sorry to have bothered you," Tom said, feeling a little foolish. "No problem. Whenever you have an idea that you think might help us identify that meth cooker, call me. As a matter of fact, fax Coach's list to me. Cookers use slightly different recipes. His list might help. That Coach, he's something else again, isn't he?" Tom chuckled. "Yes he is. Truth be told, Sheriff, I didn't like him until he was struck by lightning and lost his memories. Since then, he's been very likeable, and he's become a real asset to the school." "The good Lord smote him, Tom, reached out of the sky and yanked away all his meanness along with his memories. He's been touched by the hand of God." "Maybe so, Sheriff, maybe so." ------- Sheriff Hansen stuck his head out of his office and told his secretary that he wanted to speak to Wade Cantrell, one of his deputies. A few minutes later Cantrell stood in front of the sheriff's desk. "Have we been tracking the sale of the ingredients meth cookers use in their recipes?" the sheriff said. "We checked on cold medicine sales at the drugstores a while back. That's about it, Sheriff." "This is a list of four items." He handed the list to Cantrell. "Contact capsules is one of the four. Check the drugstores again, and while you're in the drugstores, ask about sales of iodine tincture 2%." "I'll get right on it, Sheriff," Cantrell said. "I'm not finished, Wade. Check out Heet sales wherever auto supplies are sold, and do the same for muriatic acid sales from the paint and hardware stores in town. Heet is a gas-line antifreeze and water remover, and muriatic acid is used to clean concrete." Cantrell read the short list, looked up and said, "Good thinking, Sheriff." Hansen smiled and said, "That's why they pay me the big bucks, Wade." ------- I stuck my head in Robyn's office. "Got time for lunch somewhere besides this school?" I said. She frowned. "This isn't a date, Robyn. It's school business. I want to talk about some students without other teachers or students listening in," I said, pressing the invitation. "I'm buying. Where's a good place to eat close by?" "Evah's at the Copper Queen," she said. "Can you pull the files of four students and bring them with you: Cory and Nora's, plus Cal Jensen's and Larry Foreman's?" "That'll take a few minutes," Robyn said. "Okay, we'll use separate cars. While you're pulling the files, I'll get us a table at Evah's." I grinned. "That way, I won't have to be alone with you. I don't want to get slapped silly again." She laughed, which was a good sign. I was sitting at a table in the restaurant when I saw Robyn striding toward me. Her posture as she moved was straight and confident, emphasizing her height. She looked like a runway model, except her strut wasn't exaggerated. "You're looking good today," I said as I held out a chair for her to sit on. She smiled and said, "Thank you." "Let's order. We'll talk while we eat," I said. After the waitress left with our orders, I told Robyn about the fiasco that my ignorance had made of my conversation with Larry the previous day. "Robyn, that young man has every reason to be angry most of the time, and what I said to him aggravated his situation and increased his anger. I don't want to run off at the mouth again without knowing enough about the students I'm dealing with to be effective, instead of harmful. How are Larry's grades?" She opened his file, flipped some pages, and then looked shocked. "What?" I said. "He's carrying a 3.67 grade-point average," Robyn said. "Larry Foreman is an exceptional student, college material." I nodded and pursed my lips. "Never happen. He's dirt poor, and he's committed to taking care of his alcoholic mother. Tell me the grade-point averages of the other three students." Cal was a B student, barely. "Cal probably follows Larry's lead," I said. "Probably," Robyn said and picked up another file. "Whoa, another surprise!" "Who?" "Cory. His average is 3.1. He's a slightly better student than Cal." "That is surprising. With his learning disability, he must work his ass off to get those kinds of grades," I said. "He does. Remember, I told you he studies three or four hours daily." She opened the last file. "No surprise here. Nora has the highest average of the four. I think she's ranked third in the junior class. Two B's in P.E. her freshman and sophomore years and a B in art last year. Otherwise she's a straight A student." "So she's an outcast not only because she doesn't present the body beautiful but also because she's smart," I said. "Yep," Robyn said. "Do the files tell us about their home lives?" "No." "What about their goals and aspirations or lack thereof?" "I've been working with Nora on college applications," Robyn said. "She wants to be a medical doctor." "Is that in her file?" "No." "What about Cory's dyslexia? Is that in his file?" "Yes, but only because he was tested for it during his freshman year." "Are instances of discipline for bad behavior in the files?" "Yes, but not in every case." I groaned. "What?" she said. "Tell me if I'm wrong. The files contain lists of subjects taken and grades earned, test scores required by the state or federal governments and college entrance exams, some info on learning disabilities, if any, and any disciplinary notes." "They also include the student's current schedule and the names of parents or guardian and contact information," Robyn said. "Why did you groan?" "The files don't tell me enough to deal with a student problem without potentially doing harm," I said. "Like with Larry?" she said. "Yes." Our meals arrived and we ate in silence for a few minutes. I broke the silence. "This is a better restaurant than the coffee shop in the Jailhouse Casino." She smiled. "Yes it is. This crab salad is scrumptious." "That's fake crab." "I know. It still tastes good." "Do you know anyone proficient in yoga or pilates?" "Huh? Never mind, I heard you. Why do you ask?" I told her about my idea of combining elements of tai chi, yoga, and pilates, along with weight training and running to keep Cory and Nora's interest high during their weight-loss efforts. "Coach, that's an excellent idea!" she gushed. "You know someone who practices yoga, by the way." "Who?" "Danny." I grinned. "How about that? Life's full of surprises." "It sure is. Surprise, surprise, I use pilates for my workouts," Robyn said, grinning ear to ear. I rubbed my hands together with glee. "How about helping me with Cory and Nora? Not everyday, just join us for a few mornings to teach them some pilates exercises and check back occasionally to mark their progress. That's what I plan to do." "Sure. Where and when?" "The gym, seven AM." She groaned but said, "Okay, I'll do it. It's for a good cause." "I was supposed to run with Danielle tomorrow morning. As cold as it is and with snow on the ground, I planned to cancel. Maybe she'd join us and set up a sequence of yoga exercises for Cory and Nora, as well." "What about tai chi?" "I know tai chi," I said. "It's another skill set that survived my memory loss. Unfortunately, come spring, there's a high potential that I'll lose my coaching job because of a skill set that didn't survive." "Why is that?" "Tom told me this morning that I'm the head coach for track and field as well as for football. I've searched my skill-set memories. I know less about track and field than I do about football." She choked on her ice tea. Laughing, she wiped her mouth, and said, "Coach, you're a kick." "Thanks, I think." She patted my hand and said, "You'll do fine. You turned a losing season into a few wins in football." "Uh-uh, Orville did that. Without someone like Orville helping me, I'll fall flat on my ugly mug with track and field." "Then find someone like Orville to help you." "That's my plan, such as it is." While I was waiting for the check, Robyn said, "You don't need the money, John. Why continue coaching sports you know nothing about?" "For a number of reasons. I made a commitment to the school to teach English and coach football and track. The commitment was a written contract for one year. That's an assumption. I haven't run across a copy of the contract. Anyway, I believe strongly in keeping my commitments, written contracts or otherwise. Also, I've enjoyed tremendously the recognition and respect I receive from the community as the high school football coach. It's a real ego boost. But more than anything, I enjoy helping the kids I teach and coach how to become better human beings. And I'm learning. I think I've improved and will continue to improve in all areas inherent to the job. Track and field might do me in, though. Tom and others who are responsible for recruiting faculty members might not offer to renew my contract." "They'll renew, Coach," Robyn said. "If they don't, file a grievance with the union." "What union?" She laughed again. "The teacher's union, silly." "I belong to a union?" I said, aghast. "Yes, all the teachers at the high school belong to the union. The school deducts dues from your paycheck. Didn't you notice?" "Tom, too?" "No, Tom and Harry are management; we're labor." Harry Wiggen was the Assistant Principal, I'd been told. I hadn't met him. I'd dealt only with Tom in administration. "Is it a requirement that all teachers belong to the union?" I said. "No, Nevada is a right-to-work state, but..." "I don't know why, Robyn, but I don't like unions. I don't want to belong to a union." "Coach, a word of advice. If you quit the union, you'll be the only teacher at the school who doesn't belong, and the more avid union members among us will make your life miserable." I nodded. Par for the course, I thought. "As a matter of fact, you've been very active in the union. You're on the negotiating committee." My groan of dismay was audible. Robyn said nothing. She didn't smile either; she just shook her pretty head. "Who is the president of the union? Locally, I mean." I said. That question prompted a smile, a sort-of evil smile. "Orville," she said. "Shit," I murmured. Life, I had to tell myself, is unfair, but it is equally unfair to everyone. "I'll talk to him," I said. "I know nothing about labor contracts or negotiating them. At the very least, I'll resign from that position. I'll pay the dues, but that's all." I didn't tell her that I'd cross the picket line if the union went on strike. "That'll probably work," Robyn said. Just before football practice started, I told Orville about my conversation with Robyn regarding the union and what I'd decided about my involvement in the organization. He said, "I understand, Coach. No problem." Then he chuckled. "The old you would not have been missed on the negotiation committee anyway." "Good. Is there a backstop net we can rig up so Helen can practice kicking in the gym this afternoon?" "I noticed some volleyball nets," he said. "They might work. Who would you recommend for her holder?" "Barry," he said. "I agree. He's the best ball handler on the team. Except for Helen and Barry, let's put half the team in the weight room. The other half can run laps, and then we'll switch." "Sounds like a plan, except I think Paul should center the ball to Barry." "Good thinking as usual, Orville. By the way, I learned this morning that I'll be coaching track and field come spring. Do you know anything about those sports?" "Nope," he said. "I get to pick my assistant coach. Any recommendations?" "Are you as ... ah, ignorant about track and field as you were about football?" "You got it in one, Orville." He laughed. "Talk to Leonard Parson. He teaches social studies. He helped Coach West last year. So did Mario Ganarelli. He teaches physics and chemistry. With so many different events, I think you're entitled to two assistant coaches for track." He laughed. "If the administration resists the extra assistant, file a grievance with the union." I groaned. "Do Parson and Ganarelli dislike me as much as you did before my up close and personal experience with lightning?" "Not with as much intensity as I, but you'll have some fences to mend. I'll put in a good word for you. Just be your new self. They'll come around." "Easy for you to say," I said. ------- When I arrived home, Agnes gave me three messages, one from Danielle about running the next morning, one from Lieutenant Valdez in Las Vegas, and the last message was from Yvonne's father. The messages surprised me. They all had my cell phone number; they could have reached me during the day. Then I realized that I'd turned off my cell phone during my first class that morning and had not turned it back on. I called Danielle first. She agreed with me that it was too cold and snowy to run around the ball field the next morning. She also agreed to help me with Cory and Nora by teaching them some yoga exercises. "Robyn and I talked about your help-some-overweight-kids project earlier today," she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. "It sounds like you and Robyn are friends," I said. "We are," she said. "See you at seven in the morning." If they're friends, I thought, I can't date both of them at the same time, which is very likely a good thing anyway. I said goodbye and dialed the phone again. Lieutenant Valdez didn't answer my call. I surmised that the number he left was probably his office phone. I didn't have the number for his home phone. With a sigh of trepidation, I dialed the number for Yvonne's father. I'd put off returning his call because I anticipated another negative verbal confrontation. My fears proved real. His greeting to my call was not hello; it was an abrupt question. "What funeral arrangements have you made for my daughter?" he said. "None beyond speaking to a local funeral home about transporting her remains to Ely," I said. "I wanted..." He interrupted me. "Unlike you, I've been in frequent contact with Lieutenant Valdez. Yyonne's body will be released tomorrow." "I have a message to call Valdez. I suspected that was the reason for his call," I said. "Yvonne wanted to be cremated," he said. "All right, the funeral home here in Ely offers that service." "That would be stupid. The cremation can be done in Las Vegas." "Okay," I said. "I'll make the arrangements." "I've already arranged for her body to be cremated," he said. "My wife and I want her ashes. We've also arranged her funeral in..." Anger washed over me. I interrupted him. "That's not your place; it's mine. Cancel your arrangements. I'll have the body cremated in Las Vegas, but the funeral will take place in Ely." He sighed and said, "I figured you'd take that tack. Okay, what will it take for you to give the authorities your permission to turn my daughter's body over to me, instead of you, so I can give her a proper burial?" My ire increased exponentially. "Spell it out, you son of a bitch. Are you offering me money to abrogate my responsibility to my dead wife?" "Yes!" he shouted. "You don't have a pot to piss in. You can't afford a funeral, and even if you could, you couldn't give her a decent funeral, not in that Podunk town." I took a deep breath. Then I took another one. "Here's how it will be, Mr. Pickett," I hissed through clenched teeth. "I'll arrange and pay for the body to be cremated in Las Vegas. You may have the ashes to dispose of in accordance with Yvonne's wishes. I'll arrange and pay for a memorial service in Ely. I'll invite my family and friends to the service. You and your wife are not invited, and if you show up, you'll be evicted. The sheriff in this town is a friend of mine, so I can make that happen. You'll be informed where and when you can retrieve Yvonne's ashes. After that, I want no further contact with you. Ever!" My hands were shaking when I hung up the phone. Would they pitch a fit about not seeing their granddaughter again? If they did, I was convinced any effort to see her would be made out of spite, not out of love. I'd fight them if they tried to see her, I decided. I'd fight them tooth and nail. I looked at Piper who had been listening to my side of the telephone conversations I'd initiated. "I don't like Grandfather Pickett, either," I said. She giggled and said, "Good." ------- Mabel Grant's face wasn't as leathery as Lou Hailey's, and not nearly as wrinkled, but it was obvious that she'd spent most of her life under the sky, not under a roof. Lou had told me she was fifty years old, give or take a year. She looked older to me, but then maybe the sun and wind and rain had added some years to her pleasant face. She wore blue jeans tucked into a pair of dress cowboy boots made from the skin of some kind of snake. The sides of the boots were etched with an intricate design, and parts of the design were dyed turquoise, the same turquoise color of the blouse she wore. A squash blossom turquoise and silver necklace graced her neck. She wore no other jewelry, but she'd been to a beauty parlor that day, probably for the works, because her brown hair was freshly coiffed and showed no gray, and her fingernails were painted. She'd made an effort to look good for the interview, and I appreciated the effort. When she greeted me after Lou introduced us, she smiled more with her eyes than her mouth. Her hand was dry, and her handshake firm. I introduced Piper, and the four of us took a seat at the conference room table. "I made coffee," Elizabeth said. "Not me," I said. "I won't sleep." Lou and Mabel wanted coffee, and Elizabeth talked Piper and me into a ginger ale. Then she joined us at the table. I grabbed a tablet of legal paper that was on the table and wrote a note to Mabel, folded it once, and slid it toward her. "For your eyes only," I said. The note asked her to write down her age and return the paper to me. She read the note and laughed, then scribbled on the paper, hiding what she wrote with her unoccupied hand. Mabel was fifty-three years old. "Thank you," I said as I tore the paper into thin strips with my hands. "Young enough for the job?" she asked. "Yes." "She told you how old she is, didn't she?" Lou said to me. I looked at Elizabeth. "Did you hear Mabel tell me how old she is?" "I did not," Elizabeth said with a grin. "What about you, Piper?" I said. She giggled. "No, she didn't tell you; she wrote it to you?" Lou hooted. "You're a good girl, Piper." I rubbed my hands together. "Okay, let's get to it. Who's first? Mabel, would you rather tell me about yourself before or after I wax eloquently about my grandiose plans for the ranch?" "You go first," she said. "All right. Dream Catcher Ranch will breed, train, show, and sell champion appaloosa horses. I estimate the total cost to develop the ranch at around $4,000,000." I went on to tell her what was included in the estimate, and then talked about the horses and horse facilities. I did indeed wax eloquently regarding the stables. I wanted state-of-the-art stables. I took a sip of ginger ale. "I estimate that it will take five years to breakeven with the horse business. To achieve this, I won't encumber the operating expenses of the business with the amortization of my house or the outbuildings. In other words, in five years what it costs to breed, train, show, and market our horses should be deferred with the income derived from sales." "That's very ambitious, Coach," Elizabeth said. "No, it's reality. I'll spend the $4,000,000 over five years, and I'll pay cash. The bank won't own the ranch; I will. Waddaya think, Mabel?" "For what you described, $4,000,000 sounds about right, and five years to breakeven is generous. Did you include veterinary and farrier costs in the estimate?" "Mabel, I haven't developed an operating budget that includes that kind of detail." I smiled. "I figured I'd get into the operating expense details with my ranch manager later. The $4,000,000 is for development expenses, but that amount includes the first five years of operating costs. Veterinary and farrier costs are operating expenses. I'll spend the winter designing the house and outbuildings. Until the structures are designed, I can't make a detailed construction cost budget. That budget will be completed by early spring, so I can start construction as soon as the weather permits. I'll spend $200,000 to $250,000 buying the horses. The ranch manager and I will estimate the cost of the tack and equipment for the horses, and I'll employ some professional help to estimate the farming costs to put in the pasture and the cost of the first alfalfa crop. All the expenses I just mentioned are initial costs, what I call development costs. The manager will be responsible for operating costs, and the breakeven I mentioned will deal with operating costs only. I want the horses to pay for themselves, and after five years, I expect an operating profit." Mabel nodded. "I understand now. I've always dealt with operating costs, and I was mixing development costs with the operating costs." She blushed. "I know better, Coach. I know the difference between development and operating budgets. I'm ... well, goldurn it, I'm nervous." I laughed. "Okay, I hear you. Mabel, I won't need a ranch manager until I have a ranch to manage," I said. "As I explained, I can't start building until spring, and it'll take six to eight months to build the house and outbuildings, so the ranch won't go into operation until late next fall. If we come to an agreement regarding the job, I will pay you a consulting fee for your help in selecting the horses I'll buy, as well as some involvement in the design and construction phases of the horse facilities. Would this work for you?" "Yes," she said. "Coach, I'm very excited about this opportunity. I promise, if you hire me, you won't be sorry. This job is a dream-come-true for me." "I like the sound of that, Mabel. Dream Catcher Ranch might catch your dream; it sure is catching mine, and my sweet daughter's." I leaned and buzzed Piper with a kiss on her cheek. She beamed. "It's your turn, Mabel. Please, tell me about you," I said. She opened a manila folder that had been lying on the table to her left, removed a sheet of paper and slid it toward me. "Elizabeth let me use her computer so I could put together a resume, Coach." "Good, you know how to use a computer," I said. "That was going to be one of my questions." I scanned the resume, and was pleasantly surprised. She had a college degree in farm and ranch management from the University of Nevada in Reno. "You graduated from college?" I said, making the statement sound like a question. "Yes, I'd planned to take over my father's ranch, but ... well, after my mother died, my pa, he dove to the bottom of a bottle and stayed there until he died in February this year. Some might say he drank himself to death, but they'd be wrong. He died from grief, Coach. He lost the ranch to the banks, and then he disappeared, became one of the nameless homeless, alive only because their bodies have more perseverance than their minds. Lou, here..." She patted Lou's hand. " ... knew my pa back when and called me when pa showed up in Ely more dead than alive. I dropped everything and came running. I hadn't seen or heard from my father for twenty years, Coach. I thought he was dead, buried somewhere in a pauper's grave. I got him some medical help, but he was too far gone to save. Truth be told, he didn't want to be saved. He wanted to join his wife in that better place reserved for the good and decent folks among us. He cursed me sometimes for keeping him alive, but I couldn't do otherwise. The medical expenses took every dime I had and then some. To pay the debts I incurred, I've been working crap jobs because that's about all the work there is around here. I figured I'd be free and clear come spring, and..." "Why did you hang around here and take crap jobs?" I said, interrupting her to make a point. "With a better job—and you're certainly qualified for a better job—you could have paid off the debt sooner and got on with the rest of your life." "That's my fault, young fella," Lou said. "Huh?" I said. Mabel patted his hand. "I'd say it was fifty/fifty, Lou." "She was going to hightail it, like you said, Coach, but I talked her into to staying here," Lou said. "I liked having her around. I even offered to take care of the debts, but Mabel's too proud to accept charity like that. She's not real bright that way, bright in every other way, though." "I didn't leave right away, Coach, because I fell in love with this old codger. That was okay, because he loved me right back, but I've got two loves." She squeezed Lou's hand. "This fine man and fine horses. The job you're offering solves my dilemma. I can love my man and do what I love doin'." "If you hire Mabel, Coach, you'll get two for one. Yesterday, I asked Mabel to be my wife, and glory be, she said yes. I'll be movin' into that house you mentioned that you'll build for the ranch manager, and you'll get me free of charge." I grinned. "Congratulations, you two, and Mabel, if you want the job, it's yours." When I'd scanned the resume, I'd seen everything I'd wanted to see in my ranch manager, and with Lou to help her, I figured I couldn't lose. "I want the job, Coach," Mabel said. "The job lets me catch my dreams—both of them." We talked money then. She was happy with the salary and job benefits I offered. Then I made her more than happy when I told her that she'd receive 15% of any operating profits the ranch generated. I moved up to a $1,500 buy-in tournament that night, and glory hallelujah, I won. I wasn't comfortable with the style of play and the competence of the competition at that level, though, and decided to slide back to the $1,000 buy-in. ------- Chapter 8 Except for some night lights that were on all the time, it was dark. He knew where she slept. He knew the schedule the aliens maintained to check on their experiments. He had two hours. He wouldn't need that much time. He giggled as he moved silently from the room he shared with two other experiments. Hell, he'd never needed more than ten or fifteen minutes before. The scrawny body he now occupied probably wouldn't need that much time. He padded into the room where Grace slept. She was asleep, as were the old hag and fat broad. They wouldn't wake up. One of the night meds, he'd discovered through trial and error, was a sleeping pill. That was one of the meds he'd faked taking earlier that evening. He pulled the blanket and sheet down off the sleeping woman. She didn't move. She also wore a long nightgown. That had to go. She had to be naked. He wanted her naked on her back with her legs spread. He wanted to see her tits, suck on them, lick them, get her nipples hard. Removing the nightgown wasn't easy. She was dead weight, flopped around like spaghetti on a fork. Good, she was naked under the long nightgown. He wouldn't have to struggle with her to remove her panties. He arranged her on the bed, placed her hands on each side of her head on the pillow, and then pulled her legs apart before he pushed them up so her knees were bent. She whimpered! Was she awake? He hoped she was. It would be better if she were awake. She'd move against him as he moved over her. She'd fuck him back. She probably needed a good fuck as much as he. Yes, that would be better. He touched her pussy. It felt dry. That didn't matter. He'd have his way with her. Nothing could stop him now. After removing his pajamas, he settled on top of her. He couldn't believe how aroused he was. He hadn't touched himself, and he had a full-blown hard-on. He kissed her lips. They didn't respond. Then his mouth wandered down the side of her neck, licking and kissing her warm flesh. Yes! This is what he needed. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, nibbled on it, then bit it, not hard, but Yvonne had liked her breasts handled roughly, liked him to bite them. "A little pain is a good thing," she'd said. His mouth moved to the other breast, but he couldn't stay focused on her breasts. His need was too great. He needed to be inside her. Too dry! Next time, he'd bring something to lubricate her, some baby oil, maybe. He could steal some baby oil, hide it, and retrieve it when needed. Then he was inside her. So good! So good! He thrust slowly at first to savor the exquisite sensations, but he'd come to her bed for release, and soon he was pounding her, driving her into the bed. With an audible groan, he climaxed and collapsed. He made no attempt not to crush her. He luxuriated in the feel of her flesh along the length of his body combined with the relaxed aftereffects of his climax. She's wet now, he thought and giggled. His panting breaths slowed, and his racing heart. He pushed himself up with his hands and arms and looked into her open eyes. Awake! She's awake! How long had she been awake? He saw no terror in her eyes. He saw ... nothing. It was if she couldn't see him, couldn't see anything. Crazy bitch. He rolled from atop her and stood up. In the dim light, he could see his glistening semen dribbling from her pussy. She was awake but she hadn't moved. Her hands still rested on each side of her head on the pillow where he'd placed them. Her legs were still spread, her knees up and bent. He straightened her legs, but he didn't have it in him to expend the effort needed to put her nightgown back on. So tired, he thought as he pulled on his pajamas. He did cover her with the sheet and blanket before he moved silently back to his bed. ------- Danielle had contorted her lovely body into a position I didn't think possible for a human being to achieve. She accomplished this feat seemingly without effort and with a majestic grace only a confident woman can exhibit. My forehead broke out with beads of sweat just thinking of the pain I'd endure if I were foolish enough to assume the position she was demonstrating for Nora and Cory. Surprisingly, the students, although not as adept or graceful as Danielle, were doing a credible job of matching the yoga postures she demonstrated. "Makes you feel like a new age Richard Simmons, huh?" Robyn said. I laughed and said, "Now there's a picture." I'd believed yoga would be a good warm up with what I'd assumed would be stretching exercises, but Danielle had performed some warm-up exercises before moving to any yoga exercises. Next, I'd show them the beginning form of tai chi. Robyn would then take the floor to demonstrate some pilates exercises, after which we'd run laps around the floor of the gym. I turned to some sounds behind me. A middle-aged woman I'd seen around the school walked in with a teenage girl. The older woman was slim; the girl was ... Obese was the word I used in my mind, but to be fair, the girl was probably just short of obese. "Hello, Gloria," Robyn said. Ah, the woman is Gloria Sanger, the home ec teacher. I didn't know the girl. "Good morning, Robyn. And good morning to you, too, Coach. I'm Gloria Sanger." Her hand reached out; I shook it. "This is Marylyn Pope. She'd like to join your weight-loss and physical training program. And, I've arrived with the diets I designed for the participants in the program. All three of them." Marylyn Pope should not wear tights, I thought unkindly. I didn't express my thoughts but smiled and said, "Welcome aboard, Marylyn. Follow me. The program starts with recording your vital statistics and a conversation." She hurried to match my long stride, but her strides waddled. In the weight room, instead of immediately weighing and measuring her, I sat her down to talk with her. I didn't want a repeat of my fiasco with Larry. "Tell me about Marylyn Pope," I said. She blushed and lowered eyes. "What do you want to know?" "What about being Marylyn Pope appeals to you the most?" She frowned. "I don't understand," she muttered. "What makes you happy?" "Ah, Coach, I'm pretty miserable most of the time," she said. "Why?" "Well, duh, because I'm fat." "Do you have any friends?" Tears filled her eyes, but she sat up straighter and said, "No." "Do your parents hate you?" She looked shocked. "No!" "Do they love you?" "My mom loves me. Sometimes my dad loves me; sometimes he doesn't." "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" "A brother." "Older or younger?" "Younger by three years." "Is he fat?" "Sort of. Not like me." "What about your parents? Are they overweight?" "My mother is; my father isn't." "Are you a good student?" "I do all right, A's and B's." "What's your favorite subject?" "Math." "Does solving a complex math problem make you happy?" "Yes," she said and smiled. When she smiled, she smiled with her entire face. "There you go. Now I know one thing that makes you happy. What's your favorite pastime?" "I like to read." "What kind of books? Fiction, non-fiction, biographies? "Fiction." "Novels?" "Yes." "Romance novels, the trashier the better?" I said. She blushed. "Sort of." "I bet you sometimes live life vicariously through the heroines in those books." "Sometimes." "And when you do, you feel happier." "Sometimes, but sometimes afterward I get depressed." "Have you ever considered suicide?" She said nothing. I said, "When you considered suicide, was it a serious consideration or a passing thought." "A passing thought." "Do you have these thoughts frequently or rarely?" "Rarely, only once, actually, and that was years ago. I couldn't commit suicide, Coach. I'm not that brave. Besides, suicide is stupid. It solves nothing except ruining the lives of those close to you after you're gone." "Do you know Nora or Cory?" "I know them, but not well. They live in Ely. I live in McGill." McGill was a small town 13 miles from Ely that once upon a time was the company town of Kennecott Copper Company. The copper mine was in Ruth, another small town near Ely. The ore was shipped by rail from Ruth to McGill where the company operated a mill and smelter. High school students from Ruth and McGill were bused to the high school in Ely. "How did you find out about the weight-loss and fitness training program I'm conducting?" "From Ms. Sanger." I stood up. "Okay, Marylyn, from what I can see, you're a normal teenager in a normal family and an above-average student. For the most part, you find small pleasures in life, not large ones, but you're lonely because you have no friends. And, if I were to guess, the other kids in school make fun of you because you're overweight. You suffer from depression and lack self-confidence, especially in social situations. With all these negatives, you have some very positive things going for you. Do you know what they are?" She shook her head. "No." "You want to change yourself. You want to lose weight. You want some friends in your life. You want more love than you're getting. And most important of all, you're determined to make these changes happen. Even better, you'll have some help achieving these goals. I'll help. Ms. Sanger will help, as will my friend Danielle Kurt, and your guidance counselor, Ms. Clark. And Nora and Cory will help. You have a support system to call on. Got it?" She nodded. "Say it out loud, Marylyn." "I understand, Coach. Yesterday I didn't have a support system. Today I do." "Great, now let's weigh and measure the before you so we can track your progress and compare the before and after picture, but we won't take a picture. Okay?" ------- -- "You bet." ------- "Oh, my God," Gloria Sanger whispered. "No man that big can move with that much grace," Robyn said. "He's making me wet," Danielle said. Me, too, Robyn said but she kept the thought to herself. They were watching Coach demonstrate the beginner's form of tai chi. The teenagers gathered together out of earshot of the adults while they watched Coach. "I want to be able to move like that," Nora said. "Me, too," Marylyn said. "We will," Cory said. "He said he'd teach us, and Coach keeps his promises." When Coach finished the form and stood relaxed, his audience applauded. He bowed graciously. "Okay, let's break each move down," Coach said. "This morning with the time constraints we face, I'll only teach you the first few postures of the form." While he was positioning the teenagers, Danielle stepped forward. "May I learn with them?" she said. Coach smiled and said, "Sure." Robyn and Gloria made the same request. When everyone stood where Coach placed them, he moved in front of them. "Each move or posture in tai chi is an exercise in balance, co-ordination, physical control and the regulation of breathing," Coach said. "The moves within a form are named. For example, this one is called snake creeps down." He moved into the posture. "Notice that the posture is similar to a Western exercise sometimes referred to as the hamstring lunge. The difference is that snake creeps down and other named postures are integrated into an overall pattern of precise, controlled movement. The beginning form I will teach you has many names: the Beijing 24 form, the 24 step form, the Peking form, simplified tai chi, and even just the 24 postures. This simplified tai chi form was created in 1956 by the National Physical Culture and Sports Commission of the People's Republic of China as part of the drive to document and standardize Wushu training and introduce competition forms. This morning we'll learn the first six postures. They are: the beginning posture, parting the wild horse's mane, white crane spreads its wings, brush knee and side step, play the lute, and finally step back and repulse monkey. This is the beginning posture. Please move into the posture with me." He's patient but pleasantly demanding, expects excellence but accepts 100% effort in lieu of excellence, Robyn thought as Coach demonstrated each posture and helped his students move into them. A good teacher. No, he's better than good; he's a superior teacher. He doesn't need the money, but I'm happy he plans to continue teaching, to continue coaching. He excels at it, and his head is in the right place. He's helping these kids on his own time, helping them to become better human beings. If I look awkward, Danielle thought, if I don't assume the posture perfectly, will he touch me again, use his hands to arrange my body precisely? She shivered with pleasure when she considered those large, sensitive hands roaming over her body. Each time she was with him her attraction to him became more compelling. Hoo boy! I'm glad I decided to personally escort Marylyn to the gym this morning, Gloria thought. I like tai chi; I like it a lot. And look at Coach! If I were ten years younger, and if I weren't married, I'd trip him so he fell between my legs. Whew! He's hot! Danielle faced the entrance to the gym. Coach didn't. He stood in front of his students with his back to the door. So Danielle saw Harry Wiggen step into the gym before Coach. Oh, oh, she thought. Harry doesn't look happy. "Okay," Coach said. "Now let's put the six postures together. Remember, move slowly with grace from one posture to the next. Follow my lead." "Coach Windom," Harry Wiggen said, "may I speak with you—privately?" Coach turned to him. "Good morning, Harry. I'll be finished in about five minutes. Would you mind waiting until then?" "Do you have signed releases from the parents of these students for this activity?" "No," Coach said. "Then, you're finished right now," Harry said. "I don't think so," Coach said. "I'll stop by the administrative office after we're finished and pick up the release forms. These students can take them home after school today, get the required signatures, and bring them with them for this activity tomorrow morning." "Not good enough," Wiggen said, his fists clenched, his arms stiff by his legs. He looked at Robyn and Gloria. "Ms. Clark, Mrs. Sanger, I'm surprised you condoned this activity without following proper procedures." "Harry," Danielle said, "you're being a stuffy prig." Harry glared at her. "And you! You shouldn't be involved in a school activity at all!" "Mr. Wiggen!" Coach said loudly as he moved close to the smaller man, invading the assistant principal's space. "You're a rude man. Before I lost my memories..." "That's a farce! Amnesia, my foot! The only amnesia even similar to the complete memory loss you claim happens in Hollywood when writers and directors use outlandish artistic license to achieve their ends. I don't know why you pretend such extensive memory loss. Artistic license to achieve an end doesn't fit, but that doesn't alter the fact that you're faking amnesia. Now, get out of my face!" "As I was saying," Coach said menacingly, moving even closer, "before I lost my memories, I was known as a bully. Your rudeness has caused the loutish character trait to resurface. I suggest you leave this gym before it blossoms to full strength." "I'll have your job!" Harry shouted. "I don't think so, but go ahead and try," Coach said, looking down at the man, his face only inches away. "Now get your rude fanny out of here, so I can teach these students how to become better human beings. Your bad-mannered example is hampering the progress I was making." "We'll see about this! We'll see!" Harry sputtered furiously. Then he stomped away. Coach turned back to his students, including the three adult women. "Robyn, Gloria, if you don't want to become enmeshed in this altercation, you might want to leave now." "I'm staying," Robyn said. Gloria hesitated, but said, "Me, too." "What about you, Danielle?" he said. "You couldn't pull me out of here with a tow chain hooked to an eighteen wheeler," Danielle said. "Okay, where was I?" "You were going to put the six postures together, Coach," Cory said. "Thanks, Cory. Okay, take the beginning posture ... Good ... Now move into parting the wild horse's mane..." ------- When I finished my part of the weight-loss and training session, I turned the students over to Robyn to demonstrate some pilates exercises, admonishing the teenagers that any time left before school started after pilates should be spent running laps around the gym. However, I didn't rush to the administrative office to pick up the release forms. I suspected that I'd hear from Tom soon. I'd pick them up when Tom called me to his office. Harry would complain about me to his boss, and his boss would have to respond. Tom wouldn't have a choice. If I were Tom, I'd lend lip service to Harry's complaint, and then demand that I apologize to Harry for my inappropriate remarks. I'd apologize. My remarks had been inappropriate, but dammit, the stuffy prig, as Danielle had called him, had pissed me off. I stepped outside, opened my cell phone and dialed. A gust of cold wind struck my face, so I stepped back inside. "Lieutenant Valdez," I said when he picked up his phone, "It's John Windom. I'm returning your call." "Yes, thank you, Mr. Windom. I called to tell you that your wife's body will be released today." "I know. My father-in-law called me last night." "Mr. Pickett has been calling me every day. I understand his grief, but he's been wasting my time. He also wanted his daughter's body released to him, not you. We couldn't do that. You are next of kin." "He told me that he'd arranged to have the body cremated in Las Vegas," I said. "Do you know which funeral home he planned to use?" "Yes." The lieutenant named the funeral home, and when asked, gave me the funeral home's phone number. I told him I'd use the same funeral home and asked what was required of me. Evidently, the funeral home would take care of everything. "What about Ferrari? Are you any closer to arresting him for Yvonne's murder?" I asked. "How did you find out Anthony Ferrari was the suspect we had in custody?" Valdez asked. I'd forgotten that he hadn't given me Ferrari's name. "Through my attorney who got the name from Yvonne's divorce attorney," I said. "You didn't answer my question." "No, we're not any closer, and we won't get any closer," Valdez said. He paused and sighed. "Eventually, Mr. Windom, justice will be served, perhaps not for your wife's murder, but justice will be served. Ferrari will make a mistake. Sociopaths like him almost always make a mistake. They think they're smarter than the rest of us." My next call went the funeral home. We discussed the services I wanted and their cost. I told them that I'd wire the funds to them. They gave me wiring instructions, which I jotted down. "Got it," I said. "I'll make this happen right away, if not today, tomorrow. On another subject, I understand my father-in-law, Mr. Clarence Pickett, has been in touch with you. He asked me if I would release my wife's ashes to him to dispose of in accordance to Yvonne's wishes." "Yes he has been in contact with us. He was also willing to pay for the cremation and urn," the funeral director said. "That's my responsibility, not his. However, you may give him my wife's remains." "Very well, sir. I'll do as you wish, of course. And please accept my deepest condolences." "Thank you." I was called to the principal's office during my home room class. ------- Apparently Happy Harry wasn't happy to complain only about me. When I entered Tom's office, Robyn, Gloria and Orville were already seated. Orville's presence surprised me. Then I remembered he was the president of the local teacher's union. Was he here in an official capacity? Probably. Harry sat to Tom's right. I looked at him and said, "Why do I get the feeling that I'm charging a barrage of automatic weapons with a BB gun?" "That's enough of that, Coach," Tom said. "Please take a seat." "I'll stand, thank you," I said. "See what I mean?" Harry whined. "No respect. He thinks he's above the rules." "Do you think you're above the rules, Coach?" Tom said. Was that a twinkle in Tom's eye? By golly it was. "No, if I'd been aware of the rule I broke, I would have complied with it," I said. "Ignorance is no excuse," Harry said. "If you don't mind, Harry, I called this meeting and would like the privilege of presiding," Tom said. He turned to me and said, "Did you show Mr. Wiggen disrespect?" "I did, and I'm sorry about that, Tom, but his approach to my ignorance of a rule brought out a mean little stubborn streak that I didn't know was in me. As I told Harry, I will rectify my mistake, and tomorrow morning the students in my weight loss and physical fitness program will provide the school with the required parental permission and legal hold harmless necessary to protect the school, its teachers, the school administration, and the school board." I waved some papers. "I have the blank releases in my hot, large hand." "The absence of permission and release forms wasn't the only rule he broke," Wiggen said. "Such a program on school property utilizing school employees and equipment must be cleared by the administration before the activity can proceed." Harry was starting to piss me off again. I took two deep cleansing breaths to avoid aggravating an already unpleasant situation. "Permission is hereby tendered to the school administration to conduct a weight loss and physical fitness program," I said. "The program is designed to help selected high school students lose weight, become more physically fit, increase their self-confidence and self-esteem, and reduce or eliminate rude and crude taunts sent their way from other students. In addition to the diet and exercise tools the activity gives the students, the program creates a support system for them they wouldn't have otherwise, which should help them become more comfortable and active in social situations. In other words, Tom, the program will make these students become better human beings." "Would you put the request in writing?" Tom said. "Is a written request required?" I asked. "No, but it would be helpful to me—personally." "Then I will put it in writing. Will the request be approved or denied?" "What would you do if it was denied?" Tom said. "I would resign my coaching and teaching position." The twinkle in Tom's eye had become more pronounced. I hoped he would not burst out laughing until he was alone. "Would you like to know why?" "I would," he said. "Because I would not want to be associated with a high school that did not have as its highest priority to help the kids attending the school become better human beings first and better students second. When I say students, I mean all of them, not just the beautiful and the rich students, not just the athletes, not just those with the highest grade-point averages, but all of them." "A reasonable, even laudatory attitude," Tom said. "Thank you. When will the request be approved or denied?" "Within an hour of the submission of your written request," Tom said. He gave me a hard look. "You owe Mr. Wiggen an apology, Coach." "I do." I turned to the man. "Mr. Wiggen, you were rude and I reacted badly. I'm sorry. You inferred that I was a liar, and I reacted badly to the inference, as well. I'm sorry. I invaded your space, and when you perceived the invasion as a threat, you threatened to get me fired. I apologize for invading your space. And I apologize for reacting inappropriately to your threat by telling you to get your rude fanny out of the gym so I could teach the students in the program how to become better human beings. And finally I apologize for saying that your bad-mannered example was hampering the progress I was making. Did I leave anything out, Mr. Wiggen?" I watched Tom out of the corner of my eye. His head was lowered, his eyes closed, his posture rigid. Don't laugh, I told him silently. If you laugh, you'll ruin the moment. Wait until you're alone in your office. "Your apology is not accepted!" Wiggen said. "You don't sound sorry at all." "I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Wiggen," I said. "Tom, I might have missed something I did that was inappropriate. If so, I apologize for that, too. I don't know what else I can do." "You can get out of my office and go to your first English class before it starts. That goes for the rest of you. Go do your jobs," Tom said. I turned and left. Orville, Robyn and Gloria followed me out the door. "Don't laugh, Orville," I whispered. "Not yet." He swallowed his laughter. Robyn and Gloria's laughs were under their breaths—almost. Robyn peeled off to go to her office, saying she'd talk to me later. I heard her snickers before she disappeared. Once out of earshot of the administrative offices, I said to Orville and Gloria, "Did you see the twinkle in Tom's eye?" That did it! Orville hooted with laughter, and Gloria's hilarity apparently knew no bounds. I joined them—inappropriately. Maybe. In my English class, I handed out a pop quiz. While the students took the test, I opened my laptop and keyed in the written request for the weight loss and physical training program. I used the computer lab to print the request, signed it with a flourish, and handed it to Tom's secretary before I hot-footed it to my next class. I checked after my next class. Permission had been granted. ------- Wade Cantrell lumbered into Sheriff Hansen's office and sat heavily on an unpadded chair. "If you don't have good news for me, Wade, go back out there and pound the pavement some more," the sheriff said. "Not without hazardous pay. The pavement is covered in spots with black ice. A man could break his neck pounding pavement this time of year. I checked the pharmacies again. No one is buying box after box of cold medicines, so cold medicines are a dead end." "I'm not surprised, Wade. The War on Drugs is a joke. To get tough with apocryphal neighborhood meth cookers, The United States locks up all the cold medicines that used to sit on open shelves in drugstores from sea to shining sea. Brilliant, huh? Oh, the move forced a drop in meth manufacturing inside the good old U. S. of A., but the cookers south of the border turned on their hotplates to take up the slack, thus establishing a new cottage industry in that backward country at the same time. Then we added another war, the War on Terror. Did we close the borders? Uh-uh, that would be too durned logical, so the illegal aliens stream across the border like bee swarms to set up new hives of Hispanic enclaves, and some of the specks in the swarm aren't beneficial worker bees. They're mules carrying meth crystals stamped Made in Mexico. No doubt a few terrorists specks travel with the swarms as well. I wish the powers that be would get their collective heads out of their collective cracks. I surely do." "I hear you, Sheriff. While I was at the drugstore, I asked the pharmacist about tincture of iodine. He said that it's usually 10% iodine in ethanol, although it's available in 2%, 3%, and 7% mixtures. Although tincture of iodine is used to disinfect wounds, the pharmacy doesn't sell it. They sell hydrogen peroxide. But he also said that tincture of iodine is an essential component in any emergency survival kit because, besides disinfecting wounds, it also sanitizes surface water for drinking. So I checked with Vernal over at Sports World. They sell survival kits. I took a look at one of 'em, and lo and behold there it was: a bottle of tincture of iodine. I asked Vernal if he sold many survival kits. 'As a matter of fact we do—recently. Before about three months ago, we sold very few of them, ' he said. 'Interesting, ' I said. 'Did anyone buy more than one of them?' 'You betcha, ' he said. 'Got a name?' I asked. 'Nope, ' he said. I asked Vernal to describe him. 'Ain't a him, ' he said. 'It's a her. A woman 'bout forty-five give or take a year or two. Dark hair and eyes. Big bazooms. A rose tattoo low on her back.' Vernal saw the tattoo when she bent over to pick up a survival kit and her shirt rode up. The kits are stored on the lowest shelf. I told Vernal if he saw the woman again to call me immediately and left one of my cards with him." "I'll be durned," the sheriff said. "Good work, Wade. In law enforcement parlance, we have what's called an honest-to-goodness lead. 'Bout time, too." "Got some more, Sheriff," Wade said. "I followed up on another item on the list you gave me. Heet. Like you said, Heet is sold in auto supply stores. I checked with Todd at Napa Auto Parts. What with the winter weather, he's been selling some Heet, but he couldn't recall selling more than one bottle to anyone. I asked if a woman had bought any Heet. He scrunched is face all up. You know how Todd looks when he concentrates. Looks painful to me, but I guess it doesn't hurt Todd. Anyway, Todd says yes, he remembered a woman that bought a bottle of Heet. I asked him if he knew her. He scrunched his face again, and said no. I asked him to describe her. After another face scrunching, he said she was a brunette, 'bout five and a half feet tall, thirty-five to forty years old, maybe a little older. Then he grinned and said she had big tits. I left my card with him and told him to call me the second the woman stepped into his store again. "Then I went over to CB Auto Parts. At first, I didn't get much from Henry. As you know, he's not much of a talker. But when I mentioned a woman between thirty-five and forty-five, dark hair and eyes, and big tits, he perked right up. He apologized for telling me that no one had bought more than one bottle of Heet. 'The woman bought three bottles, ' he said. 'Shoulda remembered, ' he said. 'No one buys three bottles of Heet.' Henry didn't know the woman's name either, but he'll call me if she ever comes into his shop again." The sheriff rubbed his huge hands together. "Yes siree Bob, we've got us an honest-to-goodness lead. What about Burdette at Bath Ace Hardware?" "He didn't remember the woman. He even asked Paula at the checkout counter if she remembered her. She didn't. Burdette said he'd check all sales of muriatic acid for the last three months for us. The sales are computerized. If a name is attached to a sale, he'll give us a call. That's not likely, though, what with the woman paying cash for her purchases. Did I mention that? I don't think I did. She always pays cash, doesn't write a check or use a credit card. Burdette did promise to watch for any sales of muriatic acid in the future, especially if it's sold to a woman with big tits. It's a matter of time now, Sheriff." ------- I had to skip lunch to arrange the wire transfer to the funeral home in Las Vegas. The bank wouldn't handle the transaction over the telephone for me. Josh was right. I needed a better banking relationship. The football team was ragged at practice, but I kept the practice light. Helen, I noted, could indeed kick the football a mile, figuratively not literally, of course. She'd be our secret weapon for the Fallon Greenies game. When I arrived home, Agnes told me that UPS had delivered a number of packages that day. I checked. My drafting equipment and supplies had arrived. I left everything in the boxes, unopened. The equipment took up a lot of room, room I didn't have until we moved to the new house on the first of the month. I'd load it up in the pickup Saturday and store the boxes in the bedroom I'd turn into my office. I called my mother and told her that Yvonne's body had been released, and went on to tell about my run-in with Yvonne's father. As mothers are wont to do, she took my side in the disagreement. I told her I didn't know when the memorial service would take place and asked her how she and my aunt and uncle would travel to the service. "We'll drive, Son, so pick a time the weather man thinks will be clear and dry." I told her that I'd arrange for her lodging, for my aunt and uncle, as well. Then I told her that the number she'd given me for Boyd Hansen was no longer in service. "That's a shame," she said. "I don't know of any other way to track him down." "Mom, with my amnesia, I don't remember Boyd anyway." "Well, okay then. Let me talk to my granddaughter, please. I can hardly wait to see her again." My mother and daughter had an animated conversation that lasted about ten minutes, which made me happy. While they chatted, I checked the weather on my laptop. Snow was predicted for Saturday and Sunday. Hmm, Thanksgiving weekend would be a good time for the service, I thought. Unfortunately, the weather forecast didn't extend that far. I'd check again this weekend. When Mom and Piper were finished, I ask my mother about Thanksgiving weekend. Weather permitting, she liked the idea, and said she'd check with her sister. "One other thing while I have you on the phone, Mom. When talking with Yvonne, did she mention the names of any friends that live in Ely? With my memory loss, it's possible I'll offend someone here by not inviting Yvonne's friends to the memorial service out of ignorance." "Hmm, she did mention a lady friend. What was her name? It's on the tip of my tongue, Son." She groaned. "I just can't remember the name. If it comes to me, I'll call you." After putting Piper to bed, I lost one tournament and won one. Net gain $8,000. Even with the Larry Wiggen foolishness and my call to my father-in-law to tell him to coordinate with the funeral parlor in Vegas to pick up Yvonne's ashes, it had been a pretty good day. I'd made an enemy out of Larry Wiggen. He wasn't finished with me. Shit happens. At least I was finished with Yvonne's father. ------- Chapter 9 Grace Bigelow, a patient under Nurse Leah Mullen's care had been raped, not once, but twice, and Nurse Mullen was furious. The thick rubber soles of her sensible shoes slapped the polished linoleum floor as she strode with purpose. At Hank Patrick's office door, she didn't knock; she opened the door and entered the office with blood in her eye. Patrick was the chief of security for the hospital. Surprised by the interruption, Hank looked up from the papers on his desk. "Hank, I told you yesterday that Grace Bigelow had been raped during the night," the head nurse said, her words precise and full of purpose and resolve. "You must have done nothing about it because Grace was raped again last night. I won't have that kind of criminal behavior happening on my ward. Do you hear me?" "Calm down Leah. I hear you. Tell me what happened last night." "The same thing that happened the night before," Leah said. "What are you going to do about it?" "Was evidence of the crime washed away this morning, like it was yesterday?" "No! That sick sociopath's spunk has dried on poor Grace like flakes from psoriasis lesions. I didn't like it, but I wouldn't let anyone bathe her this morning. She's completely helpless, Hank. Catatonic. She lives in a world of her own making, far away from our world. She doesn't speak. She can't tell us anything about the rapist. There's no way to even know if she realizes that she's been raped. I feel so sorry for her. Her life is bad enough without some sick son of a bitch creeping into her room at night and raping her. I don't know what the rapist sees in her; she's like a life-size, blow-up doll. She doesn't—can't respond." "Rape isn't about sex, Leah. It's about power." He sighed and added, "Now there's some evidence of the crime, I'll call the police. They'll send out a female officer with a rape kit and open a case file. The rapist has to be a member of the hospital staff or one of the patients." "I don't see one of my male patients being the rapist, Hank. None of them..." "We'll check out every man who has access to your ward," he stated, interrupting her. "And when the rapist is identified, we'll have proof. We'll have his DNA, Leah." "That's all well and good, but what about tonight? What about tomorrow night, and the night after until you and the police identify the pusillanimous bastard?" Hank sighed. "Move her to a secure room at night." ------- -- Leah nodded and wondered why she hadn't thought of moving Grace at night. It was the perfect solution. ------- Just before the pre-school training session with the overweight students started, Danielle approached me and asked for a private conversation. As we walked away from the others, I said, "You look pretty this morning. I like your exercise outfit." She appeared happy that I'd noticed and thanked me, and then went on to tell me that she purchased her yoga clothing online. "There's special clothing for yoga?" I said, surprised. She smiled and said, "Yes. The clothing is designed for comfort and style for every pose." When we were out of earshot of the others, she said, "I hope you didn't get in too much trouble yesterday. If you did, I feel partially to blame." "My anger and my inappropriate comments are to blame for any trouble that came my way from yesterday's debacle, Danielle. Rest easy, though. Except for making an enemy out of Harry Wiggen, I came out of the mess without any permanent scars. Tom, the principal, did ask that I apologize to Harry, which I did." "Harry should have been the one apologizing, Coach, not you, at least that's what I told him last night. Coach, Harry and I have been dating. I think ... ah, hell, Coach, plain and simple, he's jealous of the time I've been spending with you. I haven't exactly been sensitive about it, either. I've been singing your praises. Last night, he gave me an ultimatum: have nothing to do with you, or he and I were finished. I told him bye, bye." I said nothing. "I wasn't in love with Harry, Coach, but I did like him, and he was good company. But yesterday ... well, you pegged him yesterday. He was extremely rude. I've never seen him act like that. I was very disappointed in him." "Danielle, the time we've spent together hasn't been personal. We didn't go out on a date," I said. Then I grinned. "Not that I'm opposed to going out with you. I just think that dating so soon after my wife's death wouldn't be appropriate." She nodded. "I understand." "To change the subject, would the landlord for the rental house allow my daughter and me to take early occupancy? I'd pay the extra rent, of course. The reason I'm asking is that my wife's body was released for burial yesterday. Her father told me she wanted to be cremated, so I honored that wish. I have tentative plans for a memorial service for her on Wednesday the day before Thanksgiving or Friday the day after, preferably Friday so I won't have to miss any work. Weather permitting, my mother and an aunt and her husband will be here for the memorial service, and I'd like to be in the new house when they arrive. I purchased furniture for the house over the internet. It's scheduled to arrive tomorrow." "I'll ask the landlord," Danielle said. "I'm sure he'll say yes." "Danielle, it might appear crass to some in the community because not everyone knows that I don't remember my wife at all and have no emotional connection with her, but a week or so after the memorial service, I'd like to go out with you on a personal basis." "I'd like that, too, Coach." ------- Robyn's office door was open, so I stuck my head in and said, "Gotta minute?" "I do, come in." I sat in front of her desk. "That was a good session with the kids this morning," Robyn said. "They really seem to get into free weight training." "They're great kids and highly motivated," I said. "Your tai chi is still the big hit, though." I chuckled. "It's a good exercise. Danielle uses yoga to meditate. I use tai chi." "Isn't tai chi a martial art?" "It can be, but I prefer krav maga for self defense," I said. Then I had to explain krav maga. "Are you planning to teach the kids self defense?" she asked. "No," I said. "Right now, they're getting in touch with their bodies. They have enough on their plates with free weight training, running, yoga, tai chi, and pilates. Free weight training at the intensity required for weight loss requires 48 hours of rest between sessions. Running should be used for one of the two days off from weight training. On the other day off they can exercise with yoga, tai chi, and pilates. Also, preferences will surface. I've noticed already that Nora prefers yoga to pilates; whereas Marylyn prefers pilates." "All three prefer tai chi," Robyn said. "Tai chi is a good way to start a day regardless of what other training is scheduled on any given morning. It's not so intense that it precludes other exercise efforts. When I said preferences would surface, I was referring to the students selecting either yoga or pilates. I noticed you haven't tried any yoga postures, and Danielle hasn't done any pilates exercises. Like you and Danielle, the students don't really need both yoga and pilates to stay fit. And don't forget that the achievement of excellence requires concentrated effort. After they become proficient in the beginning exercises you and Danielle are teaching them, I'll suggest they select one of them to reach for excellence." She nodded. "What about Cory?" "He hasn't demonstrated any preference yet. Robyn, I stopped by your office to talk about Larry. Would you pull his file for me?" "Sure, just a sec." When she returned with the file, I opened it looking for something that would help him become a better human being. What struck me most were his grades. Then I had an idea. "He's very good in a number of subjects. Can he test out of any of them?" "Maybe, but why?" "He needs some time during the day to work a job that pays more than minimum wage," I said. "Right now, he works nights at a convenience store five days a week. I don't know how he does it." "Let me see his file," she said. A minute later she looked up. "I think he could test out of English, history, and Spanish. If he did, he'd have his afternoons free, except for a physics lab on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and if push comes to shove, he could test out of physics, as well. And there's an added benefit. They're all AP classes. He'd get college credit for them." I smiled. "That would work. Now I just have to find him a good-paying job." "Coach, while you're finding him a job, put together a scholarship for him so he can attend the community college." "Aren't scholarships your bailiwick?" I said. She laughed. "Okay, I'll go to work on it." "Is there an Alcoholics Anonymous Chapter in Ely?" I asked. "There must be. I've noticed meeting announcements for AA in the Ely Times. If you're thinking of intervening with Larry's mother on his behalf, don't do it." I smiled. "Never crossed my mind." ------- "Good morning, Elizabeth," I said cheerfully on the telephone. "Good morning, John. What can I do for you today?" she said. "You can help me find a job for a worthy high school student." "John, I do a lot of things, but I'm not in the employment business." "I know that, but I also know that you know just about everyone in the professional services industry in this town. Here's the deal. Larry Foreman is a senior at White Pine High. He's carrying a 3.67 grade-point average, and he works nights full time at a convenience store, which pays minimum wage, or not much above minimum wage. His days off at the convenience store are Thursdays and Fridays so he can play football. What's more, I'm told his mother is an alcoholic. He..." "I know Katy Foreman, Coach. She's a lost cause," Elizabeth said. "Maybe so, but Larry works the convenience store job to put food on her plate and a roof over her head. I just left Robyn Clark's office. She's the guidance counselor at the high school." "I know Robyn, John," she said. "She thinks Larry can test out of some of his classes, which would free up his afternoons during the week. The football season ends this afternoon, so that will give him some extra time, as well. The boy is college material, Elizabeth, but that'll never happen unless someone gives him a leg up in life. I figure someone in the professional services industry might have a need for a motivated, smart young man to work half-days starting with the crap jobs that are part and parcel of every profession. He could start as a gofer, do courier work, filing, whatever, and slowly handle more meaningful work as he learns more about the job. I spoke with Winston Brown. He runs the computer lab at the high school. He told me Larry is a whiz at computers. The boy has also earned straight A's in math, so he'd be good with numbers, and..." "What about his appearance?" Elizabeth said. "He's a good-looking young man, big but not overweight, plays tackle on the football team. He's poor, though, so haircuts are rare, and although his clothes are clean, they're wrinkled and worn thin. He probably doesn't own any business casual clothes." "Demeanor? Attitude?" Elizabeth said. "Both are a problem," I said. "He's an angry young man, Elizabeth. Would you be pissed if you were eighteen years old, in the top ten in your high school class, but were shackled with an alcoholic mother and had to work nights in a crap job to put food on the table while trying to finish high school? Think about how you would feel if you were college material but saw no opportunity to go to college because you felt obligated to take care of your mother, a mother that others consider a lost cause. Larry can be saved, Elizabeth. He isn't a lost cause, not yet. If just a few elements in the equation that makes him angry are altered, he'll come around. I'm trying to change the equation to give Larry a brighter future. It's that simple, and it's that complex. Robyn will help. She'll talk to him about testing out of some of his classes to free up his afternoons. She's also going to work on finding him a scholarship for the community college." "Do you have Robyn's phone number?" "Just call the school. They'll transfer your call to her." "I'll also speak to Tom. I'm not making any promises, but I have an idea that might solve your problem, or rather Larry Foreman's problem. Call me later this afternoon." "You're a good woman, Elizabeth. I feel privileged to know you." "Yeah, well, you're a fucking boy scout." "Elizabeth! Such language coming from a leader in the community is ... Well, it's shocking." I snickered. "Probably accurate though. I'll call you from my office before I meet with the football team before the game." ------- I was on thin ice. I didn't know how Larry would react. Would he think I was meddling in his life, or accept my help in the spirit in which it was offered. The young man sat in front of me with heavy, black clouds on his face ready to rain all over me at the slightest provocation. "Larry, you have a cancer growth on your soul," I said. "You expect the worse, and that's what you get most of the time. I don't know how you do it. You go to school full time and manage to earn superior grades. You work full time at a crap job. You play football, and you excel at the game. And you take care of your mother, to boot." "Leave my mother out of this," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You've got to be dead tired, and if you aren't angry most of the time you should be. Larry, I didn't call you into my office to hassle you. I called you into my office to discuss your future." He said nothing. "Your job at the convenience store, what does it pay?" "Not much. Not enough," he said. "But that's the only job I could find. I make do. It's not so bad, Coach. The job isn't taxing physically, and I can get in a few hours of study time most nights." "When do you sleep?" "I get my rest, not all at once, but ... why these questions, Coach. Do you think I'm too worn out to play the game this afternoon?" "No. You'll play, and you'll play well. How you do it with everything else that's on your plate surprises me, though. Tell me. Why did you shackle yourself with the extra time it takes to play football?" "I like the sport. I'm a fan. I like the contact. I like to hit the other guy and hit him hard. You talked about anger management therapy. Football does that for me. It's therapy. It's how I expend my anger." "What happens next week when you no longer have that outlet?" He laughed, but not with any gaiety. "I catch up on some sleep." I laughed then, but it was an honest, happy laugh. "Fair enough," I said. "Where do you see yourself next year, Larry?" "What do you mean?" he said. "At college or working a job." "College is out. If I'm lucky, I'll land a job at one of the mines." "If college is out, why are you enrolled in college preparatory courses?" I said. "Humph, I'm an anachronism. Don't tell anyone or l'll lose my rep, but I like learning. I don't have much joy in my life, but learning is one of them. I've learned more on my own than I have in school, and although college isn't in my future, I'll continue to learn." "What if I told you that college is a possibility?" "I'd ask you what you've been smoking. You don't understand my situation, Coach. Nobody does." "You're probably right about that, Larry, but I stuck my neck out today anyway. I called around. I found you a half-day job that will probably total your pay for the full-time job at the convenience store. You'd be working for an attorney and an accountant." "At night?" he said, looking surprised. "Nope, and this is where you come into the picture. I also met with Ms. Clark today. She thinks you can test out of some of your classes, and get college credit for them, to boot. If you pass the tests, you'll free up your afternoons. You'd work afternoons for the lawyer and accountant. That's why it's a half-day job. What's more, Robyn ... ah, Ms. Clark tells me that if you apply for a scholarship she knows about, you can also get your tuition and books paid for at the community college. I know you told me to leave your mother out of this, but from what I understand, she's an integral part of any decision you make regarding your future. Am I right or wrong about her?" "You're right," he said. "The half-time job allows you to handle the responsibility you've assumed for her well being. The half-time job will also allow you to take some classes at the community college. The scholarship will pay your expenses at the college. Are you interested, or should I shit-can the progress I've made to give you a leg up in life?" "I'm interested, but why? Why did you do all this, Coach?" "Because I'm a teacher, Larry. A teacher's first duty is to help his students become better human beings. Think about it. I've done very little. I've expended very little time. What I've done isn't much. Ms. Clark did and will do more. She's committed to help you test out of some of your classes. She went to work to find a scholarship for the community college, and will help you fill out the application and submit it for consideration. The attorney and accountant will do more. They are willing to give you a job, a job they created, not a job that had to be filled. They'll need to be patient until you learn enough about their professions to earn the money they'll pay you. That's a lot, Larry. That's a whole bunch. That's a hundred times more than my part in this. And you'll do more. You'll do more than anyone else, or this crazy idea of mine won't work. You've got to pass the tests to free up your afternoons. You've got to walk into the attorney and accountant's offices with a smile on your face and do any crap job they give you, and do it with energy and intelligence and a can-do attitude, which means you've got to put your anger in your pocket where it can't get out. You've got to be well-groomed and wear business casual clothes, and somehow find the money to buy the clothes and pay for the haircuts. You've got to apply for the scholarship, and when college starts next fall, you'll need to enroll and attend the classes, and continue to work your half-day job at the same time. And you can't stop studying. Or learning. If you do all this, Larry, you'll have a chance in life to become the best you can be. I don't need your answer right now. Take the weekend to think about it, and on Monday, if you're still interested, talk with Ms. Clark to start the journey that will be the rest of your life. Right now, you have a football game to play. Go out there and hit the other guy. Hit him hard. Make your shoulder pads pop. Show the Fallon Greenies' backfield how much grief a defensive tackle can give them." He sat looking stunned. "Now, Larry! Get the hell out of my office right now." He jumped up, started to speak, closed his mouth, and hurried from my office. It was a tossup, but I awarded the game ball to Helen Sanford. She gave the Bobcats of White Pine High the win with one extra point and three field goals, the last field goal just seconds before the game ended. We won by two points: 16 to 14. Larry did a superb job on defense, though. He was in the Greenies' quarterback's face all day, and I heard his shoulder pads pop on more than one occasion. "What did you say to Larry before the game?" Orville asked me during the first half after Larry's shoulder pads did some popping. "He's inspired, a one man wrecking crew. I've never seen him play this well." Larry did something else that pleased me more than the way he played football that day. He was the first player on our team to hike Helen onto his shoulders to carry her off the field in glory after the game. His example became contagious; before he took two steps, he had a lot of help. The satisfaction of watching a young man change from a misogynist to a respecter of women could not be topped. I'd enjoyed architecture during my other life, enjoyed creating beautiful and functional edifices. I particularly enjoyed watching the buildings put together piece by piece over time until finally what I'd first envisioned in my mind's eye became a reality. But what I created as an architect wasn't alive. I manipulated dead wood and cold stone and manufactured glass to provide shelter, or a place to do business, or an enclosed space for the public to gather. By any definition of art, architecture is art, and art portrays or produces emotion. But no structure I ever designed engendered the emotion that welled up from deep inside me when I saw a bully and misogynist put aside his anger and his hatred of women and weep with joy because his team won a high school football game led by a female place kicker. That I had a part in the young man's epiphany of what a man should be and how a man should act thrilled me beyond my ability to express it. I think Elizabeth had me pegged. Maybe I am a fucking boy scout. ------- The next morning Piper and I stood outside in front of the house I'd rented that would be our interim home until we could move into the house I'd design and build at the ranch. The air was so heavy and still that I wondered if the earth had stopped spinning on its axis. Low dark clouds obscured any view of the foothills and mountains around the town. A mountain ash stood barren in the front yard, not a leaf remained on its branches. Enough snow had melted to show random patches of dead brown grass. Winter is a cruel season. Then large, fluffy flakes of snow started to fall. They floated straight down, waffling only slightly before hitting the ground and melting. The flakes numbered few at first, but soon, like the stars in the sky, they couldn't be counted. By evening if it continued to snow, the cruelty of winter would be softened and purified by a dazzling white layer of virgin snow. "Is that the truck, Daddy?" Piper said, pointing with her mitten. "Yes, I think it is, pumpkin," I said. "Goody. Are the beds in the truck?" "They are." "Can we sleep in the new house tonight?" "We can if the new mattresses are delivered this afternoon," I said. She looked skyward and snowflakes dotted her cute face. "Does the mattress-place trucks have snow tires?" I stifled a laugh. "I'm sure they do, sweetheart." Yesterday, I'd instructed Agnes to drive the Lincoln to a tire store to trade out the rear tires with snow tires, and then trade vehicles with me to have snow tires put on the pickup. Piper rode with Agnes to change the tires on the pickup. "I hope they do," she said. "They're goin' ta need them." My cell phone rang as the truck stopped at the curb. "Good morning, Coach," Danielle said. "Need any help with the move?" "I thought you worked on Saturday mornings," I said. She laughed. "Look outside. What do you see?" "I'm standing outside. I'm looking at the truck that is delivering our new furniture." "Do you really think anyone in their right mind will want to look at any houses or land for sale in this snowstorm?" "Point taken. If you're offering help, I'm accepting." "See you in a few," she said and hung up. Cory called next. "Need some help moving, Coach?" "Sure," I said. "Where can Nora and I hook up with you? She wants to help, too. She's driving." I gave him the address of the new house as I stepped forward to greet the truck driver. Before the truck could be completely unloaded, Orville and Gladys showed up, Gladys to spend some time with Piper, and Orville to help Cory and me do the heavy lifting. Nora offered to help Agnes put the kitchen together, and I put Orville to work assembling the beds while Cory and I made another trip to the old house. We loaded up the back of the pickup, covered the load with a tarp, and ferried the load to the new house through the snowstorm. Cory and I made three trips that morning while others put the loads away. Agnes kept everyone organized. Robyn showed up at lunchtime with a couple of large pizzas. The truck with the mattresses arrived just as we finished eating, so Piper would get her wish to sleep in the new house that night. By three o'clock in the afternoon, everything had been moved to the new house, and there was six inches of snow on the ground. "Come on, Piper," I said and pulled her out to the chair where she was sitting. "Let's get your snow suit on." "Why?" she said. "It's a secret," I said. She skipped ahead of me. "I like secrets. Hurry, Daddy." When she was dressed in the snow suit she looked short and round, but cute as a button. "Come on, Daddy," she said pulling at me. "Patience, pumpkin, let me get bundled up, too," I said as I threw on my sheepskin coat and grabbed a pair of gloves." "Where you going, Coach?" Danielle said. "Can't tell you. It's a secret for another 10 seconds. If you get bundled up you can help me with the secret, though." Piper and I stepped outside. "Do you see it?" I said. "See what?" she said. "The snowman in all that snow?" "Snowman?" she said, her eyes getting big. "Yes." Wearing a coat and gloves, Danielle opened the door. "It's been ten seconds. What's the secret?" she said. "There," I said, pointing. "There in the snow. Can't you see it?" "See what?" Danielle said. "A snowman in the snow," Piper said. "It took me a while, but I can see him now." "That's good," I said. "I was afraid I was going to have to roll up all his parts and put him together myself. You're the smallest, Piper. You roll up his head. Danielle, you're smaller than me, so you roll up his torso. I'm the biggest so I'll roll up the biggest part, his bottom. Snowmen have big, fat bottoms, you know." "They sure do," Danielle said. Then we did it; we built the best snowman, ever. Those still inside, when they realized what we were doing, bundled up and came out to help. That snowman ended up six feet tall, with a carrot for his nose and two eyes made out of charcoal from a bag stored next to the outside grill. Red buttons gave him a happy smile, and Agnes contributed not only the red buttons for his mouth but also an old straw hat for his head. We dubbed him Snerdley the Snowman and sang the Frosty song, substituting Snerdley for Frosty, and just before the song ended, a rousing snowball fight broke out. I started it, of course. I was also the first one to holler uncle. The house had a fireplace, and the landlord or previous tenant had left some firewood by the side of the house on the covered patio, so I started a fire. Agnes made hot chocolate for everyone, and we drank the hot drink sitting around the kitchen table with rosy cheeks and happy smiles on our faces, while Agnes and Nora made some spaghetti sauce and boiled some noodles. Danielle made the garlic bread, and Robyn made a tossed salad. Gladys helped Piper set the table while Orville, Cory and I made sure the fire didn't go out. After a hearty meal, we roasted marshmallows over the coals in the fireplace using wire coat hangers as sticks and sang Home on the Range, a song we all knew. "Don't quit your day job," Robyn said to me, "to go out on a concert tour." I held my hand to my chest and said, "I'm crushed. Sitting relaxed in front of the fire, I said, "I don't have any memories, but if I did, I'm sure I never had a moving day that turned out as much fun as this one." I raised my mug of hot chocolate. "To each of you, one and all, thank you for making a normally miserable, taxing chore easy enough that we had sufficient energy left over when the chore was done to have some rousing, good fun! Thank you, my friends. Thank you!" "I'll drink to that," Piper said. After a large swallow chased by a charming little giggle, she wiped a hot chocolate mustache from her upper lip with the back of her hand. Thank heaven for little girls. I loved her so much at that moment that loving tears stung my eyes. ------- Our moving help had left for their various homes. Piper was in bed asleep, Agnes, too. It was late but I wasn't sleepy, and I couldn't play poker. I hadn't moved my internet connection to the new house, one of many chores on my to-do list that couldn't happen until Monday at the earliest. I'd tried to hijack an unprotected connection in the neighborhood but failed in the attempt, so I pulled out a roll of tracing paper and placed a sheet of the paper over a surveyor's drawing I'd commissioned on the land. The surveyor's rendition of the land was drawn to scale, so it gave me a good reference point to work on the footprint of the house and outbuildings I'd design for the ranch. This was my usual first step when creating a site plan, and as in most first steps, it was general in nature, indicating not the shapes of the structures or even their sizes, but rather their location relative to each other. I used labeled circles for each building, trying to get a feel of where I would place each structure on the land, and how each fit considering the flow of people, vehicles, and horses from one to the other. Once I had settled on a temporary configuration that I liked, I covered that piece of tracing paper with another and refined the design. I was on my fourth refinement when my cell phone rang. "Coach, I need your help," a male voice said. It took a second for me to put a name to the voice. "What's the problem, Larry?" "I'm at Barry's house. We had an end-of-season party, the football players and their girlfriends, but then others arrived, and the party got out of hand. Coach, I'll give you the details later. I'm in the basement at Barry's house. I came down to use the bathroom, and ... Coach, she might be dying. I don't know. Maybe an overdose. And Coach, ah ... she's naked. I think she's been raped, too. I know the girl; she's Shoshone, lives on the Terrace. She's a good girl, Coach. Doesn't drink. Knows better. I suspect foul play." "Are Barry's parents there?" "No, I don't know where they are." "Give me an address, Larry," I said. "I don't know the address; I just know where the house is. It's the Quint residence on Elysium Drive. You can't miss it. There must be thirty cars parked on the street. "Okay. Listen, first I'll call an ambulance, and then I'll leave to meet you." "If the police come, Coach, a lot of kids will get in trouble." "That's better than letting that girl die. What about you? Will you be numbered with the kids in trouble?" "I'm sober and clean. I'll be fine." "While waiting for the ambulance, try to make her vomit, get some of the drugs and booze out of her system." "I'll do that. Hurry, Coach. I'm going to be in a world of shit until you get here and take over the role of the bad guy that brought the wrath of Sheriff Ken down on a bunch of drunk and drugged-up high school students." I hung up without commenting on Larry's last statement, dialed 911, gave the operator my name, relayed the approximate location and nature of the emergency, threw on my coat, grabbed some gloves, jammed my Stetson on my head, and busted out the door. I turned back to the house after reaching the pickup, grabbed a broom, returned to the pickup and brushed the snow off the windshield and the other windows of the vehicle. Then I was good to go. Agnes stuck her head out the door and yelled, "Where you going, Coach?" "A student in trouble called me. I'll be a while." "Okay, drive careful," she said. Easy for you to say, I thought. ------- Chapter 10 When Larry Foreman heard a dial tone in his ear, he hung up the phone and looked nervously toward the bed where Mary Tendoy lay unconscious and drugged and naked. Larry had told Coach that he thought Mary Tendoy had been raped. There was no question about that. She'd been beaten as well as raped. Her face was bruised and bloody, bite marks marred her heavy breasts, and her sex was awash with semen, more semen that one man could produce, Larry figured. Mary Tendoy had been gang raped. After calling Coach, Larry had believed he could pull a sheet over Mary Tendoy's naked body and wait for Coach to arrive. But no, Coach did the right thing. The fucking boy scout said he'd call an ambulance. That bothered Larry on a number of levels. Number one, the gendarmes would arrive with the ambulance and all hell would break loose at the Quint residence. The county jail couldn't hold all the drunk and drugged-up teenagers celebrating in the house. Some of the teenagers would resist arrest and give some of the more vicious deputies an excuse to demonstrate how tough they were. Larry hoped Tiny Gorman wouldn't be among the responders. A year ago, Larry had been the recipient of Tiny's brutality, and Larry wanted to avoid a repeat of that incident at all costs. But not at the cost of Mary Tendoy's death, Larry told himself as he walked toward the bed. The fucking boy scout had been right about that, too. That was the second level bothering Larry. Calling an ambulance had been the right thing to do. Deep down Larry knew that, but Larry had called Coach instead of calling the ambulance himself. He'd sloughed off the responsibility, and because he'd tossed the ball to Coach when it was his to carry, Larry felt less of a man than he believed he was. But Coach hadn't completely absolved Larry of the responsibility to save Mary Tendoy. And that was the third level that bothered him. Mary was naked. To do what Coach told him to do to try to save her, Larry would have to touch her, and he'd never touched a naked girl. He'd touched his mother when she was naked and passed out drunk, he'd had no choice, but his mother wasn't a girl, a girl close to his age. With school, work, and taking care of his mother, Larry had not dated a girl. He wasn't a virgin. A friend of his mother had seduced him when he was sixteen. But as far as dating a girl, touching a girl his own age went, he was a virgin. Getting to know a girl was the reason he'd decided to attend the party. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he'd fantasized about touching a naked girl. But not this way, not a bruised and broken girl who had been repeatedly raped. "You've got it to do," Larry muttered out loud. "Do it." The top sheet on the bed had been pulled off and was lying in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. He grabbed it and wrapped it around Mary before he picked her up in his arms to carry her to the bathroom where he would put his fingers down her throat to try to make her throw up. She was dead weight, and Mary was not a slim girl. Like many Native Americans, she carried some extra weight, but Larry was strong, his upper-body strength adequate to the task. He laid her on the floor of the bathroom. The covering sheet was in disarray. He could see her large breasts again. He fumbled with the sheet to cover them, and then told himself to forget her nakedness and do what Coach told him to do. With effort, he arranged her so her head was over the toilet bowl, and then he opened her mouth and stuck a finger to the back of her throat. She gagged but didn't throw up. He pushed the finger in deeper. More gagging, and then she wretched. Vomit spewed. He made sure her airway passage was clear and stuck his finger in her mouth again. "Larry Foreman, what the hell are you doing?" a female voice said as Mary threw up the second time. He turned his head toward the voice and saw Helen Sanford. "Trying to make Mary throw up. She's unconscious and I think she overdosed on drugs, Helen. And she's been beaten and gang raped. I called Coach. He called an ambulance and is on his way here. He told me to try to make her throw up, try get some of the drugs she'd taken out of her system." "Eewew! That stinks," Helen said as she pulled a towel off the towel rack on the bathroom wall. She drenched one end to the towel with water in the sink and knelt by Larry. "I think she's thrown up all she can," Larry said. "All I get are dry heaves now." "Let me clean her up a little," Helen said as she reached and flushed the toilet. "Good idea," Larry said. "Take care of her. I need to tell Barry that the police will be knocking on his door momentarily." "Good luck on that. Barry is passed out in one of the bedrooms," Helen said. "I came down here to use the bathroom." "That's what I was doing when I saw Mary on the daybed. Is Cal still conscious?" "I think so. Go on. Warn him. He's your friend, and friends help friends." "Okay, and thanks, Helen. When the ambulance arrives, I'll bring the attendants down here." Larry took the stairs two at a time. At the top of the stairs, he heard sirens. They were close. He glanced around the living room. Barry wasn't the only reveler that had guzzled too many beers, or smoked too much pot. Ben Perkins was leaning over the glass coffee table. He had a rolled ten dollar bill in his hand, sniffing cocaine through the ten spot into his nostrils. Ben wasn't even a high school student. He was older, graduated two or three years ago, worked at one of the mines, if Larry remembered correctly. A few more men and women that didn't go to the high school sat or lay sprawled around the room. Some students, too, though. But Larry couldn't see Cal. Thinking Cal was in one of the bedrooms, Larry moved toward the hall that led to the bedroom wing of the house. That's when the ambulance arrived. It's siren whining one last time. Sorry, Cal, Larry thought, you're on your own. He hurried to the front door, threw it open, started to rush outside to greet the attendants, and ran into Tiny Gorman—literally. Running into Tiny Gorman was like running into a reinforced concrete retaining wall. As large as Larry was, he was smaller than Tiny. Every man in Ely was smaller than Tiny. Tiny stood unmoved and solid from the collision. Larry bounced. Then Tiny grabbed him. "Where you goin', boy?" Tiny growled. "To meet the ambulance," Larry said. "Not likely. Take the position, boy." "But..." Larry groaned with pain when Tiny's massive fist struck him in the kidney. "Resistin' arrest, huh? We'll see about that." Tiny pushed Larry into the house and mashed his face against the open front door, jerked one arm behind his back, cuffed that wrist, and then did the same with the other. "Come on, boy. You can sit this out in the cruiser while I sort out what's goin' on inside that house." The big deputy spun Larry around and pulled him through the front door. "I need to tell the ambulance attend ... whoof!" All the air left Larry's lungs when Tiny shammed his fist into Larry's stomach. It felt like the fist went deep enough to hit his backbone. In his struggle to regain his breath, Larry twisted away from Tiny. "Tryin' ta run, huh? That ain't goin' ta happen, not on my watch," Tiny hissed and hit Larry with a right cross. ------- There had to be six inches of snow on the roads. It was slow going, but I squelched the urge to drive the pickup faster because I feared I would slide off the road in the process. Then again, I wasn't altogether certain the pickup was on a road. I could be driving in an open field or across someone's winter-dead lawn for all I knew. What gave me hope were the tire tracks of another vehicle in front of me. I'm sure this body with the real John Windom behind the wheel knew how to drive in the snow. Windom had grown to manhood in Reno, a city nestled in the high Sierra Mountains where snow on the roads was normal during the winter months. Driving confidently in the snow would be second nature to the real John Windom. Aaron MacDonald was born and raised and lived in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona. The Aaron MacDonald in John Windom's body had little experience navigating the white stuff, uh-uh, make that no experience. And it was still snowing. I could see farther than the hood of the pickup, but not much farther. I'd studied an Ely street map while talking to the 911 operator, and I felt confident that I knew the location of Elysium Drive and the roads I should take to arrive at that street, but with the snow blurring and limiting my vision and blotting out any landmark reference points like street signs, I could very well be lost. Then out of the dark and the falling snow I saw the flashing lights of an emergency vehicle. Maybe I wasn't lost. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard of the truck. I'd been driving for thirty minutes, a trip that would have taken me ten minutes on dry roads. I could see no place to park, so I stopped the pickup in the middle of the street, hopefully the street was Elysium Drive, left the engine running and lights on, and stepped from the pickup. The emergency vehicle with flashing lights wasn't an ambulance. It was a police cruiser. At least the police have arrived, I told myself. Police are trained in emergency procedures for an overdose. The ambulance had probably been delayed by the snow, like I was. As I approached the house, I saw a very large man, a deputy sheriff I assumed by the uniform he wore, manhandling someone, one of the teenagers at the party intoxicated or high on drugs, I guessed. As I came closer I realized the teenager was Larry. "Tryin' ta run, huh? That ain't goin' ta happen, not on my watch," the deputy growled and threw a right cross, the meaty fist striking the side of Larry's face. Larry went down, and he was cuffed, I noticed when he fell and rolled on the snow. That should have been it. After Larry was handcuffed, he was under the deputy's control. The deputy had no business hitting the cuffed teenager. Then I watched aghast when the deputy picked Larry up. The big man was in the process of hitting Larry again when I stopped him. I grabbed his huge arm, used his unstable position against him, twisted his arm and took him to the ground. I didn't hit him. In a lethal situation, I would have taken him out with some fast blows to his kidneys, and when he turned kicked him in the balls, then kicked the side of one of his knees when he was falling, and finally hit him with two fast punches to his neck with the heel of my hand. After being mugged by two men while in college, I'd researched martial arts and selected krav maga as my method of self defense. Then I'd trained diligently for a number of years under a man who had learned krav maga from a member of Mossad in Israel. Krav maga devotees don't mess around. They take out their opponents quickly, without mercy, and permanently, whether the opponent is armed or unarmed. I didn't do that to the deputy. I'd merely stopped him from hitting Larry again, which was a mistake. With an animalistic roar, the deputy rose to his feet and came at me. He was huge, four inches taller than I, maybe more, and he had to weight over 300 pounds. He was big and strong, but my training in krav maga kicked in again, and when he swung at me, I ducked under the swing, grabbed the arm and threw him to the ground but not before kicking him in the nuts with the toe of my cowboy boot. That's when I felt a massive blow to my back and shoulder. I ignored the excruciating pain, turned slightly, saw the nightstick coming at me again, grabbed the wrist of the deputy swinging the weapon, twisted my body, took the nightstick from his hands and kicked the side of his knee. He went down screaming in pain. Most likely, I'd broken his leg. I had not pulled the kick. But the altercation wasn't finished. Another deputy came at me. He was no more adept than the other two, and not nearly as large. Like the others, he was soon writhing in the snow in pain clutching his side. I'd hit him three times on the left side of his torso as I took him down, probably breaking some ribs. I'd also dislocated his shoulder. The next deputy had more sense than the first three. He stood back, pointing a gun at me. He wasn't close enough for me to take the gun away from him, and his hands were steady, his stance in the snow balanced. "Move and you're a dead man," the man said. I didn't move. "You're under arrest for assaulting an officer of the law," the deputy said. He glanced at his fellow deputies still writhing prone in the snow. "Three of them." I said nothing. I did notice that another police cruiser was parked and empty in the street behind my pickup, and the ambulance was stopping behind the last cruiser. "Deputy," I said, "I'm Coach John Windom. The young man cuffed and beaten and lying in the snow is Larry Foreman, a student of mine. He called me about a half-hour ago, told me that there was a girl at the party that he thought might be dying, that she might have overdosed on drugs. He said she was unconscious and might have been raped, as well. I told Larry to stay with the girl, get her to throw up if he could, and that I'd drive to the party after calling an ambulance. When I arrived, that large deputy was beating Larry. The boy was handcuffed, completely controllable, but the brutal bastard was beating that boy. I stopped him. I didn't hurt him, but I stopped him. Then he attacked me. I took him down, and took him down hard the second time. Two more deputies came at me. I understand why. They were protecting a fellow officer, but my training kicked in, and I defended myself. Unless attacked, I'll give you no trouble. The ambulance has arrived to help the overdosed girl. She has to come first. Then I want the EMTs to check out Larry. He's still unconscious, probably concussed, maybe badly concussed, which could lead to swelling on his brain and his death. The big deputy hit him hard. What's your name?" "I'm Wade Cantrell. The Sheriff is on his way here. I'll let him sort out this mess." He chuckled. "That's why they pay him the big bucks. Until he arrives, I'll need to cuff you, Coach." "I understand. If you do, and that big sonofabitch attacks me again, I'll hold you responsible, though." "Shit! You're right. Okay, do I have your promise to stay calm and..." "Deputy Cantrell," I said, interrupting him, "I was calm when I took out those three men. I will promise you that I won't hurt or attack anyone unless I'm attacked." "That's good enough for me," Cantrell said and holstered his weapon. "Frankly, I don't want to get close enough to you to put on the cuffs." Larry groaned then, and rolled over. I walked to him, leaned over and said, "Larry, it's Coach. Where's the girl?" "Basement. Helen's with her." "Okay. Stay calm. The ambulance is here. I'll have them check you out after they check out the girl. Okay." "Yeah," he muttered. "Tiny..." "Tiny?" "A deputy sheriff ... big fucker..." I patted Larry's shoulder. "I know. I stopped him. Stay calm. You'll be all right now. I need to talk to the EMTs." I told the attendants the location of the overdosed girl and followed them into the house and down the stairs. We found Helen and the girl in the bathroom, and the EMTs took over. "Where's Larry?" Helen asked. "Outside. One of the deputies beat him unconscious." "Oh, no!" She exclaimed and rushed away. The Shoshone girl was in professional hands, so I followed Helen upstairs, noting for the first time that the girl in the basement bathroom wasn't the only unconscious body in the house. I didn't envy Sheriff Ken. Sorting out this mess wasn't going to be easy. When I stepped outside, I saw Helen cradling Larry's head in her lap. I also saw Sheriff Ken speaking with Deputy Cantrell. The sheriff didn't look happy. I couldn't blame him. Three of his men were down, and they were hurting. Besides damaged testicles, I anticipated some broken bones, a wrist maybe, some ribs, maybe a leg, and a dislocated shoulder. I pulled out my telephone and called Elizabeth. I had both her office and home phone in my phone's memory. "What?" a sleepy but angry voice demanded. "Sorry to wake you in the middle of the night, Elizabeth, but I'm in need of a lawyer." "Coach?" "Yes." "Like you said, it's the middle of the night. You didn't call me to form a new LLC or draft a purchase contract, and I don't do criminal work," she said. I chuckled. "Fair enough, can you give me the name and phone number of a defense attorney then?" "You're serious?" she said. "As a heart attack. I've been arrested for assaulting three officers of the law. I think some bones were broken, Elizabeth. Sheriff Ken can't give me a pass on this." "Your bones?" "No, the broken bones belong to the deputies that attacked me. I was defending myself, but I don't think that's a valid defense when the attackers are officers of the law." "Was one of them Tiny Gorman?" Elizabeth said. "Larry called one of them Tiny." I chuckled again. "I assume Tiny is a nickname, selected because Gorman is such a small man." She laughed. "Coach, you're incorrigible. Where are you?" "The Quint residence on Elysium Drive." "I know Tom Quint, and I know where he lives. I'll be there as soon as I can." "Drive carefully. There's a lot of snow on the roads, and thanks, Elizabeth. I owe you." "Yeah, you do. Bye." The sheriff walked up to me. "I hope you were talking to your lawyer because you need one, Coach. I have four deputies on my force in Ely. You assaulted and did bodily harm to three of them." "They need more training, Sheriff, mostly in how to interact with the public they're sworn to protect and serve." "Don't sass me, Coach. You're in a world of hurt. Turn around. I'm going to cuff you." I turned around. He cuffed me. "Cantrell, have you read this man his rights?" the sheriff said. "No." "Do it. I'll get the EMTs from the house to take care of my men." "The girl comes first," I said. "What?" Sheriff Ken said. "There's a girl in the basement of the house. She might be overdosed on drugs, and it's better than even odds that she was raped. I called that ambulance on the street in front of this house for her. She comes first. When the EMTs are finished with her, Larry Foreman comes next. When I arrived, the deputy laughingly referred to as Tiny was beating him while he was cuffed. I saw Tiny hit Larry with his massive fist. It was a powerful blow, Sheriff. Larry has to be concussed. Do you want to be responsible for a brain hemorrhage visited upon a teenager by one of your men while the boy had his wrists handcuffed behind his back? I think not. Larry comes second. I also want you to arrest Tiny for police brutality. I will be happy to inform the prosecutor in this county that I witnessed the brutality and will testify to the fact during a subsequent trial. Also, I noted a number of unconscious bodies inside that house. Most of them are probably merely passed out from too much booze, but one or more of them might be overdosed like the girl in the basement. Your men might have some broken bones and dislocated joints, but their lives aren't threatened. If I were you, I'd call out another ambulance, maybe two of them." The sheriff shook his head, either in amazement or disgust. I couldn't tell which. Maybe it was both. "Read him his rights, Wade," the sheriff said and stomped away. Wade was reading me my rights when I saw the sheriff enter the house. When Cantrell finished, I told him that I understood my rights and asked if I could stand by my injured student, who was sitting up now, I noticed. "Fine by me, Coach. I'd better help the sheriff. Do you promise not to run off?" "My attorney is en route, Deputy. One of my student's is injured. I'm not going anywhere." Cantrell walked away. I walked toward Larry and Helen, slipping a couple of times on the way. With all the feet tramping around the front yard, some of the snow was packed down and slippery, and being cuffed, I didn't enjoy my normal sense of balance. "How are you doing, Larry?" I said when I stood next to him. "Better. Why are you cuffed?" "I'm under arrest for assaulting some officers of the law," I said, smiling. Larry chuckled, and then groaned with pain. "Helen, please look at Larry's eyes. Are his pupils the same size or is one larger than other?" She looked. "One is larger than the other." "Larry, you have a concussion. You're conscious and lucid, though, so it probably isn't a serious concussion. However, you do need to be checked out by a doctor." "What about Mary? I made her throw up like you said, Coach. Twice. That's the best that I could do." "The EMTs are with her." "They're coming out of the house with her now," Helen said. I turned to see and almost fell down. "Damned cuffs," I muttered. The EMTs had the girl strapped on a gurney, but they were carrying the gurney, not pushing it. Pushing the gurney over the snow didn't work very well. I saw the sheriff walk back outside just as Tiny recovered enough to attack me again. Helen screamed a warning or the huge fist Tiny sent in my direction would have taken my head off. I ducked under the haymaker and kicked Tiny in the balls for the second time that night. Then I slipped and fell, landing on top of him with my back to his front. He stopped holding his balls long enough to wrap a huge arm around my neck. "I'll kill you, you fuck. This time, I'll kill you!" he hissed. I couldn't breathe. I knew I'd pass out soon unless I could break his hold, and if I passed out, he could kill me. If I weren't cuffed, I'd smash my elbow against his sternum to knock the wind out of him, but I didn't have a free elbow. My feet were free, though. I kicked one of his legs at the knee, kicking it outward; then I twisted my body, which wasn't easy with his arm around my neck, until my face was in front of his. His breath was sour, like rotting leaves. I hitched my back and slammed my knee into his crotch, smashing his balls yet again. If this kept up, having children wouldn't be in Tiny's future. With a bellow of pain, he released his hold on me enough that I could squirm out of his grasp and roll away, rolling twice to put some distance between us. I was trying to scramble to my feet when the sheriff arrived. No action on his part was needed. Tiny was out of it again. I stood up. "Christ on a stick! You took Tiny out, and you were cuffed," the sheriff said. "Like I told you, Sheriff, your men need more training. If you've got another pair of handcuffs, it might be wise to put them on Tiny. I don't think he's of a mind to protect and serve tonight." The sheriff shook his big head. This time I was positive the meaning behind the shake was amazement. He surprised me when he told Cantrell to cuff Tiny. "Not me," Cantrell said. "I ain't cuffing that big sonofbitch. No way, no how. If I try, he'll break me in half." "Gimmee your cuffs," the sheriff said and held out a hand. Cantrell unhooked the cuffs hanging from his utility belt. The sheriff took them, rolled Tiny over, grunting in the process, and cuffed the big man, which wasn't easy because Tiny didn't want to let go of his balls. "You're under arrest, Tiny. I suggest you say nothing because anything you say will be used against you." I looked up to the sound of a siren. The ambulance was leaving. "I called for another ambulance. Turn around, Coach." I turned around; he took the cuffs off me. "You're still under arrest until I sort this mess out," he said. "No problem. I understand," I said. "I'm willing to help you sort out the mess if you'll let me." He nodded. "Seems fair that you help. It's your fault three-fourths of my men are on the injured list." I saw Elizabeth jump out of her car. She stomped up to us and said, "Are you still under arrest?" "I am," I said. "As your attorney, I advise you to say nothing, admit nothing, and let me handle this," she said, her words sounding like bullets whizzing past my ears. I chuckled. "Did you learn that in law school?" She grinned. "No, from listening to Law and Order on television." The sheriff laughed heartily. "Elizabeth," I said, "I'm going to help the sheriff sort out the mess inside that house. Wanna help us?" "Sure," she said. "How about you, Larry? Are you going to be all right hanging out here with Helen until another ambulance gets here?" He looked at Helen and smiled. "I'll be fine, Coach, but it's cold and wet out here. How about helping me inside?" The boy made sense, so I helped him up. He was wobbly but didn't need much help to get him inside and sitting on a sofa. "Don't let him fall asleep, Helen," I said. "If he starts to fall asleep, wake him up. A concussed person can go into a coma and die if he goes to sleep." "I won't let him go to sleep," she said. "Let's bring your men in out of the cold, too, Sheriff," I said. I got lucky. The second man I took down did not have a broken leg or wrist, but his knee was bruised so badly he couldn't walk. I carried him inside and sat him next to Larry. The third man did indeed have a dislocated shoulder. He squealed in pain when I put it back in place. Without ex-rays, no one could be certain he didn't have some broken ribs. He didn't want me to carry him, so I threw the arm from the side opposite his sore ribs over my shoulder and walked him inside. The sheriff had to help me with Tiny. Neither of us could have carried the man. Hell, I don't think the two of us could have carried him, and the sheriff was almost as large as Tiny. Were they related? Tiny could walk, but he kept jerking away from me, telling me to leave him the fuck alone and demanding that Sheriff Ken arrest me for assaulting an officer of the law. The sheriff ignored him, and because I was more in the way than I was of assistance, I let the sheriff help Tiny hobble into the house. Another ambulance arrived. I relented on my demand that Larry be treated second, and the new EMTs checked the other unconscious bodies lying about, first in the living room and then in other rooms in the house. I found Barry unconscious in one of the bedrooms. A girl was with him, one of the cheerleaders. She was drunk but awake. I searched my current memory for her name and said, "Gail, is Barry just drunk, or has he been taking drugs, too." "Jus' drunk," she slurred. "Barry drinks but no drugs 'cep buds. Oops." She giggled. "Shouldana said that. I take it back." An EMT named Bill checked him anyway by shaking him awake. Barry opened his eyes and mumbled something, and then fell asleep again. "He'll be fine until he wakes up in the morning," Bill said. "How can you tell?" I said. "I could wake him up, and his breathing is deep. If you can't wake someone and their breathing is shallow, alcohol poisoning is possible." I nodded. "How do you know when someone has overdosed on drugs?" "Depends on the drug. Meth overdoses cause a sudden and dangerous increase in blood pressure and a rise in body temperature. Sweating occurs and the user might see spots in front of his eyes. With meth overdoses, a heart attack, stroke, or coma can happen." "Any meth overdoses here tonight?" "Not that I've seen. I talked to Phil, Coach. He's the driver for the other ambulance. The girl he took to the hospital was probably fed one of the date-rape drugs. She had a very bad reaction to whatever she took, probably an allergic reaction." "Will she make it?" "I ... I don't know, Coach, but my guess is she will. Date-rape drugs usually don't kill, but allergic reactions can. The young man who forced her to throw up might have saved her life." Way to go, Larry, I thought. "I don't think any of the people here tonight are overdosed on drugs," Bill said. "There's a possibility of alcohol poisoning, though, and there's ample evidence of drug use: marijuana, meth, cocaine, ecstasy, maybe some prescription pills. This was a typical teenage party: booze, sex, and drugs, mostly booze. Teenagers don't have a lick of sense. They don't believe they can die." "The young man who saved the girl has a concussion. Maybe you should check him out next." "Concussion! How did he get concussed?" "Tiny hit him." "Shit! Why didn't you tell me earlier?" "He's mobile, awake and lucid. I wanted you to check for overdoses first." I walked him to living room and pointed out Larry. "When you're finished with Larry, you might check out the three deputies in the room. Tiny might have some crushed testicles." "How did that happen?" Bill said. "He attacked me," I said. "As did the other two injured deputies. Frank's leg might be broken, but I think his knee is just bruised, but it's bruised badly enough that he can't walk on that leg. His wrist might be broken, too. When he hit me with his nightstick, I wasn't very careful when I took it away from him. Brad might have some broken or cracked ribs, but his breathing doesn't indicate broken ribs. I could be wrong about that. I also dislocated his shoulder. I put it back in place, though." The EMT stood stunned, but he quickly recovered. "Frank hit you with his nightstick?" "Yes, my back and shoulder are bruised," I said. "Check Larry first, please." The ambulance that had taken Mary Tendoy to the hospital returned for another load, and the EMTs carted Larry, Tiny, Frank, Brad, and a young man I didn't know away. The young man, I was told, was not attending White Pine High. Before the deputies left, the sheriff interviewed them. All but Tiny told the truth. Cantrell backed me up during his interview, which made a liar out of Tiny, and I was unarrested, if unarrested is a word. Elizabeth left after telling me she didn't mind coming out to help me in the middle of the night. "I wouldn't have missed this for anything. I just wish I'd been here to see you take out Tiny Gorman," she said, kissed me on the cheek, and drove away. Helen wanted to ride with me to the hospital to check on Larry and Mary Tendoy. "I called my dad. He said I could go but only if I rode with you," she said. I didn't get home until eight o'clock that morning. The hospital released Larry, and I drove him and Helen to their homes. I was told that Mary Tendoy would recover. She had indeed been fed a date-rape drug, and she'd been raped by at least two men. The doctor suspected the lab and DNA findings would indicate three or four men raped her, not two. There was no evidence of alcohol or another drug in her system. I hoped the sheriff could determine who administered the date-rape drug and identify the men who raped her. They were despicable human beings. Mary's parents were at the hospital when we arrived. They thanked Larry and me for saving their daughter's life. "I did very little," I said. "Larry did the heavy lifting. He's a decent young man, worthy of your praise." And before the night ended, Larry Foreman had found a girlfriend. Of course, Helen had also found a boyfriend. ------- Chapter 11 The phone calls started shortly after I arrived home. I didn't take the calls, though. Agnes assumed that distasteful duty. I went to bed. From what Agnes told me after I woke up, most of the callers basically had one question: "Did I really whip Tiny Gorman in a fair fight?" I looked at Agnes and said, "I walk away from fights and attack only when I or someone I care for is attacked. When I'm forced to fight, I don't fight fair. I fight to win." I glanced through the pile of message slips Agnes had accumulated, and returned Sheriff Ken's call first. "Good morning, Sheriff, it's Coach." "This is not a good morning, Coach. This is a lousy morning. I've yet to get any sleep. I called to ask you if you were going to press charges against Tiny and the other two deputies that attacked you?" "I don't have a beef with Frank or Brad. They were merely protecting a fellow officer. I hurt them in self defense, and I apologized to them last night. Do they have a beef with me?" "No," the sheriff said. "What about Tiny?" "Are you going to keep him on your force?" "Got to. He's a first cousin, my mother's sister's boy. If I fire him, he'll end up killing someone and end up in prison. Believe it or not, when I'm around, he's a pretty good cop." "In that case, I will press charges," I said. The sheriff sighed and said, "Drop by the station and swear out your complaint. Any time today will be okay." "Is Larry Foreman pressing charges?" "He said he'd follow your lead." I reconsidered my position. The last person I needed as an enemy in this town was its sheriff. "Okay, here's the deal and it's the only deal I'll offer you. Larry and I won't press charges, but my attorney will take our depositions about what happened last night. If I hear that Tiny has brutalized another citizen, whether the citizen is guilty of a crime or not, those depositions will come out of her file, and we'll initiate a civil suit against Tiny. You and Deputy Cantrell will be called to testify at that trial. Tiny will lose, and we'll take any assets he has and garnishee his wages to the fullest extent of the law to satisfy the damages awarded. The press in this town, such as it is, will have a field day with the trial. That's number one. Number two, Larry has some medical bills he can't pay. Tiny has to pay them. Number three, Tiny has to stand in front of Larry and me, describe what he did to Larry, admit to the crimes he committed as an officer of the law, and then apologize. My attorney will be present for the apology; the apology will be recorded, and Sheriff, if the apology isn't sincere and honest, all bets are off." "Holy molly, Coach! You are a hard man." He paused; I could hear the deep breath he took. "Okay. I'll talk to Tiny and call you back. I will say this. If he refuses your deal, I'll fire his fat ass." I laughed. "I'm happy then with either way it goes. How's Mary Tendoy?" "I knew you would ask me about her, so I called the hospital a while back. The doc told me that she was being released today." "That is good news. Any suspects as to the creep who fed her that date-rape drug?" "Yes, after you left, I took each person at that party into a room and put the fear of God in them. They'd all committed crimes. They either talked or were charge with the crimes. They caved. A man named Ben Perkins administered the date-rape drug; he was also dealing and using cocaine at the party. He's not a student at the high school. He graduated two years ago. I also got the names of the boys who raped her. Ben was first, of course. Another graduate named Pete Osceola took the second turn, and—you're not going to like the next name." "Spit it out, Sheriff," I said. "Calvin Jensen." "Shit," I murmured. "I have Perkins and Osceola in custody, but I've yet to locate Cal." "Cal deserves everything he has coming to him. Any man who will rape a woman is a despicable human being; that the woman is a sixteen-year-old, drugged and helpless girl, makes Cal worse than despicable. He's also a bully and a sexist, Sheriff. I spoke with him about those negative traits, and I thought I'd gotten through to him. Damned shame, that's what it is. Another young life down the shitter." "Larry Foreman was headed down the same shitter, Coach. You saved Larry," the sheriff said. "Take pride in that." "I do, and thanks for reminding me that I don't always fail. I needed that. Larry might know Cal's whereabouts." "I won't ask him to give up his friend, Coach. Cal will show up." "You're a good man, Sheriff Ken Hansen. I'm proud to know you." "Ditto, Coach." We said goodbye, and I hung up. My phone rang before I could make the next call. "Hello," I said. "Coach John Windom?" "Speaking," I said. "My name is Owen Gardner. I'm a reporter for the Ely Times. Do you have a minute?" "That depends on what you'd like to talk about. If it's about the Bobcat's win Friday night, I'll give you more than a minute. If it's about what happened last night, what I have to say won't take two seconds." "I called about last night," he said. "No comment," I said. Then I changed my mind. "Wait, I do have something to say about last night. Not much happened last night that is worthy of praise, but not everything that happened should be condemned, either. A courageous young man saved a girl's life last night. He should be praised." "Are you referring to Larry Foreman?" "I won't name names, Mr. Gardner, except one. The citizens of this county we're wise to elect Ken Hansen as their sheriff. He's an honest, capable man who believes in the rule of law and administers the responsibility of his office in an effective and appropriate manner. You can quote me on that. Otherwise, about last night, no comment?" "I understand you were responsible for saving the young woman's life last night," Gardner said. "You were misinformed," I said. "I was also informed that Tiny Gorman attacked you and that you took him down hard." "No comment." "I was also informed..." "No comment, Mr. Gardner. I've given you all the information I'll give you about last night's unfortunate circumstances. Goodbye." I hung up and dialed Danielle's home number. She answered my call on the first ring. "Are you all right, John?" she said. "A bruised and painful back and shoulder but otherwise I'm fine, Danielle. How are you this fine morning?" I heard a sigh of relief. "I'm fine now. Most men who go up against Tiny Gorman don't come out of it with only a bruised back and shoulder." "Tiny didn't hurt me, Danielle. Frank, another deputy, hit my back with a nightstick." "The town grapevine is saying that you had a fight with Tiny, not Frank." "I did have a fight with Tiny. Frank and Brad, another deputy, jumped in to help Tiny." "Oh." She snickered and said, "The grapevine sucks." I laughed. "Grapevines rarely get a juicy story right, Danielle." "I've got some Arnica homeopathic cream. It's supposed to be good for bruises. Want me to come over and rub some of it on your back and shoulder." Feeling Danielle's hands on my bare flesh sounded like the best idea I'd heard that morning. "Sure," I said. "I'm on my way." The dial tone when she hung up let me dial the next number listed in my messages. "Hi, Robyn, it's Coach. You called?" "Are you all right?" "I'm fine. How about you? Are you all right?" "Of course." Silence, then she got it. "Very funny, Coach. I heard you tangled with Tiny Gorman last night. I also heard you took him down, not once but twice, and the second time you were cuffed." She laughed. "That was so unbelievable I decided to call to find out if you were all right. Evidently, I was misinformed." "Actually, Robyn you weren't misinformed. Your grapevine is better than Danielle's." "Huh?" "I have a bruised back and shoulder. Danielle thought Tiny caused the bruise, but Frank, another deputy, caused the bruise when he hit my back with his nightstick." "My grapevine didn't say anything about Frank. What happened to Frank?" "They released him from the hospital last night. He's on crutches. Fortunately, I didn't break his leg, just bruised his knee and sprained his wrist. Brad, a third deputy, fared better than Frank or Tiny. Tiny will sound like a soprano for a few days; Brad has some bruised ribs, but his shoulder wasn't damaged very much. I dislocated it when I threw him. I put it back in place later, though." Cut it out. You're having way too much fun with this, I told myself. "Robyn," I said, "Tiny was brutalizing Larry Foreman when I arrived at a teenage party last night. Larry was cuffed at the time. I stopped Tiny. Frank and Brad decided Tiny needed help, so they joined the altercation. I stopped them, too. End of story. Okay?" "No it isn't. You said my grapevine was accurate. You only mentioned taking Tiny down once." "He recovered and tried again," I said. "And you were cuffed at the time?" "Yes." "You whipped Tiny Gorman with your hands cuffed behind your back?" "Yes. He almost took me the second time. For a few seconds, he had me in a headlock." She said nothing. I waited. "You're telling me the truth?" she said. "Yes." "You used the martial art form you said you knew against them, didn't you? Krav maga, I think you called it." "Yes." "I wanna learn krav maga, Coach," she said. I chuckled. "Robyn, I know how to use krav maga; I don't know how to teach it." "Damn!" she huffed. "Is there anything else, Robyn? I have about a hundred phone calls to return this morning." "Yes, I have another question. Why were you cuffed, and who put the cuffs on you?" "That's two questions." "Answer me, dammit!" "I was cuffed because I was under arrest for assaulting three officers of the law. Sheriff Ken put the cuffs on me." "Did the Sheriff put you in jail?" I laughed. "No, a little later, he unarrested me." "Unarrested isn't a word," she said. "I wondered about that. What's the real word that means unarrested?" "Coach, sometimes you can be maddening. Has anyone ever told you that?" "Just you. Answer a question for me. Are guidance counselors considered shrinks?" She laughed. "Why do you ask?" "Because shrinks answer a question with a question," I said. "Maddening," she mumbled, then giggled. "I'm happy you're all right, Coach. When I heard you tangled with Tiny Gorman, I was worried about you." "I like it that you were worried about me, Robyn." We hung up and I dialed another number. "Good morning, Orville." "Coach! Are you all right?" I couldn't help it; I laughed out loud. Orville's grapevine contained less accuracy than Danielle's and Robyn's. I corrected the inaccuracies with a brief outline of what had actually happened. "I'm happy you're okay," he said. "I was worried about you. Listen, I helped you learn about football. How about helping me learn how to win playing Texas hold 'em?" "Huh?" "I've been playing hold 'em online without gambling real money, of course, but I'm not winning. I'm good with math, so I know all the odds. Still, I lose more often than I win. How about I watch you play a tournament, and you can give me tips while you play?" "Have you read some books or articles that presented expert advice on how to play the game?" "I have. I've done extensive reading on the subject." "And you play by the book, so to speak," I said. "I do, but I still don't win. Oh, I win but not enough to gamble using real money." "Is that your goal, Orville? Are you saying you want to become a professional gambler?" "Yeah, I guess I am, on a part-time basis anyway. I'd never give up teaching, Coach. Teaching is my life, but some extra income would come in real handy. Gladys and I don't need much, but $300 a week would provide a retirement for us down the road and let us travel a little." "How large is your bankroll?" "I'll start small and build it up?" he said. "That won't work," I said. "Pick a number, an amount you're willing to risk that won't hurt you if you lose, and if you lose it, you'll be able to save the same amount and try again, and again, until you're experienced enough to win consistently." "Is that what you did?" "Yes, and still do," I said. "Do you play by the book?" Orville said. "I play hold 'em assuming all my opponents play by the book. During the first few hands I play by the book, then for a while, I use the book against the other players. After a while, I revert and play tight, moving back and forth on my style of play depending on the cards until it's a short-player game, at which time I switch back to using the book against the one or two players left, but on selected hands I switch again. But this explanation is a vastly simplified description of my method of play. If you think about it, the method also implies that for me to succeed I must know the book as good as or better than my opponents." "Did you learn this method by reading a book?" I laughed. "No, if that was the case, I'd be playing by the book all the time. You didn't answer my question, and an answer is critical. How much are you willing to lose that you can replenish so you can try again?" "I'll have to think about that. I'd still like to sit with you while you play a tournament." "All right, but it will have to be late one night next week. Like the dumbbell I am, I didn't think to move my internet connection to the new house. I can't get it moved until tomorrow at the earliest." "Would you play today if you had the connection?" "I would." "How about you and Piper joining us for dinner, and afterwards you can play using my connection? Gladys will play mother with Piper while you play hold 'em and I watch." Agnes would probably appreciate the evening off, I thought. Then I remembered that Sunday was her day off anyway. "Okay, what time?" "Six o'clock." "We'll be there. Gotta go, Orville. I've got I lot of calls to return. Everyone wants to know if I whipped Tiny Gorman in a fair fight." He laughed and said goodbye. Agnes was delighted about the evening off. "I have two lady friends. We'd planned to go out to dinner this evening, but I would have stayed if you needed me," she said. I didn't finish returning many calls before Danielle showed up to rub cream on my back and shoulder. She looked delicious wearing a wife-beater t-shirt, no bra, and a worn pair of blue jeans tucked into a pair of well-used cowboy boots. As much as I'd been looking forward to feeling her hands on my skin, I decided I'd prefer rubbing her cream on her, but not on her back. I had more interesting rubbing targets in mind. Agnes had made a tuna salad for lunch, so we ate before Danielle and I retired to my bedroom where I could stretch out on my stomach while she applied her cream to my back. I left the door open so I wouldn't be tempted to voice my preference about who should to the rubbing and where and risk Danielle offering to satisfy my preference. I might be slow, but I'm not stupid. I'd known for some time that Danielle was as attracted to me as I was to her, and a week or so after the memorial service, we'd give our attractions full rein to gallop to the finish line. "The boots have to go," Danielle said with a mischievous grin. "I'll pull yours off if you'll do the same for me." "Tit for tat, huh?" I said as my eyes focused on her chest. She blushed. I liked it that she blushed. The blush offered evidence of the degree of innocence I preferred in a woman. "I said we'd both lose our boots, buster. The only person in this room that will lose a shirt is you," she said with a grin. "Spoilsport," I said as I sat on a chair and stuck out my right leg. She straddled my leg, got a good grasp on the heel of my boot, and I placed my other boot on her sexy backside. She pulled, I pushed, and the boot left my foot with a whoosh. I changed feet, and she soon tossed the other boot on the floor. Taking off her boots wasn't as interesting for me as her taking off my boots. When I removed my shirt, she gasped and said, "Oh, John, that's got to hurt." "Ibuprofen works—mostly," I said. After I settled face down on the bed and she straddled my upper thighs, I felt pressure in my crouch. The situation was more intimate than the fantasy that flashed through my mind when she'd first offered to rub cream on my back. "How tender are you?" she said. "I don't know. I tested my shoulder earlier. It's sore but most of the pain resides in the back, and because I'm not a practitioner of yoga, I can't reach the bruised portion of my back. Just do your thing. If it hurts, I'll cry. If I don't cry, you'll know you're not hurting me." "Yeah, right. Why can't I picture you crying, Coach?" "Hey, I cry—you know, sad movies and books, great achievements, or real heroism, those sorts of things. I'm a sentimental guy and sucker for romance." I yelped when the cold cream touched my back. "Don't be such a baby. That couldn't have hurt you," she said. I chuckled. "It didn't hurt. The cream is cold." "Oh. I'm sorry; I should have warmed the cream with my hands." Then I felt her hands on my skin. She'd obviously warmed the cream with her hands, and she had a gentle touch. I kept imagining our positions reversed, except I'd use a gentle touch to rub cream on her luscious breasts. My blue jeans tightened another notch. I groaned with passion and frustration. "Am I hurting you?" she said. "No, that was a groan of pleasure. You have good hands, gentle but not too gentle." Her hands wandered, leaving the bruise to rub other areas of my back and neck. My fantasy blossomed. Danielle had not only removed her t-shirt, but had also wiggled out of her jeans. That vision in the theater of mind took my arousal higher. When she lost her panties, I could see another flower blossoming. The pedals of the flower were puffy and damp, and I wanted to whiff their fragrance and taste the nectar. Argh! This wasn't working. I was getting too excited. I killed the fantasy with an ugly picture and just enjoyed her hands on me. "You have a great male body, Coach, good muscle definition without being muscle bound." I felt her hands leave my back and she moved upright, resting on her heels and my lower thighs. "All done. Would you like me to do your front?" "Yes, but I'll pass," I said. "Why?" "Because your hands on me, not to mention that you're astraddle me, produced sexy fantasies—and a normal male response to the arousing visions." She laughed—wickedly. Silence ensued then until with a soft, sultry voice she said, "You're hard; I'm wet. Perhaps we should do something about this very normal condition between a man and woman who are attracted to each other." "Do you get noisy?" "I'll bite a pillow." "Close the door," I growled. I rolled over after she moved off the bed. She closed and locked the door, turned and looked at me, her eyes focusing on the bulge in my jeans, and then peeled off her t-shirt. Her breasts were even more magnificent than I imagined, not large, but then I've never preferred oversized breasts like many men. Hers were proportional to her body, and they stood high and proud, her dark nipples pointing slightly up. "Perfect," I gushed. She palmed them. "You like?" "Very much," I said. "While I was touching you, I wanted your hands on me." Her fingers tweaked the nipples, and they hardened. "Like this." Her small groan of passion was audible. "Your lips, too, mostly your lips." She closed her eyes. "And tongue." "Come here. Your urges match mine. We'll satisfy our urges." "Uh-uh, get naked. I have another urge, a more powerful urge." While I stripped off my jeans and boxers, she removed her jeans and panties. She had an easier time of it. She was standing; I was lying on my back. Besides, women are more graceful undressing than men. It's their nature. "You are beauty and style melted into a girl-next-door look," I said when she stood naked in front of me. "Thank you. You, sir, are an honest-to-goodness hunk." She moved gracefully onto the bed. Men can't do that, either. Woman can, but not all women. She pushed my legs apart, reached and grasped my erection with her dainty hand. "This was the more powerful urge I mentioned," she said as her open mouth descended and then closed around me. My brain turned into mush, and from that moment forward I don't believe the exquisite sensations that washed over me are describable using mere words. While we made love, we were at times serious and intense, and at other times we laughed and had fun. Danielle was delightful, honest and open with her feelings and about telling me what she wanted. That she could project innocence while being naked and moving under me was startling. On the other hand, she could also be naughty, or even nasty, when the moment called for naughty or nasty. Those times happened more often when I was under her and she was moving over me. She was adept at dirty talk without sounding jaded or coarse but rarely talked dirty. Neither of us was nervous or shy. I couldn't remember a better first time with any woman, and the afternoon had to be numbered in the top five sexual experiences of my life. ------- --As it turned out, we should have explored our basic personalities and approaches to living to see if they meshed before we explored each other's bodies. ------- Orville was an excellent mathematician, but he'd never be a good poker player. He had learned the rules. In fact, I was astounded at how thorough he'd learned the game, and how he could calculate the various odds in his head like a computer. He even knew the different rules for playing early, middle, late, or blind positions on the table, which are beyond most beginners. Unfortunately he had no instincts for the flow of the cards or reading his opponents' styles of play. He could tell me the different types of players, like loose, or tight, or bully, but he couldn't put a label on any of the opponents that sat at the virtual poker table with me that evening. I think he could have learned the patience needed to excel at poker, but he'd never acquire the nerve it took to bluff successfully, or even to go all-in when an all-or-nothing bet was warranted. If the cards went his way, he might win at the tables, but not consistently, and he'd never win a tournament. However, Orville was my friend, and friends helped friends. "Orville, when you need a plumber, do you hire one?" I said after I lost the tournament I played to demonstrate my method of playing a hold 'em poker tournament. Fortunately, I'd won $1,200 at the tables before plunking down $1,000 to play a tournament, so at that point I enjoyed an $80 gain. "Yes, I know nothing about plumbing," he said. With a self-deprecating snort, he added, "This is true about any handyman skill, which upsets Gladys. Her father was a farmer, as are her brothers. They can fix anything. Early in our marriage, my lack of skill as a handyman was a source of turmoil between us." "Did you decide how much you could afford to lose for your initial bankroll?" "Yes, I discussed this with Gladys. We can afford $500." "You mentioned earlier that your income goal from poker was $300 per week, correct?" "Yes. By my calculations, with an extra $300 a week, we can retire comfortably when I turn 65, and have enough to enjoy retirement and do a little traveling." "Okay. Here's the deal. Write a check to me for $500 for services, just like you would if you hired a plumber. I'll use the money to buy into a tournament right now under a new alias. If I win, I'll set aside the gain to play additional tournaments for you. If I lose, I'll invest an additional $500 from my own account to buy into another tournament, and so on until I win. Once I win, I'll set aside the net gain for future tournaments that I'll play for you. In this manner, I'll guarantee you $500 per week as long as I continue to play poker. Think of me as a plumber. My fee for this service will be the net gain over $500 per week I win playing poker with the new alias." "That's not fair," Orville said. "Maybe not, I know I'll earn a lot more than $500 a week with your bankroll, but I won't work cheaper, Orville." "No, that's not what I meant. I mean the deal isn't fair to you." I laughed. "You might not agree when I put $4,000 in my pocket tonight if I win the tournament with your money. The deal comes with some catches. One, you and Gladys can't tell anyone about the deal. If you do, the $500 per week stops. Number two, don't come to me later and try to increase the amount you want to earn per week. The deal starts and ends at $500 per week. Number three, you must pay taxes on the income. I'll explain the deal to my accountant. I'll pay taxes on the fees I earn from the deal, and he'll send you a 1099 on the income you make from the deal. Do we have a deal or not?" "Gimmee a minute to talk to Gladys," he said. While waiting for him, I set up a new alias and registered for a $5,000 tournament. Gladys returned to the room with him. "This isn't right, Coach," she said. "I know, but as I told Orville, I won't work cheaper." She shook her head and groaned. "Is it a deal or not, Gladys?" She looked at Orville; he nodded; she said, "It's a deal." "Write me a check for $500," I said. She wrote the check and handed it to me. I won the tournament, wrote a check to them for $500, and said, "How do you feel about the $4,000 I just put in my pocket? Do you resent the fact that I just earned eight times what you earned?" "No, of course not," Orville said. "May I assume our agreement stands?" I said. "Yes. Coach, watching you play tonight made me realize that I don't have the personality or instincts needed to win consistently enough to make money at the game." "Okay, I'll use the $4,000 I earned tonight as the bankroll to fund our deal. My accountant will cut a check for you every Monday for $500, and I'll retain any gain beyond that amount. Remember, don't tell anyone about the deal; don't try to increase the weekly payout beyond $500, and you must pay any taxes that accrue on your income." "We'll keep our end of the deal, Coach. We'd be fools not to." ------- I was at loose ends. I'd just read Piper a story and she was in bed asleep. Agnes was still out with her friends. I played hold 'em at Orville's house and wasn't in the mood to buy into another tournament, couldn't anyway with no internet connection. I'd showered and shaved, and Danielle would knock on my door at any moment. She was coming over to talk, she said when she called, not to spend the night, but I suspected we would adjourn to my bedroom for some more fun and games before the evening ended. What did I do? I sat on the sofa and turned on the boob tube, the small set I owned that I'd moved from the old house. Gotta get me one of those flat screen TVs, a big one, I mused, as I flipped through the stations, checking out the 24-hour news stations. I stopped briefly on CNN. They were reporting on the National Transgender Day of Remembrance in San Francisco, so I moved to FOX News. Some talking heads were debating the pluses and minuses of Rudy Giuliani as a possible presidential candidate. "More my speed than Transgender Day," I said to myself. I liked how Giuliani handled the aftermath of 9/11, and from what I knew about him, I believed he would make a pretty good president. His politics matched mine better than any of the other Republican candidates. As Aaron MacDonald I'd registered Republican, but I wasn't a member of the conservative right. Oh, I was a fiscal conservative, but socially I was more moderate. I didn't oppose stem-cell research, gay marriage, or any marriage that any two or more individuals wanted to fashion, and other than partial-birth abortions, which I opposed vehemently, I believed in a woman's right to choose. I was wondering what political party the real John Windom espoused when I heard the doorbell ring. After I helped Danielle out of her winter coat, she gave me a kiss and asked if I had any white wine. "Probably not, but let me look. I don't drink alcohol, but Agnes might have stocked some wine for guests." I looked. "No wine of any kind," I said loudly from the kitchen. "How about some white grape juice?" "That'll be fine," she said. "Why are you watching FOX News?" "What?" I poured the juice in a glass and carried it into the living room. "FOX News. Why are you watching FOX News?" "CNN was reporting on the National Transgender Day of Remembrance in San Francisco." I handed her the juice. "FOX had some talking heads discussing Giuliani's chances of becoming the Republican nominee for president. Which station would you choose?" She laughed and said, "Neither." Politics is a dangerous topic for discussion. I knew that, but I plunged into the perilous waters anyway. "Got a preference for the next president?" "Hillary," she said. "I'm a volunteer to work on her campaign here in Ely. What about you?" "A while back Robyn told me I belonged to the teacher's union. I don't know why, but I don't like unions. I didn't want to belong to the teacher's union. My attitudes regarding unions might be memories, but they didn't feel like memories. When you asked me about my preference for the next president, I thought of Giuliani. I could be wrong, but I think his politics match mine better than..." Looking at me like I was a baby killer, she said, "You're a Republican?" I chuckled. Then I remembered I wasn't supposed to remember my political preference and said, "I don't know. Regardless, I think the voters in this country are about evenly split between Republicans and Democrats. Why would you be surprised to find one standing in front of you? The odds are about 50/50. Besides, I have a feeling I lean more to the right than the left." She groaned and said, "Sounds like we've got some political arguments ahead of us." I said, "That's for sure. Danielle, if we're on opposite ends of the political sphere, we probably have some other differences of opinion that we should lay on the table, if only to avoid talking about them to steer clear of some heated arguments." I sighed. This could get ugly. "I guess we'd better find out now. I'll go first. Regarding Hillary Clinton, I can't think of anything nice to say about the woman. I consider her a liar and an opportunist. Are you a Bush hater?" She was, and that started the discussion that quickly exposed areas where we not only differed but also were poles apart. I was a hawk regarding radical Islam and the war on terror; Danielle was a dove—period. She was also a card-carrying member in the Sierra Club, and a few other environmental organizations and had bought into the global warming scare hook, line and sinker. She praised me for my intent to install wind turbines at the ranch to produce my own electricity and thereby reduce my "carbon footprint". I told her that I'd look into the economics of wind turbines before proceeding. They probably wouldn't be feasible because power lines sagged from poles along Great Basin Highway in front of my property. I believed in doing my part to keep the planet green, our air clean, and our water pure, but I wasn't rabid about it, like Danielle. As Aaron MacDonald, I'd researched the pros and cons of global warming and decided devotees like Gore, the liberal media, and the even more liberal intelligentsia who pretty much controlled our universities exaggerated the threat to a ridiculous extreme for their own self interests. To my mind, they were far worse than the oil companies. I wanted to establish some control over the illegal immigrant problem and was all for building a very tall fence on our southern border. If a fence was built, Danielle said that she'd join an organization that would tear it down. I believed we should build more nuclear power plants, drill for oil in Alaska and off our shores where oil deposits waited to be brought to the surface, and build more refineries to reduce our reliance of foreign oil, most of which was controlled by radical Islam, who referred to the United States as the Great Satan and wanted to kill us. She was opposed to oil drilling, refineries, and nuclear power. No surprise there. She was an environmentalist. That she used yoga should have clued me into her involvement in the new age life style. She believed strongly in holistic medicine and consumed an amazing number of natural supplements every day. She'd eat fish and dairy products, but wouldn't eat red meat, and was seriously considering becoming a vegetarian. I liked a beef steak about any time. She was superstitious; I wasn't. She enjoyed jungle and whale sounds, ambient, and trance music, and what she called binaural beat generated sounds designed to alter brainwaves to bring about states of happiness, creativity and relaxation. I liked country music and Elvis Presley. When we finally finished what was probably only a partial list of our life style differences, we looked at each other in silence until Danielle voiced my thoughts. "I don't think you and I are going to work as a couple," she said. I acknowledged my agreement with a nod but said nothing. "Where do we go from here?" she said. "I haven't a clue," I said. "Probably nowhere, not as a couple." "As different as we are, I'd still like for us to be friends, Coach," she said. "My sentiments exactly," I said. She chuckled. "At least we agree on something." We both turned to the sounds of the front door opening. Agnes walked into the house and said, "Don't mind me, folks." "No problem, Agnes. I was just leaving," Danielle said. "No need to run," Agnes said. "I was going to fix myself a cup of hot chocolate. Stay and I'll fix a cup for the two of you, and then I'll fade into the woodwork." "No, it's late, and I have..." She looked at me. "Do you still want me to help with those kids?" "Were you helping them just for me, or..." "That was my initial motive," she said interrupting me. "Now I want to help because I'm doing some good, especially with Nora." I smiled. "Then I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning." At the door, she looked at me with such longing that I couldn't resist kissing her goodbye. "Goodbye, Big John," she said. "It's a shame we're the way we are. I think I could have fallen in love with you." She had tears in her eyes when she turned away from me and hurried to her car. ------- Chapter 12 The aliens were taking Grace away at night. Were they taking her away because she was enjoying sex with him in the quiet dark hours of the night? No, that didn't seem logical to him. What was more logical to him was that they taking Grace away at night to do unspeakable things to her, to perform more experiments on her mind and body? Their experiments had already destroyed her mind. It was obvious to him that the attempt to transfer another mind into her body had gone awry. She was like a half-person, less than half, alive but without a mind. No, that wasn't right. Part of her mind still remained in her body, but not enough, not nearly enough. The transfer didn't take, he decided. The new mind died, leaving only a fraction of her old mind in her body. That was it. Pride washed over him, and he sat up straighter and squared his shoulders. He'd figured it out, figured out why Grace was the way she was. "Aaron," one of the aliens said, "open your mouth." He didn't like the sound of that. He pursed his lips tightly and clenched his teeth. The big alien reached out and squeezed his jaw. He didn't have a choice. He opened his mouth. The alien swabbed the inside of his mouth with a q-tip, an alien q-tip. Alien q-tips were much larger than human q-tips. Was the q-tip medicated? Would the drug on the q-tip put him to sleep like their needles? Maybe it was poisoned. Suddenly, an appalling stench spread his nostrils. He gagged, but controlled the urge to vomit, swallowing excess saliva and his nausea. The revolting stink of rotting human flesh grew stronger and stronger until he couldn't breathe through his nose. He gasped in air through his mouth, sucking air in, blowing it out, like a carp on a riverbank out of the water. The stink filled the air when he thought of poison. Poison? Was his body telling me something? Was the q-tip poisoned? He gagged again, and this time he allowed his roiling stomach to spew up its contents. The vomit splashed onto the alien's thick-soled shoes, and furious, the alien cursed and stomped away. John smiled wickedly as the vile viscous liquid from his stomach drooled from the corners of his mouth and dripped off the tip of his chin. Fooled them again, he said silently. He, he. Fooled 'em. Foiled their poison plot. Tossed the poison right back at 'em. He, he. I'm smarter than any fuckin' alien ever born. If they're born. Maybe they're hatched, come out of eggs like stinkin' chickens or lizards. Or pods, like peas. Pod aliens. Pod people. He, he. Maybe they come from trees like fruit. Fruit aliens. Apple aliens. No, avocado aliens. Even better, pollinated people. He, he. He preferred pollinated people for its alliteration, and after that he thought of the aliens as pollinated people, PP, for short, finally believing that's what they were. ------- "That's the last of the men in the ward," Broderick Dalton said to Leah Mullen. Dalton was a hospital orderly. He didn't work on Mullen's ward. He worked for the hospital's head of security, Hank Patrick. "MacDonald threw up on my shoes." "He does that a lot. He thinks he smells rotting human flesh, and the smell makes him sick. He's hallucinating, of course, a classic symptom of paranoid schizophrenia," Mullen said. "Swabbing the sick men on this ward for DNA samples was a waste of time. None of them are capable of raping a woman, not with the meds they take every day." "Well, it's done anyway. I'll go clean up and deliver the swabs to Hank." "What else is Hank Patrick doing to identify the rapist?" she said. "Don't know. I just work here. Talk to Hank." ------- Robyn stood in the gym with Coach waiting for Danielle, Gloria, and Marylyn to arrive. Nora and Cory were doing some warm-up exercises. The door opened, and instead of someone missing from the group, Tom walked in with a teenager, a small teenage boy. Robyn knew the boy; he'd been in her office, but she couldn't remember his name. Then his name came to her: Carl Reed, a McGill student. She'd pull his file after the session this morning. Coach would want to see it. Since the mistake he made with Larry Foreman, Coach wanted all the information on a troubled student he could get his hands on, an approach that Robyn applauded. "Wait here, Carl," Tom said and walked up to Coach. "Good morning, Coach, Robyn. I've got another student for your program." "He doesn't look overweight to me," Coach said. "His name is Carl Reed. I'm tired of Carl sitting bruised and crying in my office or Harry's after he's been shoved around, laughed at, and hassled by half the school population, and I'm not just talking about the male half, Robyn. Some of the more militant members of the fair sex can be meaner than snakes. Coach, can you put some meat on Carl's bones and some starch in his backbone?" "Is he here of his own volition?" Coach said. "Oh, yeah," Tom said. "I told him about your program. He said he'd heard about it, said the kids call it the Bobcat Fat Farm." "Oh, no!" Robyn said, appalled. Coach chuckled and said, "I figured the group would acquire a nickname. I anticipated Windom's Whales. Bobcat Fat Farm didn't occur to me." Tom laughed. Robyn looked at the two men like they had just lost their minds. "Carl told me that if you can take weight off, you can put it on," Tom said. "If you were asking if he's motivated, the answer is yes." "Okay, I'll see what I can do with him," Coach said. "Carl!" Coach shouted and waved the boy over. "Come with me. We need some conversation, and then we'll take your measurements for the before picture. Mr. Early tells me you feel like the guy that gets sand kicked in his face at the beach. If you're willing to listen, work diligently, and follow the diet Ms. Sanger will design for you, we just might be able help you." Coach marched him off to the weight room. Tom left and Danielle arrived. "Where's Coach?" she said to Robyn. "The weight room with a new student," Robyn said. Danielle sighed deeply. "I spent some time with Coach yesterday and last evening. I had high hopes, Robyn, but Coach and I don't fit." "Huh?" "Did you know he is a Republican?" Robyn couldn't help it; she laughed. "How rude of him!" "Don't, Robyn, just don't. He likes Giuliani for president. He can't say anything nice about Hillary, thinks she's a liar and an opportunist, I think he said. He's a hawk; I'm a dove—his words. He thinks Gore, the liberal media, and the even more liberal intelligentsia who control our universities are exaggerating the threat of global warming to a ridiculous extreme—his words again. And he wants a very tall fence built across our border with Mexico. Can you imagine?" "Terrible!" Robyn said, trying not to laugh. "It gets worse. He thinks we should build more nuclear power plants, drill for oil in Alaska and off our shores, and build more refineries to reduce our reliance on foreign oil. He doesn't care if the oil companies spew filth into our air, pollute our water, and destroy the habitats of endangered species. I could never love a man who thinks like he does." She snorted. "He even likes country music!" "Oh, no!" Robyn said, trying to look aghast. "Yes. Anyway, with such a broad difference in our core beliefs, we decided we wouldn't be compatible as a couple and parted as friends." "I'm sorry, Danielle. Are you going to try to patch things up with Harry?" "I don't know. Maybe. He doesn't turn me on like Coach, but Harry and I have quite a few things in common. We'll see." Danielle, Robyn said silently, I'd never tell you, but I'm a Republican, and it sounds as if my core beliefs match Coach's, not precisely but close enough. She giggled. Especially regarding country music. You abandoned your claim. I just might stake out a claim of my own. We'll see. ------- As he walked to school, Larry was thinking about Helen Sanford. She'd been on his mind almost constantly since Saturday night. He'd never met a girl like Helen. She was tomboyish one second and the height of femininity the next. The dichotomy made his head swim. No, that wasn't true. What made his head swim was remembering her holding his head in her lap with her arms around him and the look of concern in her pretty eyes. No one, male or female, had ever truly worried about his well being, and no one had ever tried to comfort him. Just thinking about Helen made him feel warm, but the warmth wasn't arousal. It was a calm warm, pleasant. He wondered if what he was feeling was love. Not likely, but if it was, he'd better put it behind him. He was dirt poor, the son of a drunk, and had a bleak future. Maybe. Coach might have shown him a way to fashion a future beyond laboring in a mine for union wages for the rest of his life. Still, Helen was the daughter of a bank president with a bright future ahead of her. She'd be history, away at some college, before he could make something of himself. Not for the first time, Larry cursed himself for his sexist attitude when Coach had announced that a girl would be playing on the football team. Well, she showed him, she showed everyone that she deserved to be on the team. Putting aside that she was the daughter of a bank president and he was poor white trash, he'd like to take her out, to the movies maybe, hold her hand during the movie, but he didn't have the price of a movie ticket for him, let alone one for her, too. And he couldn't pick her up for a date. He didn't have a car. He walked to school; he walked to work. He sure couldn't walk her to the movies. Hell, he had to catch a ride with Cal to go to the party Saturday night, and when Cal disappeared... Cal, you crazy fool! Why did you rape that girl? Stupid! When the sheriff had told him Cal was one of three men who raped Mary Tendoy, Larry couldn't believe his ears. "You're wrong about Cal, Sheriff," Larry had said. "I know Cal; we've been like brothers since grade school. He blusters, acts tough, pushes people around, but he isn't a rapist." "Believe it, Larry," the sheriff had said. "Perkins and Osceola, who also raped the girl, ratted him out, and I've got another eyewitness who saw him roll off the girl's unconscious body. Cal was bare-assed nekkid when he rolled off her. What does that tell you? Also, a rape kit was taken at the hospital, so DNA evidence will back up the testimony of the witnesses. If you see him, tell him to turn himself in, and please, Larry, don't try to protect him and get yourself into a heap of trouble in the process. You did the right thing when you called Coach for help Saturday night. Don't mess up now by harboring your friend. I'm not asking you to give Cal up, but don't protect him. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Larry exhaled with a sigh, his breath visible in front of his face as he trudged toward the school. Damn you, Cal. Why did you do it? Larry turned to rustling sounds from his right, and Cal stepped from behind a barren tree. "Speak of the devil, I was just thinking about you," Larry said. "How'd you get the black eye?" Cal said. "Tiny hit me," Larry said. "That'd do it." "Where'd you get yours? Both of them?" Larry said. "Bill Perkins and Pete Osceola." "Why'd Perkins and Osceola hit you?" "That's a long story. Look, I'm drowning in shit, Larry. It's up to my ears," Cal said, looking straight ahead as they walked. "I did a stupid thing Saturday night." "I know," Larry said. "Sheriff Ken is looking for you." Cal nodded and let all the air out of his lungs. "I figured." Larry snorted. "What did you expect, that you'd get away with raping that girl?" "I didn't rape her! You've got to believe me, Larry. I did not rape that girl. I went downstairs to take a leak, and Osceola was on her, fucking her. Bill Perkins grabbed me. Said he knew that I'd rat them out. Said I had to take a turn with her so I couldn't rat them out without incriminating myself. I told him to go fuck himself, told him that I wasn't a fuckin' rapist, and he hit me. Osceola finished with the girl, and they both tore into me. They said if I didn't take a turn that they'd kill me. They beat me until I was unconscious, and then I guess they stripped me because when I woke up, I was naked and on top of the girl. I got dressed and busted out of there. What with Perkins, Osceola, and my dad, I'm a dead man." "You're telling me the truth?" Larry said. "Swear to God, Larry, I didn't rape that girl. But that doesn't matter. If the sheriff thinks I raped her, somebody must have seen me naked on top of her while I was unconscious. I'll be convicted of the crime anyway. I'll end up in prison—if my dad doesn't kill me first." "Uh-uh, the sheriff told me they took a rape kit at the hospital. If you didn't rape her, your semen, your DNA won't show up. The best thing for you to do, Cal, is turn yourself in," Larry said. "Can't do that, Larry. I can't put my mother through something like that, and my dad would tear into me. You know how he is. He'd beat me to a bloody pulp." Ah, Larry thought, that's why Cal looked me up this morning. He fears a beating from his father. He's come to me for a solution, a way to avoid his father's wrath. "You can't avoid this problem, Cal. It isn't going away. This town isn't that large. There's no place for you to hide. Make it right; turn yourself in. Tell the sheriff the truth, and you'll be all right." "Uh-uh, I've got a plan," Cal said. "Listen, I hung around until this morning to tell you goodbye, Larry. You've been a good friend, and I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye." "Where are you going? There's nowhere to go." "I've still got my dad's car. My uncle and aunt are out of town; I knew where they hide their key. I've been staying at their house, parked Dad's car in their garage. Larry, I'm going to bust out of town, go down to Vegas." Larry's laugh was harsh. "That won't work, Cal. Do you have enough gas in the car to drive to Vegas? I doubt it. Do you have the money to buy gas? To buy some food? How much money have you got on you?" "Enough," he said. He came to me for a solution. Give him one, Larry told himself. "I don't think so, Cal. Come with me. If you won't turn yourself in to Sheriff Ken, turn yourself in to Coach. He'll go to the Sheriff's Office with you, and..." "Coach! Are you crazy, man! He hates my guts. Yours, too." "No, Cal, he doesn't hate me. He's trying to help me. He found me a better job, one that pays twice as much as the convenience store job. And he ... Ah, hell, Cal. We read Coach all wrong. He's a good guy. If he'll help me; he'll help you. And he won't let your dad tear into you." "Humph, Coach is big, but my dad is mean to the bone and he won't fight fair. If he has to, he'll take it to Coach with a baseball bat or a tire iron." "Cal, Coach whipped Tiny Saturday night," Larry said. "You're shitting me." "I shit you not. He whipped him, took him down without breaking a sweat. Remember, he told us he knew how to fight, some kind of martial arts training; I can't remember what he called it, but whatever it's called, it works. He not only took out Tiny, he also took out Frank Cox and Brad Baker when they jumped in to help Tiny, and they were wielding nightsticks. Coach went after Tiny because Tiny was hitting me. I was cuffed at the time. Coach won't let your dad beat you." "Maybe not—until I'm home alone with Dad and Coach isn't anywhere around." "Tell Coach that you want to turn yourself in, but you're afraid of what your dad will do to you. Coach will put the fear of god in him, Coach and Sheriff Ken. Coach and Sheriff Ken are asshole buddies now, Cal. Come on; this is the only chance you've got." Larry sighed. "Let's say you make it to Vegas, Cal. Then what? No money, no job, and you're wanted by the law. What are you going to do then, be a punch for a bunch of queers for eatin' money? You've got a chance to beat this thing. You're innocent, for Christ's sake. Let Coach help you be a man, not a frightened kid. So your father beats you? So what? He's beat you before, and he'll beat you again. You're man enough to take it until you're old enough or big enough so you don't have to take it anymore. Perkins and Osceola say they'll kill you. That'll never happen. They've been arrested for the rape, Cal. They don't have a reason to kill you anymore." "Coach whipped Tiny?" Larry said, disbelief evident in his voice. "Yes, twice, and the second time Coach was cuffed." "No way. You're lying to me." "I swear to God, Cal. Helen was holding my head in her lap. Tiny had hit me, knocked me cold, and Helen—she's great, Cal, something else again. Where was I? I remember, Helen saw Tiny get up off the ground and go after Coach. She screamed a warning, and Coach ducked under Tiny's haymaker, and then kicked him in the balls, but Coach slipped in the snow because he was cuffed and landed on top of Tiny. Tiny wrapped his arm around Coach's neck and squeezed, told Coach he was going to kill him, and Coach spun around hitched his back and slammed his knee into Tiny's balls again. That did it; that took all the fight out of Tiny." "Why was Coach in handcuffs?" "The sheriff arrested him for assaulting his deputies, but after Tiny tore into Coach the second time, the sheriff turned Coach loose. He'll help you, Cal. I know he will." "Helen was holding your head in her lap?" Larry laughed. "Yes, that's a long story, too. Waddaya say? Let's go talk to Coach and get your future back. You don't want to end up a punch for a bunch of queers." Larry waited. The two young men walked in silence. ------- --"Okay," Cal said quietly. "Let's go talk to Coach." --They took a few more steps. --"Tell me the long story about Helen, Larry," Cal said, wistfully. ------- The Bobcat Fat Farm as a label won't fit anymore, not with the addition of Carl Reed to the group, I thought as I watched Carl on a mat trying to keep up with Robyn's pilates exercise. The boy was a natural with tai chi, but pilates isn't for him. Yoga might work. He reminds me a little of Aaron MacDonald when I was his age. I wasn't that short, but I was thin like him. Working out with free weights will do more for him than any exercise. Free weights and the right diet will put some meat on his bones. It's not just his size. He's effeminate. I don't know how to alter his feminine mannerisms. If he were gay, eliminating the mannerisms probably wouldn't be important in the long run. But he isn't gay. Without me asking, he told me he wasn't gay, that girls turned him on, not guys. And anger isn't his problem. Oh, he's angry, but fear dominates his emotional makeup. I could fix that. I could teach him krav maga. That'd put some starch in his backbone, as Tom suggested, but I don't want to teach anyone krav maga. If I teach just one person, I'd end up teaching another, and then another. In the end, teaching the self-defense system would eat up all my time. Worse, there'd be a bunch of lethal kids out about town. One of them would kill someone, and I'd be libel, signed releases and hold harmless agreements to the contrary. I saw Larry walk into the gym. He spied me and waved me forward. "Good morning, Larry," I said as I stepped up to him. "Morning, Coach. Cal's in your office. He wants to turn himself in to you." I nodded and said, "Why me? Why not the sheriff?" "Because I told him you would protect him from his father," Larry said. "He's been hiding out because he feared for his life. Perkins and Osceola threatened to kill him if he ratted them out, but more than that he was hiding out to avoid a beating from his dad, not to avoid being arrested. He didn't rape Mary Tendoy. It looks bad, but if he's telling the truth, I think we can prove he didn't rape her." I let all the air out of my lungs, but slowly. "Do you believe he didn't rape that girl, Larry?" "That's what I believe. When Sheriff Ken told me that Cal was one of the rapists, I couldn't believe my ears. I know Cal, Coach, I know him almost as well as I know myself. He isn't perfect, not by a long shot, and you had him pegged, me as well. We were bullies. We walked the halls of the school full of bluster; we shoved people around, acted tough, and sneered at those weaker than us. It was our way of claiming some self-worth, our way of telling the world that we were men to be reckoned with. We were wrong about that. You showed us how wrong we were. My mother is a drunk, but she doesn't beat me. Cal's dad beats him. Don't tell Cal I said this, but Cal fears his father more than anyone or anything, more that going to prison for something he didn't do. That's why he's been hiding out, to avoid another brutal beating. Plain and simple, my best friend doesn't have it in him to rape a girl, Coach. Wanna know why I believe that?" "Tell me," I said. "Because as much as he fears his father, he loves his mother. When you told us that we had to treat others with respect or get kicked off the football team, your words resonated more with Cal than they did with me because he's heard the same admonition from his mother more times than he can count. I fought changing the way I was more than Cal. I love my mother, but I don't respect her. Cal respects his." "Okay," I said. "I'll call the sheriff from my office, and I'll listen to Cal's story while we're waiting for the sheriff to drive to the school. Let me tell Robyn I'm leaving, and I'll meet you and Cal in my office. But know this, Larry, if Cal raped that girl, I won't help him. Any man who rapes a woman is a despicable human being and deserves everything he gets by way of retribution." ------- As soon as the students filed out of the room at the end of an English class, I opened my cell phone, turned it on and called the sheriff. After listening to Cal's story in my office, like Larry, I believed him, but the absence of DNA evidence wouldn't be enough to prove his innocence. Perkins and Osceola had to retract their accusations and admit to their part in setting Cal up as a rapist. After Cal told his story to the sheriff, I asked Cal and Larry to step out of the office so I could speak with the sheriff privately. Cal wouldn't go anywhere. When the sheriff arrived, he'd read Cal his rights and cuffed him. "Are Perkins and Osceola still in your jail?" I asked when the sheriff and I were alone. "Yes," the sheriff said. "They'll be arraigned later this morning or early afternoon, and bail will be set. If I were to guess Osceola's tribal council will cough up ten percent of the bail to a bail bondsman, and I'll be forced to cut him loose. I don't know if Perkins has the wherewithal to post bail, or not." "What's your take on Cal's story?" The sheriff shrugged. "It fits the eye witness's account that put him with the girl. He could be telling the truth, or he could be lying through his teeth. The DNA evidence, or rather the lack of it, would help his case, but..." "I believe him, Sheriff. He looks like a train wreck, and not just on his face. Before you arrived, I asked him to take off his shirt. He's bruised all over. They must have kicked him while he was down. So, that part of his story rings true. Cal told me that he went into hiding for two reasons, but later he added a third reason. The third reason was an aside, almost unconscious, I think. He went into hiding because he feared Perkins and Osceola would kill him, and because he feared his father would beat him. But he also said later that he didn't want to turn himself in because of what being arrested for rape would do to his mother. That was the kicker for me. Cal loves and respects his mother. He doesn't want her to be so ashamed of him that he'd lose her emotional support. To his mind, being arrested for raping a girl would do just that. I asked you if Perkins and Osceola were still in custody because we've got to craft a plan and execute it to force them to retract their phony testimonies and tell the truth about what really happened to Cal that night. I don't think they'll do that. Why should they? They're already under arrest for rape. If they admitted to what they did to Cal so he wouldn't, couldn't testify against them, you could add assault and battery to their charges. Are you housing them in the same cell?" "Yeah, the jail only contains four cells." "Can you put a ringer in with them?" "Huh?" "Someone you might not mind too much if you had to plead his case down to a lesser charge if he cooperates? I'm thinking a wire, Sheriff. Wire someone, the ringer, and put the ringer in the cell with Perkins and Osceola. If the ringer handles this right, they'll talk. They'll do some bragging. Men like that brag. They'll tell the ringer what happened and what they did to Larry. They'll probably laugh about it, and the ringer can laugh right along with them, agree with them that Cal is a chump." "That's entrapment—maybe." "Don't use the evidence from the wire, Sheriff. You've already got enough evidence to take Perkins and Osceola down. The wire is to prove Cal's innocence. That's all." "What if the wire implicates Cal, shows he's lying through his teeth?" "Then throw the book at him. If he's guilty, he should be punished to the fullest extent of the law." The sheriff sat silent, deep in thought, gazing intently at nothing somewhere off into the distance. Finally he said, "All right, I'll do it. You saved Larry. I'll help you save Cal." That's why I'd dialed the Sheriff's phone number. I wanted to know if the ringer succeeded or failed. "Howdy, Coach," the sheriff said when he answered my call. "Any word?" I said. "Oh, yeah. Your plan worked like a charm. I cut Cal loose fifteen minutes ago." "Shit," I muttered. "I wish you had not cut him loose." "Huh?" "Remember, there's another danger facing Cal not directly tied to the rape incident: his father." "Give me some credit, Coach. Cal's father is at work. I turned Cal over to his mother. He was headed home to shower, change clothes and return to school." "Sorry Sheriff. I should have known you were on top of the situation. Have you got any ideas about how to stop Cal's father from physically abusing him?" "Cal's eighteen, Coach. I can't arrest his father for child abuse. Child Protective Services can't intervene. I can arrest the man for A&B if he beats Cal again, but for the charges to stick, Cal or another witness to the beating would have to file a complaint and testify against him. The boy won't do that, Coach. Cal and I talked about this. His father is the bread winner in that family. If the man is incarcerated, the money stops. His mother and little sister would have to go on welfare. Cal knows this. He'll take the beatings and lie through his teeth if he ends up in the hospital and the hospital calls my office when they suspect abuse. If he ends up in the hospital again, it won't be the first time after his father beat him, or the first time my office gets a call from the hospital. It's happened a half-dozen times over the last five years or so." "What about Cal's mother? Does his father beat her, too?" "No, just the boy. Cal says it's his father's way of teaching him how to be a man." "That's ... stupid ... outrageous!" I said. "Without meaning to, he could kill the boy, or cause brain damage, or..." "I know that, but my hands are tied. A little advice, Coach, don't confront Cal's father about this. I'd hate to have to arrest you for A&B." I said nothing. "Did you hear me, Coach?" the sheriff said. "I heard you. Thanks for helping prove Cal's innocence, Sheriff. What you did was above and beyond. I know that, and I appreciate it." "Protecting and serving includes uncovering the truth, Coach. Gotta run. Remember, stay away from Cal's father." ------- After checking the weather, I used my lunch hour to set up Yvonne's memorial service for Friday, the day after thanksgiving. Then I called my mother to tell her the memorial service was set and invited her to celebrate Thanksgiving with Piper and me the day before the service. "I've been talking with George and Barbara. We'd tentatively scheduled the drive to Ely on Wednesday." "Great. I'll reserve rooms for the three of you at the Ramada Copper Queen on Great Basin Boulevard." "One room would do it if there are two beds, Son." "Nonsense. I can afford two rooms. I haven't told you, but I'll tell you now. I've been making some serious money playing online poker, enough so I can buy some land and build a home for Piper and me. The land is in escrow. It's in two parcels totaling 27 acres. Besides our house, I'm planning a little horse ranch on the property. I'll tell you more about it while you're in Ely. Piper is really looking forward to seeing you again, and with my memory loss, I'm looking forward to seeing you for the first time." She laughed with me. "When will you be driving back to Reno?" I asked. "Sunday." "Okay, I'll reserve four nights at the Ramada. Gotta run. I'm on my lunch hour and..." "Wait, Son, I remembered that name, you know, Yvonne's friend in Ely." "Tell me," I said. "Donna Elder." "Okay, I'll try to track her down." "Tell Piper I love her and I'm looking forward to seeing her again, too." "I will. Bye." After I hung up, I called Computa Cat Corner and ordered the dish for my internet connection moved to my new address. They said they'd do it, but not until Tuesday. Installations were already scheduled for the day. Then I called Elizabeth. "Please tell me you're not under arrest," she said and laughed. I laughed with her. "Got a question for you. Do you know a woman named Donna Elder?" "Sure do. She's a teller at First National. Why?" "I think she and my wife where friends," I said. "Could be," Elizabeth said. "They're of an age, and Donna is a little wild like ... oops, I shouldn't speak ill of the dead." "Do you have the number for First National? I'm running short of time, and I want to invite Donna Elder to the memorial service I've set up for Friday this week. You're invited, too, by the way." Elizabeth gave me the number of the bank, and I gave her the time and place of the memorial service. "Is Josh invited?" she asked. After I told her yes, she asked about Lou and Mabel, and I said definitely. She told me that she'd tell everyone about the service for me. I called the bank and asked for Donna Elder. When she came on line, I told her my name and said, "I've been told that you and my late-wife were friends." "We were," Ms. Elder said. "I've scheduled a memorial service for Yvonne for Friday. I'd be please if you could be there." "I'll be there. I heard that you have amnesia. If that's the case, how do you know that Yvonne and I were friends?" "My mother told me," I said. "I asked her if Yvonne had mentioned any lady friends she had in Ely, and my mother remembered your name. I asked my attorney if she knew you, and she told me you worked at the bank." "Oh, okay. I'll be there." "With my memory loss, I don't remember Yvonne. You knew her. I'd be grateful if you'd stand up and tell the folks attending the service some pleasant memories you have of my wife." "Oh! I don't know if I could do that, Coach." "Think about it. You don't have to agree or turn me down until the day of the service. Besides you, is there someone else I should invite who knew Yvonne?" "Yes, Tara Cowley. The three of us ... ah..." "Would you invite Ms. Cowley for me, Ms. Elder?" "Donna, call me Donna, and yes, I'll tell Tara about the service, and thank you for going to the trouble to track down some of Yvonne's friends in Ely." I related the time and place and hung up, glanced at my wristwatch and groaned. I had just enough time before my next class to stop by the Ramada on the way back to the school to reserve the rooms for my mother and uncle and aunt. ------- I flopped on a chair in front of Robyn's desk and sighed. "Having a bad day?" Robyn said. "Not really, just busy," I said. "Very busy. I heard about what you did for Cal," she said as she handed me a file. "That's Carl Reed's file. Isn't that why you dropped by?" I chuckled. "To tell you the truth, Carl Reed hasn't crossed my mind since Larry pulled me away from the session this morning. I dropped by to see if Larry came to you about testing out of some of his classes." "He did. That's when I found out about what you did for Cal." "Ah, shucks, ma'am, t'weren't nothing," I said with my best Western drawl. "Truth be told, I didn't do much. The sheriff did most of the heavy lifting to pull Cal's marshmallows out of the fire. Sheriff Ken is a good man. The more I know him the more I like and respect him." "If helping Cal didn't make your day busy, what did?" "Setting up my late-wife's memorial service. It's Friday, by the way, and you're invited." "I'll be there. Where and what time?" I told her and glanced through Carl Reed's file. He was a mediocre student, mostly C's, some B's. "I talked with Carl about his home life this morning. He didn't say so, but I think he's a mama's boy, and if you're wondering, he's not gay. Girl's turn him on, not guys," I said. "Can you help him?" "I can put some meat on his bones; I'm not sure about some starch in his backbone, but yeah, I can help him. Wanna know how?" She grinned. "How?" "I'm going to pull in some markers from a couple of ex-bullies that owe me. It'll be a two-for." "Huh?" "A two for one. Pulling in the markers will provide some protection in school for Carl, and at the same time, teach Cal and Larry an important lesson in life." "What lesson?" "That being a man isn't showing everyone how tough you are. A real man protects the weak from the strong." Robyn hooted with laughter. "You're something else, Coach, you surely are. It's a brilliant idea, though." "Do you know anything about interior decorating?" I asked. "Why?" I chuckled and said, "Yep, you're a shrink." She smiled and said calmly, "Why do you want to know if I know anything about interior decorating?" "You were in my house on moving day. It's bare bones, and my mother and an uncle and aunt are driving here for Thanksgiving and the memorial service the next day. I thought I'd try to spiff up my house a little, and I wondered if you had any ideas how I can make that happen by Wednesday evening when they'll arrive." "Will they be staying in your house?" "No, I reserved rooms for them at the Ramada Copper Queen while I was out during my lunch hour. I set up the buffet for after the service at the Copper Queen, as well. Evah's is handling the food, and there will be a cash bar." I waited and made a bet with myself that when she spoke it would be another question. "How much do you want to spend decorating?" she said. I pumped my fists in the air and exclaimed, "I won!" She frowned. "What did you win?" "A bet with myself. I bet myself that you still wouldn't tell me if you knew anything about interior decorating and would instead ask me another question." She laughed and said, "You have time to put up some curtains." "A good suggestion, but Agnes and Piper picked out curtains for the kitchen and Agnes and Piper's rooms and some temporary drapery for my bedroom. Agnes hired a handyman to help her put up the rods." "Why temporary drapery in your bedroom?" "Because I figured whoever helped me decorate the bedroom would want to color-coordinate the bed linens, shams, comforters or duvets with the drapery." "You're probably right about that. What else have you done?" "Do you have a talent for decorating, and if you do, will you help me? And please, Robyn, don't answer my question with another question?" She grinned and said, "Why not?" "Argh, you're impossible." "I'll help, Coach. Whether I have any talent for the task is open to question. Who picked out the furniture that was delivered for your house?" "Why do you ask?" "Because whoever selected that furniture has a sense of design and style the likes of which I haven't seen in this town. If you selected the furniture, you're being disingenuous with me by asking for my help to finish decorating your house." I sat back in the chair and slowly emptied my lungs. "I selected the furniture, but I wasn't being disingenuous with you, Robyn. I asked you to help because I wanted to spend some time with you to get to know Robyn the person, not Robyn the guidance counselor, and although I might have a good sense of design and style, I don't have a woman's touch for accessorizing. I created the overall look presented by the large pieces of furniture, but I truly do need help with the details that make a house a home. Still, I'm sorry for the subterfuge." She fixed her eyes on mine, and neither of us spoke for a few beats. Finally, she said, "You're forgiven. I do have one more question for you before you have to run to your next class. Are you a Republican or a Democrat?" Her question stunned me momentarily, and then I smiled. "You've been talking to Danielle, haven't you?" "Please answer my question." "The correct answer is I don't know. Remember when you told me that I belonged to a union?" She nodded. "My political affiliation is similar to that situation. I know I'm not a member of the liberal left. Why the liberal left wants to turn the United States into a socialist country is beyond me. History has shown us that socialism, in all its guises, doesn't work. I also sense that I'm not a member to the religious right. If I'm a religious man, I don't know what religion I espouse, and organized religion affects me similar to belonging to a union. I think I'm fiscally conservative and somewhere between moderate and liberal on the social issues. Did I answer your question?" "Danielle told me you were a Republican." "If my preference for Giuliani for a president over Hillary Clinton makes me a Republican, I guess I am, but I honestly don't know if I'm a registered voter for either party, or if, in fact, I even took the time to cast my vote in the past." "You're going to be late for your next class, Coach." ------- Chapter 13 With no football practice, I suddenly realized after my last English class of the day that I had an extra two hours of personal time I didn't have before, and I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather spend the time with than my daughter. When I walked in the door, Piper greeted me in her normal fashion with a little squeal of happiness, and a hug and kiss. "You're home early, Coach," Agnes said. "Until the track and field season begins, this will be my normal time home from work. I set the date and time for Yvonne's memorial service today. Let's sit down, the three of us, and talk about it." "Would you like something to drink?" Agnes said. "I'd love a cup of coffee, Agnes. How about you, pumpkin? What would you like? "Root beer," she said. "Coffee will take a minute to perk," Agnes said as she started to pour a root beer for Piper and a glass of iced tea for herself. "No problem," I said. "I'll tell you what I've set up and what's left to do while it perks. The service will be held at the Open Door Community Church on Center Street at 10:30 in the morning this Friday. A buffet lunch will be served at the Copper Queen at noon. Evah's, a restaurant in the Copper Queen, will supply the food. They'll also supply a cash bar. The trick will be trying to figure out how many people we'll have to feed. I started inviting some folks I know, but Tom, the principal at the school, suggested I put a notice on the bulletin board in the main corridor. So I did that. I suspect some of the teachers I've met and some of players on the football team will attend. I invited Elizabeth, and she told me she'd invite Josh, Lou and Mabel. Danielle and Robyn will come, I'm sure. And I tracked down two of Yvonne's friends here in Ely: Donna Elder and Tara Cowley. They've been invited. Sheriff Ken and his wife will be there, and Orville and Gladys, of course. And guess what, pumpkin?" "What?" "Grandma Jacobs is coming. She and my Aunt Barbara and Uncle George will arrive Wednesday evening. They'll be celebrating Thanksgiving with us here at the house." Piper clapped her hands. "Yippee!" "Which means, Agnes, you need to plan a Thanksgiving feast with all the fixings." She flashed a wide smile and said, "I adore cooking for a crowd." "I reserved rooms for them at the Copper Queen, but they'll probably spend a lot of time here with us over the weekend, so stock up the larder, Agnes." "I'll do that, Coach." "Back to the memorial service and luncheon planning. Pumpkin, did Mommy have some favorite songs?" "She liked Somewhere my Love and Colors of the Wind, but Somewhere my Love had 'nother name. I don't remember the real name." "Lara's Theme," Agnes said. "That's it!" Piper exclaimed. "Thank you, Agnes." "You're very welcome, sweetheart. Here's your coffee, Coach." I blew over the rim of the cup and took a sip. "Good coffee, as usual, Agnes. Where was I? I remember. The pastor at the church will open the service with a prayer and preside over the program. I'll speak. I don't remember Yvonne, but I have some nice things to say about her." "I want to speak, Daddy," Piper said. "Are you sure, pumpkin?" I said. "Yes. Agnes says a memorial service is a time to say goodbye. I loved my mommy. I want to say goodbye to her. I miss her, Daddy. I want to tell everyone there what a good mommy she was." "Oh, Piper, I love you so much," I said with tears stinging my eyes. "Of course you can tell everyone what a good mommy she was and say goodbye to her." She gave a positive, curt nod to her head, indicating the issue was settled, and took of gulp of root beer, and then wiped excess moisture from her upper lip with the back of her hand. "Donna Elder might speak. She knew Yvonne, and has some happy memories of her," I said. "And I'll ask my mother to tell everyone about some of her positive memories, as well. In Yvonne's effects, I found a book of poetry. The pages of the book were dog-eared, and..." "I remember the poetry book, Daddy," Piper said. "Mommy used to read poems to me out of it." "We'll get it out later, and I'll read some of the poems to you, and you can tell me which ones she liked." "'Kay." "I'll ask someone to read one of the poems in the service." "Ask Ms. Gladys," Piper said. "She reads good." "All right, now let's talk about flowers. Did Mommy have any favorite flowers?" "Roses," Piper said. "And orchids." She frowned. "And cri—sam—tums, or something like that." "Chrysanthemums?" Agnes said. "Yes. Like you said, Agnes," Piper said and grinned. God she was cute. "Okay, I'll order flowers for the church tomorrow. I don't know what's available in Ely this time of year. A photo album was among Yvonne's effects, and while flipping through the album, I noticed a recent snapshot of her, a portrait. I'll have it blown up and framed and placed appropriately at the church." I groaned. "Another chore for me to do tomorrow." "I'll order the flowers if you wish, Coach," Agnes said. "I wish. That would be a big help. That's it. Have I left anything out?" "You might want to write an obituary for the Ely Times," Agnes said. I nodded. "I'll do that, but I won't make it an announcement of the memorial service, as well." "Are you going to have music at the luncheon?" Agnes said. "I didn't think of music at the luncheon, but it's a good idea, Agnes. I'll look into that tomorrow, too." Shit kicking music, music that I like. "With Grandma coming, we need to spiff up this place, do some accessorizing, Piper," I said. "Wanna go shopping with your daddy?" "You betcha," she said. We bought table settings—two sets of service for eight for everything we bought—everyday dishes we could use at the ranch, serving dishes, flatware, sixteen each of the different sizes of glasses we would use, tablecloths, place mats, in other words, everything I could think of for the table, and everything was color-coordinated. Piper tickled me. She seemed to have an innate sense for good design, and although the choices in Ely were severely limited, I liked what she selected with only a few exceptions. After I explained why her initial selection might not work, she'd give that curt nod of hers that told me she understood, and her next pick would be near perfect. The ugly, old television set had to go. Piper helped me pick out a flat-screen set that could be hung on the wall. It wasn't the largest TV in the store, but it was close, and it offered higher quality than the largest, which was a good shopping lesson for Piper to learn. We also purchased all the peripheral equipment for the TV set, like a VCR and DVD player and burner, as well as a couple of dozen DVD movies, half of which were for children. At the same store, I bought a digital camera and a photo printer. I wanted to record my daughter's life in living color. "The house needs pictures, Daddy," Piper said. "It sure does, but we have pictures—in Mommy's photo album. Let's buy frames, lots of 'em in different sizes, and we'll make a photograph wall in the hall leading to the bedrooms—a memorial wall for your mother. Also, when we take more photographs we can frame them and add them to the wall." "'Kay, but I want some pictures for my room, too, not photographs, though. Gwen has posters in her bedroom." Gwen Johansen was Piper's best friend at kindergarten. Piper had been to Gwen's house a couple of times, and Gwen had visited ours. No sleep-overs yet, but some would happen, I'm sure. "Oh, I see what you mean," I said. "Where did she buy the posters?" "Don't know." "Ask her, and maybe Agnes would take you out to pick up posters tomorrow." "'Kay." "Have you noticed we don't have any art hanging on the walls of the house?" She frowned and shook her head. From her expression, I guessed that she didn't understand, so I explained. "Pieces of sculpture and paintings by good artists, or limited edition prints, ceramics made by good potters, those sorts of things." My explanation amplified her confusion instead of clearing it up. "I checked the Yellow Pages before we left home. Two stores in Ely sell art. Wanna go look at what they have to offer?" "You betcha," she said, and off we went. The selection was severely limited but I found one oil painting by a local artist that was stunning. It was entitled Cave Lake, apparently a lake near Ely. I bought it. And Piper fell in love with a limited edition bronze sculpture of a young girl sitting bareback on a horse, and a baby horse was nursing from the horse on which the girl sat. It was called Lunch Break. I bought the bronze, as well. "I think I understand what art is now, Daddy," Piper said as we left the store, which for me made the shopping trip priceless. "When we travel to buy more horses, we'll visit more art galleries to buy more art. Would you like to do that?" "Uh-huh," she said. "When?" Her enthusiasm made me chuckle. "Our first buying trip will be during the Christmas break." The break I wanted was from the cold and the snow. We'd travel to warmer climes for our next buying excursion. She gave me a curt nod of acceptance. We ate dinner at Evah's, and while we ate, Piper helped me work out the menu for the memorial service buffet with Evah's banquet manager. "Do you have an estimate for the number of guests yet?" the manager asked. "I did a rough count in my head, and the number came to around 40," I said. "I think we'll be safe with double that number. Wait. Is there a shelter for the homeless in Ely?" "No. Why did you ask?" "I'd up that number to 100, but I wouldn't want the food to go to waste," I said. "In situations like this, we contact the White Pine County Social Services. We'll box up the excess food into individual servings, and someone from Social Services will pick up the boxes and distribute them according to need." "Let's go with 100 then," I said. As it turned out, there wasn't any excess food. ------- Wednesday evening, Piper and I arrived at the Copper Queen decked out in Western duds to meet my family. I didn't know my mother, but Piper did, and when my daughter spotted her, she took off like a shot, her spindly legs churning. "Grandma! Grandma!" she cried out with joy as she ran. Carol Jacobs was a handsome woman with kind gray eyes and a full mouth. A few old acne scars marred her otherwise beautiful complexion. She was dressed conservatively in warm clothes. Gray streaked her brown hair, and she was only slightly overweight. She wore sensible shoes. Granddaughter and grandmother collided, and my mother picked Piper up and hugged her tight. My happy daughter hugged her right back. I wasn't greeted until after about a hundred kisses, mostly administered by my enthusiastic daughter. Then I got a hug and a kiss from my mother. She leaned back from the hug with her arms still around me, looked up at me as if to check out my soul, and said, "You look the same." I laughed. "I don't have any memories that could prove it, but I bet you look the same, too." She snorted with disgust. "I most definitely don't look the same. I lost some weight, 20 pounds." "Good for you. I'm conducting a physical fitness program at the high school for some over-weight and skinny students. I'll tell you about it later. Maybe you'll have some tips for me, and Mother, whether you look the same or not, you look good. I adore your kind gray eyes." My compliment shocked her, but she recovered quickly. The old John Windom probably didn't compliment his mother very often. She introduced me to my aunt and uncle as if I'd never met them, which to my mind I hadn't, and Barbara gave me a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. I shook George's pudgy hand. My Aunt Barbara was more flamboyant than my mother. Her blouse was open one button too many, which displayed excess cleavage, and she wore too much makeup. She was a garrulous and happy person, though, and within minutes of meeting her, I liked her, and my appreciation of her good qualities increased over dinner. Uncle George was a plump man, one or two inches shorter than his wife, and his comb-over was too obvious. I suspected he was sensitive about his baldness. I found out later I was wrong about that. The comb-over was Aunt Barbara's idea. George could have cared less. He was one of the most unassuming and easy-going men I'd ever met. "My car is parked in a waiting zone outside. We'll eat dinner at the house tonight," I said. "We'll need to stop at a grocery store then," my mother said. "Huh?" I said. "John, you can't cook," Mother said emphatically, "and I suspect your pantry and refrigerator won't have the ingredients I'll need to prepare a good home-cooked dinner. We'll also have to shop for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow." I struck my forehead with my hand. I hadn't told my mother about Agnes. But before I told her about my live-in employee, I decided to take advantage of the opening my mother's statement offered to explain some of the changes in my personality and new skill sets that she was certain to notice during the visit. "Mother, that lightning strike did more than kick my memories somewhere into a dark void in space, it also ripped out all the meanness in me. I'm a changed man. What's really weird is the fact that some skill sets I used to have went to the same void with my memories, the finer points of the game of football, for example. What's even weirder, I'm told I have new skill sets that I didn't have before lighting flashed down from the heavens and knocked me unconscious on the rain-soaked grass under the goalposts of a football field. One of the new skill sets I acquired is cooking. I am now a fair to middling cook." "Humph, I doubt that," my mother said. "Daddy's a good cook, Grandma," Piper said with conviction. She looked at me and grinned. "Not as good as Agnes, though." A perfect segue, I thought. Thank heaven for little girls. "Agnes?" Mother said. "Agnes Smith," I said, "my live-in cook, housekeeper, and nanny." "Oh!" Mother said, obviously shocked. "Agnes stocks my larder, Mother, and she prepared a scrumptious home-cooked dinner for our reunion." "Oh, okay then," she said. I chuckled inwardly. I think she was disappointed. I said, "If you want, Agnes would probably appreciate some help in the kitchen." "Some women won't allow anyone in their kitchens," Mother said. "Agnes will," Piper said. "I help her sometimes. She's helping me learn how to cook." The new Lincoln sedan was the next revelation. "Nice wheels, John," George said. "Thanks. I have a pickup truck, but on occasion a sedan would have come in handy, and Agnes needed a vehicle to do her chores and drive Piper to and from kindergarten." "The payments must be higher than a cat's back," Mother said, looking worried. "No payments. I paid cash. As far as I know, I am completely debt free." I opened the front-passenger door for her. "Sit up front with me, Mother. Piper can sit in the back with Barbara and George, and I'll explain my financial situation to you." As I drove toward the house, I outlined my skill with online Texas hold 'em poker. When I asked Mother if I displayed any talent for poker when I was younger, she told me she didn't know. "You were a very good bridge player," Barbara said from the back seat. I laughed. "As far as I know, I've never played the game." "Shucks. I was looking forward to some rubbers of bridge while we were here," she said. "Sorry," I said. "To get back to my financial condition, I play poker online between one and three hours a day about five days a week, usually after I put Piper to bed at night. I've been winning an average of over $3,000 per day. Last night, I played in two tournaments and my net income for the evening was $16,000." "Jesus!" George huffed. "Do you win consistently?" "I win more often than I lose. On some nights the cards aren't kind to me, so I do lose on occasion. My average weekly income after deducting the losses has exceeded $15,000 since I started playing after being struck by lightning." "John, that's over three-quarters of a million dollars a year!" Mother said. "Thereabouts," I said. "I've got a question for you, John," Barbara said. "Ask away." "If you forgot how to play football, how could you do your coaching job?" I chuckled. "I had a very good assistant coach, and I turned him loose to run the technical aspects of the game while I concentrated my efforts on motivating the players on the team to not only become better football players but also to become better human beings. At the time of the lightning event, the team had six losses and no wins. We won the next three games, which told me that I must not have been a very good coach before. I've also been told that I was a bully, a know-it-all, and a misogynist before the event. The lightning strike took away my memories but appears to have compensated me for the loss by also taking way the meanness in me and giving me some new skill sets I didn't have before. I have no way of telling, but I believe I'm a better man than I used to be. Aunt Barbara, you knew the before me. You'll be here for a few days. Before you leave, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know if you agree or disagree with my assessment of the new me." "I'll do that, John," she said. "We're here," I said as I pulled the car onto the driveway of my temporary home. ------- Agnes was gracious about Mother helping in the kitchen, and the evening meal was soon on the table. We chatted while we ate, getting to know each other. My aunt told some anecdotes about the old me that were humorous. Some of them weren't very flattering, though. "Mother, Yvonne's effects included a photo album. We've framed a number of them and created the start of a family photograph wall in the hallway leading to the bedroom wing of the house. We'll add to the display as new pictures are taken, but the photo album was Yvonne's not mine, and we don't have any photographs of me when I was younger, and we only have one photograph with you. Do you have some photographs that would flush out our family photograph wall?" "I sure do, Son. When I get home, I'll go through my albums and send you copies of some of the better photographs." A mischievous look crossed her face. "Do you want a naked picture of you when you were a baby?" Piper giggled. I shook my head. "The meal was delicious, as usual," I said to Agnes after I finished eating. "If you don't mind, I'll put off dessert until later." I'd insisted that Agnes eat with us in a family setting, as opposed to entertaining. I considered the meal we'd just finished a family setting. Everyone around the table except Piper voiced a preference for waiting until later for dessert. Agnes said, "Carol, I'm a good cook, but I'm only a mediocre baker. How are your baking skills?" "Not to brag, but I bake excellent pies," Mother said. "How about making some pies for the thanksgiving dinner tomorrow while I clean up the dinner mess?" Agnes said, making my mother a friend of hers for life. I wanted to kiss my cook for understanding my mother's nature. "I'll help with the dinner mess," Barbara said. "I'll help Grandma make pies," Piper quipped. She smacked her lips. "I love pies." "Which means, George," I said, "that we've got to make sure the fire in the fireplace doesn't go out. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it?" He laughed heartily and we moved to the living room. The fire did indeed need tending. I brought in some firewood from outside, put a couple of pieces on the grate, and soon a crackling fire danced hypnotically behind the folding screen. "George, I don't drink, but I stock some liquor for guests. Would you like a drink?" "I'd love a brandy if you have any, John," he said. I had some. I poured a couple of shots in a snifter and handed the glass to him. "Are you going to play poker tonight?" he said. "Maybe later," I said. "If you don't mind, you can play now, and I'll watch." "Okay, bring your brandy. My computer is on my desk in my study." Playing poker online doesn't require a stoic expression and quiet contemplation. Your opponents can't see or hear you, so animated gestures and comments have no effect on the game. Piper says that she doesn't watch me play poker; she says she listens to me play poker. I do some mild cursing; I groan; I use body English to no avail; and I've been known to jump up and down like a cheerleader when a tournament is going my way. I also frequently tell the electronic dealer what to do. Surprisingly, the virtual dealer pays attention to my entreaties from time to time. That evening my antics soon attracted a crowd. "Anything but a nine!" I yelped at the dealer. "No nine, no nine! Yes!" I shouted as I pumped my fist in the air when a four turned up for the river card. The winning hand gave me the tournament. "You annihilated the other players, John," George said. "You controlled the game from the start, and toward the end you rolled over the remaining players like a phalanx of tanks commanded by Patton. Damn! That was something to see, better than any football game I ever watched you play." "How much did you win?" Mother said. I think she was still worried about my finances. "$10,000, less my $1,000 buy-in and another $1,000 for the site rake-off makes my net income for the day $8,000," I said. "If I had lost instead of winning the tournament, I would have lost my $1,000 buy-in. Losers don't pay any site-use fees" "Not bad wages for an hour's work," Barbara said. Mother frowned. "If you can make $750,000 a year playing poker, why are you still coaching high school football?" "You're not the first person who has asked that question of me," I said. "I'll tell you what I told them. Mother, I enjoy the challenge coaching and teaching offers me. After my memory loss, which included the finer points of the game of football, I figured out that a coach has to be a leader and a teacher. He leads the team and teaches the players on the team how to play as individuals and how to work in concert with the rest of the team to win. But there's more. I must teach them how to win not only at the game of football but also at the game of life. A coach should teach his players how to become better human beings first and better football players second. That's the challenge, Mother. So what if it pays a pittance? For me, the satisfaction I gain in meeting the challenge is a more important payment than currency. Even better, the government can't tax that kind of payment." "I don't have to wait until just before we leave, John," Barbara said. "I can agree with you already. You are definitely a better man now than you used to be, and I for one am very happy about it." "I can tell you now, Son," Mother said. "On the drive to Ely, we talked about you, and we worried about what kind of home you were providing my granddaughter. If we'd found what we expected, I would have fought you for my granddaughter's custody. Instead, we found the unexpected: a lovely, clean home, a wonderful, caring woman in your employ to take care of Piper when you can't, and a home full of love and the wonder of life. It took me only seconds to see that Piper loved you deeply, and you love her just as much. That's not what I expected, and you can't imagine how happy I am that you smashed my expectations to smithereens like you smashed your opponents in poker just now." Tears were streaming down her cheeks. I stood up and took her into my arms. "I love you, Son," she said as she clung to me. "I loved you before, but I love you more now. Please, please, don't change back to the way you were when you get your memories back, okay?" I pulled a clean handkerchief from my back pocket and handed it to her. "Mother, until a few hours ago, I didn't know you. I don't know you well enough to say that I love you, not yet, but I'll bet you a dollar to a donut that before you drive away on Sunday that I'll be able to honestly say the magical three little words and mean them." "Don't take that bet," George said. "You'll lose. John is a gambling wizard." Mother laughed. "That isn't gambling, George. I'm loved, I can see that. When you're loved, loving back is easy. Mom is making it easy for me. Besides, she loves Piper enough to fight me if I don't give my daughter the home she deserves, so I know that she loves the little person I love above all others as much as I. There's no gamble to it, George." I looked down at Piper. Plump tears were dripping from her eyes. "Why does love make me cry sometimes, Daddy?" she said with a tiny voice. I picked her up, and she clung to my neck. That's when the emotions she was feeling overwhelmed her and she started to sob. "I don't know, sweetheart, but sometimes love makes me cry, too. Crying can happen from either feeling good or feeling sad. You're crying because you're feeling good, aren't you?" "Uh-huh," she said, nodding her wet face in the crook of my neck. "Crying when you're feeling good is a good thing, so don't worry about it. Okay?" "'Kay," she said and sniffed. Mother handed my handkerchief back to me, and I wiped Piper's eyes. "It's past your bedtime, pumpkin. Would you like me to help you get ready for bed and read you a story, or would you like Grandmother to help you?" "Grandma," she said, which put a happy smile back on my mother's face, I noticed. ------- I set the step platform in front of the podium, adjusted the microphone to its lowest position, and helped Piper climb the platform. Before I left her to face the large audience alone, I leaned and whispered in her ear. "I love you, pumpkin." "I love you, too, Daddy," she said. My words had not been picked up by the microphone. Her words rang clear through the speakers. I heard a few, "Ah, that's sweet," and other similar verbal expressions from the audience. Piper waited until I sat down, and then looked out over the crowd in front of her. Every available seat in the church was filled, and some folks stood behind the back row. From what I could see, my daughter was fearless. I had neither asked what she planned to say nor coached her in what to say, and I was almost breathless in anticipation. "Hi," she said. "I'm Piper Windom. My mommy's in heaven. I miss her a lot. Sometimes I cry when I miss her. Daddy says it's all right to cry, though. My mommy was a very, very, very good mommy. She loved me bunches and bunches. She said so lots of times. And I loved her bunches and bunches right back. She read to me, and sang to me, and played games with me, and kissed away my ouees to make me feel better after I fall down, and gave me hugs and kisses, and cooked good, like Agnes and my Grandma." Piper looked toward the ceiling of the church and said, "Goodbye, Mommy. I love you." Then she climbed down off the platform and ran to me. There wasn't a dry eye in the place. Thank you, God, for my little girl. ------- "Coach, it was absolutely cruel of you to place me after Piper on the program. She was a hard act to follow," Gladys said. "That's for sure," I said. Orville and Gladys were standing next to my mother and me. We were waiting for the luncheon buffet line to shorten. "She was amazing, wasn't she? Absolutely fearless. I thought my heart would swell up so big my chest couldn't hold it when she looked to the heavens and said goodbye to her mommy." I sipped from a glass of iced tea. "Quite a crowd. I'm a little surprised." "Why?" Orville said. "They're here to support you, Coach. You've made a lot of friends during the last month." "Orville, I don't know some of the people here," I said. He laughed. "You advertised a free lunch on the bulletin board at the high school. What did you expect would happen?" "Mr. Canton," my mother said, "how many friends did my son have before last month?" Orville grinned at her. "As far as I know—zero. But other than mathematics, I don't know much." "You should have included a professional understanding of the game of football in your knowledge base, Orville," I said. "When it comes to football, Orville is incredible, Mother. I turned him loose to design a new playbook for the offensive team, and we won the next three games. As head coach, I got the credit for the wins, but it was Orville's doing, not mine." "And you made sure the folks in town knew how you felt," Gladys said. "Mrs. Jacobs, your son wrote a letter to the editor of our local newspaper giving Orville and some of his players the credit." Gladys hugged my arm. "Coach is quite a guy." The sheriff sauntered up to us. "What's with the skinny kid with Cal and Larry, Coach?" "The skinny kid is one the students in my early morning fitness program. He's the first lightweight to join the group; the other students are overweight. Instead of taking weight off Carl—his name is Carl Reed—I'm helping him put some meat on his bones. The kids in the program are the butt of some mean jokes and physical harassment at the high school. Until Carl joined the program, the kids in the school nicknamed the program the Bobcat Fat Farm." Sheriff Ken hooted with laughter and then said, "Is the boy gay?" "No, just effeminate. I pulled in some markers from Cal and Larry and made them Carl's bodyguards, so to speak. I'm trying to teach Cal and Larry one of life's important lessons," I said. "What lesson?" the sheriff asked. "That being a man isn't how strong you are, or how tough, but instead doing what you do," I said. "What's that?" the sheriff said. "Protecting the weak from the strong," I said and then introduced the sheriff to my mother. "Mrs. Jacobs, I hope you're proud of your boy," the sheriff said. "If you're not, you should be. He says his job is to make better human beings of his students. I can testify to you that he's doing his job and then some, and by doing his job, by example, he's making better human beings out of some of the adults around him." The sheriff chuckled. "He sure taught Tiny how to be a better human being." "Who is Tiny?" my mother asked. "One of my deputies." The sheriff looked around the room and spotted Tiny. "The little fellow over there about a foot taller than anyone else in the room except your son and me." He pointed. Mother laughed. "He is a little fellow, isn't he? How did John teach him how to be a better person?" "It was a Saturday night, and..." "I see someone I need to speak with. Excuse me, Mother, Sheriff," I said and walked away. I did not want to listen to that story again. Besides, I'd spied Robyn across the room. I did want to say hello to her. As I walked across the room, I looked around for Piper and spotted her at a table with some boys and girls her age. They appeared to be having a good time. "Hi, Robyn," I said. "I'm glad you could make it." "Hi, Coach, quite a shindig you have going here. I like the music, by the way." "Thanks. I picked the band. They promised to keep the volume down so people could talk over them until after the luncheon. Then they're going to cut loose with some boot-stompin' melodies with soulful lyrics that'll make you laugh or weep, depending on your mood at the time. Did you have a good Thanksgiving?" "I did. Did you?" "I ate more than I should. Agnes and my mother got into a cooking contest." Piper laughed. "Who won?" "It was a dead heat," I said. "Your daughter was the hit of the memorial service." "No fear! Did you notice?" I said. "Yes. She made me cry," Robyn said. "You and everyone else in the church, including me. To use Piper's words, I love her bunches and bunches." "I've noticed. And with your memory loss, I wondered why until today. She's very loveable." "Robyn, I didn't believe in love at first sight until the split-second I first saw my daughter when I picked her up in Las Vegas. I also believed that if you love someone, the happiness of the person you love would be more important than your own. I got that one right. I want nothing more than my daughter's happiness while she's being all she can be, to the exclusion of my own happiness if that's what it takes." "I'd like to meet your mother, Coach," Robyn said. I glanced in my mother's direction and groaned. The situation had escalated. Cal and Larry had joined the sheriff. Tiny stood with them, but he wasn't talking. "Later," I said. "The sheriff, Cal, and Larry are regaling my mother with my exploits. Frankly, hearing exaggerated renditions of my daring-dos embarrasses me." Robyn nodded toward the buffet line. "It looks like Danny and Harry kissed and made up." "It certainly looks that way. I'm happy for both of them. Do you know Lou Hailey and Mabel Grant?" I'd noticed that Lou and Mabel had just walked into the banquet room. "I've heard Lou's name but I don't know him. I don't recall hearing the woman's name before." "I bought 20 of the 27 acres for my ranch from Lou, and I hired Mabel to be my ranch manager. Lou and Mabel are engaged. They'll live together at Dream Catcher Ranch in the manager's house I'll build on the property. Come, let me introduce you. Oh, and Elizabeth is with them. Lou is Elizabeth's uncle. You know Elizabeth, don't you?" "Yes, I know Liz Conner. We're friends. Why do you call her Elizabeth? Everyone calls her Liz." "From me she prefers Elizabeth," I said. "I don't know why." I introduced Robyn to Lou and Mabel. Praise for Piper's talk at the memorial service dominated our conversation. Then I noticed that the sheriff and the crowd he had gathered were no longer bending my mother's ear. She was standing with my aunt and uncle. "I'd like to introduce all of you to my family. They drove in from Reno Wednesday," I said and led them across the room. I introduced Robyn first and added. "Robyn is the guidance counselor at the high school, Mother. She says she's not a shrink, but she always answers a question with a question. Isn't that what shrinks do?" "Actually, I've never said that I wasn't a shrink," Robyn said. "That's right. I apologize. When I asked you if you were a shrink, you answered the question with another question." That got some laughs. "All kidding aside, Robyn is amazing. She's my role model for helping students become better human beings." I introduced Lou and Mabel next as a couple. "Mabel grew up on a ranch near Reno, so her claim that she's been around horses all her life can't be gainsaid. I hired her as my ranch manager, which was presumptuous of me, perhaps, because I don't yet have a ranch, just the land for one, 20 acres of which I purchased from Lou." "Grant?" Mother said. "Mabel, was your mother a school teacher?" "Yes!" Mabel exclaimed. "Did you know her?" "Maybe. A wonderful woman named Mrs. Grant was one of my teachers in middle school. She was married to a rancher, I remember. She taught English." "My mother taught English in middle school," Mabel said. "How about that?" I said. "It's a small world. Tomorrow, I'll be showing my family the land that will become Dream Catcher Ranch next year. Would you and Lou like to join us to tromp over the land while I point out the approximate locations of the house and outbuildings, including the manager's house?" "You betcha," Lou said. I introduced Elizabeth next. "Elizabeth is my attorney and a close friend. I actually cherish our friendship more than I appreciate her legal advice, which has never been less than perfect." Josh Wellington caught my eye and waved me over. He was standing with Ralph Sanford. With apologies, I left Lou, Mabel, and Elizabeth to chat with my family, and took Robyn with me to introduce her to Josh and Ralph. After the introductions, I said, "Robyn, Josh is my accountant, and Ralph is the President of First National Bank." Then I told the men about my connection with Robyn. "Would you mind talking a little business?" Josh said, eyeing Robyn with concern. "Not if Robyn doesn't mind," I said. "I'll be the fly on the wall," Robyn said with a grin. "Ralph would like your banking business, Coach," Josh said. "With a substantial deposit, he'll give you the highest return the bank offers on the deposit and a line of credit at prime equal to four times the amount of the deposit." "For both the business and personal accounts?" I asked. "We've only talked about the business account," Josh said. "Let's define substantial as it relates to deposits," I said. "I do all right, but I don't consider myself a wealthy man." "Josh mentioned $100,000 for the business account," Ralph said. I nodded. "Would you give me the same considerations for my personal account with a like deposit?" I asked Ralph. "I would," he said. "I had to wire some funds to Vegas recently. My current bank would not wire the funds unless I went to the bank to sign and pay for the wire. How would First National handle such transactions for me?" "A simple telephone call to your personal banker. I will be your personal banker, Coach," Ralph said. "You'll also receive free checking and other services offered to our best customers." "All right. Let's meet at the bank Monday during my lunch hour, and I'll transfer the deposits to your bank and set up the new accounts." Ralph nodded. As Robyn and I walked away from Josh and Ralph, I said, "It looks like the line for the buffet has shortened. I have a table reserved for me and my family. Would you like to join us?" "I'd like that," she said. "Coach, do you have $200,000 to make the deposits at First National on Monday?" "I do," I said. "What bank did you rob?" "The bank of over-confident or over-cautious poker players," I said. She chortled and hugged my arm with hers. "Coach, you're something else, you surely are." "Would you like to tramp through the snow on my land with us tomorrow?" I said. "Coach, are you trying to court me in an around about way?" "I am. I can't date anyone openly, not yet. It would be unseemly. We are, after all, attending a luncheon following the memorial service for my wife. That I have no emotional connection with her because of my memory loss would be immaterial to most of the folks in this town, and I don't want to lose their good will. However, Ms. Robyn Clark, unless rebuffed, I plan to court you in an around about way at every opportunity. I admire you, Robyn. As I told you earlier this week, I want to spend some time with you to get to know Robyn the person, not Robyn the guidance counselor. Like with Danielle and me, we might not fit, but I for one want to find out if we're compatible. Will I be rebuffed?" "No," Robyn said. "I'm pleased you asked me to join you tomorrow." "What are you doing over the Christmas break?" "What do you have in mind?" "I'm planning a horse-buying trip for the week after Christmas with three stops. Lou and Mabel will be traveling with Piper and me. Would you like to travel with us? I'll pick up your expenses including separate hotel rooms for you." "Where are the stops?" "The day after Christmas, we'll drive from Ely to Las Vegas to show Lou and Mabel the two horses I purchased when I was in Vegas to pick up Piper; if Mabel approves, I might buy another horse from the same ranch. We'll leave our vehicles at the Vegas airport and fly to the Spotted Horse Ranch in Texas, and from there I want to take a gander at the horses at the Meucci Appaloosa Horse Ranch in Mississippi. Of the three ranches, the one in Mississippi is by far the strongest. I suspect I'll be doing most of the buying at that ranch. Robyn, I have another motive beyond acquiring some champion horses for my ranch. I want to get out of the cold and snow for a few days. That's why I planned the trip in the South. We'll celebrate New Year's Eve in Vegas, and drive back to Ely the next day." "I'll think about it, Coach. I'd planned to visit my parents over the holiday. They live in Las Vegas, so it's possible I could hook up with you in Vegas and go with you to the next two stops." With a wide grin, I rubbed my hands together and said, "Do I know how to court a gal in an around about way, or what?" ------- Chapter 14 In the wee hours of some quiet nights, I had continued to refine the site plan for Dream Catcher Ranch, and on Wednesday, I'd made copies of the site plan, such that it was, at Bare Printing on Aultman Street, so when my family and Robyn piled out of the Lincoln in front of the property on Great Basin Highway, I took a roll of the plans with me. Lou and Mabel had already arrived and were standing by a pickup truck parked on the shoulder of the highway in front of the Lincoln. It was a cold day, and blustery, but the sky was clear, a deep, sparkling blue like Robyn's eyes. The highway and the shoulders on each side of the highway were free of ice and snow, but the land still carried an inch or two of the white stuff. Crusty snow, I realized as I stepped forward. "My land has 250' of frontage on the highway," I said to my audience. "The main entrance to the ranch will be offset to the right, and I will put the land not used for the road to the left in pasture. I want some of my horses visible from the highway. I'll use white metal rail fencing for the front of the property, and the entrance will be dramatic and include gates that can be opened remotely. The property widens from 250' to 600' approximately 300' from the front property line. The depth of rear rectangle is approximately 500'. The house and outbuildings will be situated on the 600' by 500' rectangle. Lou, your land abuts the rear property line of the front parcel, and your land gives me access from Steptoe Creek Road." I pointed. "Steptoe Creek Road is the intersection we passed just before I pulled off the highway. You can see the intersection from here." "I see it," Piper quipped. "The main house will be two-stories tall and will contain 5 bedrooms and 4 bathrooms totaling about 4,500 square feet of living space. A carriage house for street vehicles with guest quarters over the garages will connect to the second floor of the house. The space between the house and the carriage house will act as a carport. The main house will be situated at the approximate center of the 600' width of the rear section far enough back from the widening point to allow for a circular drive in front of the house. I've been playing with a site plan that I'll give the architect I hire to design the structures." I handed out the site plans. Lou and Mabel shared one, as did Barbara and George. Mother and Robyn had their own copies. "You drew this!" Mother exclaimed, her voice full of disbelief. "Yes," I said. "Didn't you notice the drafting table in my office at the house?" "When did you learn to do this kind of work?" she said. Her frown etched deep lines in her forehead. I shrugged. "I don't know. I have no memories, remember. I take it from your reaction that I didn't exhibit any talent in architectural design or mechanical drawing before a lightning bolt tried to blast me into the great beyond and failed?" "That's for sure," she said. I decided to stonewall her incredulity and move on. "Mabel, notice where I placed the ranch manager's house. Does that location work for you?" "Yes, I like the central location, and it's far enough from the stables to avoid a lot of the stink but close enough to easily walk to the stables from the house." "Good, I'll consult with you and Lou about the floor plan of the house and the material and equipment that will go into it. Lou, notice the dotted rectangle on your property. That is a future 30-horse stable." "I see it," he said. "And I'll build the equipment shed half on your parcel and half on the front parcel. I'd actually like to slide the equipment shed completely over onto your parcel to make room for another training arena." I groaned. "The more I worked on the site plan, the more I realized that 27 acres would not accomplish what I want to accomplish. I spoke with Elizabeth yesterday at the luncheon and told her to investigate the ownership of any adjoining land to the two parcels that I've purchased. She laughed, Lou. Can you guess why?" He tried to keep a straight face but couldn't. "Yeah, I own 60 more acres in two parcels, one at 20 acres next to the 20 acres I sold you, and the other at 40 acres, both with frontage to Steptoe Creek Road. Wanna wheel and deal on another 20 acres or would you rather make a deal on the whole shebang for a slight discount and make your currently teeny-tiny ranch a little ranch totaling 87 acres?" "What are your asking prices for the two parcels?" I said. "For a package deal: $7,500 an acre for the 60 acres. If you only want the 20 acres, the price is $10,000 per acre, like the first twenty acres, and we'll talk again later about the price of the 40-acre parcel when you're of a mind to add it to your ranch." "Same down payment and carry-back arrangement as the first 20 acres?" "Yep." "I'll give you $300,000 for the 60 acres," I said. "Hmm, that won't work for me, but I'll take $400,000," he said. "Split the difference and you've got a deal," I said. He hesitated and then stuck out his hand. "Deal." I took it and said, "I think I'll let you do my horse trading for me, you old horse thief. You knew I'd need more acreage didn't you?" He cackled. "I kinda figured you would. Kinda hard to make a 27-acre horse ranch profitable." "I did okay," I said. "You expected to get $600,000 for the 80 acres, didn't you?" He cackled again. "Guilty as charged. You're not a bad horse trader yourself. You beat me out of $50,000. 'Course considering the cost to hold the land and the lack of real property appreciation in this neck of the woods, not to mention the goldurned scarcity of qualified buyers, I came out of the deal mighty fine, too. We both won, young fella. That makes it a fair deal, and that's the way I like to wheel and deal." "I'm not sure I understand what just happened," Robyn said. "I'm with you, Robyn," my mother said. "I just increased the size of Dream Catcher Ranch from 27 acres to 87 acres," I said. "I understand that part," Robyn said. "What I don't understand is how you beat Lou out of $50,000." "I paid Lou $50,000 less for the 80 acres than he expected to get, which was $7,500 per acre, or $600,000. I bought the first 20 acres at $10,000 an acre, or $200,000 and paid $350,000 for the other 60 acres, for a total of $550,000, instead of $600,000," I said. "Oh, I understand now," Robyn said. "But Lou said he still came out of the deal mighty fine. Why?" I said, "By selling all eighty acres now, he can invest the income and earn the $50,000 he lost, probably before he would have sold the land to another buyer, not to mention the cost to hold the land," I said. "It involves the time value of money." George said, "Lou had to consider the present value of a future sum, discounted to the present." "Like George said," Lou said. Robyn groaned. "Now I'm really confused." "Hellamighty," Mabel said, "All they did was a little horse tradin' using land instead of horses. All that other stuff is cow plop." Piper giggled and said, "Plop, plop." The sounds of riotous laughter rolled over the fields of snow. Thank heaven for little girls. ------- Carol Jacobs watched her son stride across his land. He stopped, said something to Mabel, and gestured with his hands. Robyn moved next to her and said, "He's different, isn't he?" Carol snorted and said, "So different it's like he's a different person, like someone else inhabits his body. Robyn, the man my sweet little boy became was a big disappointment to me. He inherited some physical characteristics from his father that I admired. He's devastatingly handsome. He's big and strong. His deep voice resonates with power. In appearance, he's an alpha male, like his father. But he was also a bully, like his father, and disrespectful to women, made fun of fat or skinny or short people, was prejudiced against blacks and Hispanics and native Americans, and called the less fortunate intellects among us retards. I could go on and on. And he was selfish, like his father. John Windom cared about John Windom and not much else. The new John Windom isn't a bully. He protects the weak from the strong. He isn't self-centered, and he shows respect to everyone around him, unless the person is not deserving of respect. Now, his moral foundation is so deep and strong, you could build a skyscraper on it. And money, boy oh boy, has that changed. Before no matter how hard he tried, the old John Windom couldn't get ahead financially. He was constantly living beyond his means. Just before he moved to Ely, he filed for bankruptcy to get out of debt. I don't want to speak poorly of the dead, but Yvonne was worse than John in that respect. Their marriage was slated for failure, if only because of finances. That the marriage ended the way it did is sad, but ... You know what I mean." "I understand," Robyn said. Carol sighed. "I'll admit it. I didn't like Yvonne. She was a beautiful woman and craved beautiful things, but she had no taste, no sense of personal style. She followed fads, and following fads can put you in the poor house and keep you there. I'd hoped that John would marry a woman that, with the power of love, could change him. I think Yvonne loved John at first, but the last time I saw them together, I could see no love in either of them for the other. Yvonne loved my granddaughter, though. I'll give her that. To my eyes, she loved Piper more than John loved the little girl. I came here expecting to take Piper back to Reno with me, Robyn. The old John didn't have it in him to take care of a child on his own. Does that shock you?" "Oh, my! Yes it does. John loves that little girl with all his heart. It's obvious in every look he gives her. If he looked at me like that just once, I'd ... I don't know what I'd do, but it would be difficult to resist." Carol chuckled. "I didn't resist the look I saw in his father's face, but I made a mistake. I thought I saw love, but it was a look of lust, not love." "I'll keep that in mind," Robyn said. "Robyn, there's nothing wrong with lust as long as you don't confuse it with love. That's another thing that's different about my son. I'm pretty sure he cheated on his wife, and I know she cheated on him. I've got no reason to say this, but I think the new John would honor his marriage vows. What's more I don't think he would put up with a cheating wife for a second. Robyn, I'm pleased with some of the changes I see in him, more that pleased; I'm ecstatic. But some of the changes ... well, they're hard to take. Personalities can change, but sudden changes in knowledge or skills just don't happen. This site plan is an example, and it's just one example among many. The site plan looks professional, like an architect or engineer created the plan. The old John didn't have the knowledge or skill to develop and draw the plan. This worries me. The memory loss I can understand, but ... I don't know. Some of the changes I see in John make me feel like we're all playing parts in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Do you remember that old TV show?" Robyn frowned and said, "I've heard of it, of course, but I don't believe I ever watched the show." She chuckled. "It must have been a powerful show, though, because being in the 'twilight zone' has become a normal expression used to describe an abnormal place involving the unusual or ESP or other paranormal events, and you're right, some of the changes I've seen in John certainly smack of the paranormal. Why does this worry you?" "I'm worried that the Twilight Zone episode will end, and John will turn back into the man he was." "To be honest, Carol, I harbor the same fear," Robyn said. "I could fall in love with the new John Windom. I detested the old John Windom." "I need a favor, Robyn. This is very important to me. It involves the well being of my granddaughter. If my son reverts, if he stops being the man he has become even slightly, will you call me?" Robyn nodded. "I will." Carol opened her purse, extracted a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote her name, address and phone number on the paper. With a sigh when she gave the note to Robyn, she said, "I'll rest easier now. Thank you, Robyn." ------- Sunday afternoon. I was at loose ends. The cards were running against me. I quit after losing two tournaments, and I didn't want to rework the site plan for the ranch until I received survey drawings that include the additional 60 acres. I opened my cell phone. It was time to do some courting in an around about way. "Hello, Robyn," I said when she answered my call. "Coach, did your mother and Barbara and George get away all right this morning?" "They did. It was a tearful goodbye on Piper and Mother's parts, but my family left on schedule. Mother promised to call when they arrived safely back in Reno. After Mother left, one of Piper's friends called, and to console Piper, I dropped her off at her friend's home. She's having dinner with her friend's family. It's Agnes's day off, and after fixing my lunch, she left to visit friends, as well." "I like your mother, Coach. Now I know where you came by some of your good qualities." "I thank you on my mother's behalf. I called because I'm alone and at loose ends, and it occurred to me that, if you're not busy otherwise, it would be a good time for us to get to know each other better on a personal level instead of as we relate inside the school environment. Are you ... busy, I mean?" "I was thinking about washing my hair and doing my nails," she said, her voice full of tease. "There's no way for me to know, but like I sensed my general dislike of labor unions, I have a strong feeling that I am adept at washing hair. I do not, however, sense a like ability for the job of a manicurist," I said. "So, it's fifty/fifty proposition at best." "Proposition?" she said, the tease still strong in the tones of her voice. "Yes. You have some personal chores facing you. I'm proposing to assist you with one of these chores by washing your hair. I offered the proposition because it seems to me that, for a man, washing a beautiful woman's hair, unless the man is a beautician by profession, could be an intimate experience, not to mention that while I'm running my fingers through your thick and sudsy dark tresses to massage your scalp, we could talk and get to know each other on a more personal level, which was the point of my call. It would be a two-for, and you know how I enjoy the efficiency of two-fors. But a dilemma remains for you to resolve. Should you accept my proposition, only fifty percent of your chores will be completed because you'd be on your own regarding doing your nails." I waited, and the silence stretched out. Finally she spoke, "If I accept this proposition, and I'm not saying I am, you'd have to come to my apartment to test your theory of the possible intimate experience. If I drove to your house, I'd need a sailor's duffle bag to tote all the paraphernalia required to wash my hair. Shampoo and conditioner, brushes and combs, hair dryer, and curlers would be a partial list." "In that case, I'd be a fool not to hop into my pickup truck and drive lickety-split to your apartment." "And I'd be fool not to take you up on your proposition." "Great, I'll be there lickety-split. For future reference, what part of my spiel swayed your decision the most?" "Imagining your fingers massaging my scalp through my sudsy tresses." "Thought so," I said. "I'll be there in ten min..." "Make that thirty minutes, Coach." ------- Robyn groaned with pleasure as I massaged her scalp with the tips of my fingers, and then added another dollop of shampoo for thicker more luxurious suds. "I don't know if your theory held up for you, Coach, but you've proved it to me. A man washing my hair is indeed an intimate experience." "It would have been more intimate in your shower than the kitchen sink," I said. "What's your favorite color?" "Huh?" "What's your favorite color? That is my first question that when answered will start the process for me to know you better on a personal level—the other part of my two-for." "Ah, I understand. Scrub just a little harder, please. Yes ... like that." Her groan was more a purr than a groan. "My favorite color is blue. Now, answer the same question for me." "That's a tough one for me. When I look into your eyes, it's blue. And I prefer the blue of far away mountains to mountains even farther away with a purple hue. But the greens in a stand of conifers and the sun-dappled, flickering greens in mountain aspen leaves, and especially the green portions in breaking ocean waves resonate more for me than blue, so I've got to go with green. Who is your favorite current singer?" "Garth Brooks," she said. "Your turn." "Another tough one for me. I have a difficult time separating the singer from the song. When Whitney Houston sings I Will Always Love You, I yearn to be loved as deeply as the power and range of her voice suggests to me. But loving with that much intensity would likely be short term; it would burn itself out like a camp fire in a high wind unless fed more fuel to maintain the roaring blaze. I think I prefer the love Kenny Rogers sings about in Through the Years: long-term love; quiet, steadfast love. But then there's Garth Brooks and If Tomorrow Never Comes and the pathos of love. I guess I've got to go with Garth Brooks. Time to rinse, Robyn." We stopped talking while I used the spray nozzle part of the kitchen faucet to rinse the shampoo out of her hair. When I finished the chore, I said, "You're very fortunate, Robyn." "Why am I fortunate?" "Very few beautiful women look beautiful with wet hair. You number among them," I said. "Thank you," she said. "It's time for the conditioner and more questions." As I spread the conditioner through her long wet hair, I said, "What part of sex do you enjoy the most?" She turned to me and gave me a hard look; then her expression softened and mischief entered her eyes. "You first on this one, Coach," she said. I laughed and said, "I'm male, a pig. I like the orgasm best. But the orgasm has many parts. There's the beginning, the creeping sensations that announce its inevitability, delicious sensations that intensify from mere creeping to the speed of light, moving through all velocities in between. Then comes the explosion, like the big bang, the time when the most intense sensations flood my entire being and take me away from the here and now to a void of pure sensation, pure pleasure, where no other senses can intrude, the place where I can only feel, a place where I feel as if I'm communing with all other life in the universe, a place in which I want to remain. But I'm not allowed to stay in that place. There is that moment, that nanosecond, when I fall back out of the void, back to the here and now, and as I fall, the intensity of the sensations diminishes, becomes more manageable, becomes human again instead of godlike." "Jesus," Robyn whispered. "But our Creator, in His infinite wisdom, built in reminders of the pleasures just experienced with some aftershocks, moderately intense sensations that rumble and peak without taking me back to the void but still intense enough when combined with my other senses to make me appreciate the wonderful woman that allowed me to share with her this most intimate of experiences. To answer the question, for me it's got to be the orgasm, and if I were to select which part of the orgasm I enjoy the most, it would be the aftershocks, the moments in the here and now, the moments of appreciation." "Rinse the conditioner from my hair," Robyn said. "It needs another minute," I said. "Don't care. I want to share some aftershocks with you, some of those moments of appreciation you described so eloquently. I want to feel some of my favorite parts of sex, too. Using the power of my mind, I can almost feel the moment when you will first enter me, feel that first slow push until I take all you can give me and we become one, separate but joined together. I want to see the passion in your expressive eyes as you move over me and I rise up to meet you, and most of all I want to travel to that void of pure pleasure with you, for you to hold me while we commune with all life in the universe." I rinsed the conditioner from her hair. ------- A while later I was brushing the snarls out of Robyn's hair, trying to be gentle but not always succeeding. We were still naked and on her bed. I sat up, my back against the headboard, and she sat between my legs, her back to my front so I could wield the hairbrush with ease. She had a lovely, feminine back that I kissed affectionately when the urge struck. "So far I see no areas of conflict," I said. "We both prefer cool colors, you like blue and it's green for me. We share Garth Brooks as our favorite singer, which means we both like country music, and finally we're compatible sexually." "That's for sure," Robyn said. "So far, anyway." "Explain," I said. "How often to you like to have sex?" she said. "As often as possible but not so frequently that the appeal diminishes and approaches being common." "What does that mean?" I groaned. "You're sliding into shrink mode, aren't you?" She chortled. "Sorry. I asked the question to determine if we will be compatible with the number of times we'd like to have sex each week. Your answer was a correct answer but didn't resolve the intent of my question." "How many times a week would you like to have sex?" I said. She laughed. "Oh, no, another shrink is in the room. I'll answer your question, though. I have gone years without sex, John. What..." I interrupted her. "I like it that you call me John, now, instead of Coach." "Coach is for public consumption; John is for when we're alone," she said. I nodded but said nothing. "Back to your question," she said. "Like I said, I've gone years without sex, with a man, anyway, and please don't infer that I have sex with women from that statement. I don't. I am not bisexual. When I am not in a committed relationship with a man, I masturbate—a lot, like daily, sometimes twice a day. I have a rich and varied fantasy life, John." "I like that in a woman," I said. "When I'm in a committed relationship I like sex often. My preferred frequency matches my masturbatory habit. I lived with a man briefly while I was in college. The man I lived with claimed to like sex as frequently as I, but after the first few weeks, his need diminished; mine stayed the same so my needs exceeded his. This didn't bother me. I could, after all, give myself the relief I needed between our times together, but that I would resort to masturbation bothered him. He said it made him feel like he wasn't man enough for me. I loved him, so to please him I stopped masturbating. That didn't work very long. The more I thought about it the more his attitude angered me, and I soon reverted to self-gratification, but in secret. Secrecy destroys loving relationships, John." "Yes it does, but what destroyed the relationship you just described was the man's insecurity with his manhood," I said. "Robyn, I was surprised how orgasmic you were. Many women can't achieve release without touching themselves, or having the man make sure the right buttons are pushed." I could see her blush on the sides of her neck. "Which is normally your preference, touching yourself I mean. Am I right?" She didn't speak for a few moments, but finally, with a quiet, timid voice, she said, "Yes." "I like it if a woman touches herself when I'm making love with her," I said. "Wanna know why?" "I do," she said, her tone of voice more positive. "The Creator screwed up. The male was designed perfectly to easily achieve orgasm during copulation—too easily, maybe. The female wasn't designed to achieve orgasm in the same circumstances with such ease. The nerve endings that promulgate female orgasms were placed such that normal copulation does not excite these nerve endings with ease, certainly not like it does for the males of our species. In an effort to compensate for His design error, I believe the Creator endowed females with the ability to have multiple orgasms, and left out a like ability in most males. To deal with these imperfections, men learned how to use their fingers to excite the necessary female nerve endings during sex, or learned to delegate the pleasant task to the woman involved. Even better, sometime in the long distant past, men also learned how to perform oral sex on women to produce not just one orgasm but many. That a modern man doesn't understand female anatomy and takes umbrage when a woman touches herself glaringly reveals not only a lack of confidence in his masculinity but also his ignorance." She giggled and said, "You certainly learned history's lesson regarding oral sex." "Thank you. You're squirming. Are you getting aroused again?" "Ah ... yes." "Touch yourself while I finish brushing your hair." She turned her head slowly so she could see my face without the brush pulling her hair. She studied me for a long moment, and once satisfied that my suggestion was serious, turned her head back to the front, spread her legs slightly and busied her fingers on the nerve endings we'd just discussed. To test her concentration and to determine more areas of compatibility or conflict between us, I asked more questions. Without fear, I started with the political issues of our time. She responded to my questions with one-word answers when possible, which proved difficult the way I framed the questions. Robyn told me that she was a registered Republican. She wanted less government, not more, and felt that the citizens of America were at the breaking point regarding taxes. She believed the middle-class was getting screwed by the both rich and poor in the country. The poor had a free ride, and with the loopholes in our tax laws designed to reduce taxes for the rich that the rich didn't pay their fair share. She believed a consumption tax would be fairer than a tax on income and would be cheaper to administrate. Although she voted for him twice, she had few good words to say about Bush. She said he was an idiot regarding the budget and deficit spending, the Iraq war, illegal immigration, and he wore his religion on his sleeve, which repulsed her. Although she was a hawk regarding the war on terror, she believed invading Iraq was a mistake. GITMO didn't bother her. She said we needed someplace to incarcerate Islamic radicals that are extrajudicial prisoners, and GITMO was as good a place as any, but she was opposed to torture, including waterboarding. She was pro-choice regarding abortions, but like me was vehemently opposed to partial-birth abortions. Unlike me, she had no problem with the government footing the bill for abortions for poor women. She was also in favor of stem-cell research. She wanted to close our borders and regulate the flow of immigrants from Mexico with temporary worker permits. When I asked her about the 12 million illegal immigrants already in the country, she said they should be given the first places in line for the worker permits, and yes she knew that might be rewarding them for breaking the law, but it was the humane thing to do. Complete amnesty, she added, would be going too far. She wasn't an environmentalist, but she had fallen for the big lie about global warming without researching the issue. She further believed that rabid environmentalists not only hated the United States but also hated mankind. When I asked her about the rise in socialism in the country, she said that the socialists had captured the Democratic Party, which was a shame because before the extreme left took over the party, she frequently crossed party lines to vote for the man, not the issues. We agreed that we were both moderates slightly to the right of center. She was an advocate of free trade, but felt that other countries were taking unfair advantages of us. "Like you're taking unfair advantage of me," she said. "You get me hot by talking about the differences in the anatomies of our naughty bits, graciously tell me to touch myself until you can reload, and then launch a serious political discussion." "I'm finished with your hair. Turn around so I can see you. Watching you touch yourself will get my engine revved up again." I was amazed at her grace as she accomplished the feat I'd suggested. I'd have fallen on my face. I was right about my engine. It was soon going vroom, vroom! ------- Robyn hugged herself. She felt completely relaxed, her mind and body at ease. Good sex did that for her, and the sex she'd just had with John Windom was the best sex she'd ever had. He'd left not long ago. She looked at a clock on her kitchen wall. Fifteen minutes ago. She'd wanted him to stay, but he couldn't, said he had to pick up his daughter from a house of a friend of his daughter's, and then cook dinner for the little girl. Agnes had Sundays off, he'd said. If John and Robyn became a couple, if they married, Robyn would inherit the child. She'd become an instant mother. She wasn't sure she wanted to be a mother right now, especially a mother for a child that wasn't hers. Robyn liked the little girl. She was a delight, so happy, so clever, but motherhood required more than like. Motherhood required love. She could fall in love with John Windom. Of that, she had no doubts. If she were honest with herself, she was already falling in love with him. But could she learn to love his daughter? Humph, she grumped. Love wasn't the result of a learning process. Love was an emotion. Love just happened whether you wanted it to happen, or not. When they'd talked about issues of conflict and compatibility, his daughter hadn't entered the discussion. Robyn was happy the subject hadn't come up. She needed more time to think about how she'd feel about instant motherhood, and she sensed that any hesitation on her part about being Piper's mother would have been a deal breaker. As she drank the last sip of the coffee in her cup, her thoughts drifted back to the moment when John had first entered her. She relived the sensations, could almost feel them again. He hadn't thrust into her. He'd entered her slowly, one fraction of an inch at a time, which was a good thing as big as he was. That was another thing she liked about John Windom: the length and girth of his wonderful cock. It filled her completely. She'd never felt so full, and feeling full was important to her, made her feel like a complete woman. Jilling off with her fingers didn't give that to her, and although her sex toys made her feel full, they didn't feel the same. They were cold, inanimate objects. She giggled. Inanimate objects that vibrated like crazy. She liked that about her sex toys. John's cock didn't vibrate. She hugged herself again. Then she stood up and strode with purpose to her bedroom where she dropped the wrap she was wearing to the carpet. She opened the nightstand on the left side of the bed and rummaged through the collection of sex toys she stored there, finally selecting one of them. "Big John," she whispered. She giggled as she rolled naked onto her bed. After hearing Danielle's nickname for Coach, Robyn had dubbed her largest fake phallus Big John. She set the vibrator in Big John to its lowest setting. She liked to start slow and increase the power of the vibrator as her arousal increased. "Do your thing, Big John," she said out loud. ------- Piper and I had just finished dinner—dinner that I'd cooked, Mother, so there. I stuck an imaginary tongue out at my mother and gave her an imaginary raspberry. Piper was helping me clean up the dinner mess by toting dishes from the table, when my cell phone rang. "Coach?" Sheriff Ken said when I answered his call after wiping my hands on a dishtowel. When I recognized his voice, my heart started to race. Sheriffs don't call a citizen at home on Sunday evenings with good news. My mind raced faster than my heart as I tried to anticipate the bad news he was about to reveal. Did Agnes have an automobile accident? Did Cal's father beat him again? Was Cal in the hospital? Did George go off the road on the trip to Reno? "Yes, Sheriff," I said with trepidation. "I'm sorry to intrude on your weekend, but I have some good news I thought you'd like to hear," he said. Relief washed over me. "We just arrested the meth cooker, a recidivist named Raymond Karp. He was living with his mother in a house she rented in McGill last summer. Get this. Ray Karp sent his mother out to buy some of the ingredients he needed to cook up his batches of meth. She says she didn't know what he was doing. I believe her. She's completely devastated. Karp rented a house trailer that was sitting on acre of land between McGill and Ely, and set up his meth lab in the trailer. For a good word from me to the prosecutor, Karp gave up his dealers, two of them: David McCoy, a sixteen-year-old student at White Pine High, and Benny Ocha, a Shoshone that lives on the terrace. The dealers are also in custody." "I don't know David McCoy," I said, which for some reason was also a relief to me. "I called to tell you the good news and to give you some credit for information that led to Karp's arrest. Using the meth recipe you gave Tom, I sent Cantrell back out to check if anyone was buying any of the ingredients in the recipe. An unknown woman had purchased some survival kits that contained tincture of iodine, and the same woman had purchased Heet at an auto parts store. She was unknown because she was paying cash and no one in Ely knew her. We got a call from the manager at an auto parts store on Saturday when the woman returned to buy more Heet. The manager delayed the woman until we swooped down and arrested her. The rest was easy. We tied up all the loose ends today. Thanks, Coach." "You're welcome, Sheriff, but I did very little. You and your men did the heavy lifting. I'd appreciate it if my involvement stayed between you and me," I said. "Are you sure? I was thinking an award ceremony, a plaque for your wall as concerned citizen of the month, something like that." He laughed raucously. I groaned. "Sheriff, I thought we were friends. I guess I was wrong." "Coach, if you want to remain anonymous in this, you've got it," the sheriff said. "Thank you. That's the way I want it, and congratulations, Sheriff. I told a reporter for the Ely Times that the citizens of this county had been wise to elect you their sheriff. I meant every word." ------- Chapter 15 Hank Patrick strode down a hall in the hospital toward Nurse Leah Mullen's psych ward. The rapist had been identified, and even with DNA proof, Patrick didn't expect Mullen to believe him. Lieutenant Longacre with the Scottsdale Police Department had called him with the news, and had asked Patrick in his capacity as head of security to move the rapist to the secured area of the hospital where prisoners were held until some officers arrived to read the man his rights, arrest him, and transport him for booking. "How crazy is he?" Longacre had asked. "I don't remember him. Give me a sec to pull up his file on my computer," Patrick said. When a dialogue box came up, Patrick typed the patient's name, hit enter, and the file scrolled onto the screen. "Aaron R. MacDonald has been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. Hmm, let's see. Here, this is interesting. He was struck by lightning, and when he came out of the coma following the event, he claimed to be someone other than MacDonald, declaring that the doctors had moved his mind to a different body. Initially, he reacted violently, struck a nurse, breaking her nose. That's when he was transferred to the psych ward. Dr. Percy Stein, a psychiatrist who does rounds in the psychiatric ward of the hospital, recommended MacDonald for transfer to the Arizona State Hospital. It looks like the transfer was delayed for some reason, probably because ASH didn't have a bed. That happens a lot. Then MacDonald calmed down, and Stein rescinded the order to ship him off to ASH because MacDonald stopped being violent." Patrick didn't tell the SPD lieutenant that he suspected hospital administration was milking MacDonald's health insurance until the benefits ran out. "Mr. Patrick, is MacDonald mentally competent to stand trial?" Longacre said. Patrick laughed and said, "Not in a million years. He believes the staff members of the hospital are aliens, believes the hospital is on a planet other than earth, that he was taken from earth by us aliens, and that aliens are using him as an ingredient in weird experiments. He thinks the other patients in the psych ward are experiments gone awry, like him, and in fact, refers to them as experiments. He also has hallucinations of putrid smells coming from dead experiments the aliens refuse bury. The imaginary odors make him throw up." Longacre sighed. "Okay. He's a rapist. Is he violent or not?" "Not since he was first admitted." "Okay. I'll send some officers to the hospital and transport him for booking, and then we'll probably send him back to you. We're busy this morning, so it might be two or three hours before we can pick him up. In the meantime, put him in a secure area of the hospital." "Will do, Lieutenant," Patrick had said. ------- John Windom sat fighting waves of nausea. The stink was worse that morning. The dead bodies of experiments gone bad were piling up. No one sat near him. He didn't blame them. No one liked vomit spewing over their laps and legs and feet. He was losing weight, he knew. The scrawny body the PPs had given him was wasting away to skin and bones. If he didn't stop throwing up his food, he'd die, and he didn't want to die. He didn't want to be thrown atop the pile of dead experiments to rot away under an alien sun. Tears stung his eyes. He didn't want to die; he wanted to go home; he wanted his body back. Someone stopped in front of him, a PP, he deduced from the white shoes with heavy crepe soles. He kept his head down. He didn't want the sick fucks who had stolen his body to see his tears. "Look at me, Aaron," a voice screamed. Alarmed, he looked up and saw the PP named Leah standing in front of him. She'd let the mask she wore slip. Instead of the kind but no-nonsense expression usually present on her alien face, she looked furious. And then it happened. Leah struck him, slapped his face with the power of a large man. The blow combined with the shock that a PP was capable of such violence stunned him momentarily. "You rapist!" she screamed. "You raped Grace!" Then she slapped him again, delivering a blow that spun him off the chair to the floor. "Get him out of here! Get him out of my ward!" ------- "Some good things have happened, Coach," Larry Foreman said to me. He occupied the passenger seat in my pickup truck. We were en route to Elizabeth's office to hear and record Tiny Gorman's apology. At the memorial service luncheon, I'd told Elizabeth about my deal with the sheriff regarding Tiny. After she finished laughing her head off, figuratively, of course, she tracked down the sheriff and Tiny and set up the apology for Tuesday during my lunch hour. My lunch hour for Monday was committed to switching banks. I'd pulled Larry out of a class to go with me. "What good things?" I said. "My mom started to go to AA meetings again. She's been sober since the night of the party when Tiny hit me. I told her what had happened, what I did, what you did, and how you and Ms. Clark are helping me go to the community college. 'If good people like that will help you, I'll help, too, ' she said. I'm not saying this dry spell will last, Coach, but I sense she's more serious about trying this time. A friend at AA got her a job bagging groceries at Anderson's Foodtown, which is close enough to our house that she can walk to work." "That's good news, Larry, very good news," I said. "The other good news involves Cal's father. Cal told me that the sheriff read his dad the riot act. The sheriff told him that if he hit Cal again that he'd sic Tiny on him. The sheriff said that Tiny would catch him alone without witnesses around and pretend that he was a heavy bag in a boxing gym. Then the sheriff ordered Cal's dad to sign up for anger-management therapy at the Ely Mental Health Center. Cal couldn't believe it, but his dad actually signed up for some group sessions." Lightning flashed and thunder rocked the pickup. The sky opened up, and rain came down so hard and heavy I thought I'd driven under a waterfall. "Whew, that was close," Larry said. "Are you afraid of lightning now?" I said nothing. I had to concentrate on the road. He chuckled and answered his own question. "Probably not. I mean the odds are a million to one, aren't they? The odds of getting hit by lightning twice in a lifetime have to be a billion to one." With the windshield wipers going full blast and the gusting wind and rain calming slightly, I was able to respond. "After a bolt of lightning found the goalposts I was standing under, I was curious about the actual odds, Larry. They are much smaller than I thought. The odds in the United States are about 244,000 to one. It's by far more likely that a person will get hit by lightning than the person will win a lottery. About Cal's dad, I'm happy the sheriff intervened. The more I know Sheriff Ken the more I admire him. He's a good man." The telephone call from the sheriff last evening is an example, I thought. He didn't need to give me partial credit for the break in the investigation that had led to the identification and subsequent arrest of the meth cooker in the county, and it pleased me that he agreed that any credit I was due would remain between the sheriff and me. Yep, Sheriff Kenneth Hansen is a good man. Larry nodded. "Yes, I think he is," he said quietly. "It's confusing. Outward appearances mean nothing, or very little. It's what's inside a person that really counts, and I think everyone sorta hides the real person inside." "Appearances mean little, but behavior means a lot, and behavior can't be hidden, not indefinitely. Judge folks not by who they are or what they look like, Larry, but rather by how they act, and you won't be as confused." Lightning lit up the sky again, and then thunder cracked and rumbled almost immediately. "Another close one," Larry said. I chuckled. "I thought it snowed this time of year around here. Are thunderstorms normal in Ely in late November?" "More normal that snow, Coach. The snowstorms we've had were early storms. But a thunderstorm as violent as this one usually happens during the summer months." ------- John Windom was in serious trouble now. PPs stuck needles in recalcitrant experiments. They didn't hit them. Especially female PPs. Two or more male PPs held violent experiments down and another took them out with needles. That's how it was done on this planet. But a PP had struck him, a female PP, and she'd screamed at him, called him a rapist, said that he'd raped Grace. He didn't rape Grace. Grace didn't say no. She didn't tell him to stop. You can't rape the willing. The PPs wouldn't understand, though. Their minds were made up. He was an experiment. He wouldn't get his day in court, not on this planet. Experiments had no rights. He'd be punished. They'd kill him. He knew that they'd kill him. Kill him and throw the dead, scrawny body that they'd given him on the heap of rotting human flesh where they discarded dead experiments. His stench would add to the putrid odors that filled the air on this planet. Could he escape? Humans and PPs look similar, while clothed at least. PPs probably looked different naked. He'd never seen a naked PP. He tried to imagine some of the possible differences in PP anatomy and the anatomy of human beings. No nipples, he decided. They're pollinated. They'd have no need for nipples. Or sex organs. No, that wasn't true. Plants had sex organs. He tried to remember what he'd been taught in biology about the sex organs of plants. He recalled male and female sex germs, and something called the stigma. Fuck it. The configuration of PP sex organs didn't matter. As long as he wore clothes, he could pass for a PP. Escape was the only chance he had. Otherwise he was a dead man walking. PPs wore white jackets or green cotton-like wraps similar to the clothing nurses and doctors wore in hospitals on earth. If he could steal a white jacket or a green wrap, he could walk out of the alien prison where he was incarcerated. He wanted to ask the large, male PP who held his arm where he was being taken, but he'd learned not to ask questions. PPs didn't like their experiments to ask questions. Questions produced needles, and considering how much trouble he was in, the last thing he wanted was a needle jabbed into his flesh. If they took him out with a needle, he knew he wouldn't wake up—ever. The large PP guiding him through the building turned left. The new corridor had a glass wall on the right. Lightning flashed, lighting up the corridor as if a thousand light bulbs had gone off at the same time. Then thunder cracked and rumbled, shaking the building. Rain pelted the glass wall. The rain turned into hail, small ice pellets at first, but then became a little larger, about the size of frozen peas. The pellets bounced off the glass and off the green grass outside the wall as if the grass was a trampoline. The alien planet has violent storms, John Windom thought. ------- Through the driving rain, I noticed a car at the side of the road. A woman was behind the car bent over looking at something. As my pickup approached the car, I recognized Gloria Sanger. She looked like a drowned rat. Her car had a flat tire, the rear passenger-side. I pulled my pickup off the road behind Gloria's car. "Stay in the pickup, Larry," I said. "No need for both of us to get soaked." I hopped out of the pickup and sloshed over to Gloria. The cold rain soaked me to the skin before I took two steps. "Gotta problem, Gloria?" I said. "Coach! Am I glad to see you! I've got a flat tire, must have picked up a nail, or something." "Do you have a spare?" I said. "Yes, but..." "I'll change the tire, Gloria. Open the trunk, and then jump in my pickup to keep Larry Foreman company. It would be silly for you to stand out in this gusher to watch me change the tire." "Okay, and thanks, Coach. I owe you," she said as she unlocked the trunk. "Yep," I said, grinning, "and someday when you least expect it, I'll collect. Now get." The spare was a donut that car manufactures put in cars in lieu of a full-size tire. I released the device that held it in place, and pulled it out. Then I studied the jack. I'd used one like it before. I was loosening the lug nuts on the rim with the flat tire when lightning flashed again. The thunder that followed shook the ground. I looked up through the limbs of a tree whose canopy covered about half the width of Gloria's car. The tree provided a little protection from the driving rain, but it could also attract lightning. With a sense of foreboding, I hurried to loosen the lug nuts, and the tire iron slipped off one of the bolts. I cursed and told myself that Larry had been right. The odds of getting struck by lightning twice in my lifetime had to be a billion to one. Suddenly, a white light more brilliant than the inside of a star surrounded me. ------- As John Windom walked down the corridor, he noticed a console table in an offset in the wall to his left. A large vase sat on the table, but John Windom didn't see a vase. He saw a weapon, and not just one weapon. The vase could be used to eliminate the PP escorting him. The table could break through the wall of glass to give him an escape path from the alien prison. He worried though. Was he strong enough in his emaciated condition to pick up the large vase and wield it like a club? Was the vase heavy enough to knock the PP unconscious? Would the glass wall be impervious to a table striking it with force? He could think of no alternative that would allow him to escape, though. He had no choice. He'd die if he didn't try. The PP was probably escorting him to his death. And he did have something going for him. He was walking along the solid wall, not the wall of glass, so he was on the correct side of the PP to use the vase as a weapon. Do it! It's your only chance. Moving as quickly as he could, he spun to the left, picked up the heavy vase, and kept spinning as the vase rose over his head with his spin concluding as the vase struck the startled PP in the face. The vase broke and fell in pieces to the floor along with the unconscious PP. He grabbed the console table, and then groaned with dismay. It was too heavy to pick up and throw. But maybe... Yes! He could push it! He could slide it across the smooth floor in the corridor, but the corridor probably wasn't wide enough for him to build up the table's speed enough to break through the glass wall. But, if he pushed the table at an oblique angle instead of at a right angle toward the wall, perhaps he could gain the distance needed to build up the table's velocity to achieve his purpose. Do it! You have no choice, he entreated silently. "Break through, goddamnit!" he growled out loud at the table just before it struck the glass. "Yes!" he shouted when the large pane of glass the table hit shattered into a million small pieces, not large, jagged pieces. Tempered glass, he figured as he leaped through the opening behind the table. The table hit the sodden ground before he did, and he nearly fell on the slippery, green grass. He recovered his balance and ran. Looking back over his shoulder and seeing no one in pursuit didn't slow him down. He was running for his life. The rain quickly soaked though his prison garments. His lungs labored to give him enough oxygen to keep running, and spots appeared in front of his eyes. He'd seen the spots before, though, so they didn't bother him. Gasping for breath, he ran through a parking lot. He saw no one. Looking back he saw no pursuit, but he ran on. He ran until he couldn't run anymore, until his scrawny body had nothing left to give him, and then he collapsed. He looked up at the sky, the first time he'd looked directly up to an open sky since the aliens had abducted him. He was halfway under a tree, a large alien tree that stretched to the heavens. At least the canopy of the tree offers some protection from the rain, he thought as he continued to suck fresh oxygen into his overworked lungs. Suddenly a white light more brilliant than the inside of a star surrounded him. ------- "Jesus!" Gloria exclaimed. "Not again!" Larry shouted and jumped from the pickup. He ran through the rain to Coach, who was lying unconscious face up under the tree. The tree was on fire, but the driving rain was quickly extinguishing the flames. Larry slid to a stop, almost losing his balance, knelt and placed his fingers along Coach's neck. He saw Mrs. Sanger come to a stop beside him. "No pulse," he said. "Do you know CPR? I don't." "Yes," she said. "Get out of the way. Call an ambulance." "No phone," he said as she opened Coach's mouth to start CPR. "In my purse in the front seat of my car," Mrs. Sanger said. Leaning into the car, Larry found the purse and opened it. He groaned. The purse was full of junk, and he couldn't see a cell phone. He dumped the contents of the purse on the front seat of the car, spreading the mess until he spotted the cell phone. He opened it, turned it on and dialed 911. When the phone started to ring, he looked toward Coach and Mrs. Sanger. She was pressing his chest hard with both hands, pushing with rhythmic movements. "Is he breathing yet?" Larry yelled. "No, call an ambulance." The 911 operator came on the line, and Larry quickly told her what had happened and the approximate location of the emergency. "Again? Coach was struck by lightning again?" the operator said. "Yes. He's not breathing. No pulse. Get an ambulance here now!" "Calm down, young man. I have the EMTs on line now." Larry clicked off the call and walked to Coach and Mrs. Sanger. "The ambulance is on the way," he said, feeling impotent. He made a personal vow to learn how to perform CPR and other emergency procedures. Another vehicle stopped behind the pickup, and a man Larry didn't know ran toward them. Mrs. Sanger knew him. "Bob, do you know CPR?" she said as she continued pushing her clasped hands into Coach's chest. "Yes," the man called Bob said. "I need a break," she said. Bob knelt on the opposite side of Coach from Mrs. Sanger, and they counted together until Bob had the rhythm, and Bob took over. Mrs. Sanger sagged back, looking exhausted. "Is he going to be all right?" Larry said to her. She just looked at him and said nothing, but her look said it all. Larry's sudden tears merged with the rain on his face. ------- I woke up once again lying on wet grass, but Orville wasn't leaning over me. A large dog was licking my face. Leaves on the limbs of a large cottonwood tree partially protected me from the rain. The tree was on fire, but the heavy rain was quickly extinguishing the flames. Dog? Cottonwood tree? I wasn't under a cottonwood tree when... Shit! Lightning! Lightning hit that tree! I tried to sit up. When the attempt failed, I pulled my hand in front of my eyes. It wasn't John Windom's hand. It wasn't Aaron MacDonald's hand either. It was a woman's hand! I closed my eyes, bit the side of my mouth until I could taste blood, and opened my eyes again. I wasn't hallucinating. The hand in front of my face belonged to a woman. With effort, I sat up. Checking out the rest of my new body told me the woman was young, in her late teens or early twenties, I guessed, and overweight. The dog whimpered, a mutt, part lab part fence jumper. I reached with my pudgy new hand and patted its head. "It's all right, fella," I said. "I'm fine. I think." Yep, I was definitely a female. I had a woman's voice. A saw a man running toward me, a large man, six-four maybe, almost obese, 300 pounds, maybe more. "Debra!" he shouted. "Debra!" I said nothing. I didn't know what to say. I didn't feel threatened by the large man, though. The dog didn't growl. "Your mother is going to kill me," he gushed as he slid to a stop, almost losing his balance. "Who are you?" I said. Not a bad voice for a female, I thought. At least it wasn't shrill. I detested shrill voices on women. The shock on his face was complete. He started to speak, stuttered some words I couldn't decipher, and slammed his gaping jaw shut. Finally after whatever had shocked him finally crept into the synapses of his brain to give whatever happened meaning, he said, "Debra, you spoke!" "The lightning strike didn't take away my voice," I said. "It knocked me down, rendered me unconscious for a while, but I think I'm okay, a little off kilter maybe, but okay." I checked my new ankles and saw the burn marks reminiscent of the Nike logo. "I have some small burn marks on my ankles, but I don't think I have other burns. Now, sir, please answer my question. Who are you? More to the point, who am I?" "Debra, you haven't said a word for seven years, not since..." He stopped speaking suddenly. Oh, shit, I thought. Talk about getting the crappy end of a swap! "Well, obviously I'm no longer speechless, and I don't remember not speaking for seven years. I don't remember anything including your name and mine. My past life is a complete blank," I said, assuming yet another role as an amnesiac. The role worked for me last time. Why fix something that wasn't broken? When he didn't speak, merely shook his head in utter wonder at the situation, I said, "If you won't tell me your name or mine, will you at least help me up? I don't think I can get up by myself." "Oh! Oh, my, yes. Of course," he stuttered, reached down and pulled me to my feet as if I weighed half of nothing. "I'm Garth Oakman, your father. You are Debra Oakman." "Thank you. I have another question. Where are we?" "Sedona," he said. "Arizona?" I said. For some reason when I asked him if the Sedona he referenced was in Arizona, he looked as shocked as he looked when I first spoke to him. He recovered quicker, though, and said, "Yes. We've lived in Sedona for over six years now. We moved shortly after ... ah, never mind. Your mother and I own and operate the Oakman Inn, a bed and breakfast next to Oak Creek." At least I won't start out dirt poor this time, I thought. "What's the dog's name?" I asked and patted the loveable mutt's head. "Conquistador, Conk for short," he said. "Conk is your dog, Debra." The rain had stopped, I noticed, and my balance was back, so I knelt down and ruffled the dog's mane. "Nice to meet you, Conk." I stood up and said, "How old am I?" "Nineteen," he said. "You'll be twenty on April 15 next year, tax day. I can't get over the fact that you started talking again, Debra. And you don't talk ... Your mother ... I'd better get you home. No, the hospital! If I take you home, your mother will push us back out the door to take you to the hospital." Sounds like his wife wears the pants in the family. His wife. My mother—my third mother. This is getting weirder and weirder. Was someone or something controlling the swaps—if swaps actually happen, that is. I hadn't checked what happened with my original body when I ended up in John Windom's body, so I didn't know if John Windom had taken over my body when I took over his. Had Debra Oakman taken over John Windom's body when I assumed hers? This time I'd check. You can take that to the bank. ------- Debra Oakman woke up on a gurney. Two men wearing white jackets were pushing her across a parking lot. Another man with a gash on his head walked with them. When she tried to move, she couldn't. Straps crossed her torso, hips and legs, holding her firmly on the gurney. She couldn't move her arms. This isn't right, she thought. Where is Papa? And Conk? She'd been playing in a field with Conk when a sudden storm came up. She'd run under the big tree so she wouldn't get wet. Then... That's all she remembered. She wanted to ask what had happened to her but couldn't. She didn't know why but she'd stopped speaking years ago. No matter how hard she tried, no sounds came out of her mouth. The men in white coats rolled the gurney through doors that slid sideways as the gurney approached. She didn't think of the device that she was lying on as a gurney, though. She didn't understand why the doors opened as the gurney approached them. The science behind automatic doors would forever be beyond Debra Oakman. Debra Oakman was retarded. She had the intellect of a six-year-old child. ------- After calling her husband, Gloria Sanger didn't know who to call, so she called her boss. With tears streaming down her face, she said, "Tom, Coach is dead. He stopped to help me change a flat tire, and lightning struck him again. The ambulance just left, drove away with his body." She sobbed then. "Coach is dead, Tom." "I heard you, Gloria. Where are you? I'll have someone..." "Larry Foreman is here. He's changing my tire. And I've called my husband. He's on his way here. Coach's family should be notified, Tom. And Danny Kurt. And Robyn. Oh, God, Robyn ... she's going to ... fall apart." "I'll call Robyn to my office and tell her, Gloria," he said. "I'll have Larry tell Danny." "And Piper! What's going to happen to that sweet little girl now?" "I don't know," Tom said. ------- "There's no way for me to ease into this to make it easier, so I'll just say it," Tom Early said to Robyn Clark. "Coach is dead. He was struck by lightning again while changing a flat tire for Gloria, and this time the lightning killed him." He watched as all the color drained from Robyn's face, and she slumped over in the chair in a dead faint. He tried to hurry around his desk and catch her before she ended up on the floor, but he wasn't fast enough. With effort, he sat her back on the chair and straightened her skirt, which had bunched up around her waist. When he looked up to her face, he noticed she was starting to become conscious again, and a few heartbeats later, she opened her eyes. Reality struck her immediately. Tom could see that her brain had brought her to the here and now, and that she remembered what Tom had told her. Sudden tears flooded her eyes and overflowed. "Are you sure, Tom?" she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear her. "Yes, Gloria and Larry were with Coach when it happened." "Are Gloria and Larry all right?" "Yes. I don't know why lightning hit Coach and didn't hit Gloria and Larry. Gloria is devastated, though." She swallowed a sob. "I loved him, Tom. Did you know? I loved him." "I suspected," Tom said. "I didn't know for sure." "Carol should know," Robyn said. "Carol is his mother's name." "I met her at the memorial service luncheon," Tom said. "Yes, of course you did. And Piper! Oh, God, what will happen to Piper now?" "I don't know," Tom said. Robyn sat and cried then, trying desperately to stay in control. "I know. Carol will take her. That little girl loves her grandmother, and her grandmother loves her right back. Carol will take her and make sure she grows up happy and becomes all she can be. That's what Coach wanted for his daughter, you know, for her to be happy and become all she could be. Her last name is Jacobs, Tom, Carol Jacobs. Do you have her phone number?" "No," Tom said. "I do, but it's at home. I'll go home and get it and call her from home." "I'll have someone drive you, Robyn." She nodded. "I think you should. I don't know if I could drive myself. Oh, and Agnes. Someone should tell Agnes. She'll tell Piper, I guess. Oh, Tom!" She broke down then, cried so hard she could hardly breathe between her large gulping sobs. ------- At the hospital, a nurse told me to undress and put on a paper gown that she handed me. I stripped off the clothes I was wearing. Taking off a bra was an experience; I'm here to tell you. And panties. At least I wasn't wearing a thong. There wasn't a mirror in the room but what I could see of my new body didn't please me. It was flabby. I had to be thirty or forty pounds overweight. That I was a female didn't please me, either. I'd always been a man. I didn't know how to be a woman. Men were from Mars, women from Venus, or the other way around. I giggled. At least, playing with some titties wouldn't have to be a rare experience for me anymore. Then it hit me! My sex life was going to be problematic. I didn't have a homosexual bone in my body, so to speak. Argh! I slipped on the paper gown. As a woman, I felt as foolish wearing the hospital-provided garment as I had as a man. I sighed. At least there'd be some common points of reference. I was making jokes, keeping a stiff upper lip, because I was trying very hard not to cry. What about Piper, my little girl? And Robyn, my new love? If the real John Windom got his body back, how would he treat the people I'd come to love above all others. If the real Debra Oakman takes over John Windom's body, will she love Piper like I loved her? No, that's not possible. I'd loved that little girl with all my heart and mind and soul. Still loved her. Tears stung my eyes. Get a grip, I told myself just as a young male doctor pushed back the curtain that surrounded me, followed by the female nurse. "I'm Dr. Jason Pershall," he said. "I understand lightning struck the tree you were under and knocked you unconscious." "That is my understanding," I said. "Your father told me that you haven't spoken a word for seven years," he said. "He told me the same," I said. "He also told me that you didn't know his name or yours or the name of your dog." "That's correct," I said. "My past life is a complete blank, Dr. Pershall. It's ... I was going to say frightening, but I'm not frightened. I think disconcerting says it best. Having no memories at all is very disconcerting." He studied me for a long moment as if he was trying to make up his mind about something, probably if I was faking amnesia. Then he shocked me. "Your father also told me that you were retarded, that you had the intellect of a six-year-old child," he said. He laughed then. "You can close your jaw now, Ms. Oakman." I closed my jaw and said, "If I'm retarded, I don't feel retarded. My mind is clear and crisp. I think I have the ability to reason at least consistent with my chronological age. You either misunderstood him, or we're both in an episode of the Twilight Zone." He was laughing with gusto when the curtains were thrown aside, and a large woman crashed into the enclosure and gathered me in her flabby arms. My new mother, I deduced. Was everyone in the Oakman family overweight? ------- The sheriff opened his cell phone and took the call. He listened, the shock of the words he heard hit him hard, but he absorbed the mental pain the words caused with no outward expression except for a small grunt. "Thank you, Wade. Am I needed personally?" "No," Wade said. "It isn't a police matter." The sheriff clicked off the call, and looked at Tiny Gorman and Elizabeth Conner. "Coach won't be joining us," he said. "En route to this meeting, during the violent rainstorm we were just talking about, he stopped to help Gloria Sanger fix a flat tire. I don't know what the odds are; they've got to be a billion to one, but lightning hit him again. He didn't make it this time." "No!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Oh, no! No!" Tiny bowed his head. "He was a good man, Sheriff." "Yes, he was, Tiny, maybe the best man in this town. He will be missed." "He can't be dead! He can't! He can't. He..." Elizabeth stammered, and finally she just laid her head on her arms on the conference table and sobbed. ------- "Be careful with this one, Bruce," Hank Patrick warned the armed guard posted at the entrance to the secured area in the hospital where prisoners were housed. "I don't think he's as crazy as he makes everyone think he is. He raped a catatonic woman on Leah Mullen's ward. While escorting him here to turn him over to you earlier, he attacked me with a vase on a table in the hall, and then shoved the table through the outer glass wall, and ran off. I think he would have escaped, except lightning struck the tree he was hiding under to catch his breath and get out of the rain." "Thanks for the warning, Hank," the guard said. "We'll keep him strapped to the gurney until the doc gets here to check him out. Mullen runs the psych ward where they keep the non-violent patients. What's wrong with him?" "His file says he's a paranoid schizophrenic. He thinks everyone on the hospital staff is an alien and that aliens abducted him to perform weird experiments on him. He also thinks the aliens have moved his mind to a different body, the body he's in now. And don't get too close to him if you don't want vomit on your shoes. He has hallucinations; he smells imaginary noxious odors and throws up a lot." Debra Oakman wondered who the men were talking about. He sounded like a bad man. Where's Papa? And Conk? And Mama? Suddenly very frightened, she started to cry. She didn't make a sound, so the men didn't notice, but tears leaked from her eyes and her chest heaved as she sobbed silently. She wanted to suck her thumb. She sucked her thumb when she cried, but she couldn't. The straps held her arms down. She hated to be held down and struggled against the straps. She became more and more terrified, thrashing back and forth the small distance the straps allowed. Finally she opened her mouth and screamed, "Mama!" "Your mama can't help you now, you sick loony," Bruce said as he turned the prisoner on the gurney over to an orderly inside the prisoner ward. "Papa!" she screamed as loudly as she could. But the sounds she heard weren't her sounds. They belonged to a man. Why is a man screaming for her? "Conk! Conk!" "You'd better sedate him," Bruce said, "or he'll hurt himself." "Not me," the orderly said. "I just do what I'm told. We'll wait for the doc." ------- "Carol, it's Robyn Clark," Robyn said. "Hello, Robyn. How are... ? Oh, no! Is it John? Has he reverted?" "Carol, something terrible has happened. John's dead, Carol. Lightning struck him again. He was helping ... Oh, God, Carol, I can't stop crying. He was helping Gloria change a flat tire, and ... I loved him, Carol. I loved him, and he's gone. I don't know what I'm going to do." Carol said nothing. "Carol, are you there?" "I'm here, I ... I had to sit down." "I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you, but I had your phone number. Evelyn from the school drove me home so I could get your phone number." "Does Piper know? Does my granddaughter know?" "I don't know. I think Tom was going to call Agnes. I don't know if he did. I can't stop crying, Carol." "I know. I'm crying, too. I can hardly breathe, and I feel so heavy I don't think I can stand up, but I will. I've lost my son, my only child. If it wasn't for my granddaughter, I don't think I'd want to go on living, Robyn. But I have to. I have to be strong for that little girl. Oh, this is terrible. She just lost her mother, and now her father is gone. Is someone with you, Robyn?" "No, I'm alone. If I could only stop crying I'd be all right, but..." "Call a friend. I'm going to call my sister. You shouldn't be alone." "I will." "I'll be leaving for Ely as soon as I can, Robyn. I'll let you know, or someone will let you know my schedule. I'll want to see you while I'm there." "I'm so sorry, Carol. So sorry." "Call someone," Carol said. "I will." After she hung up, Robyn dialed another number. "Elizabeth, did you hear?" "Yes, I can't stop crying, Robyn." "I know. I can't either. I'm alone, Elizabeth. I need to be with someone." "Where are you?" "At my apartment. I don't think I could drive. Can you come here?" "Yes, I think I can." "I loved him, Elizabeth." "I know. I loved him, too. As soon as I can compose myself a little, I'll come see you." "Thank you." ------- "Gladys," Orville said. "Yes, what's wrong, Orville?" "It's Coach, Gladys. Lightning struck him again. He didn't make it this time." Orville had been in control until that moment, but his emotions finally overwhelmed him, and he broke down and started to cry. "I'm sorry. I just..." "It's okay, Orville. I'm crying, too. The world is a worse place without him. Come home, Orville. Can you drive?" "I think so. I have classes. I..." "Come home, Orville." "All right." ------- Larry Wiggen walked into his boss's office. Tom sat like a zombie behind his desk. "Close the school, Tom," Larry said. "Huh?" "'The teachers aren't teaching; the students aren't going to class; half the school is in tears. Close the school for the rest of the day. Whatever you do, I'm leaving. Danielle needs me." Tom nodded, rose to his feet and walked with purpose to the desk where they kept the public address system for the school. He turned on the microphone, tested it, leaned forward and said, "Attention everyone. This is Tom Early, your principal. A good man was taken from us today, and we will all miss him. To honor Coach John Windom, all classes are cancelled for the rest of the day. For those of you who ride buses, the buses will be..." ------- Larry Foreman walked into the school just as the principal announced the cancellation of all classes for the balance of the day. He had returned for one reason and only one reason. He searched for and then found her. Like everyone he'd seen in the halls of the school, she was crying. He walked up to her and pulled her into his arms. "Larry, Coach is gone," Helen Sanford said as she clung to him. "I know. I was there. I saw the lightning that hit him," Larry said and pulled Helen tighter to him. "What are you going to do, Larry?" "What Coach wanted me to do: be a good man; be all I can be. That's all I can do. I can't do otherwise, not now." "Can you drive? I couldn't, not right now," Helen said, still clinging to him. "Yes," Larry said. "Let's go for a drive, get away from here, be alone, alone with each other." "Yes, let's go for a drive. I want to talk about him, Helen. And I want you with me when I talk about him. I'll break down. I'll cry. When I cry, I want you to hold me in your arms. When you cry, I'll hold you in mine." "Okay." "I feel responsible for his death, Helen. I sat in his pickup, staying dry, while he stepped out in that violent rainstorm to help Ms. Sanger change a flat tire. I should have been the one changing the tire, not Coach." "We'll talk about that, too, Larry," Helen said. ------- Part 2 - Debra ------- Chapter 16 The Oakman Inn was an architectural mishmash the likes of which I'd never seen. A half-dozen regional or period architectural styles were evident in its façade. I could only imagine what the interior spaces held in store for me. I guessed and found out later that the inn was full of antiques. I sat in the back seat of a van that had "Oakman Inn on Oak Creek" painted on its side in hard-to-read, curly-cued calligraphy. My new mother, Katherine Oakman, sat in the passenger seat. She was a large woman, maybe 45 years old, about 5' 6", 160 to 170 pounds. I was a couple of inches taller than her, I noticed. She had a pretty face when she smiled, but I suspected she didn't smile very often. Her normal expression presented a besieged look, like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. With a nineteen-year-old daughter with the intellect of a six-year-old, perhaps the besieged look was appropriate. Surprisingly, Katy Oakman wasn't truly happy that I'd suddenly started to speak again. No, that's misleading. She was happy that I'd started talking again, but was unhappy with the words that came out of my mouth. They weren't the words of a retarded child. She didn't know how to respond to my sudden intellectual prowess. On the other hand, Garth Oakman, my new father, took my instant mental growth in stride. I had no siblings to deal with. I'd asked. Garth pulled the van into a reserved parking place in front of the inn and turned off the engine. "We're home, buttercup," he said. Buttercup? Argh. I hope I kept my disdain for the term of endearment off my face. Not that I disliked the expression. I just didn't like it applied to me. It was too ... feminine. Criminy! It was going to be difficult being a girl. "You told me that we've lived in Sedona for six years," I said. "Where did we live before we moved here?" "In..." "We'll talk about that another time, Debra," Katy said, interrupting Garth. "I don't think so," I said. "Huh?" she said. "I think we'll talk about it now. I'm told I stopped talking about seven years ago. We moved here six years ago. Something happened that caused me to stop talking, probably something traumatic for a twelve-year-old girl, especially for a twelve-year-old girl with a six-year-old intellect. I don't know how, but when lightning came down out of the heavens and knocked me to the ground unconscious, I changed, Katy. From what I've been told, I've changed a lot from the way I was. I no longer have the mental capacity of a six-year-old. I have the mental capacity of my chronological age. You must learn to accept this indisputable fact, Katy. I am not a child, not anymore, and you can no longer treat me as a child. Now, tell me. What happened to me seven years ago?" "You were raped!" Katy shouted. "A sick, goddamn, filthy pedophile lured you into his car with candy, and then he took you to his house and raped you. He kept you for three months, Debra. Three months! He used you for three months to satisfy his sick perversions. Papa and I nearly went insane." Tears streamed down over her pudgy cheeks. "Are you happy now? That time, that horrible time, has never been spoken of openly in front of you. We were told that would be best. We've tried to protect you, do what we believed would be best for you. After we got you back, you were never let out of our sight. One of us has watched over you constantly. We..." I opened the side door of the van, stepped out and opened the front-passenger door, and took my sobbing new mother in my arms. My questions and my new intellectual age had cracked the dam, and telling me what happened seven years ago had widened the crack until the dam collapsed and all the sadness and guilt the dam had been holding back for so many years came rushing out. "Everything will be all right now, Mother," I said as I caressed her back. "You'll see. You don't have a little girl anymore mother, but you still have a daughter. I'm a young woman now, but I'm still your daughter, and somehow we will fashion a mother/daughter relationship that will make us both happy. You'll see." "Yes!" she gushed. "Yes, that's what I want." I felt my new father's arms around me. He must have exited the van and walked around to us. Like mother and daughter, he was crying but his tears were silent. I liked his comforting arms around me as I comforted my mother. I started to laugh when Conk tried to join the group hug, and my laughter became contagious. The three of us, Mother holding me on one side, Father on the other, with Conk jumping and running around us with joy, walked inside the inn. ------- I stood naked in front of a full-length mirror attached to the back of the closet door in my room. I looked like many of the before pictures that preceded the after pictures for weight-loss programs advertised in magazines and on TV. Curious, I palmed my breasts, sliding my palms over their pendulous curves, finally clasping the nipples between my thumbs and index fingers. The sudden jolt of pleasure that traveled down my spine surprised but pleased me. My hands wandered lower. Would my pussy be as responsive? Hoo boy! Was it ever! Being a girl might not be so bad after all. I couldn't be with a man. My mind couldn't wrap itself around that possibility, but I could certainly pleasure myself. Like Robyn. Sudden tears filled my eyes again. I recognized my emotions for what they were: grief and sadness for the loss of loved ones. It was as if they'd died, I realized. But I couldn't let my grief and sadness show. I had to hide them, adapt to my new life. If I didn't, I'd go insane. So, I squared my new shoulders and rubbed the tears from my eyes with the heels of my hands, put on a robe, and went looking for a bathroom. I needed a shower. I found a bathroom in the hall. Did I share a bathroom with the inn's guests? Not knowing, I locked the door behind me, dropped the robe and studied my new face in the mirror. For the most part, I was pleased with what I saw. My pudginess gave me a cherubic look, which would go away when I lost weight, and lose weight I would. If I was going to be a woman, I wanted a killer body, and I knew how to work a body and what to eat to meet that goal. The features on my face were symmetrical. That was a good thing. I'd read somewhere that the more symmetrical the features on a face the more beautiful or handsome the face appeared to others. I had mousy, long brown hair and beautiful large brown eyes and a full mouth. As a man, I'd label it a kissable mouth. I wasn't wearing any makeup. I knew nothing about makeup. I'd need help with cosmetics and other girly things, which made me smile. Learning about makeup could be a bonding experience with my new mother. My teeth were very white and even. When I opened my mouth and gazed inside using the mirror, I could see no fillings in my teeth. My hair needed some work, but other than losing some pounds off my face and fixing my hair, I liked the way I looked. I turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature, and stepped inside. The hot water pelting my breasts felt good. Smiling, I touched myself again. This time I didn't stop, and a few minutes later my chubby body responded with an earth-shattering orgasm. "Whew!" I gushed as I leaned heavily against the shower wall. The research psychologists that had written about female sexual responses had been correct. Female orgasms were more powerful than male orgasms. Hoo boy! Were they ever! Was I multi-orgasmic? Nope. My clitoris was too sensitive to touch. Washing my hair reminded me of Robyn. I started to cry again. I was alone behind a locked door, so I let it all out and cried like a baby—or a woman. I wept for the loss of my little girl Piper more than anyone. ------- Wearing the damp robe, and with my hair wet and tangled, I stood in front of my new mother holding a hairbrush and comb in my hand. "Mother, I no longer have the intellect of a six-year-old, but I don't know how to be a woman. I don't know how to take care of my hair, or put on makeup, or..." "Oh, Debra!" Katy Oakman exclaimed and jumped up off the kitchen chair where I'd found her looking off into the distance with a forlorn expression. "Sit down. I'll brush out your hair." That I'd asked for her help seemed to please her, I noticed, so I handed her the brush and comb and sat down. When she started brushing my hair, I said, "I don't like my hair, Mother. May I go to a beauty parlor?" "Yes, of course you can, Debra. What else don't you like about yourself?" "I'm overweight, but like with my hair, that's fixable. Is there a gym in Sedona that I can join?" "The Los Abrigados Inn and Spa has a fitness center, and I heard that they give lessons in yoga and pilates," she said. "And I think there's a gym in the Hilton Spa. The Hilton is expensive, though. There's Curves. They have exercise equipment and offer a meals program of some sort." "I don't know how I know, but I believe working out with free weights and a morning run on alternate days is the best way for me to lose weight, plus a good, nutritious diet, of course." Should I ask her to lose weight with me? Why not? Exercising together could be another bonding experience. "It would be easier for me if someone exercised with me," I said. "A buddy system, sort of, to help each other push our bodies to the limit. Would you ... I mean... ?" "Oh, yes, Debra. I'd like that. It would be something we could do together." "What about Dad?" I chuckled. "He could stand to lose a little weight, too." "A lot of weight you mean," she said and laughed with me. "We'll ask him and will make him feel so guilty if he says no that in the end he'll say yes; we'll make losing weight a family project." "You said that the Hilton Spa is expensive. How are our finances?" She didn't answer my question immediately, but finally with a quiet voice, she said, "Not very good, Debra. We put all our savings into buying the inn, and it's not making a profit. The occupancy rate has gone down since we bought it. Oh, we pay ourselves wages, but it isn't much, not nearly enough. We're not experienced innkeepers, Debra. I feel responsible. I nagged Garth into quitting his job to buy this inn. After ... after what happened to you, I couldn't let you out of my sight, and I couldn't watch you all the time. I needed your father's help, and I figured a business in our home would let him help more." "What did Dad do before?" I asked. "He was in construction, the lead man for a general contractor that bid on small construction jobs, mostly custom houses or small commercial buildings." "I asked before, Mom, but didn't get an answer. Where did we live before we moved here?" "Tucson," she said. Which meant that my new father's contracting experience was in Arizona, which meant that he was qualified to test for and become a general contractor, and with my knowledge in construction and architectural design, the less than desirable financial condition of this family could be turned around by the end of the second quarter next year. Also, with the right marketing effort, the Oakman Inn on Oak Creek could become profitable. It was ugly architecturally, but a lot of folks liked ugly. "We need a family meeting, Mom." "Yes, Debra, I think we do," she said. ------- "Okay, cards on the table, folks. Does either of you still believe I need constant watching?" I said. "It's still a violent world out there, Debra," Garth said. "Yes, it is," I said, "which means I should probably learn how to defend myself while I'm losing weight and getting fit." "Garth, Debra and I have been talking," Katy said. "We've decided to start exercising and go on a diet. We'd like for you to join us." He raised one eyebrow, studied each of our faces, and finally said, "Okay." "Back to my original question," I said. "Do I need constant watching or not?" "Not the way you are, buttercup," Garth said. I looked at Katy. "No," she said. "Still, if something should happen to you, I don't know if I could live with myself." "Okay. Dad, this means that you can go back into construction." He smiled and said, "I like the sound of that." "But not as an employee," I added. "Huh?" he said. "Tell me if I'm wrong, but with your experience, I think you're qualified to apply and test for a general contractor's license in this state." "You're not wrong, but..." "Good. Then I think that's what you should do." "Whoa!" he said. "There are some problems with becoming a general contractor that you might not know about." "For instance," I said. "The license requires a bond, an expensive bond," he said. "What else," I said. "Some customers," he said. "Most jobs require an invitation to bid on them. With no experience as a general contractor, I wouldn't be included on any bid lists. Also, I'm not familiar with the sub-contractors in this area. Bad sub-contractors can put a general contractor out of business." "How about starting on small jobs like remodeling or small additions to houses?" I said. He nodded. "That kind of work would be easier to break into." "Let's do this," I said. "Apply and test for the license. At the same time, look for a job in the area. Mom and I can run the inn. You can moonlight the small remodeling jobs we can scare up until you can demonstrate enough experience as a general contractor to go out on your own." While nodding, he said, "I like it. That's what we'll do." "How about it, Mom? With my help, can you run the inn without Dad? With just a little guidance from you, I think I can perform maid services and help you in the kitchen." "I don't know," she said. "Debra, you can't even read. How come you know so much about everything?" I looked shocked. "I can't read?" "No," she said. "Give me that newspaper, Dad," I said, pointing at the newspaper lying on the kitchen counter. He handed it to me. "How about this article?" I said. "'Jeep tour permit fight opens trails, ' by Greg Nix. 'It seems that the "outlaw" of the jeep tour companies, A Day in the West, has won its fight.'" I looked up. "Should I read on?" I grimaced. "You're both looking at me like I was some kind of freak. I'm not a freak. I'm not! So stop it!" I figured stonewalling them would be the best and shortest way to go. "Look, I don't know why I can read. I don't know why I know so much about everything, as you put it, Mom. I don't know why I don't have the intellect of a six-year-old. I don't have any memories of my past. None! It's as if I were born a full-grown woman when I woke up after being knocked unconscious by a bolt of lightning. And if all this is frightening for you, how do you think I feel?" It didn't take any effort on my part to generate some tears in my eyes. They came with the emotions I was feeling. Crying, it appeared, came easily to females, not necessarily on demand, but close. "I'm sorry, buttercup," Dad said. "Me, too," Mom said. I sniffed. "I bet I can write, too, and keyboard on a computer. I bet I can do lots of things I couldn't do before. It's as if my intellectual age caught up with my chronological age, including what I needed to know if I were a normal nineteen-year-old girl. I'll tell you how I'm going to handle this ... this miracle. I'm going to assume I can do something—anything—until I found out I can't. And if I can't do something I have to do, I'll learn how to do it. Today is the first day of the rest of my life, and it's going to be a good life, Mom and Dad. I hope along the way that you can learn to accept me the way I am now without looking at me with fear and incredulity." They didn't respond. They sat stunned into silence by my declarations. Then Dad stood up and crossed his large arms across his chest. "You're absolutely right, Debra. What happened to you is a miracle, a miracle for you, a miracle for Katy and me, a miracle for this family. What happened doesn't make sense with any other explanation. I, for one, am going to call it a gift from God. From this moment forward, I will no longer fear what happened." He chuckled. "I won't promise not to look amazed on occasion, though. That would be asking too much. That's how I feel. You have my full support, Debra." He sat down and gave me a curt nod that reminded me so much of Piper's "so there" curt nods that I started to cry. He assumed that I was crying for a different reason. He believed what he'd said had touched me, and it did, but... Katy Oakman wasn't as loquacious as her husband, but she too vowed her support. "Thank you, both of you," I said. "I think it's important that we keep this miracle among the three of us. If it gets out, I might end up a lab rat in some government experimental program." "Oh, my!" Katy said. "You're right, Debra." "That's for sure," Garth said. ------- I let Mother give me a cooking lesson while she was preparing our evening meal. I have to admit that I learned some new cooking tricks, and the meal was delicious. After dinner, Mom and I shooed Dad out of the kitchen, and we cleaned up the dinner mess. When we finished, I asked, "Do we have a computer?" "Yes," she said. "It came with the inn. We keep the books for the business on it." "Does it have an internet connection?" "I don't know, Debra. Your dad will know. Except for the accounting software, I'm pretty much computer illiterate." Dad took me into a small area designated an office in the suite of rooms they used for their home. My room was next to theirs and a door from my room opened directly to their suite, eliminating the need to enter the common hall to get from my room to their suite. "Do you know how to boot up a computer?" Dad asked me. I frowned. Asking for help improved my relationship with Katy. Would asking my new father produce the same results? When I told him I wasn't sure, he guided me through the process. They used the word "password" for their password. The operating system was Windows 2000, so it wasn't too antiquated, but as soon as I could wrangle it, I wanted my own super-duper laptop with all the bells and whistles. The computer had a high-speed cable connection to the internet. "Do you offer the cable internet connection to the guests of the inn?" "No," he said. "You should. With a cable connection already installed, I don't believe it would be expensive to provide, and don't ask me how I know this, but I think most high-end hotels offer the connection as a free amenity to their guests." He gave me a curt nod. "I'll look into it." "Does the inn have a web site?" "No, I looked into setting one up, but the cost was prohibitive," he said. I nodded. I knew web sites were cheap nowadays, but I didn't want to argue the point with him. Sedona had a couple of colleges, both of which offered web design classes. A good student would be happy to build a web site for the inn for half of nothing plus a glowing reference from us the student could present to future clients to validate his experience. "Let me sit in front of the computer, Dad. I want to see if using a computer is a skill set I inherited with my new intellect." My new body was very dexterous. My fingers were soon flying over the keyboard, switching when needed to the mouse. I moved through as many web sites as I could find that related to Sedona. I wanted to get to know the place where I would live until... Which begged the question. I was John Windom for less than two months. Would my life as Debra Oakman last longer before another swap occurred, or would I remain Debra Oakman for the rest of my life? I couldn't dwell on the question. Worrying about it would drive me bonkers. "Lookee here, Dad. The Sedona Red Rock High School teaches weight training. I bet they have a weight room, and I bet if I ask nicely, they'll let us workout in the weight room as long as we don't interrupt any of their regularly scheduled activities. It'd beat the heck out of paying membership fees to a fitness center and spa. Waddaya think?" "It's worth asking, buttercup. Boy! You sure know how to use a computer." "Thanks," I said. "I was just trying to get to know Sedona. Look at this. Yavapai College offers weight training in their class schedule. That means they have a weight room, too. If neither place lets us workout with free weights, we could take the course at the college. Now, let's look for some free diets. How about calling Mom in here? She should have a say on what kind of diet we decide to use." When they returned, I said, "I've printed the Mayo Clinic Diet. Grab the sheets from the printer and read it over. I'm looking at the Mediterranean Diet right now. Yes, I think we should add it to the list of diets we'll consider." I sent it to the printer. "Hmm, the Denise Austin Fit Forever diet looks interesting, too." After I sent it to the printer, I stood up and stretched. "You got all this off the internet?" Katy said, sounding amazed. "Mom, anything you want can be found on the internet. You just need to know how to perform searches. Look over the three diets. All of them require a combination of exercise and good, healthy foods. None are fad diets or require a bunch of expensive supplements. I don't know why I know this, but the best diet calls for five small meals a day, not three larger meals. Whichever diet we choose, I plan to eat five meals a day. A good diet combined with running and free weight training should melt the pounds off this flabby body. When I'm finished I'll have a killer body. Just wait and see. Do either of you have any health problems that should be considered for this type of program?" "I don't think so," Dad said. "If you have any question at all, call your doctor, tell him what we have in mind, and ask him if he is aware any problems relative to your current health," I said and yawned. "Wow, I'm tired. Let's sleep on the diet decision. I think I'll hit the sack. Goodnight, you two. How about a goodnight hug?" I got some hugs and kisses, and I went to my room. There was a hamper in my closet where I tossed my clothes as I stripped, and then I crawled between the sheets naked. I'd always preferred sleeping naked. I saw no reason to change that habit now that I was a girl instead of a man. A little later I discovered what being multi-orgasmic felt like. With just a short rest in between, I managed three orgasms in fifteen minutes. That I fantasized about women while making the discovery didn't bother me in the least. ------- "Debra is amazing," Garth said after his daughter had left for bed. "I feel like I've been run over by a freight train," Katy said. Garth chuckled. "I know what you mean, but I've got to admit I prefer the new, improved version of our daughter to the little girl in a woman's body we had this morning." He stood up. "Would you like a drink?" "Yes, a double." Katy giggled. "I bet booze isn't on any of the diets she's suggesting." "I won't take that bet," he said as he walked to the small bar they kept in a cupboard. "Katy, I was a fat little boy. The other kids made fun of me. Then I was a fat teenager. The other kids still made fun of me. Then I had a growth spurt. Proportionally, I wasn't as fat as before, but I was still fat. Of course, with the growth spurt, I was big enough that the other kids stopped making fun of me, at least to my face. Now, I'm a fat man. For just once in my life, I would like to not be fat. I'm going to work real hard at not being fat, Katy, and not for Debra. I'm going to work real hard at it for myself. Here's your double." "Thanks. As you well know, I haven't always been overweight. I put on weight when I was pregnant with Debra and never took it off, just added to it. I'm not saying this to blame Debra, but with the way she was, I didn't have many pleasures in life. Eating became one of the few left to me." She took a swallow of the scotch whiskey, not a sip. "Sex with you is another pleasure. Food and sex, my dirty little pleasures. I'll cut back on the food, Garth, but sex is another matter." "Feeling randy tonight, my dear?" Garth said. "I am. I think Debra's energy is contagious. Besides, good sex is good exercise." "Well, hell, let's go exercise." Katy tipped up the glass and downed the rest of the drink. "Let's." ------- My first trip to a beauty salon was a blast. While I was waiting my turn, I leafed through some hair design magazines and found just what I was looking for. I had long hair, and I wanted to keep it long. As a man, I'd liked long hair on a woman. Some highlights in among the mousy color would improve the color. And the bangs had to go. I wanted a part slightly to the right of center, and I wanted the hair to be three different lengths, so the shorter lengths curled around my face, the intermediate length to my shoulders, and the longer lengths hanging down my back or over my breasts. I took the magazine opened to the picture of a model with the look I wanted and showed it to the beautician. "I want my hair to look like this," I said. "It won't be easy to care for," she said. "What would I have to do to maintain the look?" I said. "You'll need both small and large rollers, a hot brush, and a hot comb, equipment wise," she said. "And plan on an extra fifteen minutes in the morning before facing the rest of the world." "Will you show me how it's done?" "I will." "Let's go for it," I said. When she finished I knew what was required to maintain the look. I didn't look like the model in the magazine, but only because I had a cherubic face instead of a sculptured look. The sculptured look would come, though. Mom didn't get her hair done. When I asked her why, she hemmed and hawed. Finally, I got it. "The money, huh?" Mom blushed. I could fix the problem, but I didn't want to take over completely, so I said nothing. "We'd better get back to the inn," Katy said. "Why?" "We have a guest arriving this afternoon, a couple." "Oh, can't Dad handle them?" "I like to greet the guests," Mom said. I sighed. "Okay. I don't have a driver's license, right?" I had to laugh. She looked like I'd driven a railroad spike into her forehead. "I can't tell you why, but I think driving an automobile is one of the skill sets given to me by that bolt of lightning." "Please tell me you can't fly an airplane," she said. I looked skyward and hummed. Then I grinned and said, "Mom, I do not know how to fly airplanes." "Thank God for small favors," she said. "I've been doing a lot of that lately, too," I said. ------- Before Dad would drive me to the DMV in Flagstaff to test for my driver's license, he tested my driving abilities, which included parallel parking and driving on heavily trafficked streets as well some mountain roads. During the drive up out of Oak Creek Canyon to Flagstaff, I was in awe at the eye candy the red rock country of Sedona offered, which gave me an idea for an occupation for my life as Debra Oakman. I'd be an artist, a watercolorist. One of my premier talents as an architect had been my watercolor renderings. Looking back, I'd wanted to be an artist before I wanted to be an architect. I'd selected architecture as a profession because I didn't have the guts to be a starving artist. "What about the written test?" Dad said after he declared me a competent driver. "I'll read the manual while we're waiting in line," I said, which I did, and in short order, I walked out of the DMV with the license. As I drove back into Sedona, I said, "Dad, I want to open my own bank account." He didn't look shocked. He just shook his head and grinned. "Will you lend me $5 to open the account?" I added. "It takes more that $5 to open a bank account, sugar," he said. "Sugar? I like it that you called me sugar but what happened to buttercup?" "Buttercup was for a little girl; sugar is for a young lady," he said. "Yes!" I exclaimed and pumped my fist in the air. "I want to kiss you, but I'm driving. You're starting to accept the new me, aren't you?" "I am. I'm ashamed to say this, but the new you is the daughter I've always wanted, Debra. As a six-year-old you were sweet, and I loved you, but you were six years old for too many years. You can't imagine the thrill it was for me to take my daughter to the DMV to get her first driver's license." "How about taking your daughter to the bank to get her first checking account? You can write me a check for whatever it takes to open the account, and before we leave the bank, I'll write you a check for the same amount less $5." "That works for me. Drive us to the bank." "Ah ... Dad, like you, I've lived here for six years, but even discounting my memory loss, a six-year-old doesn't pay attention to directions and streets." Dad guided me to the bank, wrote a check to me for $100. Using the check, I opened a personal checking account, got some temporary checks and wrote a check to him for $95 that he deposited in his account. As I drove away from the bank, I said, "Thanks, Dad. The driver's license and bank account were important to me. I feel like the adult I am now." "You're welcome, sugar," he said and grinned. "Next stop the Sedona Red Rock High School," I said. After checking in at the administration offices of the school and enquiring about the coach in charge of the weight room, Dad and I found Coach Gary Peruski in his office next to the boy's locker room in the gymnasium. Although Garth Oakman was larger than Coach Peruski by about two inches in height and 50 pounds in weight, my dad wouldn't stand a chance in any physical contest with the Peruski. They were about the same age, I guessed, but Coach Peruski was fit. He exuded strength. "Hi, Coach," I said brightly. "I'm Debra Oakman. This is my dad, Garth Oakman. We're fat." Peruski's jaw dropped, and then he hooted with laughter. "We're here to beg for some help to become svelte. Don't you just love that word? Svelte! It just rolls of your tongue." His belly laugh turned into a chuckle. "Svelte, huh?" he said. "Yes. Last night on the internet, we investigated various nutritious diets and selected the Mediterranean diet, modified to five smaller meals a day instead of three large meals a day. Besides dieting, we'll run every other day, starting slow." I chuckled. "We'll start slow because as fat as we are, slow is the only way we can start. On alternate days to our morning runs, we want to work out with free weights. Exercising with free weights takes off pounds faster than the fancy exercise machines in the fitness centers. Am I right?" "You are," he said. "The school has a weight room, right?" "Right again." "If we sign releases and hold-harmless agreements, could we use the weight room in our quest to become svelte? We would, of course, exercise at times when the weight room isn't otherwise in use. Waddaya say?" He smiled. "How could I refuse such a request? Unfortunately, it isn't up to me. You'll need permission from administration." "Which, I'm guessing, would not be granted without your prior permission," I said. "If we obtain permission from administration, when would be a good time for us to use the free weights?" "I open the weight room at seven in the morning, but it doesn't get used until the first P.E. class convenes after home room ends. I'd say between seven and eight would be a good time." "Thanks, Coach. You're a peach. Come on, Dad. Let's go beard the lions in administration." "Good luck, you'll need it," Coach said as we left, which sounded ominous. The assistant principal said not just no, but hell no. Our timing sucked. Releases and hold-harmless agreements to the contrary, the school was being sued because they'd allowed a group of young adults to use the gym to play basketball. One of them sustained an injury, and an ambulance-chasing lawyer swooped in and sued everyone from the Governor of the State of Arizona down to the janitor of the high school. I think the assistant principal exaggerated, but I didn't argue the point. "It's just as well, sugar," Dad said as we left the school. "Losing weight is a family project. Someone has to be available at the inn for our guests at all times. Only two of us could have worked out with free weights at the school at any given time." "Crap!" I breathed. "I didn't consider that in my planning." "Crap?" Dad said, raising one eyebrow. "Yeah, a little cleaner than the 'S' word but just as expressive." I sighed. "Do you have a solution to this dilemma?" "Wal-Mart," Dad said. "Huh?" "Wal-Mart sells exercise equipment including free weights. While you were getting your hair done this morning, I did some surfing on the internet. For less than $100, we can buy a 100 pound weight set and a beginning set of dumbbells." "Can we afford that much, Dad?" He hesitated but said, "Yes." I sighed. The money problem was ridiculous, especially considering I could solve it in less than three hours. "I wasn't going to bring this up, Dad, but I had a dream last night. It was a very strange dream, strange in that it wasn't confusing like most dreams. It was ... ah, I'm trying to think of the best word. Got it. It was instructional like how-to books or videos, and it was about how to make money. Instead of spending the $100 at Wal-Mart, I want you to trust me with the $100. We'll deposit the $100 in my checking account, and then I want you to leave me alone with the computer for a couple of hours. If the instructions in the dream were valid, I can turn the $100 into $800 in those two hours, at which time I will write you a check for $300. Then I'll turn the remaining $500 into $4,000 before dinner time. I'll keep $1,000 of the $4,000 and write you a check for $3,000. Would this help our short-term cash problem?" "How... ?" he started to say. "Uh-uh, you have to trust me, Dad. That's all I'll say. If I succeed, I'll tell all while we eat." He stared straight ahead but he wasn't seeing the road. I didn't know what was going through his mind, but in the end, he gave the windshield a curt nod, and said, "Drive to the bank." I didn't risk his $100. I simply transferred $4,300 to my new checking account from one of my numbered off-shore accounts. Then I used an hour to set up some new aliases at the gambling site I used, transferring funds the site held under the old aliases to the new aliases. I used my new bank account for the depository for future winnings for the new aliases. The bank offered online banking services, so I logged onto my account and noted the deposit from the off shore account, so I found Dad and gave him a check for $300. He didn't seem surprised, which surprised me. Then I returned to the computer and bought into a tournament. Two hours later I was $8,000 richer. I left the money with the web site, logged off and wrote a check to Dad for $3,000. Once again, Dad took the check without evidencing any surprise. Mother wasn't surprised, either. She was pissed. "Why are you so angry, Mom?" I asked. "What did you do to make that much money so quickly?" she said, through tight lips. "I gambled, played some online Texas hold 'em poker," I said. The anger in her expression turned into shock, but the shock quickly morphed into a questioning look. "You can gamble on the internet?" she said. "Yes, it was really weird; it was like I knew what the other players in the tournament had in their hole cards, and after the flop I knew whether to stay in or fold. I also instinctively knew when someone was bluffing. It was like whatever force in the universe that caused the dream was also watching over me while I gambled." "Do you think the imparted intuition, knowledge and skill for the game is a one-time event, or is it repeatable?" Dad asked. "I don't know," I said. "But after dinner I can find out if it's repeatable. That's why I didn't give you all the money I won." I gave my mother a hard look. "You were angry. What did you think I did to earn that money, Mother?" She had the courtesy to blush. "I ... ah, I read an article in the paper about hackers and internet fraud, and as good as you are on the computer, I ... I'm sorry, Debra." "Mom, I don't have any memories, but knowing you and Dad even the little I know you, you would have taught me right from wrong when I was younger. I don't know the first thing about how to do any hacking. I'm not even sure what hacking is. I do know the definition of fraud. It's a crime, and it's definitely wrong. I'd never knowingly commit a crime, Mom." "I know. I'm sorry," she said again. "You're forgiven," I said. "I know a little about poker," Dad said. "After dinner, may I watch you put your gift from the force in the universe to the test?" "Sure," I said. "If I win, I'll split my winnings with you." "I want to watch, too," Mom said. "No problem." I giggled. "What?" Mom said. "In my mind, I just gave the force in the universe a name," I said. "What name?" Dad said. "Hector." He laughed. "I hope the name doesn't offend him." "Oh, I think Hector can take a joke. Only a force with a sense of humor would do what he's done to me," I said. That's for sure, I added silently. Dad laughed again and said, "I think you're right about that." I won a $1,000 buy-in tournament after dinner, transferred the funds to my new checking account, and wrote another check to Dad, but this time for $4,000. We had fun. I was my usual animated self while playing the tournament, and sometimes I explained why I folded or raised or checked a bet. After I logged off the gambling site, I sat back and said, "It looks like Hector is still looking over my shoulder, but how long he'll guide me is still open to question. I've been thinking about a possible motive he might have. I think Hector wants me to straighten out our family finances. How much is needed to pay any outstanding bills and get us ahead enough to be comfortable?" "You keep the books, Katy," Dad said. "We'll be able to pay all the past due bills with the money you gave us today, Debra, but except for two weeks around Christmas, the winter months are our slow season. We'll get behind again. I'm guessing about another $10,000 will take us through the slow season. The inn makes money in the spring and fall and we break even during the summer months." "What's the break-even occupancy?" I asked. "Sixty percent," she said. "Does that include salaries for you and Dad?" "No. It does include a half-salary for your dad." "Then sixty percent isn't breakeven." I sighed. "You bought this place so you and Dad could take care of me. That reason is no longer valid. Dad's going back into construction. Now, let's talk about you, Mom. If you had a choice would you want to keep the inn or sell it?" She looked at her husband and said, "Garth, I hate this place. I hate cleaning up after the guests. I hate pampering them. I hate it that no matter how hard we try, how hard we work we can't make any money as innkeepers." He slowly let all the air out of his lungs. "Finally," he said. "Katy, you finally admitted what I've suspected for a long time, and you can't imagine how happy that makes me. All right, we'll sell the inn, but with the losses we've been incurring, it'll be difficult to sell, and we'll take a loss on the sale." "How much land came with the inn, Dad?" "Three acres," he said. "The land is worth more than the inn." "Well, hell, Dad, you just got your first building contract. Guess who the client is?" He frowned. "Who?" "You and mom." "Huh?" he said. "Tear down the inn and build some high-end condominiums on the land," I said. "Structures worthy of the awesome environment offered by the red rock country of Sedona. What's the balance of the mortgage for the inn?" He looked at his wife. "About $300,000," she said. "We put down fifty percent of the sale price as a down payment." "If Hector hangs around and does his thing, the inn can be free and clear in ten weeks, give or take a week," I said. "We'll use that time to design condos, and between now and spring when we can start construction, we can sell off all the antiques and other personal property in the inn, estimate the cost of the condos, obtain approvals from the city for demolition and permits to build the condos, and put together the construction loan. I'll keep adding to the kitty to the tune of about $30,000 per week, so getting the construction loan shouldn't be a problem. Oops, I forgot about the marketing plan for the condos. We'll hire the best for that chore, some outfit that can market the condos nationwide, not just locally. Dad, you're going to skip right over becoming a general contractor to the lofty title of developer." "Jesus," he gushed. "You can say that again," Katy said. I rolled my eyes toward the heavens. "Hector, we're going to need your blessings for about another six months, and if you can think of another skill set I'll need to get everything done, please don't hesitate to visit me in my sleep again." "Amen to that," Dad said. "Dad, let's go to Wal-Mart and buy the free weights and other equipment we'll need to get rid of our fat," I said. "We'll have to be lean and mean to meet our goals over the next year. And while we're out I want to buy a super-duper laptop computer for me. Tomorrow we'll order a cable internet connection for my room. No, let's set up a wireless home network instead. It'll be cheaper and work just as good. That way I can play poker at all hours without disturbing you and mother in your suite of rooms. And it sounds silly because I don't know anyone but you and mom, but I want my own cell phone. Mom, do you have a cell phone?" "No." "You should have one, if only for emergencies when you're away from the inn. You, too, Dad. You'll need a cell phone for your development business." At the appropriate time, I'd hit them with a new Hector dream to explain my architectural talent. I was looking forward to designing some high-end condos situated on Oak Creek in Sedona, Arizona. "To hell with it," Mom said. "Our guests are out to dinner. I'm going with you guys. I want to pick out my own cell phone." ------- Chapter 17 Debra Oakman had stopped crying but only because her eyes could produce no more tears. She was terrified. Where was Mama? Where was Papa? And Conk? She knew some bad men had taken her, like before but not just one man, a whole bunch of them. Bad women, too. Bad peoples. They didn't do bad things with her, not like the other bad man. They didn't hurt her between her legs, but they put a metal ring around her wrist and connected another ring to the bed, so she couldn't get out of bed. The metal rings were better than the straps; she didn't feel as confined, but she didn't like them. She didn't understand. The wrist wasn't hers. It was a man's wrist. But when she tried to move her wrist, she moved the man's wrist. And once—she couldn't help it—she wet the bed. She tried to say "bathroom" but couldn't. She could only say three words: Mama, Papa, Conk. And her words weren't hers. Some man said them for her. A bad woman made her shower. And in the shower she had a pee-pee. She didn't understand how that could happen. What happened to her kitty? She wanted to play with her kitty, and she didn't have a kitty. No one hugged her. Mama hugged her. Papa hugged her. Conk licked her face. No hugs. No kisses. And the food was terrible. She spit it out. She'd show the bad peoples. She wouldn't eat. She'd show them. Then some good men took her away. She was so happy! She smiled and smiled. She thought they were taking her home. They wore clothes like the good men who took her away from the bad man from long ago and took her to Mama and Papa. But they were bad men, too. They didn't take her home. They put her fingers in ink and took her picture, and some other bad men took her to a different place. They put her in a little room that had a bed and a toilet and a sink, but they didn't put the metal rings around her wrist, so it was a better place. But she didn't like it. She wanted to be with Mama and Papa and Conk. She cried herself to sleep, and the next morning she had to undress and shower again. She still had a pee pee. What happened to her kitty? And her chest was still flat. The food was awful in the new place, too. She spit it out. She'd show them. Then another bad man talked with her. He had a soothing voice, so she said, "Mama, Papa, Conk," over and over again, but a man said the words for her. Debra Oakman didn't understand. She was terrified. You must eat or we will die, she heard in her mind. Who are you? she replied silently. Don't be frightened. I'm John. We share this body. What is your name? Debra Oakman. If we share a body we should be friends Debra. Will you be my friend? I miss Mama and Papa and Conk, she said in her mind. Conk licks your face. Is Conk a dog? Yes, Conk is my doggy. Are you a bad man? No, I'm an experiment ... like you. Oh, what's an experiment? How old are you? I don't know numbers. Do you know numbers? Yes. Will you be my friend? Yes. ------- Dr. Brendon Uris tossed a file on the conference table. "Aaron MacDonald," he said to the other men and women sitting around the table. "He was transferred here yesterday from County General where he was under the care of Dr. Percy Stein. MacDonald was struck by lightning, which caused some brain damage that progressed into paranoid schizophrenia. He was put in the psych ward for non-violent patients in that hospital. MacDonald raped a female catatonic patient, and when he was being transferred to the prisoner ward of the hospital, he assaulted the head of security, pushed a table through an outer glass wall and ran off. Believe it or not, he was struck by lightning again during his attempted escape. Some Scottsdale Police Department personnel transported him from the hospital for booking, and then he was brought here. Dr. Uris sighed. "I met with him this morning. His pathology is completely different. He's child-like now, completely regressed. He speaks only three words: Mama, Papa, and Conk. I have no idea what conk means." "In your opinion is he a danger to himself or others?" Dr. Grant Breedlove said. Dr. Breedlove chaired the staff meetings at the Arizona State Hospital. "It's too early to tell. There's another problem, though. He's refusing to eat." "Will he drink?" another doctor at the table asked. "Yes. We're loading up fruit juices with vitamins and other food supplements, but that won't work very long." "Thank you, Dr. Uris," Dr. Breedlove said. "Please, keep us informed. Next case." ------- Our first morning run was brutal, but the scenery was awesome. Mom and Dad threw in the towel at about 500 yards. I lasted another 75 yards. Although, it would be generous to call our pace running, it was a good start. Conk ran circles around us, happy to be outside and free. After I took a hot, soothing shower (I wore a shower cap to protect my new hairdo), Mom and I prepared and served breakfast for our guests. They were nice people; the man was especially jovial. Mom commented later that she didn't mind pampering happy guests. "It's the sourpusses that can't be pleased that get on my nerves," she said. "Unfortunately, the sourpusses outnumber the happy guests." After I helped Mom clean up the breakfast mess, we selected a room in the inn that would serve as our weight room. While Mom made up the room our guests were using, Dad and I unboxed all the weight paraphernalia we'd purchased the previous night, and we were good to go for weight training the next morning. I planned to claim another Hector dream that night and start teaching them tai chi in the morning, as well. The beginning form of tai chi would be a good warm-up exercise for both the weight training and morning runs. Then I went to my room to make some calls with my new cell phone. With one phone call, I discovered that Coach John Windom was dead, killed when he was struck by lightning. I hoped my mother would gather her granddaughter in her loving arms and help her become all she could be. Like an idiot, I had not left a last will and testament. I doubted the earnest money I'd paid to buy the properties would be returned, but there was substantial cash in the bank—over $200,000—that my mother could manage for my daughter. Stop it! I told myself. Carol is not my mother, and Piper is not by daughter. I have to stop thinking of them in that fashion or I'll go batty. If John Windom was dead, a swap didn't happen with Debra Oakman. No, there was another possibility. A swap could have taken place but Debra died during the swap. Argh! I needed more information. It took an hour and a lot more than one phone call to find out that Aaron MacDonald was housed in a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane. Whoa! That set me back on my heels. Which ego, or consciousness, or soul resided in my old body? John Windom's or Debra Oakman's? Then I realized the ego that had taken over my body could be from yet another person. Argh! With the information I had, I couldn't solve the conundrum. Suddenly, a truly scary circumstance occurred to me. If there was another swap and I ended up back in my old body, I might spend the rest of my life in an insane asylum. To put that thought out of my mind, I set up the wireless network that gave me a cable internet connection not just in my room, but in any room in the inn. I found Mom and Dad in their small office, and they invited me to join them. They were discussing my suggestions from the previous day. "We like your suggestions, Debra," Dad said. "Do I hear a but in that statement?" I said. Dad grinned. "But some of your assumptions, if not fulfilled, could spell disaster." I nodded and said, "Too much depends on Hector, huh?" "Yes," Mom said. "What we'd like to do is put on the brakes a little bit without stopping forward progress," Dad said. "We don't think we should hire an architect and other professionals to design the condominiums until we're sure we'll be able to pay off the mortgage on the inn," Mom said. "Okay," I said. "That makes sense." "And we don't want to close the inn until we have a committed construction loan," Dad said. "Ah, the Hector thing again," I said. "Yes," Dad said. "Once the mortgage is paid, we'll hire an architect to do preliminary design work only, not a full set of working drawings. From the preliminary plans, I can estimate the demolition and construction costs. During this time we'll investigate the market for the condos for various price points and hire a marketing consultant to put together a marketing plan. The preliminary plans will then to be adjusted to maximize profits in accordance with the marketing plan. At this point, we can sit down with some banks to discuss a construction loan. If Hector continues to cooperate while we're doing all this, we shouldn't have a problem getting a commitment for a construction loan, at which time we will close the inn and sell off the antiques and other personal property." "There's also the small matter of finding another place to live when we close the inn," Mother said. "And we have a fallback position," Dad said. "Remember, I told you the land is worth more than the inn. If we're not strong enough to qualify for the construction loan, we'll demolish the inn and sell the land to another developer." "Hey, you guys are good at this. Your plan is better than mine," I said. And you guys don't know it yet, but I'll do the preliminary design work. ------- The week went by, and then another and another. Tai chi, the morning runs, working out with free weights, and the diet were doing their job. Mom and Dad fell in love with tai chi, and when they were competent with the beginning form, I started teaching them another. The pounds melted away. Mother was winning the weight-loss race—not in total pounds, Dad had that honor—but I wasn't far behind Mother in achieving my weight and overall fitness goals. As our weight decreased our bank account grew, and to increase my options for this life, I took and passed the G.E.D. test. That their retarded daughter obtained the equivalency of a high school diploma thrilled my parents. We had a white Christmas. Snow in Ely could be beautiful, but snow contrasted with the amazing red rock formations in and around Sedona was breathtaking. I bought Dad a Movado wristwatch. It wasn't a Rolex—Dad wasn't a Rolex kind of guy—but it wasn't cheap, and Mom and I agreed that his ratty Timex had to go. My mother had a beautiful long neck, and while shopping one day, she'd admired a high-quality, two-strand turquoise necklace with jaclas. With Christmas around the corner, I snuck back to the store and purchased the necklace and some matching earrings. I also bought Mom a digital camera and color photo printer with a good starter supply of photograph paper. Conk got an expanding leash from me and some of his favorite treats. Mom and Dad surprised me with my gift—a slightly used Honda Accord. It was white with gray leather interior, and I was thrilled. Mom and Dad had let me use the inn's van if I needed to drive somewhere, but inn business came first, and although I was careful to hide it, asking to borrow a vehicle irritated me. I'd considered using my own money to purchase a car, but such a large expenditure wasn't one of our family's goals. Buying the car for me met one of Dad's goals, though. Like taking his daughter to the DMV for her driver's license, he'd just bought his daughter her first car. He stood beaming satisfaction and pride as I jumped up and down, exclaiming, "I can't believe you guys did this for me!" The gift giving was fun, but being a part of a family for the holiday gave me greater joy and, for the most part, kept me from dwelling on my losses from my life as John Windom. The day after Christmas, I announced a Hector dream that gave me the talent to prepare the preliminary designs for the high-end condos. While they were still stunned by the announcement, I added, "There's a problem. The software, equipment, tools, and supplies that will allow me to do professional architectural work will cost more than paying an architect for the preliminary designs." "How much?" Dad said. "$25,000," I said. He gulped. Then my mother surprised me when she said, "Spend the money, Garth." "Okay," he said, "but I'm curious about why you think we should spend the money." She sighed. "Less than a month ago, lightning came down out of the heavens and struck my poor sweet nineteen-year-old daughter with a six-year-old intellect and transformed her into an amazing young woman. Suddenly she could read and write and passed the G.E.D. test without spending a day in school. She plays poker like a professional and is earning more money every week than we made last year. Did she go out and spend the money on herself? No, she sat down with us and presented a plan that will eliminate the albatross around our necks this god damn inn represents, and in so doing, she's made you a happy man because soon you will be doing the work you love. I love you, Garth. When you're happy, I'm happy, so she's made me a happy woman, too. She also looked in the mirror and decided she didn't like what she saw and devised a plan to lose weight and become physically fit, and she took us along for the ride. If she says she can do the preliminary architectural design work for the development job that will become the foundation for the rest of your working life, as well as our financial future, then I say fuck how much it costs. Just turn her loose and hang on while she continues to defy the laws of the universe and nature." She paused, but briefly, and then said, "Remember the first night after Debra was struck by lightning, Garth. I said I felt like I'd been run over by a freight train. Remember?" "I do," he said. "I was wrong. I was given a front seat on a roller coaster, and I for one don't want the thrilling ride to end." "Wow!" I said. "You can say that again," Dad said. "Wow!" I said and giggled. The week before Christmas and the week after were good weeks for the inn. Over half the rooms were occupied, so Mom couldn't leave the inn when Dad and I hopped in the van to drive to Phoenix. We needed the van to haul my purchases. They wouldn't fit in the Honda. The most expensive items on my shopping list were the CAD plotter and a scanner. I found a refurbished HP Designjet 4000, 42" plotter and saved about $4,000 off the cost of a new one. I also found a refurbished HP Designjet 4200 scanner that saved even more than I saved with the refurbished plotter. With the big-ticket items out of the way, I hit my favorite architectural equipment and supply store in Phoenix and loaded up with everything else I'd need. With the savings on the refurbished plotter and scanner, I cut my startup costs to just over $15,000. Dad was pleased, so I decided to jump start another goal I'd made for this life. "Dad," I said, "I can't be an architect. I'd have to go to architectural school for five years, and then apprentice with a licensed architect for three years, and finally pass the test to become a registered architect. I'll do the preliminary design work for the development projects we put together in the future, but I think we should sub-contract the working drawings to a licensed architectural firm. I don't want to go through all the rigmarole it takes to become an architect. I can, however, be an artist." After a short discussion about my chosen life's work, we also hit a couple of art supply stores, and I spent about $5,000 on art supplies and equipment. Back at the inn, I commandeered two rooms, one for my art studio, and one for an architectural studio. The next day, instead of starting the preliminary designs for the condos, I bundled up and went out under a startling blue sky, breathed clean, crisp winter air, and painted some watercolor scenes of the red rock country. I was delighted with my new body's eye/hand coordination. With Debra Oakman's youthful, steady hand, guided by the years of experience that came from Aaron MacDonald's mind, the brushes and paints performed their magic. The results weren't gallery quality, but I was more than satisfied with my first attempts. Before showing the paintings to my parents, I returned to my architectural studio where I kept the equipment to mat renderings, matted the paintings and placed them on easels in my art studio, lighting them with portable spots I'd purchased to light models or still life arrangements in the studio. I'd specifically selected scenes that included buildings with red rock landscapes in the background because I wanted to demonstrate my architectural rendering abilities as well as my talent as a watercolorist. After dinner, I asked Mom and Dad if they'd like to see my first attempts with watercolors. Of course, they said yes, and we all trooped to my art studio. To increase the drama, I asked them to cover their eyes with their hands and then guided them one by one into the studio, placing them in front of the paintings at the correct viewing distance. "Okay, you can look now," I said. Mother gasped. Dad's jaw dropped. I giggled. "Do you think I can become a respected, professional artist?" I asked. They were my parents. They loved me. Of course, they said yes. "I think I can, too," I said, and then removed the paintings from the mats and ripped each in half. "What are you doing?" Dad asked, aghast. "Destroying inferior work," I said. "These are my first attempts. I'll improve." Mom laughed. "Debra Oakman, you're something else again, you surely are." The next morning I set up my new desktop computer with a humongous flat screen monitor and installed the CAD software. After I made the connections from the computer to the plotter, I set up my drafting table, attached the parallel rule, and put some of my the drafting tools in the drawers that came with the table, and hung some other tools like French curves and triangles on the wall next to the table. Next, I attached the swing-arm drafting lamp to the table, and then put together the drafting chair, which had come unassembled in a box like most of the other equipment I'd purchased. I unboxed the scanner next and hooked it up. I figured I'd be using it to scan a survey drawing of the land tomorrow so I could make that drawing a layer in a CAD file that would ultimately become the preliminary site plan for the project. I put the sheet drafting paper in the flat blueprint file I'd purchased, and slid the rolled paper in a file I put together to file rolled working drawings. I hung a large white board on one wall, and a cork board on another. The list of things to do went on and on, but before I went to bed that night, I was good to go to start the preliminary design work the next afternoon. I say afternoon, because Dad and I had to visit Planning and Zoning for the City of Sedona before I started any design work. I didn't anticipate any zoning problems. The land was currently used and zoned for a low-rise hotel or motel. Changing its use to residential condominiums wouldn't require a zoning change. But I wanted to check. Zoning presented no problems to us, but I was happy we made the effort. We met with a man named Dan Smiley. "I know that piece of land," he said. "It's been underutilized from the get-go." "Oh, how so?" Dad said. Mr. Smiley's expression wasn't a sneer, but it was close. "Tell me, Mr. Oakman, are you making any money with your inn?" Dad chuckled. "Not enough," he said. "Thought so. That land is choice. It's not often nowadays that three acres next to Oak Creek comes on the market. Have you had the land appraised?" "No, not since we bought the inn six years ago," Dad said. "Don't hold me to this. I'm not an appraiser, but I'd guess that land after the inn is demolished will be worth close to $1,000,000 an acre." "You've got to be kidding!" Dad gushed. "I kid you not. The real estate values for choice properties in and around Sedona have sky-rocketed during the last four years." Dad looked at me and said, "Maybe we should just demolish the inn and sell the land." "I wouldn't do that," Smiley said. "Why not?" Dad asked. "I agree with Mr. Smiley, Dad," I said. "Explain, please," he said. "We plan to build condominiums at a density of seven to ten units per acre. For calculating purposes, let's use the high end. If we sell the units for an average of $500,000 each, that's a total of $15,000,000. If we assume a 20% profit as the developer, again on the high end, we make $3,000,000, or an amount equal to the value of the land." "Then you agree with me, not Mr. Smiley," Dad said. "No, the land is part of the development cost. You and Mom will sell the land to the developer for say $2,000,000. As the developer, you'll earn about $3,000,000 developing and marketing the condos after you pay all costs which includes the cost of the land. That's $5,000,000 net to you, not $3,000,000." Dad frowned, and then he got it. "I understand," he said. "There's more," Smiley said. "The highest and best use for that prime land is for time shares," he said. I light came on over my head. "Oh," I breathed. "What does he mean, sugar?" Dad said. "He means we won't be selling 30 units; we'll be selling the units by the week for 50 weeks a year, which equals 1,500 units," I said. Then I frowned. "That doesn't work. 1,500 units times $20,000, which is the price of a high-end time share, equals $30,000,000, but..." "For time shares, I'd increase the density to 15 units an acre," Smiley said, interrupting me. "Also, you're behind the times for the price of a prime time-share unit in Sedona. $30,000 per unit is achievable." "That would be $67, 500,000," I said. "Correct," Smiley said. "Of course the marketing costs for time shares are much higher than for condominiums." Which was going to be one of the points I'd planned to make when he interrupted me. He continued, "Instead of a 20% developer profit, I wouldn't count on more than 10 to 12%." The other point I'd plan to make, which would have dropped the profit for the time shares to $3,000,000, the same number we'd calculated for condominiums. Smiley continued, "Also, when you say the words 'time share' to banks, they get nervous. The construction financing might carry a slightly higher interest rate, which would erode your profits further. Time shares are problematic in a number of areas. If I were you, I wouldn't get greedy. I'd stay with your original plan. Of course, I'm not much of a risk taker or I wouldn't be working a government job." Dad stood up and pushed out his hand. "Mr. Smiley, you've given us a lot of food for thought. Thank you for your time and advice. Both are greatly appreciated." Dad and Mom weren't risk takers, either. We went with our original plan, and I started the preliminary design work for the project the next day. ------- It took New Year's Eve for me to realize that I was lonely. "I feel guilty even asking," Mom had said earlier that day, "but this is the first time in seven long years that Garth and I could go out as a couple, let alone bring in a new year." I told her to think nothing of it, to go out and have some fun, that I was perfectly capable of tending the inn for one night, which was the reason I was sitting in front of the TV watching the ball fall in Times Square and suddenly realizing that I needed some friends. The ages and gender of the potential friends didn't matter. I was a 45-year-old architect in my original life. During my second life I was a 26-year-old coach and high school teacher. In my current life, I was a 19-year-old female soon-to-be architectural designer and artist. As Aaron MacDonald I'd had a large number of friends, both men and women, and a few close friends of both genders. I'd also had lovers, usually one at a time. With that said, my life as Aaron MacDonald wasn't very satisfying; I'd had few highs and lows, and the lows had outnumbered the highs. As Coach John Windom, I had many friends, a few close friends like Elizabeth and Orville, and a lover, although Robyn and I only made love one day before I left John Windom's body to take up residence in Debra Oakman's body. And as John Windom I also had the great joy of taking care of a bright, pretty little girl who called me Daddy. For a long moment my mind stayed with the pretty little girl, and tears welled in my eyes. I shook away my sudden grief and returned to my previous ruminations. As Debra Oakman I had my parents, and my relationship with them gave me pleasure, but I needed more. I needed some friends, and I needed a lover. Making some friends, I believed, wouldn't be difficult if I made the effort, but a lover was a different matter altogether. In my mind, I was a male, but my body was female. I'm surprised the combination didn't make me schizophrenic. Because I was now a female with a preponderance of female hormones driving my behavior, I had wondered if it would be possible that I'd actually prefer men over women, which would go against the conditioning I brought with me as a man when I assumed Debra's body. So, while I was out and about Sedona, I had tested this theory. The theory failed. My male mind overrode my female hormones. Women turned me on, not men. That's why finding a lover would be problematic. I also wondered how having another woman for a lover, instead of a man, would affect my current very good relationship with my parents. When the celebrants on the TV started to sing Auld Lang Syne at the stroke of midnight, large but silent tears streamed down my cheeks. I missed Elizabeth and Orville, my closest friends. I missed Tom and Danielle and Gloria. I missed Sheriff Ken and Josh and Agnes. I missed the teenagers: Larry and Cal, Cory and Nora and Marylyn, and Helen Sanford. I missed my lover, Robyn. I could have fallen in love with Robyn. And most of all, I missed Piper, the sweetest little girl I'd ever known. Conk laid his head on my thigh and looked up at me with sympathy. I patted his head and said, "Thanks, Conk. Thanks for understanding." ------- While I was helping Mom clean up the breakfast mess after our guests had eaten, I said, "A little hung over, huh?" She groaned and breathed, "Yeah." "You should have let me handle breakfast," I said. "Uh-uh, breakfast was penance. Besides, you stayed home last night while your father and I went out and kicked up our heels. That wasn't fair to start with; letting you handle breakfast alone would have increased my guilt. Did you run this morning?" "I did, about a mile. Conk kept me company. He loves our morning runs." "That's for sure," she said as she turned on the dishwasher. "Mom, last night made me realize I need some friends," I said. Mom gave me a curious look. "Friends or a boyfriend?" she said. Now wasn't the time to tell my mother about my sexual preference. "Friends," I said. "Not ready for a boyfriend yet?" she persisted. I sighed. Might as well get it over with now, at the very least test the waters, I told myself. "Maybe never," I said. She frowned. "Debra, are some of your memories coming back?" "No," I said, "but ... ah, heck, I'll just say it. Men don't turn me on, Mom. I don't know if that's because of what happened to me when I was twelve, but that's the way it is." "What about women? Do women turn you on?" I blushed, and the blush was honest, not contrived. "Some women, sometimes," I admitted. Mom had a pot in her hand that she was drying with a dishtowel. She reared back and threw it. It crashed against the wall and bounced. "God damn that perverted son of a bitch! God damn him to hell!" she hissed and sat heavily on a kitchen chair. She was so angry she was shaking. "Ah ... I've got work to do," I said and started to walk away. Before I could leave the room, she said sternly, "Come back here, young lady!" When I turned to her, she said, "I'm not angry with you, Debra. Please don't think that. Please, sit down. Let's talk about this." I sat down. Dad came running into the room. This is not going well at all, I thought. "I heard a loud crash," he said. "I threw that pot," Mom said, pointing. "Why?" he said. "You and I will talk about it, later. Right now, I want to talk about it with Debra. Please, Garth, leave us alone for a while." He shrugged and said "Okay." After he left, Mom took a couple of deep cleansing breaths and said, "When you were fourteen you learned, through trial and error, how to masturbate to orgasm. But you weren't fourteen mentally. Mentally, you were a little girl, not a teenager, so you weren't very ... ah, careful about where or when or how often you played with yourself. We didn't want to take away the pleasure you could give yourself, but at the same time, we couldn't have you pulling off your panties and touching yourself in front of our guests, so we ... ah, trained you to masturbate only in your room with your door closed." She sighed. "Three or four times a day, you would skip off to your room to play with your kitty. That was your name for your ... ah, vagina. Actually, your father suggested the name. Before you stopped talking, you pointed at it and said, 'What's this called?' He chuckled and said, 'That's your kitty.' Damn, I'm rambling. Look, I'm describing how you were so you'll understand that we know you are a highly sexed young lady, Debra. Since you changed, your father and I have wondered and talked about when your ... ah, puffed up libido would resurface." "It never went away, Mom," I said. "I'm just more discrete than I was before. Also, I don't think my libido is puffed up. I think it's fairly normal. Besides, I've been way too busy to skip to my room three or four times a day and play with my..." I chuckled. " ... my kitty." Mom laughed with me. "From what you've just told me, I think you handled the difficult situation very well," I said. "Thank you. Now let's talk about your sexual preference." "Okay," I said reluctantly. "If you prefer women to men, then that's the way it is," she said. "I don't like it, but I accept it. I don't like it because since you changed, I've had fantasies about someday becoming a grandmother. On the other hand, before you changed, I hoped fervently that I would not become a grandmother. Your puffed up libido worried me no end." "I can understand that," I said. "I accept your preference, Debra, because I love you, and I want you to be happy. I also know that you can't be happy the way you are now without an active, loving sex life. When you told me that women turn you on, not men, I suddenly, and perhaps unfairly, blamed that pervert that abused you when you were twelve. Just the thought of that man and what he did to you turns me into a raving maniac. Please forgive my outburst." "There's nothing to forgive," I said. "What about Dad? Is he as enlightened as you on this subject?" "Debra, plain and simple, your dad loves you. There's very little you could do that would change that, and your sexual preference certainly isn't something that would change how he feels about you." ------- Chapter 18 I had a little girl like you once, John said. What was her name? Debra said. Piper. I wish I'd have gotten to know her like I know you, John said. Was she pretty? Debra said. Very pretty. I taught her a prayer to say before she went to sleep. Would you like to learn it? Oh, yes! Debra said silently with emphasis. Okay, repeat the words I say after me, John said. 'Kay, Debra said. I love you, God, with all my might, John said. I love you, God, with all my might, Debra said. Keep me safe all through the night, John said. Keep me safe all through the night, Debra said. Amen, John said. Amen, Debra said. Goodnight Debra. I love you. Goodnight John. I love you, too. Sleep tight and don't let the bedbugs bite. Debra giggled and snuggled Aaron MacDonald's head on the pillow and fell asleep. John Windom did not fall asleep. He didn't know why but he needed less sleep than his body mate. Poor little girl, she'd been so frightened, so lonely. But he'd calmed her fears; he'd chased away her loneliness. Helping Debra had given his miserable existence purpose. At first, he'd helped her out of fear. She wouldn't eat, and the body they occupied had wasted away when it was under his control. The noxious smells emanating from dead experiments had sickened him, so he couldn't keep the food down that he'd eaten. If she didn't eat, he feared the body would die and leave Debra and him in limbo, a place he feared above all others. The new location where the PPs maintained the body they occupied was better. Neither he nor Debra could smell the rotting flesh. He didn't know at what point he stopped helping her out of fear, but now he helped her out of love. He loved the little girl more than he'd ever loved his own daughter. Debra's happiness was more important than his own, so he spent all day everyday talking with her, helping her cope with the new situation she faced, providing small moments of joy whenever he could. She'd told him about her mother and father, and her dog, Conk. They were gone forever, and she missed them, but she had him, and he had her. Together they reveled in those small moments of joy. And he'd found God. It was time for him to pray alone. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; when in the morning light I wake, teach me the path of love to take. Amen. After Debra learns the other prayer, I'll teach her this one, he said silently. ------- "What's the status of Aaron MacDonald, Brendon," Dr. Grant Breedlove said. The two men were enjoying an after-dinner brandy in Dr. Breedlove's den while their wives jabbered away in another room. "His case fascinates me. It isn't often that a person gets hit by lightning twice in one lifetime." "He's eating now. I guess he became hungry enough to stop his hunger strike. It's a frustrating, confusing case, Grant. The pathology is all over the map. After the first lightning strike, he thought he'd been put in another body. He struck a nurse, breaking her nose, and hit an orderly with his fist. I questioned the personnel at County General who were involved in that altercation. I don't think he was violent then because he had violent tendencies. I think he was full of fear and was thrashing around and struck the nurse accidently. He hit the orderly because they were trying to hold him down to administer a sedative. The next day, Dr. Percy Stein placed a transfer request to ASH, but we didn't have a bed at that time. By the time we could admit him, MacDonald had ceased exhibiting any violent tendencies, and Stein rescinded the request. I spoke with Leah Mullen; she's the head nurse in the non-violent psych ward at County General. She told me that Aaron MacDonald did what he was told when he was told to do it. He was not a troublemaker, rarely even talked. Of course, they kept him heavily medicated." "You say he's child-like now," Breedlove said, "was he regressed when he was under Mullen's care?" "No, and from what I could determine, Dr. Stein's diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia was accurate during his stay at County General. Leah Mullen was beyond shocked when it was determined that MacDonald had raped one of her other patients. With the meds he took daily, she said that he should not have been capable of having sex. She believes he faked taking some or all of his meds for a brief time before the sexual assaults occurred. At County General he experienced hallucinations in the form of horrendous odors that made him sick. He vomited almost every day and was losing weight at an alarming rate. As you know, hallucinations are one of a number of indications of schizophrenia. Since he's been under my care, I've seen no evidence of any hallucinations, and he hasn't thrown up. When I first observed him, he was just plain terrified, Brendon, afraid of everyone and everything, but his fear has lessened every day. I can't communicate with him. At first he spoke three words: mama, papa, and conk. Now, he won't speak to me at all. He's like a child who's been taken from his parents and wants to go home but can't tell you where home is, or even his name. I still don't know what he meant when he said conk." "Is he capable of doing harm to himself or others?" "As frightened as he is sometimes, that's possible. He could strike out like a terrified, cornered animal." "Have you tried hypnosis?" "I have. In his regressed state, hypnosis isn't possible." "From what you've said tonight and during our staff meetings, his pathology at County General came about after the first time he was struck by lightning, and his pathology now was the result of the second strike. Were MRIs ordered?" "Yes, both at County General and at my orders at ASH. No lesions indicating brain damage from the lightning strikes were evident in either scan." "Interesting. If you could communicate with him, his case would be the makings of an interesting monograph," Breedlove said. "Yes, it would," Uris replied. ------- Sedona evolved from a small agricultural community into an artist's colony and a tourist magnet. I'd read somewhere that over 40 art galleries opened their doors to the tourists attracted to the fiery-hued rock formations surrounding Sedona, and I had yet to visit one of them. So, after I filled the grocery shopping list Mom had given me to replenish the larder at the inn, I decided to take a quick gander at a few galleries not only because I enjoyed looking at fine art but also with the aim of locating a gallery whose style my watercolor paintings might compliment. To that end, I drove to Tlaquepaque Arts and Crafts Village. I parked in a lot located on the southwest corner of the village next to Oak Creek, and walked toward a narrow opening between two two-story structures than I assumed would give me entrance to the courtyard of the shopping village. As I approached the opening at an angle, a young woman ran out through the opening and almost ran into me. With a terrified yelp, she dodged to the right and ran like a frightened animal. That's when I saw an older man run out of the opening. Unfortunately when the woman darted right, she had narrowed the distance from the opening and the man chasing her, and in just a few strides, he caught her. Don't get involved, I told myself. For all you know, the woman is a pickpocket. If he doesn't hurt her... He hurt her. He slammed his fist into her stomach, knocking all the wind out of her. Gasping, she fell to the ground. "Hey!" I yelled as I ran toward the man. "Stop that!" He ignored me, reared back and kicked the woman. That did it for me. He didn't stop, so I stopped him. My boot to the side of his knee took him to the ground where he writhed in pain, holding his injured knee and cursing me, using the vilest language I'd heard since I took over Debra's body. I opened my cell phone and dialed 911, gave the operator my name and location, quickly described what I'd witnessed and what I did, and asked her to send the police and an ambulance. "You broke my leg! I'll sue you, you crazy bitch. I'll fucking sue you!" the man wailed. I said nothing. The young woman had gotten her wind back and was sitting up holding her ribs. I walked over to her. "Are your ribs broken?" I asked. "I ... I don't know. It hurts to breathe," she said. She was drop-dead gorgeous, about my age, my age as Debra Oakman, that is. Dark hair and eyes, like me, and that's where the resemblance ended. She was a small woman, size four, maybe, with a killer little body, and a lot of her body was displayed. She wore a mini-skirt and a halter top that revealed her bellybutton. She wore jewelry in the bellybutton. "What is your name?" I asked. "Marlene Heston," she said. "And who is the man?" I inquired. "Dale Tremont, my step-father," she said. Argh, a domestic dispute. Just what I need. "Why did he assault you?" She said nothing. "I've called for the police and an ambulance," I said. "He assaulted you. I witnessed the assault. You can press charges and make them stick." She shook her head. "I won't do that," she said. "Fine by me. I'll press the assault charge, then," I said. "Fucking bitch!" the man yelled. "I'll fucking kill you!" I grimaced. "Your step-father, Marlene, has a limited vocabulary," I said. She tried not to laugh but couldn't stop herself, and when she laughed, she gasped with pain. A police cruiser entered the parking lot. No siren, no lights. "The police are here, Marlene. Are you sure you won't press charges?" "I live with him and my mother, a living arrangement I was trying to end. I had a job." She nodded toward the village. "A sales clerk in a boutique. With the ruckus he made, the job is probably history. No money. No place to go." "A friend's house? Somewhere, anywhere?" I said. "If you return home, he'll beat you again." She said nothing. "Are you a minor?" I asked. "No, I'm eighteen," she said. "Who are you?" "Debra Oakman," I said as two uniformed police officer's walked up to us. "Arrest that woman," the man said, pointing at me. "She assaulted me. Isn't that right, Marlene?" Marlene snorted. "Yeah, right," she said sarcastically. The ambulance arrived, its siren dying with a forlorn sound as it entered the parking lot. "I called 911," I said as I pulled one of the police officers a few steps away so I could speak privately with him. I told him my name, and what I saw, as well as what I did. "I feared for the young woman's life, Officer," I said, "so I stopped the bully by kicking the side of his knee. He might have a broken leg, but I doubt it. The young woman might have cracked or broken ribs from when he kicked her, so I also asked the 911 operator to send an ambulance. I witnessed the man assaulting the young woman, and I want him arrested for assault." "Are you sure?" the officer said. "Do you know who that man is?" "Marlene, the injured girl, told me he was her step-father. His name is Dale Tremont. He's a coward and a bully. That's all I know about him," I said. "I want to press charges." He shrugged and said, "All right. Will his step-daughter press charges?" "She says no," I said and then listed the reasons Marlene had given me to explain her refusal to charge him with assault. "You asked me if I knew Tremont as if I should. Why should I know him?" "Do you live in Sedona?" he asked. "I do." "You don't keep up with local politics, do you?" "I don't," I said. "Mr. Tremont is on the City Council," he said. I didn't like it that he referred to Tremont with the Mister honorific. "So what? I'm a taxpayer. Mr. Tremont works for me," I said. He chuckled. "You're gutsy, I'll give you that." His partner walked over to us. He'd been speaking with Mr. Tremont. "Hal," the officer said, "Councilman Tremont wants this woman arrested for assaulting him." "And this young woman wants to press assault charges against Councilman Tremont for assaulting his step-daughter," Hal said. "Did you talk to the step-daughter?" "She's not talking," the other officer said. "Then it's a he said/she said situation," Hal said. "That's my take on the situation." I laughed wickedly and said, "Afraid for your jobs, huh?" "Watch your lip, young lady," the unnamed officer said. "If Councilman Tremont doesn't press charges against you, will you do likewise?" Hal asked me. "Let's talk to Marlene," I said. The EMTs were busy with the councilman, but when he saw us approaching him and his step-daughter, he pushed one of the EMTs out of the way, and shouted, "Why isn't that bitch cuffed, Craig? I told you to arrest her!" Ah, I had a name for the other officer. Officer Craig peeled off to talk with Tremont again, while Officer Hal and I stepped up to Marlene. "Don't say a word, Marlene!" Tremont yelled. "Not one fucking word!" "How did a man like that get elected to the City Council, Officer Hal," I said. He said nothing, trying and almost succeeding to suppress a smile. "I'd guess he fooled some of the people some of the time, and that along with a shit-pot full of money was sufficient to get him elected," I said. Hal snorted to swallow a laugh. "How ya doin', Marlene?" I said. "I'm hurting," she said. "These police officers are going to arrest me if you remain silent," I said. She looked at Hal. "Don't arrest her," she said. "If you do, you'll be making a mistake." "Shut the fuck up, Marlene," Tremont bellowed. Marlene shut the fuck up. We couldn't get another word out of her. Tremont didn't shut the fuck up, but the EMTs were ready to load him into the ambulance, which they proceeded to do. He continued to curse me while they pushed the gurney toward the ambulance. "Don't press charges," Marlene said to me. "If you do, he'll press charges against you, and you won't win." "I'd win if you told the truth, Marlene," I said. She said nothing. "The truth will set you free, Marlene," I said. She laughed bitterly. "Hold off on the charges, Debra. I'll talk to him in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. If he doesn't press charges, will you back off?" I gave her a hard look and said, "He isn't finished with you, Marlene." "Maybe not, but that's between him and me." I sighed. "All right, I'll back off if he backs off," I said, which seemed to make Hal and Craig happy police officers. Before the EMTs put Marlene in the ambulance, I jotted my name and cell phone number on a notepad in my purse and gave her the note. "Call me later when you feel better. You owe me that much." She nodded. I put off my exploratory jaunt through some art galleries and drove to the inn. ------- "You kicked him?" my mother said, aghast at what I'd just told her about the incident in the parking lot at Tlaquepaque. "What if he'd turned on you?" Good, she's concerned about my safety, not that I'd kicked the bully. "Then I would have taken him out," I said. "But..." "Mom, Hector gave me another skill set a while back. I didn't mention it because ... well, I just didn't. I'm adept at a self-defense system called krav maga." "I've heard of krav maga," Dad said. "Isn't it a combination of various martial arts and some street fighting techniques?" "Sort of," I said. "It's the preferred fighting method of Mossad, Israel's counterpart to our CIA." "But..." Mom said. "Can you demonstrate your ability in krav maga for us?" Dad said interrupting my mother. "Sure," I said smiling. "I noticed a water pistol in the kitchen junk drawer. Where did you get the water pistol, by the way?" "A guest left it in a room. I kept it in case the guest called and wanted it mailed," Mom said. "Grab it and a dull butter knife," I said. "We'll have to take this outside, and Dad, you will end up on the ground. If you don't want to get your clothes wet or dirty, change into something else." The snow from the Christmas storm had melted but the grass was still wet in places. "I've been working on the grounds outside. I'll change these clothes after your demonstration. They're already dirty," he said. When we were standing on a grassy area at the rear of the inn, I said, "Mom, hand Dad the water pistol. Dad, when you have the pistol, play like you're going to rob me and point it at me." With the gun in hand, he went into a shooter's stance and pointed it at me. I was close enough that I could step inside his aim, turn my body, grab the plastic pistol as I turned, twist it from Dad's grasp, and then step back, aiming the pistol at him. I took another step back so he couldn't take the weapon away from me like I'd just taken it from him. "Jesus," Dad said. "I didn't have time to pull the trigger before ... Wow! That was great, Debra." "Let's try the knife now. When Mom hands you the knife, come at me with it, holding it high enough to strike down to stab me." I took the knife away from him, put him on the wet grass and placed the knife at his neck. "Tremont was easy," I said. "I kicked the side of his knee. Come here, Mom. I'll show you what I did to him without hurting you." Instead of kicking her, I applied constantly increasing pressure at the side on her knee. "Notice that the knee doesn't bend naturally that way," I said. "A sharp kick at the right place will severely bruise the knee or break it. Dad, try to choke me." He came at me with two hands raised; I took him to the grass and punched at his balls, barely touching them with the side of my fist. "You'd be writhing in pain right now, if I'd followed through with that punch, right?" "That's for sure," he said. "The point of this brief demonstration is to put your minds at rest, folks. No one will hurt me again like that pervert years ago. I can not only defend myself against an armed man, I can also defend myself against more than one man attacking me, up to about five, I think. The size and the strength of the men don't matter. I won't go looking for a fight, and if someone wants to fight me, if I can, I'll walk away, but if I or someone I care for is under attack, I will defend myself and the person I care for. I'm hungry. It's time for a snack." ------- I didn't hear from Marlene Heston for three days. I didn't hear from the police, either, so I assumed that her step-father had backed away from the threats he'd made against me. "Debra, it's Marlene Heston," she said. "How are you, Marlene? How are your ribs?" "They're getting better. They were just bruised, not cracked or broken." she said. "My step-father's knee was the same, just badly bruised. He's still walking on crutches." I chortled. "He must be a bit of a boob, then." Marlene laughed and said, "Low pain tolerance, like most men." "I'm glad to hear you're okay, Marlene. Has he torn into you again? Or has his violent nature been curtailed by being on crutches?" "His violent nature is confined to his potty mouth at the moment. Listen, some friends and I are hanging out. Would you like to join us?" Why not? I had the time, and I did need some friends. "Sure," I said. "Where?" "We're at the turquoise arches," she said. "Huh?" "You must be new to Sedona. The Sedona McDonald's is the only McDonald's in the world with turquoise arches. The city thought yellow arches would clash with the surrounding red rocks. McDonald's suggested turquoise, and the city agreed." I asked for directions, which she provided, and I hopped in my Honda. For the first time in my life, I'd get to hear some girl-talk. As a man, every time I approached some women talking they clammed up. As it turned out, Marlene and her friends and I didn't get to the girl-talk stage. ------- The gang, as I called the five girls privately, consisted of four blondes and one brunette, the brunette being Marlene. They all wore low-slung denim mini-skirts and exhibited golden tans. I found out that they had attended Red Rock High School together, graduating the previous year. Three of the five, Carla Vernon, Tanya Johannes, and Susan Hausman, were home for Christmas break from college. Patricia Sutton had not enrolled in college. She had planned to marry her high school sweetheart, a young man who wasn't college material, but shortly before Thanksgiving, Patty had broken the engagement. She'd since enrolled at Arizona State in Tempe to start the second semester. I wondered why Marlene didn't go to college, but didn't ask. Patty and Susan could have been sisters. They were 5-6, maybe 130 pounds, with Susan a little heavier. She had a small pot belly. Tanya Johannes was a tall, slim Nordic Goddess about 5-10 or 11, with straight, light blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Except for Marlene, Tanya was the prettiest girl in the gang. Carla Vernon had curly blonde hair, cut shorter than the other girls, about 5-7, maybe 135 pounds, and looked at me through stunning amber eyes. My appearance didn't compete favorably with the girls in the gang. I'd dropped 20 pounds, but I had 25 more pounds to go. My hair looked good, though, and I'd hidden the extra 25 pounds under Adidas trousers and jacket, with a white t-shirt under the jacket. No bra, I detested bras except while exercising, at which time I wore a sports bra to keep my boobs from flopping around. The outfit I wore was new, so I looked good. Mom and I had agreed to forestall new wardrobes until we'd met our weight goals, but some designer exercise outfits would fit our bodies now as well as later, we reasoned, and we'd gone shopping together—another bonding experience. Introductions and a few questions on my part gave me the information about their visits home from college and Patty's failed engagement. Then they wanted my history, which I was reluctant to give, so I decided on a big white lie. "I've been living with my grandmother," I said, "and recently moved here to be with my parents. They own and operate the Oakman Inn on Oak Creek." "Why were you living with your grandmother?" Carla asked. "She was sick," I said. "Are you going to college?" Carla asked. "No. I'm a pretty good artist, watercolors mostly, but I can paint with acrylics and oils, as well." "Have you sold any of your art?" Tanya asked. "No, I'm still learning. Soon, though, I hope." "My parents own the Hanging Rock Bed and Breakfast. They told me the Oakman Inn wasn't doing very well," Susan said. "It isn't," I said. Susan Hausman, I decided, wouldn't be numbered among my friends. "My dad said the people running the Oakman Inn were running the business into the ground because they don't know the innkeeper business," Susan persisted. "They don't," I said, and then gave her a hard look. "But it's very rude of you to say so, even if it's true." "Well, I never!" Susan exclaimed. "Never what? Never been taught good manners?" I said. I stood up. "Marlene, I'm happy you're feeling better." My gaze quickly moved to each of the other girls at the table. "For the most part, it's been a pleasure to meet you. Good luck in college." I turned and walked away. Before I could get to my car, Marlene stopped me in the parking lot. "Debra, wait!" she yelled. I stopped and waited for her to catch up with me. "I apologize for Susan," Marlene said. "She's ... well, she's insecure, so she tries to make herself look important, usually at the expense of others." I smiled. "Perhaps I was a little rough with her, but Marlene, Susan and I will never be friends. You, however, could be a friend, and I need some friends. I don't know anyone my age in Sedona. Did you lose your job?" "Yes, with one phone call, my step-father made sure I was fired." I nodded. "You should probably get back to your friends. They'll be leaving to return to college soon, and you should spend as much time as you can with them. Call me after they've gone, and let's get to know each other a little better to see if we can be friends." "All right, and again, Debra, I'm sorry for the way Susan acted." My assumption that Dale Tremont had backed off was wrong. Two days after I met with Marlene, a process server slapped some papers in my hand. Dale Tremont was suing me for inflicting bodily harm on his person. ------- Dad thought I was wrong to hire a female attorney to defend me against the allegations in Tremont's law suit, so he went with me to meet Ms. Shelly Melton. Like I did with Elizabeth, I picked her name out of the yellow pages, yet another issue Dad had with my selection. Ms. Melton was beautiful, tall, and leggy with long blonde hair and brown eyes. She wore a navy blue pin-striped business suit whose skirt was short but not a mini, a white silk blouse, and navy high heels. Everything about her shouted class. I put her age mid- to late-twenties, which begged a question regarding her experience. After Dad and I were seated in front of her desk—we'd refused a drink offer—she said, "What can I do for you?" "Do you know Dale Tremont?" I asked, which surprised her. I think she expected my father to do the talking. "Yes," she said. "What do you think of the man?" I said. She raised one eyebrow and said, "What's this about Ms. Oakman?" "I thought you knew, Ms. Melton. I'm interviewing you to determine if I want to hire you to be my attorney." She smiled and said, "I usually do the interviewing. I don't take every case that comes my way." "How about we do this?" I said. "I'll interview you. If I decide to hire you, then you can interview me to determine if you want to take my case." She nodded but didn't speak. "Are you currently working on, or have you worked for Dale Tremont on any legal issue in the past?" "On one occasion in the past, Dale Tremont was my client," she said. "He is not currently a client." "May I assume that you would have no conflict of interest issues if you took a case against Tremont?" "You may so assume," she said. "I must return to the question you didn't answer, because your answer is critical to my decision," I said. "What do you think of the man?" "Before I answer your question, please answer mine. What's this about, Ms. Oakman?" "Dale Tremont is suing me for inflicting bodily harm on his person." Did I see twinkles in her eyes? I did! "If you'll hire me, I'll take the case, Ms. Oakman. To answer your question, I think, no don't think, I know Dale Tremont is an unscrupulous bully with a foul mouth, the manners of a pig, and the morals of an alley cat. Please, please, tell me that you did, in fact, inflict bodily harm on his person." "I did," I said. "In self-defense?" "No. I inflicted bodily harm on his person because he was inflicting bodily harm on a young woman. I told him to stop. He didn't, so I stopped him." "May I assume that this young woman will so testify?" "You may not," I said. "The young woman is his step-daughter." I went on to tell Shelly everything that happened that day, which took some time because she jotted notes and asked a lot of questions. When we were finished, she leaned back in her chair. "Without Marlene Heston's testimony, it's a he said/she said situation, and Tremont isn't finished with you." "What do you mean?" I said. "In the next day or two, the police will knock on your door and arrest you for assault. I'm surprised that hasn't happened already. To enhance the chances to prevail with his civil law suit, you must be arrested for assaulting him." "I made a deal with Marlene," I said. "I told her I'd back off if she could talk her step-father into doing the same. I thought she'd been successful. She wasn't. Let's beat the SOB to the punch. Will you go with me to press charges against him for assaulting Marlene? I understand that a witness to an assault can do this whether the person being assaulted presses charges or not. Is this true?" "It is and I will," she said. I pulled out my checkbook. "What do you want for a retainer and what is your hourly rate?" She told me both numbers and added her hourly rate for court appearances, which was higher than her normal rate. I wrote and signed the check for the retainer, and the three of us trooped out of her office to beat the SOB to the punch. ------- Chapter 19 If you look up naïve in the dictionary, you'll see my picture. At the police station, I was placed under arrest before I could press charges against Tremont for assaulting his step-daughter. While a detective wearing a three-piece suit manhandled me into leaning against a wall with my hands and with my legs spread, another detective crudely frisked me for weapons and cuffed me. Shelly protested, but she was ignored. My dad looked like he was about to explode, so told him to calm down, that I'd be fine—another gross example of my naiveté. After the fingerprinting and the picture taking, the detectives marched me to a jail cell. Two large, rough-looking women already occupied the cell when a uniformed officer removed the cuffs from my wrists and pushed me inside with them. The cell door clanged shut, and the uniformed officer disappeared. "What have we got here, Hazel?" one of the women said. She looked butch, so I dubbed her Butch. She wore tight blue jeans over her wide hips, a soiled t-shirt under a denim vest, and displayed some crude home-made tattoos on her arms, "Some fresh meat, I'd say," Hazel said. Hazel wore leather, and stainless steel studs or rings glinted from her eyebrows, nose, lips, and ears, and when she talked I noticed a stud through her tongue. I shuddered. That had to hurt. "Good afternoon, ladies," I said. "Here's the deal. I don't want to hurt you, but if you come within two feet of me, I will." Butch laughed raucously and stepped forward, well within my two-foot limit. Hazel came at me from my left side. As large as they were, I had to admit they were fast. I was faster, and in a couple of seconds, Butch and Hazel were writhing in pain on the concrete floor of the jail cell. "Oh, stop it," I said as I sat on the bottom part of a steel bunk bed without a mattress. "I didn't hurt you that badly. Would you like me to fix your shoulder, Butch? It's just dislocated. I can put it back in place." "Don't touch me, bitch," she hissed. "Tsk, tsk," I said. "Name calling could get you hurt worse, Butch." "You broke my leg," Hazel whined. She was sitting up, her back against the cell wall, while she gently held her knee with her hands. "It's just bruised. I pulled the kick," I said. "It's time for a chat. I'll ask some questions. You answer them. If you don't, I'll hurt you some more. Okay?" "Fuck you!" Butch huffed. I said, "I'm naïve, but not so naïve that I can't recognize a setup, especially one as blatant as this one. Someone either paid you or made some kind of deal like a get-of-jail-free card to teach me a lesson. Question number one: who paid you or made a deal with you to hurt me?" Neither said anything. I stood up and walked toward Butch. She scuttled away from me like a crab on a sand beach, and then screamed with pain when she banged her dislocated shoulder against the cell bars. "A name, Butch, or I'll dislocate your other shoulder," I said. "Detective Swann," she said, gasping and with sweat dappling her forehead. "Was it money or a deal?" I asked. "Like you said, a get-out-jail-free card," she said. "Thank you. I really can fix your shoulder," I said. "It'll hurt like the dickens for a second or two, but then there will be blessed relief. What's your name?" "Noel Chambers," she said. "Noel, how about I give you some blessed relief?" She nodded, and then she screamed bloody murder, and finally she sighed as the pain slipped away. I looked at Hazel. "I can't fix your knee, but you'll be fine in a day or two. Did Detective Swann make the same deal with you, Hazel?" I said. "Yes. We'll admit it to you, but that's it. Compared to Swann, you're a wimp. That fucker's mean to the bone." "Describe Swann, please," I said. "Big, ugly, and mean," Hazel said. I laughed. "Two detectives brought me to the holding cell. One was shorter than the other, fairly good-looking, and wore a three-piece suit. The other detective was taller, maybe six feet, stocky, with a face like an orangutan, and he was coatless." "The stocky one sounds like Swann," Noel said. "What was that you used on us? Some kind of kung fu shit?" "Krav maga, not kung fu. Here, let me help you over to the bed." When I had Hazel and Noel sitting comfortably on the bunk bed, I said, "Maybe if I tell you why I'm in here you'll be able to help me put more pieces in place." I detailed my altercation with Councilman Dale Tremont. When asked, neither of them knew Tremont. "I suspect that Detective Swann knows Tremont," I said, mostly to myself. "Probably," Noel said. Jail doors clanged, and shortly a different uniformed officer stood in front of the jail cell. "Debra Oakman?" he said as he opened the cell door. "I'm Debra Oakman," I said. "Attorney meeting," he said. "I wish you luck with Swann, ladies," I said and waved to Hazel and Noel as I stepped out of the jail cell. They didn't wave back. ------- "Tell me," I said to my attorney, "if it's a he-said/she-said situation, why was I arrested but the police won't arrest Tremont if I press charges?" "Because he drummed up a couple of phony witnesses to eliminate the he-said/she-said situation for him," Shelly said. I groaned and muttered, "Naiveté though name is Debra." Shelly laughed. "I'm beginning to understand the game Tremont is playing. He filed the law suit against me to force my next move in the game, which would be pressing assault charges against him," I said. Shelly frowned and said, "I don't understand." I continued, "Detective Three-Piece Suit and Detective Swann didn't jump into their unmarked police cruiser and drive to the inn to arrest me, Shelly. They were waiting for me to walk into the police station to press charges against Tremont. When as planned I obliged them, they arrested me and pushed me into a holding cell occupied by two large women wearing home-made tattoos and rings and studs pierced in various places on their faces. Recidivists, Shelly, they are recidivists, women who could and probably have handled large violent women in prison with ease. Detective Swann gave them get-out-of-jail-free cards if they beat the hell out of me. That didn't happen, and by then I was starting to understand Tremont's game, so I didn't hurt them very much, just enough to stop them. You see, in Tremont's mind, he wins the game either way it goes. Either I get my comeuppance with the beating the prison babes give me or I'm arrested for assaulting them." I paused. "No, I got the last part wrong. That I wouldn't be beaten probably didn't cross Tremont's mind. Hmm, I wonder what his next move will be." A knock sounded on the closed door to the interview room where Shelly and I were sitting. Detective Three-Piece stuck his head in the door. "Mr. Tremont has graciously dropped the charges against your client," he said to Shelly. "She's free to go." "What is your name, Detective?" I said. "Albert Bastian," he said. "And what is Detective Swann's first name?" I said. "Bob ... ah, Robert," Bastian said. "Why do you want to know our names?" "To save my attorney some research time when she sues you and your partner for unlawful arrest and whatever other charges she can dream up and make stick," I said. I thought my statement would worry him. It didn't. He laughed and said, "Have fun and have at it, Ms. Oakman." Dad wrapped me in his comforting arms when Shelly and I walked into the waiting area. As the three of us walked out of the station, Shelly said, "Were you serious about suing Bastian and Swann?" "No," I said. "Tremont won this round, didn't he?" "He did," Shelly said. We took a few steps in silence. "And he didn't. You didn't get the beating he planned for you. I'd call the round a draw." "What beating?" Dad said. I detailed what happened in the holding cell while Shelly drove us back to her office. Dad started out looking angry and worried; when I finished my story he was grinning. "What's next?" I asked Shelly as she slid her vehicle into her reserved parking place by her office building. "If the civil law suit was a ploy to put you next to a couple of recidivist prison babes in a holding cell for a beating, I think he planned to drop the law suit after the beating," she said. "The ploy worked, but the prison babes didn't perform, so in Tremont's mind you still haven't been punished for thwarting his intent with his step-daughter and for inflicting bodily harm on his person. Ultimately, I don't see Tremont taking his civil law suit to trial. Trials are expensive, and Tremont is known for being ungenerous, greedy and selfish, in a word, miserly. With that said, I still don't think he'll drop the civil suit right away. At this stage, the law suit costs him nothing." "Let's assume he takes the law suit to the courts. What would you do to prepare for the trial?" I asked. "Mostly depositions," Shelly said. "I'd depose Tremont, his phony witnesses, Marlene Heston, the EMT personnel and police officers who answered your call to 911, and I'd get a copy of the your 911 call. All 911 calls are recorded. Then to discount your arrest today, I'd depose Detectives Swan and Bastian, the prison babes, and any uniformed officers involved. And, I'd probably recommend that you hire a private investigator to prove some blatant lies made during the depositions." "Tremont will lie through his teeth," I said. "I don't think so," Shelly said. "Depositions are taken under oath. Lying under oath is perjury, a class four felony or a class one misdemeanor. Tremont won't lie; he'll remain silent, or use waffle words that won't get him in trouble, or possibly even take the fifth. I'll probably have more success with his phony witnesses." I grinned and said, "Depose them first." "What about Marlene Heston? She's the key witness for your case," Shelly said. I nodded. "I'll speak with her again, but if you can't get Tremont to back off by deposing his phony witnesses, depose Marlene next." ------- Like a dumbbell, I'd given Marlene my cell phone number, but I didn't get hers, but Dale Tremont's home phone was listed, so I called that number. A woman answered, and I asked for Marlene. "She not here," the woman said in broken English with a Spanish accent. "When will she return?" I asked. "Gone to college," she said. "Which college?" I asked. "I not know. Would you like speak to Marlene's mother?" "Yes, thank you," I said. Clunk went the phone. I waited. "Hello," a woman said. "Mrs. Tremont?" I said. "Yes." "I'm trying to reach Marlene. I understand she decided to go to college." "That's correct." "Do you have her phone number at college? I need to speak with her." "Who are you?" she said. A lie was necessary. "I'm Ms. Carter, a guidance counselor at Red Rock High School. There's a problem with her transcripts." "Oh, okay then. Just a minute. I have her cell phone number written down somewhere. Ah, here it is." She recited the number. I thanked her, hung up, and dialed the number. My call was answered by Marlene's voice-mail system. I hung up without leaving a message. She answered my third attempt two hours later. "Marlene, it's Debra Oakman," I said. "Hi, Debra. I did it! I'm going to college!" she said. "Congratulations," I said. "I'm calling because your step-father reneged on our agreement." "I figured," Marlene said with a sigh. "It wasn't discussed openly, but his sudden turnaround regarding paying my college tuition was so unusual that I suspected he had ulterior motives. What did he do?" I told her about the civil suit, my arrest, and the prison babes." She sighed again and said, "What you just described is vintage Tremont, Debra. He boasts that he never merely gets even for any slight, but rather gets ahead." "He reneged, Marlene. Will you testify for me in the civil suit?" She said nothing. "He paid your tuition. Is he covering your other expenses?" I asked. "Some of them. I'm looking for a part-time job to pay for the rest." "And if you testify against him, he'll cut off the expense money. Right?" "As I said, it wasn't openly discussed, but that would be my guess. I'm sorry, Debra." It was my turn to sigh. "You know him, Marlene. Has he punished me enough to give him reason to back off again?" "If the prison babes had done their job and put you in the hospital, he would have backed off. But they failed, so I'd guess he isn't finished with you yet. He isn't even let alone ahead." "That's the way I figured it, too. If the civil suit goes to trial, you will be called to testify under oath about what really happened, so for both our sakes, let's hope he backs off. Good luck in college, Marlene." After I hung up, I called Shelly and filled her in on my conversation with Marlene. ------- "How is the house hunting going, Mom?" I asked after we finished our morning workout with free weights. "I'm discouraged. The asking price of very house I've seen that would fit our needs has been more money than I wanted to spend," she said. "Have you looked at acreage?" I asked. "Land?" Dad said. "What good would that do us?" "You could build a custom home on the land. The home would be another example of your expertise as a developer and general contractor," I said. "Where would we live while the house is under construction?" Mom said. I shrugged. "We could rent. Seems to me we should be designing and building our dream home, not just looking for a house to live in. Besides a home for you and Dad, I'll want my own home on the land, and an artist and architectural design studio. And, Dad, you'll want an office separate from your house to meet with sub-contractors, and I'd guess you'll also need substantial equipment and storage space for your development and contracting business. Plus, the land should support a horse or three. Do you guys like horses?" Dad hooted with laughter and said, "Waddaya think, Katy. We were just offered another ride on Debra's roller coaster. Should we take her up on the offer?" I looked at Mom. Her eyes were shining. "I've always wanted a horse," she said so softly it was difficult to hear her. Two weeks later, we purchased an 8 acre site for $1,200,000 that backed up to National Forest land. The acreage was located off 179 at the end of Oak Creek Cliff Drive. Utilities were at the property line, and the power was underground. We scheduled the close in ninety day, which would give me plenty time to do the preliminary design work, as well as earn the money playing hold 'em poker to pay cash for the land. With no social life, I had time on my hands, and since Christmas, I'd been playing three to five tournaments a day, seven days a week, averaging net gains in the neighborhood of $150,000 a week. The day after we bought the acreage, we paid off the mortgage on the inn, and Mother found an old but large rent house that would take care of our needs until Dad could build our dream house. We planned the move to the rent house on the 1st of March, at which time we would also close the inn. ------- My attorney turned me on—big time. Shelly was beautiful, smart, accomplished, well-spoken, and sexy. She, on the other hand, appeared oblivious to my interest in her and hadn't sent any signals my way indicating any interest in me. She liked me, though; she thought I was gutsy and laughed at my lame jokes. Still, she was a gifted lawyer while I was a teenager still living with my parents, not to mention that she was svelte while I was still a little chubby. I was altering my appearance, but I still carried about fifteen pounds more than I should. I couldn't do anything about the fifteen pounds, not that day, but I could demonstrate that I was a talented teenager with a bright future as an architectural designer and artist. I hit speed-dial number three and listened to my cell phone ring. "Hi, Shelly, it's Debra," I said. "Hi. Great minds, etcetera; I was about to call you. Tremont dropped his law suit." "Hooray!" I gushed. "What caused him to act?" "After deposing his so-called witnesses, who couldn't get their stories straight, by the way, I told his attorney that I'd started the paperwork to depose Tremont next." I chuckled. "That'd do it. We should celebrate. Do you have a favorite restaurant? My treat." "L'Auberge' de Sedona," she said. "Nice. I've heard good things about that restaurant, and I adore French cuisine. Let's do this. I'll make reservations at L'Auberge' for seven o'clock, but if you can, could you meet me at the Oakman Inn an hour earlier. I just finished the preliminary design work for our condo project. I'd planned to present the designs to my parents this evening. I'd like your opinion, as well." She didn't say anything for a long moment. Finally, she said, "I don't understand. What condo project?" I quickly outlined our plans to demolish the inn and develop high-end condominiums on the land, and added, "It's a family project, Shelly. My dad will be the developer and general contractor. I did the preliminary architectural design work, and my mother is Dad's girl Friday and will be keeping the books on the business." "You're an architect?" she said, sounding surprised. "No, just a designer. We'll hire an architectural firm to do the working drawings. Please say yes, Shelly. I really would like your opinion regarding my design work." She snorted a laugh and said, "What if I don't like what I see?" "Then speak up. Constructive criticism is always appreciated." "All right. I'll drop by the inn at six o'clock." It was time for me to find out if Shelly was in a committed relationship. "Ah, if you wish, Shelly, bring a guest with you." "Will your parents be joining us at L'Auberge'?" "No," I said. "Then we'll make it a girl's night out, just the two of us." I pumped my fist in the air and shouted a silent hooray. ------- I wore a little black dress that camouflaged the extra fifteen pounds I still carried. Anticipating a dinner date with a classy woman that evening, I'd broken my vow to wait until I reached my weight and fitness goals before shopping for new clothes. I'd busted out of the inn immediately after my call with Shelly, and purchased the LBD, some high heels, and a little purse that matched the outfit. Walking on high heels had been one of the girly things I'd had to learn. I also purchased a sophisticated, double-breasted, empire-waist black wool coat for the trip to and from L'auberge'. I looked good. The chubbiness was gone from my face, and some opera-length pearls dangled and slipped around in and out of my cleavage. No bra, and my undies were sexy as all get out, which might or might not matter, probably the latter. My legs were tan and smooth; I didn't need hose. And I'd dropped by the beauty salon to get my hair and nails done. Selecting the venue for the presentation was problematic. In the end, Dad helped me move the tables and chairs from the guest dining room, leaving three comfortable chairs for my audience. I shooed Dad out of the room—Mom and Dad hadn't seen the final designs and renderings. Then I set up easels for the presentation boards, lighting the easels with portable spotlights. For the presentation to the bank for a construction loan, I'd rent a room with audio/visual capabilities and do the presentation with a slide show, placing the matted drawings and renderings around the room for later viewing. Shelly arrived right on time. She too wore a LBD, but she looked better in one than I did. She wasn't carrying any extra weight. I guided her to the dining room and offered her a drink, which she declined. Mom and Dad greeted her warmly, and the three of them took the chairs facing the easels. I wasn't nervous; I was excited. I enjoyed showing off my work. "I had two environments to consider that are integral to the architectural design for the project," I said to start the presentation. "The wooded serenity of Oak Creek and the awesome red rock country surrounding the creek, in other words, God's designs. Humbling environments, for sure, but I feel strongly that architecture should complement its environment, appear as if the man-made structures were sculpted from the earth on which they rest. This is a rendering of the project as seen from the entrance drive." I unveiled the matted watercolor painting sitting on the center easel. The gasps of pleasure and amazement I heard from my audience pleased me. "I believe I achieved my goal," I said. "That's for sure," Dad said. "It's beautiful, Debra," Mom gushed. Shelly said nothing, but the expression on her face gave me confidence that my architectural design expertise had impressed her. "This is the site plan," I said and unveiled the colored drawing on the easel to the left of the main rendering. I went on from there, detailing the floor plans, elevations, the landscaping plan, the parking plan for guests, materials that would be used, and also displayed some interior renderings of some typical units, as well as the entrance lobby. "That's it, folks," I said. "Waddaya think?" "I like it," Dad said. "I'll recommend a few small changes, but I've never seen better preliminary designs." "Can you do preliminary cost estimates from the preliminary designs?" I asked him. "I can," he said. "I'll start on the estimate tomorrow; shouldn't take more than a week to ten days. I'll need some drawings to give some of the sub-contractors." "That won't be a problem," I said and turned to Shelly. "You promised some constructive criticism, Shelly." She smiled and said, "How about some constructive praise instead? I've got to be honest with you, Debra. I came here this evening prepared to see amateurish work, and I'd steeled myself to keep my criticism to a minimum. Instead, I find myself in awe. You are a very talented young woman." "Thank you," I said. "We need a talented architectural firm to do the working drawings for our project. Any recommendations?" "Hmm, I have an architect friend. She's very talented, but she isn't a partner in her firm—yet. I think she'd love this project, and you'd be doing her a favor. A job like this one could elevate her to a partnership." "We'll talk more about her over dinner," I said. ------- L'Auberge' de Sedona presents a romantic setting. Besides the restaurant, L'Auberge' offered overnight accommodations with cottage retreats nestled next to Oak Creek as well as a lodge, and they'd recently opened a spa. The restaurant also boasted an extensive wine cellar, which mattered little to me. As Debra Oakman, I was too young to drink. As Aaron MacDonald, I didn't drink anyway. Shelly did, drink that is. She enjoyed fine wines, so because I was paying the tab for the celebration, I encouraged her to sample the wines recommended to accompany the petite tasting menu we both ordered. Between the soup—mushroom soup with citrus essence—and the salad—Alaskan crab salad wrapped in marinated cantaloupe and vanilla oil—I got bold and said, "You're single, right?" "I am," she said. "Any serious male friends?" I pressed. She raised an elegant eyebrow and sighed. "I have some male friends, with an emphasis on the word friends. I have no male lovers, which is what you were really asking with your question." She let out another sexy, little sigh. "What I'm about to tell you isn't a secret, but it isn't widely known, either, so I hope you won't spread it around. Debra, I'm gay." Hoo boy! One barrier successfully breached; one to go. "Are you in a committed relationship with another woman?" I asked. She settled on her chair and gave me a steady look. "Why the questions, Debra?" she asked. I smiled. "What I'm about to tell you isn't a secret, but it isn't widely known, either, so I hope you won't spread it around. Late last year, I was struck by lightning." She chuckled, probably at my sudden change of topic. I continued. "Before a bolt of high-voltage electricity reached down out of the sky and rendered me unconscious, I was severely retarded with the intellect of a six-year-old child; at least that's what my parents told me. I have no way to know. I have no memories from my past life back beyond my intimate experience with lightning. Talk about shock treatment! When I regained consciousness, I spoke to my father for the first time in seven years, which astonished him, but not as much as the words I used. My words exhibited an intellect at least equal to my chronological age. I'd stopped talking because, at age twelve, I was kidnapped by a pedophile. You can imagine what he did to me, because that's all I can do. I can only imagine the abuse I endured during my three months of captivity because I have no memories; my past is a complete blank." I took a sip of water and continued, "After the lightning strike, I not only demonstrated high intelligence but also could perform complex skills I didn't have before. One of the skill sets that appeared with the bolt of lightning is my expertise in architectural design, and another is the exceptional talent of a trained and experienced artist, which by the way, I plan to make my life's work. I have other unusual skill sets, but we can speak to them at another time, because I'm telling you all this to make a point. I am a fully grown woman with no past, but as a fully grown woman, I do have urges. While out and about Sedona, I finally realized that men did not turn me on. Women turn me on. I can't be positive because I have no history to verify my belief, but I think I'm like you, Shelly." She sat completely stunned by what I'd told her. Then anger crept into her expression. She said, "That's the most outrageous collections of lies I've ever heard." I chuckled, which made her appear angrier. "Like it or not, them's the facts, ma'am," I said. "You saw the results of my architectural design expertise earlier this evening. Do you know of any other nineteen-year-old girl without any education let alone a college education in architecture that could have produced the work I displayed in that presentation?" I didn't wait for an answer. "My parents will verify what I've just told you. Although I never attended one day of school, I did recently take and pass the test for a G.E.D." The waiter arrived with our salads. He poured some wine for Shelly, and left. "You mentioned other skill sets," Shelly said. "Yes, I'm proficient in tai chi. My parents and I warm up with the beginning form of tai chi each morning before our run or to work out with free weights on alternate days. I taught them tai chi. We run and work out with free weights and maintain a nutritious diet to lose weight. I've lost forty pounds; just fifteen more pounds, Shelly, and I'll have the killer body I envisioned under all the fat I carried when I came out of my electrically induced coma." "I've noticed that you've been losing weight," she said. "That's it? Just tai chi?" "No, I'm also adept at krav maga, a self-defense system perfected by the Israelis. I used krav maga to defend myself from the prison babes," I said. "Let's see. Oh, I also suddenly knew how to drive a car. I could read and write. I'm pretty good with computers, and I'm a professional poker player, specifically online Texas hold 'em." "Professional?" she said with an eyebrow raised. The mannerism was endearing. "I play hold 'em for money. Doesn't that make me a professional?" I said. "Like World Champion Poker on TV?" she said. "No, only on an offshore gambling web site," I said. "I would never play hold 'em face to face with my opponents, Shelly. I'd lose. I do not have a poker face." She smiled, looked down and realized she had not touched her salad. She took a bite, chewed and swallowed. Sexy. Then she looked up at me and said, "I still don't believe you." "I'd be astonished if you did," I said. "What happened to me, what is still happening to me is unbelievable, like a Twilight Zone episode. Nevertheless, I told you the truth." I giggled. "What?" she said. "My parents and I decided that some force in the universe is granting my new skill sets. I dubbed this force Hector. Once in a while, Hector comes to me in a dream and gives me another skill set." "Hector, huh? Why not Harriet or even better, Hortense?" she said. I laughed. "I don't see the force dealing with me as female. Hector is male, no doubt about it. You didn't answer my earlier question." "What question?" she asked. "Are you in a committed relationship with another woman?" "Committed, no; a relationship, yes," she said. "Shucks," I said. She laughed. "I turn you on, huh?" "Big time," I said. Her amused expression turned sultry. "For what it's worth, you turn me on, too, Debra." I pumped my fist in the air and screamed a silent hooray. Shelly laughed at my antics. "Does the relationship you have preclude you from exploring a relationship with me?" I said. She didn't speak for a long moment; then she said, "The relationship is with the architect I mentioned after your presentation." I nodded. "If you hire her, a relationship with both of you would be ... ah, awkward for me, possibly for you and Angela, as well," Shelly said. "And if you don't hire her because of what I just said, I'd be very disappointed in you." She was talking down to me. I let it slide. I had, after all, been acting like a naïve teenager. "Tell me about Angela," I said. "Angela Bright," Shelly said. "She's a year younger than I, very beautiful in a girl-next-door way but can be quite glamorous if the situation calls for glamour. She reminds me of the actress, Elizabeth Hurley. She's intelligent, self-confident, and ... oh, I should mention that she's not a lesbian. She's bisexual with a preference for women. As I mentioned, she's an extremely talented architect, and from what I saw of your work, I think your design style will be compatible with hers." "I'm not looking for an architectural designer, Shelly. You're looking at the designer. I need someone who will do the grunt work—the working drawings. I also need a licensed architect to stamp the drawings, a requirement for building permits and, no doubt, of any lender we'll use, and the architect will interface with the structural, mechanical, and civil engineers hired for engineering expertise and requirements." Shelly nodded and said, "Okay, I understand now." "Knowing that I will be the designer for the project, will your friend still be interested in the job?" "I don't know for sure, but I'd guess yes, she'll be very interested." "How about setting up a meeting with her tomorrow?" I said. "All right, when and where?" "The inn, say eleven o'clock. If she's interested in the job, we can have lunch somewhere after I show her the preliminary designs." The waiter came by and picked up our salad plates. When we were alone, I said, "Do you do corporate work?" "I do," she said. "We are in need of a corporation or an LLC to act as the developer for the condo project, and my father's general contracting business should also be a corporation," I said. The previous week, Dad had officially become a general contractor for the State of Arizona. He was proud of the accomplishment, but not as proud as his wife. My mother was tickled pink. One of the things that pleased me most about this life was how much my parents loved each other. "I'd be happy to set up the legal entities, Debra," Shelly said. "Dad will be the point man for the entities. I'll tell him to call you," I said. I didn't bring up a possible romantic relationship with Shelly again that evening. During the meal, we chatted amiably on a number of subjects. She told me a little about her past. I didn't tell her about mine. I didn't have a past to talk about, or at least one that anyone would believe. Hellamighty, she didn't believe the small fraction of my past I did tell her about. Mom was waiting up for me when I got home. "Well?" she said. I laughed, "Well what?" "How did your first date go?" I laughed some more. "The evening wasn't a date, Mother; it was a celebration. But..." She wanted to know, so I told her about my sophomoric attempt at seduction and how adept Shelly had been at turning the attempt aside. "She didn't turn you down, Debra," Mom said. "I think she did. Anyway, the ball's in her court. I won't open the subject again. I did accomplish one thing tonight; no, make that a couple of things. I managed to tell someone besides you and Dad about what I was like before the lightning strike and how I am now. She didn't believe me, but before the evening ended, unbelievable story to the contrary, I think we left the restaurant as friends." Would Angela Bright become a friend, as well? Or a lover? I'd settle for a friend, but... ------- Chapter 20 Why are you sucking your thumb, Debra, John Windom asked. Are you unhappy? I miss my kitty, she said. John had figured out what she meant when she referred to her kitty. Mama and Papa said I could play with my kitty to get the good feeling if I was in my room with the door closed, she added. I don't have a kitty. I have a pee-pee. I miss my kitty. Debra if you play with your pee-pee, you can get the good feelings you got when you played with your kitty, John said. Can't either, she said. No happy button. And no door to close. Like Debra, John craved the sensations of an orgasm again. He had no control over the body they shared. Control rested solely with Debra, but he could feel her emotions and shared her senses. Can, too, John said. I'll teach you how it's done. Really? She said. Yes. What about no door? Don't worry about it. You can play with your pee-pee under a blanket. Loosen your pants and push them and your underwear down. 'Kay," she said. ------- Like Marlene, Angela Bright was a petite woman, a brunette with dark-blue, almost black eyes, and pouty lips. Shelly had said Angela had a girl-next-door look about her, but she'd arrived looking beautiful and professional in a winter white pant suit, the antithesis of the girl next door. I offered her a drink, and she asked for coffee, so I poured a cup for me as well as her. We doctored the coffees to fit our tastes and carried the cups with us to the room in the inn I'd designated as my architectural design studio. She sat in a love seat, and I took a hard-back chair. "Did Shelly tell you about the condo project my family plans to develop on this site?" I said. "She did. She also told me that you hit on her." "I did," I said, crinkling my nose with a smile. "She's a sexy woman. She also turned my seduction attempt aside so expertly I was neither hurt nor offended." Angela chuckled and sipped some coffee. She looked around the room and said, "You've got some expensive equipment here." "Yes, except for the renderings, the preliminary design work for the project is on CAD. I've also scanned the renderings, so I have a digital copy of them as well. I assume your firm uses CAD for your work." "We do. That'll make it easier to transfer your work to us, so we can proceed with the working drawings. If you hire us, that is." "Tell me about your firm," I said. She rattled off past-client names, projects, and awards. The firm had an impressive list of accomplishments. I had no doubt that they could do the grunt work, but... "Is your firm working at capacity right now, personnel-wise I mean?" I asked. "No, winter is our slow season," she said. "Good. If we award the job to your firm, will we be interfacing with you or someone else in your firm?" "Me," she said and swallowed the last of the coffee in her cup. "Do you do custom home work?" I asked, which surprised her. "Yes," she said. To satisfy her curiosity, I told her about the eight acres we'd purchased for our little compound. "I've started the preliminary design work for the structures on the acreage: a house for my parents and a house for me, plus a separate design studio for me and office facilities for my father's development business, a stable for six horses, a lighted dressage arena, and equipment and storage facilities. We'll develop the compound concurrently with the condo project, and we'll hire the same architectural firm for both projects." "When will the preliminary design work for the compound be finished?" she said. "A week to ten days," I said, "but we won't close on the land until mid-April." "That works for me," she said. "We'll get a firm handle on the condo project before we have to dive into the working drawings for the compound." "Does your firm have audio/visual facilities for professional presentations?" "We do," she said. "Bob Daniels, one of the partners in the firm, is very proud of the facility. It was his baby." "Good. If we come to an agreement, we'll use the facility for lender presentations," I said. "One more question, and then we'll get to the preliminary design work for the condo project. We haven't selected the marketing and sales organization for the condos. Do you have any recommendations?" "How many condos and how much will you be asking for them?" "Thirty units," I said. "We went with a ten-per-acre density, and originally believed they'd sell for an average of $500,000 per unit. My father thinks we can get more. He's talking an average of $650,000." "Around $20,000,000?" "Yes," I said. "Stan Michelson and his crew would be the best local firm you could hire to market the condos," she said. I asked for and she gave me Michelson's contact information. Then I did my dog-and-pony show with the preliminary design work, except the show was very informal: one easel, no special lighting, and after I finished with a design board, I dropped it casually to the floor before moving to the next one. I'd allotted an hour for the get-acquainted and fact-finding conversation and the presentation. We used up two hours. Angela asked a lot of questions, some of which I could answer; others concerning detailed specifications I couldn't answer. I was, after all, at the preliminary design stage. When I finished, she asked, "May I see the preliminary work you've done on the compound?" "It's rough at this point," I said. "I understand. I have a reason for asking," she said. I showed her what I had, mostly on the computer while she looked over my shoulder. After seeing my rough preliminary designs, she sat back on the sofa and said, "Debra, you're a better designer than anyone in my firm. I asked to see the preliminary designs on the compound because I want to work with you to finish them, be a fly on the wall, so to speak. No charge and I don't want any credit for the work. What I want is to learn from you. We have competent draftsmen in the firm that can do the working drawings, and I'll supervise them. And I'll interface with the various engineers we'll engage for their specialties." She smiled. "I'm a good designer. Working with you will make me a better designer. I don't need or expect an answer right now, but please say you'll at least consider my request." As Aaron MacDonald, I worked solo, designed the projects I was awarded, and had arrangements with two other architectural firms to do the grunt work. The idea of supervising an employee gave me the shivers. But Angela wasn't talking about an employer/employee relationship. It might be fun to work with another designer, toss ideas back and forth, have Angela pursue one approach to a design problem while I pursued another, not to mention that Angela turned me on more than Shelly. Working together could evolve into a more intimate relationship—or not. Angela and Shelly were involved romantically. I wouldn't intrude on their relationship. One quandary had to be overcome to make the collaboration work, though. "Angela, we're sitting in my design studio. As you can see, it isn't big enough for two designers to function properly." Then an idea occurred to me. "Come with me," I said. I walked her to the room in the inn that I'd commandeered for my art studio. It was next to the design studio. Over the past month, I'd had some successes with watercolor paintings that I had not destroyed—yet. They were matted and pinned to the studio walls. A large, unfinished canvas sat on an easel. It was an acrylic painting of Cathedral Rock at sunset, an artistic cliché in Sedona, perhaps, but a majestic Arizona sunset as the backdrop for one of Sedona's premier red rock formations had captured my attention and imagination. "This is my art studio," I said. "If we tear out..." That's when I noticed Angela wasn't paying any attention to me. She was studying my paintings. "You did these paintings?" she said, her voice projecting disbelief. "Yes. As I was saying, if we tear out a portion of the common wall between the two studios, with a little rearranging, I think there will be room for the two of us to work together." While continuing to look at my paintings, she said, "Yes, that would work." I chuckled. "You like my paintings, huh?" "I love them! Your talent for composition and color is amazing." "Thank you. I've decided that art will be my life's work." She turned to me and said, "How old are you, Debra?" "I'll be twenty in April," I said. "Shelly told me your cockamamie story, what she referred to as a collection of lies. Like her, I didn't believe your story. After witnessing first hand your architectural design expertise and your astonishing talent as an artist, I'm inclined to accept your story. I can think of no other explanation for a person as young as you with no education or training but with the abilities you can so adroitly demonstrate." I chuckled. "Idiot savant comes to mind." She laughed and said, "Or prodigy if we were talking about art only. Exceptional architectural design demands more than innate ability, though. Architecture demands in-depth knowledge beyond artistic talent. The profession requires knowledge of the various engineering specialties, building and zoning codes, construction materials and methods, and many other knowledge-based skill sets that cannot be labeled instinctive or innate. We're talking about proficiencies and knowledge that must be learned, Debra." She shook her head as if in denial. "Did Shelly tell you about Hector?" She laughed and nodded. "Hector sounded like the biggest lie of all." "I know what you mean. Angela, put yourself in my shoes. My first memory was a light brighter than the interior of a star. Then blackness descended on me. I woke up to find that I'm a nineteen-year-old female with no knowledge of how to be female. My past is a complete blank. Then I'm told that I'm supposed to be retarded, a nineteen-year-old with a six-year-old intellect. But I'm not retarded. My mind is brisk and clear. I have an intellect beyond of my chronological age. I can speak again. I know how to drive a car and read and write. I know tai chi and krav maga. I'm adept at architectural design and art. I'm a professional poker player. Angela, my parents tell me I haven't spent one day in school. Where did the skill sets and knowledge come from? During a discussion with my parents, I called what happened to me a miracle. My father says it was a gift from God. In the end, I concluded that some controlling force in the universe, like a God, if the force is in fact not God, singled me out for reasons I can't fathom and bestowed gifts of knowledge and know-how on me. That's terrifying, Angela, and when I'm frightened I tend to make light of the situation, instill some comic relief, if you will, so I labeled the controlling force Hector." "You had no knowledge about how to be a female?" she said. "Not at first. I didn't know how to put on makeup, for example, and I had to learn how to walk in high heels. So while Hector was generous with some of his gifts, he left out some of the knowledge and know-how I need to function as a woman. He also screwed up in another way. Women excite me sexually, not men. When I finally figured that gem out, I looked to the heavens, shook my fist, and cursed Hector for playing a dirty trick on me." Angela laughed heartily. Then abruptly she turned serious. "At least you're not a switch hitter, like me. Sometimes I feel schizophrenic, Debra. Shelly hates it that a man can excite me on occasion." "Is that why the two of you have a relationship but not a committed relationship?" "Partially, but I'm more reluctant about committing than Shelly. Sexually, I prefer women, but I also want children. Because I'm bisexual that can happen. I won't give up the possibility of future children for any woman." She sighed. "Shelly says we can adopt or visit a frozen semen bank, but..." Tears stung her eyes. "Truth be told, Debra, I not only want children, I also want my children to grow up with a father and a mother, not two mothers. I guess what I want is an almost normal marriage. I say almost, because my future husband must understand my need to be with a woman as well as with him." I nodded. I knew there were some men out there that would happily accept such an arrangement, especially if Angela were willing to share the other woman with her husband. I didn't express my opinion. "Let's go to lunch," I said. ------- Stan Michelson was not a handsome man. He was short, a little pudgy, and was losing his thin blond hair, but I'd never met a man in any of my lives that displayed more energy and enthusiasm. He was also an extraordinary marketer and salesman. He had arrived for our meeting in a conference room at L'Auberge' with a bevy of beautiful ladies. A bevy might be an exaggeration unless four ladies constituted a bevy. Stan was a licensed real estate broker, and his ladies were licensed agents, but his firm offered more than the typical real estate organization. After I presented the preliminary designs for the project, we discussed what we wanted in a brochure, the advertising media we'd explore, our target markets, and how we'd reach them. Market research wasn't an issue, except for updating the data Stan had already accumulated. And then we talked about public relations and promotional events. During a break, one of Stan's pretty ladies approached me. "Hi, Ms. Oakman, the condos are awesome. If we can make a deal, I'd like to buy one of them." I dug deep and finally remembered her name. "Sue Thomas, right?" "Yes. My daughter and I are living in a house right now, and..." "How old is your daughter?" "Candy is five" "Why a condo instead of a house?" "I hate yard work, and we have a huge yard. The house sits on an acre. I got the house in the divorce settlement, which was a good thing, but upkeep on the house and grounds is costing me an arm and a leg. If I sell the house, I can pay cash for one of the condos and have enough left over to set up a trust for my daughter's education." She grinned. "Depending, of course, on the deal we make on the condo." "What about the creek? Won't it be dangerous for your daughter?" "No. She's a fish. I taught her how to swim when she was a baby. The swimming pool for the project is another plus, and the elementary school Candy would attend if we moved into one of the condos is the best in the city. I talked with Stan. He's a sweetheart. He said I could have the entire commission, not just my share." "Let's look at the floor plans, and you can point out the unit you prefer," I said. She selected a four-bedroom unit with a creek view. "Dad and I tentatively priced that unit at $650,000," I said. "It's worth more," she said. "While you were doing your presentation, Stan whispered to me that your prices were too low, and I agree with him. A 3,000 square-foot ground-floor unit with a creek view will easily sell for $750,000. Prime condos are going for about $250 per square foot in Sedona, and although the project is small at only thirty units, in my humble opinion it will be considered the best of the best when it's finished." I looked for Dad. He was talking with Stan. I waved them both over to us and told Dad that Sue wanted to purchase a unit if we could fashion a special deal for her, and then related what Sue had told me about the tentative prices we'd put on the units. "I was going to talk with you folks about pricing," Stan said. "You're way low. Sue's right. The units should go for a minimum of $250 per square foot, and I'd price some of them in the range of $275 per square foot." "What kind of deal can we offer Sue for this unit, Dad?" I said, pointing at the floor plan and the four-bedroom condo she'd selected. "Keep in mind," Sue said, "that a prospective lender will feel more comfortable about the construction loan if you have presold some of the units." "That's for sure," Dad said. "Would a ten percent pre-construction discount from $750,000 work for you, Sue?" Sue stuck out her hand. "It sure would, Mr. Oakman. You've got yourself a deal." Dad took her hand and shook it. Stan said, "I usually include a pre-opening discount in the marketing plan. With a five percent discount, we can probably pre-sell half the units before opening." "I like the sound of that," Dad said. Needless to say, we hired Stan and his bevy of beauties to market the project. ------- I missed Piper. When Sue Thomas mentioned that she had a five-year-old daughter, memories of my time with Piper flooded back and nearly overwhelmed me. I could tell myself that I asked Sue Thomas to join me for a drink or a cup of coffee after the meeting with Stan to talk with Sue about her daughter while I silently reminisced about some of my happy times with Piper. Although that wouldn't be a complete lie, if I applied only that one motive, I would be lying to myself. I asked Sue to join me for a drink, because I wanted her. I wanted her as much as I'd wanted Danielle when I first saw Danny in her real estate office. The attraction was visceral. It wasn't truly possible to compare the women in Stan's firm, but Sue's soft beauty dazzled, dimming the beauty of her colleagues. Yes, soft beauty. Some women are blatantly beautiful, voluptuous yet perfectly formed. Their beauty is noisy as if shouting, "I am woman; hear me roar!" Then there's the soft beauty that doesn't dazzle. There's no shine to it. It's a vulnerable beauty, submissive or timid. A soft beauty that dazzles says, "I am woman, but I don't roar. I nurture." A soft beauty that dazzles is vulnerable and confident at the same time. As Debra Oakman, my beauty wasn't soft or noisy. Yes, I was turning into a beauty, more hard than soft, though, and with my Mediterranean complexion, long dark hair and eyes and soon to be a killer body, I presented a sultry beauty. Shelly's beauty was cold, competent and professional. Angela's beauty approached the in-your-face beauty of a blatantly beautiful woman, but she had a touch of vulnerability to her, probably why Shelly sometimes saw Angela as the girl-next-door. I had not seen the look in Angela. Perhaps as I worked with her, the girl-next-door look would show itself. Sue had long, dark hair and glittering green eyes. Both complimented her pale complexion, but it was her long neck that set her apart. When she stood next to me, I had to control an urge to nuzzle my face against her sensuous neck and feel her long hair tickle my cheek while I inhaled her fragrance. Her hair was perfectly straight, not a touch of curl to it, but I suspected she'd roll in some soft curls for an evening out. "I'd like that, Debra," Sue said when I asked her to join me for a coffee or a drink so we could get to know each other better. "But I have to get home to my daughter." She took a business card from her purse, turned it over and wrote her home phone number and address on the back of the card. "If you have time later, call me. I can't leave Candy, so you'd have to come to my house for the drink and conversation." I called her after dinner and a hold 'em tournament that I won, received directions to her house, and soon found myself sitting in her living room in front of a hypnotic fire dancing behind a glass fireplace screen. And I met Candice, Candy for short. Like with Piper, it was love at first sight for me, but the love I felt for Candy wasn't as powerful or compelling as my love for Piper. Plain and simple, I loved Sue's little girl because she was loveable. Then Sue left me to tuck Candy into her bed for the night. I sipped the white wine Sue gave me, curious if my taste buds as Debra Oakman would enjoy the flavor of wine. As Aaron MacDonald, I didn't drink alcohol. I had a slight allergic reaction to it, especially with beer. During my short time as John Windom, for some reason, I had not been curious enough to try an alcoholic drink, probably a habit carried over from my life as Aaron MacDonald. When Sue offered white wine as an only choice, I accepted her offer. Not bad, I thought, and took another sip. I enjoyed both the scent and taste. But those small sensuous pleasures were suddenly overcome when memories of Piper intruded again. Tears stung my eyes. Images as if in a slide show coalesced in the presentation room of my mind. My first sight of Piper, the love shining in her eyes as she dashed toward me with her spindly legs churning and her arms opened wide. "The spotted horses, Daddy. I like the spotted horses," she said when we visited the horse ranches in Vegas. God, I loved her tiny voice and her decisiveness. "There's a snowman in the snow, Ms. Danielle. Can't you see it?" she said, her eyes glowing with wonder. Piper at the podium at the memorial, "I loved my mommy. I miss her." Well, I loved my little girl, and I miss her—a lot. "I wish you happiness, Piper Windom," I whispered and raised my glass of wine with the toast. I heard footsteps approaching, so I brushed the tears from my eyes and tried to compose myself, flashing what I hoped was a happy smile when Sue stepped into the room. She poured herself a glass of wine and brought the bottle with her to fill my glass again, finally settling on the sofa next to me, her lithe body twisted toward me, with one leg under her. "You are a phenomenally talented architect Debra," she said. "But you look too young to be an architect. If you don't mind, would you tell me how old you are?" "I'm nineteen; I'll be twenty in April, and I'm not an architect." She nodded and didn't appear surprised. Her question was also the perfect segue for me to tell her my unbelievable story, the same story I'd told Shelly and Angela with some omissions. Her expression never changed while I spoke: no surprise, no amazement, which made me curious. "Do you believe me?" I asked. "I do," she said. "Why?" She hadn't expressed surprise or amazement, but her calm acceptance of my unbelievable story surprised and amazed me. She chuckled. "Absolutely no one would make up a story even close to the one you just told me. You weren't teasing me; you were genuine, even a little afraid that I would call you a liar, and you said your parents would verify the story. I met your father. Unless I read him wrong, he isn't the kind of man who would promulgate a lie of such magnitude, even for his daughter. Besides, I'm a believer in the paranormal, except for ghosts." She snorted derisively. "The concept that ghosts exist and interact with living beings is silly." "What elements of the paranormal to you believe in?" I asked. "ESP mostly. I've never been tested, and I wouldn't subject myself to any psychological tests to determine my paranormal abilities, but I believe I have a small facility as an empath. It's why I'm so successful in sales. I sense potential buyers' emotions and react accordingly." "How long have your been in sales?" I asked. "Although I was awarded this house in the divorce, my ex-husband didn't cough up a dime in child support, so I had to go to work. I have only one year of college—I wanted to be a veterinarian—so I couldn't offer many skills to prospective employers. Gale, one of the sales agents you met today, told me about Stan and what she did to make a living. I was interested; Stan was interested, so I went to real estate school and passed the tests to become a licensed real estate agent. For the most part, it was a good decision." "Did you meet your ex-husband in college?" "Yes, he was a senior; I was a freshman, a naive freshman. He was handsome, fun to be with, and rich. What more could a girl ask for? A lot more, I realized later. I fell in love and got pregnant, an accident, not on purpose, and Peter graciously married me. He graduated with a business degree; I finished my freshman year, and we moved to Sedona where he purchased this house, paid cash for it out of his trust fund, and bought a Starbucks franchise." She sighed. "Truth be told, Peter wasn't ready to settle down, make his own fortune, and raise a family. I knew before the honeymoon ended that I'd made a mistake. Candy was only fourteen months old when the divorce became final. Peter wanted a submissive for a wife. I couldn't, wouldn't be submissive for him. He also drank heavily, and did drugs—in secret; I wouldn't tolerate him using drugs, and he knew it. Although he never hit me, he did abuse me verbally, and he also cheated on me with other women and wasn't very discrete about it. After the divorce, he went downhill fast. He left Sedona and disappeared when he was out on bail for dealing drugs. I haven't heard from him since. That was two years ago." "What happened to the Starbucks franchise?" "He sold it," she said. "In the divorce, I got the house; he got the business." She grimaced. "I hate this house. Except for Candy, it carries a lot of unhappy memories." "Do you have family nearby?" I asked. "No. I'm a farmer's daughter. My father and my older brother run the family farm near Pocatello, Idaho. Breast cancer took my mother while I was in high school. I like Sedona, Debra. It's a beautiful town with a good year-round climate, and I make enough money to visit my family once a year. My father visits me during the winter, as well. Most importantly, Candy loves it here. Sedona is her home, and for the most part, the size and the culture of the community makes it a good place to raise a child." "You said you are a believer in the paranormal? Are you into the new-age culture prevalent in Sedona?" I asked. She snorted. "No. Much of the new-age culture is as silly as believing in ghosts." She gasped and put her hand over her mouth. "Oops, are my attitudes about new-age philosophies and ghosts offensive to you?" I laughed and said, "No. My attitudes regarding the subjects agree with yours." "Would you like another glass of wine?" she said. "I'd better not. As far as I know, the two glasses of wine I drank tonight are the only alcoholic drinks I've consumed in my very short life." She cocked her head and gave me a steady look. "Debra, I could be wrong. My ability as an empath isn't infallible, but I sense you're interested in me, sexually interested. Am I wrong?" "You are not wrong," I said. When I told her my story, I hadn't mentioned that women turned me on, not men, so her empathic ability was right on the money. She smiled and said, "Thought so. I can feel how excited you are, and the way you're feeling has excited me." She reached out and placed a hand on my knee. "When I was thirteen, a girlfriend and I experimented. I thoroughly enjoyed the experiments." Her hand moved up under my skirt on my inner thigh. "We did everything two girls can do together, at least what little we knew at the time that two girls could do with each other. I was a cheerleader in high school, and two of the cheerleaders on the squad enjoyed sex with girls. I joined them on occasion." I opened my legs slightly, and her hand cupped the gusset of my panties. "The three of you together?" I said. "Sometimes, but usually just one at a time." Her fingers pushed my panties to the side. "I lost my virginity to a boy when I was sixteen. He was clumsy and inept, but the second time was an eye-opener. I enjoyed sex with him as much as I enjoyed it with my cheerleader friends." For the first time in my life as a woman, I felt a finger other than mine enter me. "Of course, I convinced myself that I was in love with him," Sue said. "And love enhances sex. He broke my heart when he broke up with me when he left for college, but my heart healed, and I found another boy. My first sexual experience in college was with Barbara, my roommate. She was like me; she enjoyed sex with both men and women. We got it on most nights, even after one or both of us had been with a man earlier. I had sex with three men in college. Peter was one of them. Within a month after we were married, he cheated on me, but I believed monogamy was best in a marriage, so I didn't cheat, and I haven't been with another man since the divorce." I wanted to ask her if she'd been with another woman since her divorce. I didn't. I was so excited, I could barely think. "I think we should take this to your bedroom," I said. ------- I had the body of a woman, but my ego, my soul, whatever it was that made me an entity was that of a man, and I reveled in the feel of the woman under or over me, my hands on her silky skin, my lips on hers, on her breasts, and my lips and tongue exploring the oily petals of her sex and the hard pebble of her clitoris. And what she did to me is beyond description. I crashed through orgasm after orgasm, crying out my joy with my feminine voice. When we were sated and resting, I wanted to say, "Thanks, I needed that," but I didn't. "Whew!" Sue said. "That was marvelous! It's been a while for me, but I'm sure you noticed that." "Sue," I said, "I have no basis for noticing anything. Remember, I have no memories." "Oh. Oh, my goodness! Are you saying that this was your first time?" "The first that I remember. My folks tell me I was raped when I was twelve. I'm happy I don't remember being raped. I want tonight with you to be my first time." I nuzzled my face in her long, sensuous neck, felt her hair tickle my cheek, and inhaled her fragrance. With my mouth next to her ear, I whispered, "And I hope tonight will not be the last time with you." "It won't be. I have a question, though. Why me? Why not a man?" "Men don't turn me on, Sue," I said. I didn't tell her that the mere thought of having sex with a man made me cringe. I did tell her how I'd uncovered my sexual preference and about my conversation with my mother on the subject. "You have a wise mother," Sue said. "I do. It's late. I'd better go." "Okay, but I'd rather you stayed," Sue said. I smiled. "All right, but I should call so my parents don't worry." "Make the call," she said. Sue was right. I have a wise mother. My mother told me to have fun. I was an obedient daughter. I had fun. I had fun quite a few times. ------- Chapter 21 I make jokes about Hector, but Hector isn't really a joking matter. Hector must have something in mind, must have reasons for transferring egos from body to body. If not, Hector is playing a huge joke on me and John Windom and Debra Oakman and, for all I know, other men, women, and children scattered around our blue orb. Is He figuratively bent over laughing his fool head off right now? "Will the real Aaron MacDonald please stand up?" I said out loud and stood up. While I was up, I poured a cup of coffee, added some sugar and non-dairy creamer and returned to my drawing board. After the first swap, I figured that lightning made the swaps. I was struck by lightning at the same instant lightning knocked John Windom to the ground. I figured it was the luck of the draw. Physics rules the universe, and the universe doesn't care. There was no Hector, not at first, not in my mind, a mind that in less than a blink of an eye had moved from one body to another. There was only physics obeying universal laws mankind did not yet know about. Are the swaps experiments? I asked myself as I took a swallow of coffee. That's what I surmised shortly after my second swap. I'd believed the experiments were conceived to test adaptability. How would Aaron MacDonald adapt to being John Windom? I envisioned Hector with a clipboard checking off items on a list as He observed how I adapted to a different body, environment, and circumstances. And if Hector actually swapped John Windom's ego into my body, how did John Windom react to my circumstances? Not well, if a swap truly happened. Aaron MacDonald's body with John Windom's ego controlling the body was residing in a hospital for the criminally insane. I'd successfully adapted to being John Windom, so Hector, in his infinite wisdom decided to test my adaptability to becoming a woman. Zap! I took over Debra Oakman's body. But that scenario leaves out Debra Oakman. What happened to the teenager with a child's mind? I figured that the most likely fate for Debra was death. John Windom's body ceased functioning when my ego left it and moved to Debra's body. Did Debra die during the transfer? Or was Windom's body not habitable when Debra's ego arrived to take up residence in it? Unanswerable questions. What's more, when Debra is stirred into the experiment, adaptability could no longer be the prime test of the experiment. Adults with minds of children cannot adapt. Or maybe they can. I didn't know. I didn't know a lot of things, too many to really come to any viable conclusions. I did know adaptability wasn't Hector's only test. Looking back, I think I was also moved into John Windom's body to help some men, women and children in Ely, Nevada become better human beings. I also believed Hector selected me for my gambling acumen because Windom's financial condition had to be improved to achieve the second test of helping others become better human beings. That held true when I moved to Debra Oakman's body, as well. I grimaced. Except for my new parents, as Debra Oakman I hadn't helped anyone become a better human being, not yet. "Better get to work on that," I said out loud. "Work on what?" Angela said as she stepped into the design studio. "The stables," I said. "What do you know about stables?" She laughed. "Zero, zip, nada." "I just decided to enlarge the stables from six to twelve stalls," I said. "Why?" "To help someone start a little business," I said. "Huh?" she said. "My parents and I will own three horses. That leaves nine vacant stalls for boarding other horses. I'll have Sherry set up an entity whose purpose will be boarding and training horses. We'll sell the entity to someone who loves horses and is knowledgeable about their care and training. Sherry will know the legal hoops we'll need to jump through to make it work." "Fucking girl scout," Angela muttered. "Not at all," I said. "My family will board our horses with the horse-boarding entity, but we'll also rent the facilities to the entity. I haven't run the numbers, but I'll bet you a dollar to a donut that the care and feeding of my family's horses will cost us zero, zip, and nada, and at the same time, someone will make a living doing what he loves doing and being all he can be. Hmm, expanding the stables to sixteen stalls works even better. Look," I said as my pencil flashed creating a quick perspective sketch of the expanded stables. "With sixteen stalls, the stable design presents a horizontal structure from a slightly right-of-front viewpoint instead of the essentially vertical structure a six-stall stable would out of necessity have to be." Angela nodded, ripped off another piece of tracing paper, and overlaid the paper on the original floor plan. "Even better, if we push the tack room and washing stall out from under the current structure, and add an office facility for the new entity, the floor plan becomes a cross design, like this, which will give the right- and left-side elevations more of a horizontal look as well." I took over the drawing board and quickly sketched yet another perspective drawing showing the cross design. Then I rocked back on my heels and smiled. "Much better," I said. "Good thinking, Angela. Let's go with this approach." "Okay," Angela said. "I'll refine the revised floor plans and elevations using CAD. When I'm finished, you can do your magic with a perspective rendering." My smile became a grin. The collaboration seemed to be working. My cell phone rang. I answered the call. "Hello, lover," Sue cooed. "I like the sound of that," I said. "What are you doing for lunch?" she said. "What do you have in mind?" "Business," she said. "Shucks," I said. "I was hoping for some monkey business." She laughed. "Sorry, business comes before monkey business. I think I have another condo buyer, Mr. and Mrs. Craig Ross, from..." Without thinking, I said, "Not interested." "Huh?" Sue said. "Sorry," I said trying to recover from my blunder. "I wasn't talking to you, Sue. Could you hold a minute?" As Aaron MacDonald, I knew Craig Ross, and I didn't like him. He was unscrupulous, immoral, and ran rough-shod over everyone he did business with. I'd been one of his victims. But as Debra Oakman, there was no way that I could know and despise Craig Ross. Then I smiled. Forewarned is forearmed. I said, "Sorry about that, Sue. Did you say you had a potential buyer for a condo?" "Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Craig Ross from Phoenix. They're vacationing at the Enchantment Resort and dropped into our office enquiring about condos for sale in Sedona. I told them about the Oakman Condominiums on Oak Creek. What I told them excited them, especially Gladys, the wife. The husband was more interested in the possible pre-construction discount I mentioned. I didn't discuss price with them or the amount of discount you'd offer. I thought I'd better leave that to you and your dad. They're qualified buyers, Debra, so I figured if we took them to L'Auberge' for lunch in a meeting room so you could also do your presentation, I might be able to get their signatures on a purchase agreement today." Never happen, I thought, but it might be fun to mess with Craig Ross's head for an hour or two. "Fine by me, but include my father in the luncheon," I said. "Great, I'll set it up. Is noon all right with you and Mr. Oakman?" "Yes," I said. Dad, I knew, would drop everything to pre-sell another unit. He and mother still had doubts about qualifying for a ten or thirteen million dollar construction loan, depending on when they'd pay themselves for the land. "We'll meet you in the lobby of the L'Auberge' lodge at noon," she said. After I hung up, Angela said, "Who was that?" "Sue Thomas, one of Stan Michelson's agents," I said. "What did you mean by hoping for some monkey business?" she said, her eyes twinkling with tease. "A little flirting, that's all," I said. "Sue has a potential buyer for a condo. Excuse me, Angela. I need to alert my father about a luncheon today with the potential buyer." I walked out of the studio. ------- I didn't know Gladys Ross, but I knew women like her. She was a trophy wife, drop-dead gorgeous, dressed to the nines, and dripping with expensive jewelry. Craig Ross was his usual obnoxious self, puffed up with an attitude that shouted, "I'm superior to you in every way." I was pleased to see that Dad recognized Mr. and Mrs. Ross for what they were. That would make what I'd do to Ross easier. I did, however, worry about Sue's reaction. For the most part, we spent the luncheon listening to Ross tell us how important he was. Then he announced that his occupancy in the Oakman Condominiums would enhance our ability to sell the other units. "Consider that fact when you calculate the discount you'll give me," he said. None of us responded to his suggestion, including Sue. I think she had also figured out what kind of prospect she'd brought to the table. After lunch, I stood up and did my dog-and-pony show. When I finished, Ross asked, "What's the best unit in the project?" "That depends on your and Mrs. Ross's preference, sir," I said, laying it on thick. "Would you prefer the serenity of an Oak Creek view, or a view of the grandeur of the red rock country around Sedona? And is the size of the unit important to you?" "I'd want the biggest unit you have with a red rock view," he said without consulting his wife. The slight didn't appear to bother her. "Then Unit 12, is the unit for you," I said. "How much?" he said. I consulted one of the price sheets I'd created just before leaving for the luncheon. On the price sheet I selected, I'd increased the prices of all the units to $320 per square foot. "The asking price for that unit is $1,140,000," I said. Sue's eyes widened but she said nothing. "How big is the unit?" Ross said. "3,560 square feet, and it's one of only three units that comes with a two-car attached garage, so there's a small premium for that amenity." He pulled out a hand-held calculator and did the math. "That's $320 per square foot," he said. "That sounds about right," I said. He punched in some more numbers on his calculator, looked up and said, "I'll give you $900,000 for the unit less a pre-construction discount of 5%, which takes the sale price down to $855,000." Pretending to seriously consider his offer, I didn't respond immediately. Finally, I said, "We'll take $1,000,000 less the 5% discount." He went to work on his calculator again. "That's $267 per square foot," he said. "That sounds about right," I said. "That's a savings of around $200,000 from the asking price and should tell you that we heard you when you said your occupancy in the project will enhance our sales. We wouldn't consider giving that much away for anyone but you, Mr. Ross." His fingers got busy on his calculator. "Make the price $940,000 including the discount, and you've got a deal." I looked at Dad; he nodded. "All right, Mr. Ross, on three conditions," I said. "Number one, that's a 17.5 % discount from our asking price. If word gets out about this deal, we won't make any money on the project. Accordingly, we must ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement regarding the transaction, which our attorney will prepare this afternoon along with the purchase agreement. Number two, the purchase agreements will contain no financing clause that will let you out of the contract. Number three, we won't accept the deal unless you put up 10% or $94,000 as earnest money to demonstrate your sincerity regarding the transaction." "I'll sign the confidentiality agreement and agree to striking the financing clause," he said, "but I'll only put up $50,000 as earnest money. Ask anyone I do business with. My word is my bond. Take it or leave it." I wanted to laugh in his face to counter the "my word is my bond" boldface lie. Instead, I looked at Dad. He nodded. I rose to my feet. "You've got a deal, Mr. Ross." He took my outstretched hand in his sweaty palm. I'd scrub my hand with soap and water—twice—at my earliest opportunity. ------- Dad and I were in Sherry's office waiting for her to complete the documents for the Ross sale, when Sue busted into the conference room and, with a happy shriek, landed on my lap and gave me a passionate kiss. Sherry had followed Sue into the room. Laughing, she said, "Debra, I think you've just been outed in front of your father." Dad, I noticed, was blushing. I shrugged and kissed Sue back. "You're a genius," Sue said when she came up from the kiss. "How did you know Ross was an asshole of the first order before you met him at L'Auberge'?" I laughed and said, "I didn't. I prepared three price sheets, one at $250 per square foot for each unit, one at $285 per square foot, and the last at $320 per square foot. About a minute into the luncheon, I knew Ross was trouble with a capital T, so I hit him with the $320 per square foot price." "Perfect," she gushed and kissed me again. "I don't understand," Shelly said. "Likewise," Dad said. I introduced Sue to Shelly and said, "Sue, would you please explain the deal to Shelly and Dad?" "I will," she said. Sue was a good storyteller with a dramatic flair, not to mention perfect comedic timing. She had Shelly and Dad cracking up with laughter a couple of times during her exaggerated rendition of how I'd hoodwinked Ross into paying full price for the unit he agreed to purchase. "Now I understand why you demanded a confidentiality agreement," Sherry said. "You didn't want it to stop Ross from boasting about the sweet deal he negotiated, but rather to stop him from discussing the transaction at all, because during any such a discussion he might find out he actually paid full-price for his unit without a discount." "Yes and no," I said. "He'll find out he's been hoodwinked when we initiate the marketing plan and publish the asking prices for the units. I'm hoping the confidentiality agreement will stop him from complaining about the price he paid to anyone but us. That's why I wanted the agreement to survive the closing by five years. I wanted the financing clause removed from the standard purchase agreement because I didn't want him to have the option to take a walk with the excuse that he couldn't arrange acceptable financing, and for the same reason, I wanted a large earnest money payment that would hurt him if he defaults and doesn't close. I could be wrong about Ross, but he struck me as unscrupulous, immoral, and the type of man that runs rough-shod over everyone he does business with. If I'm wrong, we'll go back to him and give him the 5% discount from the price he agreed to pay for his unit and modify the purchase agreement accordingly." "There are outs in the purchase contract regarding the inspection of the unit before closing," Sherry said. "Which we can't remove legally," I said. "Besides, the process for correcting deficiencies listed during inspection is spelled out. We'll fix any problems he finds in a timely manner, and if his demands are unreasonable, the contract calls for arbitration." I sighed. "Let's not celebrate this sale yet. It's way ahead of the current status of the development for the project. Ross has some serious outs we can't do anything about right now. The condominium regime must be drafted and registered. He can opt out when he's presented the CC&Rs for the condominium regime, and we haven't prepared the Public Report, which is yet another document that he must sign off on. Sherry, does your practice include the drafting of CC&Rs and Public Reports?" "No, but I know an excellent real estate attorney whose primary business deals with those documents and more." "What's the attorney's name?" Dad asked. "Clarence Tidwell," she said. "I'll give you contact information before you leave, Garth, and I'll call Clarence and let him know you'll be contacting him." "Thanks, Sherry," Dad said. He looked at me and smiled. "Stan and I talked about those documents. They're on my developer to-do list." The way my father had enthusiastically jumped into both the developer and general contractor roles had made me a happy camper. "The purchase and confidentiality agreements are ready for signature," Sherry said. "Dad, will you sign for the developer?" I said. "And then Sue can take the documents to Ross at the Enchantment Resort for his signature and pick up the earnest money check." "I'll do that," Sue said, "and whether the sale goes through or not, I want to celebrate. How about meeting me for a drink in the bar at L'Auberge' at five, Debra?" I smiled. "Let's invite Shelly and Angela, as well," I said. "The more the merrier," Sue said. "I'll be there," Shelly said. "And I'll call Angela and ask her to join us." I laughed. "It'll be a girl's night out." Dad blushed. ------- "She actually jumped onto Debra's lap and kissed her in front of her father?" Angela said. She was sitting in the bar at L'Auberge' with Shelly waiting for Debra and Sue Thomas to arrive for a celebratory drink. Shelly laughed and said, "Yep. Garth Oakman blushed so deeply I worried if there was any blood left in the rest of his body." "What did Debra do?" "Shrugged nonchalantly and kissed Sue back," Shelly said and sipped from her glass of white wine. "You know, I'm starting to believe Debra's cockamamie story." "I believed her story after seeing her preliminary designs for the condo project. I envy her design ability, Shelly. She's amazing. We were working on the stable design for the compound today, and..." "Stable? Compound?" Shelly said, looking confused. "Yes, I take it you don't know about the eight acres the Oakmans purchased for their new home," Angela said. "No," Shelly said. "The compound label is appropriate," Angela said. "It will be a true compound. Debra is designing not only Garth and Katy's home but also a home for herself on the property, as well as art and architectural design studios. Garth will operate his development and general contracting business out of offices on the property, and they like horses, so stables and other outbuildings will be constructed on the acreage. It's going to be a showpiece, Shelly. The architecture is fantastic." "Do you like horses, Angela?" Shelly asked. "I don't dislike them," Angela said. "Which means what?" Shelly asked. "It's just that I've never been around them." "I adore the loveable beasts," Shelly said. "If I could, I'd own my own horse to ride through the red rock country on weekends." "What's stopping you?" "I live in a condo, Angela." Angela laughed. "I know. I'm even intimately familiar with your bedroom. If you want a horse, buy one, and you can board it in Debra's stables." They were interrupted when Sue and Debra walked into the bar. The barmaid was attentive and took drink orders while Debra and Sue were removing their coats and taking their seats. Debra ordered club soda with lime, Angela noted, which reminded Angela of Debra's age. The women around the table, with the exception of Debra, were all in their mid-twenties, but Debra fit in, even led, Angela thought. "Sue, you know Shelly. Have you met Angela?" Debra said. "Yes, hi, Angela," Sue said. "Angela was just telling me about your compound and horse stables, Debra," Shelly said. "Compound? Stables?" Sue said, looking confused. Angela laughed and repeated her description of the compound and stables that she'd just given Shelly. "I adore horses," Sue said. "Before I married the jerk, I planned to become a veterinarian, specializing in large animals, though, not dogs and cats." The drinks arrived and Sue proposed a toast. "To the genius of Debra Oakman," she said raising her glass of wine. "I'll drink to that," Angela said and raised her glass. Without comment, Shelly raised her glass as well. "You guys are embarrassing me," Debra said. After drinking to the toast, Sue said, "Did Shelly tell you what Debra did today?" "Other than kissing you in front of her father while you were on her lap, no," Angela said. "You've got to hear this," Sue said. "Excuse me," Debra said. "I'm going to the ladies room." When Debra was gone, Angela said, "I don't think Debra handles praise very well. Quick, tell me what she did before she gets back." ------- I almost walked into the men's room and wondered how long it would take before I completely assumed the persona of a woman. As I entered a stall in the ladies room, closed and locked the door, flipped up my skirt, pulled down my panties, and squatted, I decided I'd never get used to going to the ladies room, especially with a group of women. As a man, I'd always been curious why women went to the ladies room en masse. I could satisfy my curiosity now, but I doubted the answer would be earth shattering. I'd also never talk from stall to stall while I tinkled like a couple of women in the stalls next to mine. I missed urinals, or rather being able to use a urinal. And I missed merely flipping my dick to get rid of the last few drops, and then tucking it back in my shorts, zipping up and walking away. Now, I had to wipe. As I washed my hands, I checked out my makeup. I searched through my purse for my lipstick, and then brightened my lips with a fresh coat of gloss, afterwards daubing my lips with a tissue to remove any excess. Being a woman had its drawbacks. Being ogled by men as I walked back into the bar was one of them. As a man, had I been that obvious and obnoxious? Probably. One thing I didn't do was put a little extra wiggle in my walk as I strolled to our table like some women I'd ogled as a man. "I hope," I said as I sat down, "that I am no longer the topic of conversation." "Nope," Angela said. "We've moved from your cleverness as a negotiator to your horse stables." I took a sip of club soda, which twisted my face into a grimace. I needed to switch my drink of choice in a bar and wondered if they'd serve iced tea. "What about my horse stables?" I said. "Boarding sixteen horses will not provide a decent living for the entrepreneur you're searching for to take over your stables," Sue said. "Boarding and training sixteen horses to perform competitively in horse shows would," I said. "Oh," Sue said. "You didn't mention training, Angela." "You make a good point, though, Sue," I said. "Not everyone who wants to board a horse will also want his horse trained. Considering only boarding fees, how many horses would it take for my entrepreneur to make a decent living?" "Twenty minimum," she said. "Twenty-four would be better. Do you have the room to expand the stables?" "Yes, but pasture space would become problematic for that many horses," I said. She shrugged and said, "The entrepreneur would have to buy feed for the horses anyway. What kind of horses are you and your parents planning to buy?" "Undecided at the moment," I said. "The Arabian Horse Show in Scottsdale takes place next month. I haven't spoken to my parents about attending the show, but I'm going to make the suggestion. I was surfing the internet a few nights ago and decided I really like the look of Arabian horses. If we can do some horse trading at the show, we might go with Arabians." "Then you plan to show your horses," Sue said. "I'll show mine; I can't speak for my parents," I said. "What competitions interest you?" Sue said. "Reining," I said. "Maybe dressage." "Aren't Arabians hot blooded?" Sue said. "Yes, but the Scottsdale show and other Arabian shows have reining and dressage competitions." "You've lost me," Shelly said. "Hotbloods make good race horses. They do not make good cow ponies," Sue said. "The modern Thoroughbred, the Arab, and the Standardbred, in other words, most 'speed' breeds are labeled hotbloods," I said. "Warmbloods are mostly sport horses, strong, useful horses crossed with hot or fast blood. Polo ponies are warmbloods, for example. Generally, warmbloods excel at eventing, show jumping, reining, and dressage, horses like the Friesian, Hanoverian, Andalusian, Lipizzaner, and hunters. Coldbloods are the draught animals. They are large and heavily-muscled with course joints. They aren't delicate or fast. They were bred for heavy loads and farm work." "Cow ponies, like the quarter horse and the appaloosa, are generally warmbloods," Sue said. "They excel at reining competitions, not Arabians." "Gotcha," Shelly said. "Will we be expanding the stables tomorrow?" Angela asked. "We will," I said. "To twenty stalls, though, not twenty-four. Some training fees will go to my entrepreneur along with boarding fees." "That'll work," Sue said and glance at her wristwatch. "Oh, oh, I've got to get home to my daughter." She looked at me. "Will you be dropping by later?" "I will," I said. Sue tossed some money on the table, said goodbye to everyone, and hurried out of the bar. "Are you and Sue an item now?" Shelly said. "We are," I said. "Since when?" Angela asked. "Since yesterday," I said, but my mind was elsewhere. One of the men who had ogled me when I returned to the bar from the ladies room had followed Sue when she left. "That's good," Shelly said. "You needed someone." "Yes I did," I said. That the man left just behind Sue was probably a coincidence. "I like her," Shelly said. "So do I," Angela said. "Me, too," I said and laughed. The barmaid arrived with a round of drinks. "Compliments from the distinguished man in the navy suit at the bar," she said. "Take them back," Shelly said. "But..." the barmaid said. "Take them back," Angela said. "And bring us our check." The barmaid shrugged, picked up the drinks and walked away. Suddenly, the man leaving behind Sue became more ominous to me. "I'll be right back," I said, jumped up and hurried from the bar. At the entrance doors to the restaurant, I looked toward Sue's car in the lot. We'd arrived together but in separate cars, so I knew where her car was parked. Her car was still there, but I couldn't see her. I dashed toward her car, looking left and right as I ran. I couldn't see her! Had the man taken her away in his vehicle? Or ... Maybe behind those bushes to the right. They'd offer some concealment. I crashed through the bushes. Nothing. I couldn't see her! But I saw a trail though the lush landscaping, so I dashed down the trail, which turned right toward the L'Auberge' cottages next to Oak Creek. That's when I heard a muffled scream. The scream came from my left. I turned left and crashed through more bushes, losing the shoe from my left foot. I kicked away the high heel from my right foot as I ran. A low limb from a tree struck my face. I tasted blood but didn't slow down as I dashed up over a small rise in the ground, and then plunged downward. Then I saw her. And I saw him. And he saw me. He'd turned his head toward the noise I'd made as I crashed through the underbrush. He had a knife in his hand, and his trousers were pushed down on his thighs. He was prone over Sue and between her spread legs. I could see a line of blood across Sue's neck. She wasn't moving. She was lying limp. Unconscious? Or had he killed her? He'd been raping her, or was about to rape her because I could see his obscene erection flopping back and forth like an arm on a metronome when he turned toward me. I had not slowed my rush down the slight hill when I saw them. If anything, I was moving faster. He was in an awkward position: his pants pushed down, a knife in one hand, his other hand on the ground giving him balance. I planted my left foot and left the ground, my body going horizontal as I concentrated on my target. He started to swing the knife toward me, but in his awkward position, he wasn't fast enough. My right heel struck his face. I felt it give. I'd smashed the cartilage in his nose. He bellowed in pain, but the knife continued its swing, and I felt the blade slice my leg as I fell away to my right and rolled, coming to my feet instantly. Blood spurted from his nose as he screamed. Good. A smashed nose is one of the most painful injuries that can be inflicted. But he still had that knife in his hand. He'd rolled off Sue, but the knife could reach her, so I kicked him in the face again, catching the point of his chin with the heel of my foot. I heard a load crack. I'd broken his jaw or his neck. In either case, he dropped the knife and fell back. I prepared to kick him again, but he was either unconscious or dead, depending on what my last kick broke. If it broke his jaw; he'd live. If his neck was broken... Sue was stirring when I turned toward her. Good. She wasn't dead. Very good. I knelt beside her. The cut across her neck was superficial, but she had a massive bruise on the left side of her face, the blow that rendered her unconscious, I figured. I couldn't call the police or for an ambulance. I'd left my purse in the bar. My cell phone was in the purse. That's when I spotted Sue's purse under a bush. I scrabbled to it on my knees, dumping its contents and found her phone. "My name is..." I said and quickly related the facts of the emergency to the 911 operator. ------- Chapter 22 The rapist was dead. My last kick had broken his neck, not his jaw. I removed the two fingers I'd placed at the side of his neck and said, "He's dead." I was still on the phone with the 911 operator. After I'd told her that the rapist might be dead, she'd asked me to check. Sue was still dazed. I suspected a serious concussion and prayed silently that the rapist's violent blow had not caused brain damage. "My friend needs me," I said to the operator and hung up. I went to Sue, but I also dialed Sherry's cell phone number. She didn't answer the call right away. Her cell phone was probably in her purse. When she finally said hello, I said, "I'm going to need your services as a defense lawyer again." "Huh?" she said. I quickly related what had happened. "Where are you?" she said. "In the woods to the right of the parking lot somewhere," I said, suddenly feeling light-headed. "How is Sue?" she said. From the sound of Sherry's voice, I figured she was up and moving. "Dazed. Out of it. A concussion, probably. And I'm getting light-headed. I'm losing blood. The sick creep cut me." My left leg below the cut close to my knee was covered in blood. I don't know why, but until that moment, I'd ignored the wound. "Stay awake," Sherry said. "Angela and I are coming to you. You'll need to be conscious to guide us." "I can do that," I said, but I wasn't as positive as I tried to sound. I knew one thing for sure. I needed to stop the bleeding. I looked around for something to use as a tourniquet. The dead rapist was wearing a belt. It was already unbuckled. I ripped the belt away from his pants, which was a struggle. When it was finally free, I wrapped my leg with it above the cut and tightened it as much as I could. "Make some noise, Debra," Shelly said when I picked up the cell phone. "Help!" I screamed as loud as I could, covering the mouthpiece on the phone. Pretty good lungs, I thought inanely. "Help!" "I hear you," Sherry said. "Keep screaming." I did until my throat was sore. The screaming served two purposes. The sounds kept Sue awake, which was a good thing for a concussion victim, I'd read somewhere. And Sherry and Angela found us. Not a moment too soon, either. My world turned black as they ran into the clearing. ------- I did not wake up in a hospital in a different body. Thank you Hector. I regained consciousness in an ambulance. Sherry was with me. And Sue. The EMT guy was working on her. I was being fed some blood and my leg was bandaged, I noticed. I also felt a bandage on my face. "Ah, you're back among the living," Sherry said. "How's Sue?" I croaked. "A concussion, like you said," Sherry said. "I called your Dad. He knew your blood type. He and your mother will meet us at the hospital." It was a long night. Sue's concussion was serious. There was swelling on her brain. They had to operate to relieve the pressure. At my mother's insistence, a plastic surgeon stitched up the cut on my leg, not one of the emergency room doctors. The tree limb had scratched my face. The plastic surgeon worked on that wound, too. When my injuries had been repaired, I insisted on being driven to Sue's house to retrieve Candy. With the pain medication I'd been given, I couldn't drive myself. Mother drove me. I was glad about that. Mom had a calming effect on the little girl. We took Candy back to the hospital with us. During the long wait while the surgeons operated on Sue, the police interviewed me. Sherry sat by my side during the interview, but she wasn't needed. The police didn't charge me with any crime, just the opposite. The female police officer who interviewed me congratulated me for stopping the rapist. "Men like that don't deserve to be on the same planet with the rest of us," she said. Her male partner grunted his concurrence. About five in the morning, the surgeon walked into the waiting room. He looked like he'd been rode hard and put away wet. "I've relieved the pressure," he said. "With a little luck, she'll make it." "When can I see her?" I asked. "Are you family?" "No, she's my friend ... my lover. I don't think she has any family here, except her daughter." I nodded toward Candy. She was sleeping on my mother's lap. "She has a father and a brother. They have a farm near Pocatello, Idaho. I don't know how to contact them, and I don't know her maiden name." That's when it dawned on me that Stan would know. Among the papers she filled out to work for him, Sue would have listed an emergency phone number and name of the person to call. I told the doctor about Stan and said I'd call him right away. "Can I see her?" I asked again. "She's in a coma," he said. "That's normal after the kind of surgery she underwent. I don't expect her to regain consciousness until later this morning or early afternoon. Right now, she's in intensive care, and she'll remain there until she comes out of the coma." "Will there be any brain damage?" I asked with trepidation. He shrugged and said, "We won't know until she regains consciousness, but the prognosis is good. I think you folks should go home and get some sleep. Leave your phone number, and we'll call you when the patient comes out of the coma." "Was she raped?" I asked. "I saw no evidence that indicated that she'd been raped," he said. "He hit her, probably with the butt of his knife, and cut her neck slightly, but I don't think he raped her. At least there was one positive element to the miserable situation. I called Stan, waking him up. After I told him what had happened and why I'd called him, he said he'd go to the office immediately to check Sue's personnel file. "I'll call you as soon as I find something. Do you want me to call her father, or... ? "I'll call him," I said. "What about Candy?" he asked. "She's with us. My mother is taking care of her." We were on the way home when Stan called back. Sue's maiden name was Johnson. I called Henry Johnson's phone number, waking him up like I did with Stan. I didn't pull any punches. I told him that Sue had been attacked by a rapist. "He was stopped before he could rape her, but she has a concussion, Mr. Johnson. They had to operate. Right now, she's in a coma in intensive care. The surgeon told me that she should come out of the coma late morning or early afternoon today." "Any brain damage?" he asked. "The surgeon couldn't or wouldn't say. He says her prognosis is good." "What about Candy? What about my little granddaughter?" "She's with my mother, sleeping right now. Please know that we'll take very good care of her, Mr. Johnson." "All right," he said. "I'll catch the first flight out of Pocatello, fly to Phoenix, and catch a puddle jumper to Sedona. It'll take a while. I'll let you know my schedule." I gave him my cell phone number. "Someone will meet you at the airport in Sedona," I promised. He gave me his cell phone number and asked for the name of the surgeon and the phone number of the hospital. I checked my notes and read the information he asked for into the phone. He said, "Please call me if there's any change in Sue's condition while I'm en route." "I will," I said, added a goodbye and hung up. I was asleep when the surgeon called. Dad woke me up. "Sue came out of the coma. She's asking for Candy and you." I jumped out of bed, forgetting that I was naked, which embarrassed Dad, but I noticed he didn't look away. I apologized perfunctorily, limped on one foot to the bathroom, which had to be quite a sight with my boobs flopping around, spent ten minutes trying to make myself look presentable, got dressed, hobbled on crutches to the van, and Dad drove us away toward the hospital." "My mommy waked up," Candy said. "She sure did, sweet thing," my mother said. "Is she going to be all right?" the girl said, her voice concerned and fearful. "The doctor thinks she'll get better," I said. I called Henry Johnson. He must have had his cell phone in his hand. He answered before the first ring ended. I told him that Sue had come out of the coma and was asking for Candy. "We're on the way to the hospital right now. Candy is awake. Would you like to speak with her?" "I sure would," he said. I handed my cell phone to Candy and said, "It's your Grandfather Johnson." She took the phone and said, "Hi, Grandpa. This is Candy Thomas speaking." Mom and I grinned at her memorized greeting, but as I listened to Candy's side of the conversation, my grin went away and tears stung my eyes. Candy reminded me so much of my little daughter. Piper I love you and miss you, I said silently. My mother misunderstood the source of my tears. She squeezed my hand and said, "Sue will be all right." When Henry Johnson finished talking with his granddaughter, Candy returned my telephone, and Henry gave me his schedule. He'd be flying in on Air Sedona, arriving at three o'clock that afternoon. ------- I sat with sterilized paper clothes over my regular clothes, a hospital mask over my nose and mouth, paper shoes over by feet, and surgical gloves on my hands. I'd tried to speak with Sue's surgeon before visiting her but was told he wasn't in the hospital. "He'll be in for rounds at three o'clock," the nurse said. The nurse wouldn't or couldn't comment on my query about possible brain damage. When Sue opened her eyes, she looked around the room without moving her head and spied me sitting next to the bed. She smiled. It was a sickly smile, but a smile nonetheless. Her head and neck were swathed in bandages. It was obvious that they'd shaved her head. I grieved for the loss of her long, dark hair, and remembered how it tickled my cheek when I nuzzled my face in her sensuous neck. "Hi, kiddo," I said. "The nurse says I can't stay long, and she doesn't want you trying to talk yet. I don't know why, but it doesn't matter. I'll do the talking for both of us. We picked up Candy last evening. My mother is taking very good care of her, so you don't need to worry about her. I called Stan, and he gave me your father's phone number. I called him. He'll be flying in about three o'clock this afternoon. Dad will pick him up at the airport and drive him to the hospital so he can see you." I paused briefly and then said, "Oh, I want to hug you so much, Sue, but I can't. I'm not supposed to touch you. Did they tell you what happened to you? Maybe they did, but they don't know everything. To start with, you weren't raped. I stopped the sick brute before he could rape you, but I didn't get to you before he hit you. He gave you a concussion, a serious concussion, Sue. The surgeon thinks he hit you with the but-end of his knife. Anyway, they had to perform emergency surgery to reduce the swelling on your brain. The surgeon told me that your prognosis is good. So, try real hard to make yourself better, Sue. I need to hold you in my arms again." The nurse came in and told me my time was up. I blew Sue a kiss, waved goodbye, and hobbled from the room. I didn't want her to see me on crutches, so I'd left them leaning against the wall outside her room. I waited for the nurse to come out of her room. When I saw her walk through the door, I said, "When may her daughter see her?" The nurse frowned. "Maybe this evening," she said. "Why the delay?" "The little girl might start crying, which would upset her mother. The patient needs more recovery time before facing that kind of trauma." "She's a pretty smart little girl. What if she promises not to cry? What if she promises to smile and talk about happy things?" I said. "Maybe this evening," the nurse said. "The patient..." "The patient's name is Sue, nurse," I said. "Please stop referring to her as the patient." "I have found, young lady, that I can do a better job if I don't make an emotional connection with my patients," she said, her voice tinged with anger. The last thing I wanted was to have Sue's nurse upset with me. "I apologize," I said sincerely. Who was I to tell this woman how to do her job? "It's just that my patients are with me only a short time. When they improve, they're moved to a different ward, a ward where the nurses will call her by name." "I understand," I said. "About the little girl, I'll ask the doctor about letting her see her mother. As I told you earlier, the doctor will be dropping by around three o'clock this afternoon. Check back with me then." "I will, and thank you. I misjudged you. I can see that you're very good at your job." "Thank you," she said. ------- Henry Johnson did not look like a farmer. He was the antithesis of a farmer. He looked more like a marine than a farmer. He was tall and slim, but muscular, with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed into a military cut. He was fifty-five, maybe, six-two or —three, and handsome in a Sean Connery kind of way. He wore a navy suit, white shirt and power tie. When Dad started to introduce me, Henry took me in his arms and pulled me into a hug. It was a thank-you hug. "Thank you for saving my daughter's life," he said, pushed me away from him and looked me up and down. "You don't look tough enough to take out a man wielding a knife." "He was at a disadvantage," I said. "I caught him with his pants down." Henry huffed out a laugh. "You'll do, young lady; you'll do. Let's go find Sue's doctor. I talked with him, by the way. He doesn't think there is any brain damage." I suddenly felt giddy. I'm sure my smile lit up the room. "That is very good news, Mr. Johnson." "Hank, my name is Hank. Got it?" he said, leaving no room for disagreement. "Got it," I said. I liked Hank Johnson. He was a man's man without being overbearing about it. I reached for my crutches and slipped them under my arms. "Your father told me that you'd been injured," Hank said to me. "How badly were you hurt?" "A few stitches is all," I said. "I'm on crutches because my doctor doesn't want to me stress his needle work." "A few!" Dad exclaimed. "Seventy stitches is more than a few?" "Grandpa! Grandpa!" a little girl squealed. I turned to the sound of Candy's excited voice. Her legs were churning just like Piper's churned when she saw me. I couldn't help it. Tears flooded my eyes. The little girl ran into her grandfather's arms. He'd knelt, just like I'd knelt for Piper. Then he stood up holding her tight and spun around and around. "A bad man hurt Mommy, Grandpa," Candy said. Get a grip, I told myself and squared my shoulders, sniffing and swallowing to gain some control. I spotted a ladies room to my right. "Dad, I'm going to the ladies room," I said without looking at him. Hank and Candy's reunion would give me the time to compose myself. No such luck, my mother followed me into the ladies room. "What's the matter, honey?" she said. "I'm not sure," I said and sniffed. "Seeing Hank and Candy's love for each other made me tear up. I'll be okay. Just give me a minute." I turned on the water to wash my face. As a man I'd been sentimental but rarely cried. Crying at the least little thing was just one more load I had to haul as a woman, I decided. The cool water on my face refreshed me, but after I dried my hands and face I had to repair my makeup. Crap! A little mascara here, a little there, some blush on my cheeks, a new coat of lipstick, a daub with a tissue, and I was good to go. Sue was vastly improved, and seeing Candy and her father buoyed her spirits that much more. She thanked me for saving her life. "Ah, shucks, ma'am," I said. "Tweren't nothin'." She laughed, and then winced. Her nurse burst into her room. "What is going on?" she said, her voice sounding shrill. "Who gave all you people permission to visit my patient?" Hank said, "I didn't know I needed permission." The nurse pointing a finger at me—a witch-like finger—and said, "She knew." "Nurse," I said. "You are upsetting your patient. Mom, Dad, let's clear the room a little so Hank and Candy can stay with Sue." I hustled my parents from the room." "What was that all about?" Mom asked. "The nurse is very protective of her patients," I said. "When I visited earlier, she made me put on sterilized paper from head to toe and wear a surgical mask and latex gloves. Frankly in all the excitement, I'd forgotten the rules, if in fact they are rules. Also when I was in the ladies room, for some reason I figured that Hank had talked to Sue's doctor." ------- Hank stayed at the Inn with us. "No charge," Dad said to Hank. "We'll be closing the inn soon and tearing it down, so we've been discouraging reservations. You can have your pick of the rooms." Hank wanted to know why we were demolishing the inn, and Dad told him the land under the inn was worth more than the inn, and went on to tell him about the condominium development we'd planned. Hank and Dad were bonding, I noticed, so I left them alone and went to my room. I was restless, so I played a poker tournament. I lost, but the loss irritated me, so I joined another tournament and kicked butt. I'd been a poker bully, though, which wasn't like me. I knew why I was pissed off. Life wasn't fair; that's the way it is, but that fact of life pissed me off. Sue didn't deserve what had happened to her. And I didn't deserve what had happened to me. And I wasn't talking about a few stitches. "I killed a man," I whispered out loud. I'd snuffed out a human life. I'd figuratively reached with wet fingers and extinguished his life as if it were a flickering flame on a candle. "Thou shalt not kill," I said out loud. But my training in krav maga had conditioned me to kill when necessary to protect myself or a loved one. What's more, the evolutionary principle of natural selection applicable to all species demands being the best, the most aggressive, to ensure the survival of the fittest—in men, not woman. Men have a genetic predisposition for aggressiveness, not woman. I'd reacted in that clearing in the woods like a man. "Thou shalt not kill." I knew what the commandment really meant: thou shalt not murder. There's a difference. I knew the difference. What was bothering me was my doubt about whether I'd killed the rapist or murdered him. Was the second kick necessary to defend myself and protect Sue? At the time, I felt that it was necessary. He was still conscious. The knife was in his hand. Still... "Thou shalt not murder." I felt tears streaming down my face. I'd lost my faith, my faith in the safety of the world, my faith in my own humanity. A large part of the safety in the world I held close; I provided the safety, safety for myself and for those I cared about. But I had not included killing, taking another life, as a conscious necessary component in the safety I provided. I'd been told, even conditioned to believe that killing was an option, but... I didn't know what to believe in anymore. "Thou shalt not murder." Suddenly as if obeying an edict from on high, my emotionally attitude changed. It happened in a blink of an eye. It was like a power surge. Like a bolt of lightning. To hell with this pity party! I didn't murder that man. I killed him. I killed him to stop him from raping Sue, to stop him from coming at me with that knife again. Suck it up! I almost told myself to be a man. What a fucking joke. "Are you happy now, Hector?" I laughed out loud. I was alive. Sue was alive. I wanted to celebrate life. I wanted to cover a woman. I wanted to copulate. Make a baby. Create a new life. Hah! I shook my fist at the heavens. "You give; you take away. You gave me a child, a bright, beautiful, happy girl child, and you took her away. Damn you to the blistering flames of hell, Hector. Damn you!" ------- Life went on. It usually does. I visited Sue twice a day at the hospital. She improved daily. I worked with Angela on the preliminary designs for the compound. Dad finished his cost estimate to demolish the inn and build the condos, and he did a bang up job. Stan presented his marketing plan, and we signed off on it after a few changes. Then Dad folded in the other development expenses, including a developer's fee, which was a battle at first, a battle between him and me. "What?" I said. "You don't believe Donald Trump pays himself a developer's fee! Get real, Dad!" "I'm not Donald Trump," he said. "No, you're Garth Oakman, and you are a developer, and developers pay themselves for their efforts. If you won't pay yourself 5%, then make it 4%, or 3%. How will you live while the condos are being developed?" "I'm also the general contractor. I'll make money as the general contractor." "How sweet it is! It isn't every man who has the talent you have. Pay yourself for both jobs. You're doing both jobs. Why do one of them for nothing? Or do you believe your time and effort as a developer are worthless?" "Paying myself a developer's fee increases the construction interest expense," he said. "So what? So do the fees you pay yourself as the general contractor. The system is set up to pay both fees and still provide a profit from the project." "What if the units don't sell?" "Then you'll fail," I said. "But paying or not paying developer's fees doesn't affect the sales of units one way or the other." "Katy and I don't need that much money?" he said. "Then give some of it away," I said. "Help someone else be all he or she can be." "Like you plan to do with the stables?" "Yes, or something entirely different. You and Mom are multi-millionaires. You're rich, Dad, rich in money, rich in love, rich in a lot of things. Spread some of your wealth around." He grinned suddenly. "All right, I'm convinced. I'll pay myself a 3% developer's fee, and I'll use the money to learn charity. Are you happy now?" "No, I need a hug before I can be happy." He hugged me. I loved his gentle, huge arms around me. "By the way," he said. "I've found the entrepreneur to run the stables." "Who?" "Hank Johnson." His announcement stunned me. I was speechless, which made my father laugh. "Now you know how it feels when you do something that shocks me out of my socks," he said. "Boy oh boy, Katy is going to get a kick out of this when I tell her about it." "What about Hank's farm?" I said. "Hank and Phil—Phillip is his son's name—are not seeing eye to eye on how the farm should be run. His boy went to a fancy agricultural school; Hank didn't. Hank trained horses as a young man, didn't have a pot to piss in, couldn't go to a fancy agricultural school if he'd wanted to. Deep down, Hank knows his boy is right about the farm, but it grates on him. He talked to Phil. Phil has agreed to buy the farm under terms I don't understand. It has to do with Phil and Sue getting the farm when Hank dies, but instead of waiting for Hank to kick the bucket, they made some kind of arrangement so Phil buys the farm now, including buying out Sue's half without paying for half. Hank will also get an annual income from the sale. The math is beyond me, but Hank and Sue are happy with the terms, and Phil is happier about the deal than Hank and Sue. Hank said it was a good trade because everybody wins." "I've mentioned the stables to Hank, but I haven't shown him the preliminary designs," I said. "I showed them to him," Dad said. "Hank's wife inherited that farm in Idaho, sugar, not Hank. He gave up training horses to run the farm for her. Still, over the years, he continued to train horses, but for friends, not as a business. Training horses is his first love, not farming. He says your stables are the finest stables he's ever seen." I chuckled. "On paper, anyway. What kind of deal did you make him?" "I didn't make any deal with him, not without talking to you first. The stable deal is your baby." "What if we can't come to an agreement?" I said. "I don't see that happening. I've been working with him on the numbers. If you're halfway reasonable, he can make the business profitable." Dad's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Besides, he has an ace up his sleeve." "What ace?" "Uh-uh. That's for Hank to tell you, not me. I will tell you this. Selling the farm to his son is a done deal whether he leases our stables or not. He hates the Idaho winters and wants to be closer to his daughter and granddaughter. Seeing them once a year hasn't been enough, especially Candy. Hank loves that little girl. Oh, he loves Sue, too, but Candy has a special place in his heart." I knew about that kind of love. "Does Hank know about Sue and me, that we're lovers?" I said. "He does," Dad said. I waited. I wanted Dad to tell me more about Hank's attitude regarding Sue and me. When he didn't elaborate, I said, "How does he feel about the situation?" Dad shrugged. "The same way I feel about it." "Well hell, Dad, let's go do a little horse tradin' and lease the stables to Hank." ------- We didn't meet with just Hank. The meeting was held at the hospital, but not in Sue's room. She was mobile now, so we met at a table in the cafeteria. I'd brought the design boards relative to the stables with me. Sue wore the sexy silk pajamas and matching robe I'd bought for her at Vitoria's Secret. She also wore a Stetson cowboy hat, which cracked me up. "Where did you get the hat?" I asked her. "Dad bought it for me," Sue said. "Guess what, everybody. I'm getting sprung from this hoosegow tomorrow. My doctor calls it getting out on bail because I'll still be a patient—an out-patient, though." I clapped my hands and said, "That is great news, Sue!" Or was it? She'd need help around her house, and... "Dad will be moving into my house with me to help me with Candy, and he's arranged for some part-time nursing care," Sue said. Well, all right then, I thought. "I haven't seen your plans for the stables," Sue said. "How about we start with a presentation of the preliminary designs?" Like a dumbbell, I didn't bring an easel, so I propped the first design board on a chair away from the table so everyone could see it. I used a red laser pointer for the presentation. "This is a site plan of our eight acres," I said. "The area outlined in red is the land designated for horses and includes the stables, a barn, a dressage arena, a round pen for training, and some small pastures." I grimaced. "The land set aside for pastures is tight." "Yes it is," Hank said. I waited a few beats for him to elaborate. He didn't, so I continued, "This paved road connects with the main interior road here." I twirled the laser light at the junction of the two roads. "The stable road provides for easy access to the stables and the barn, and because the stables will have customers, I provided for customer parking here." I used the laser pointer to designate the parking area. "Any questions or comments on the site plan?" "I notice that you didn't include the area to the left of main road in front of the main house as part of the horse facility," Hank said. "Is that land useable for pasture?" "Yes, and in the lease document, we'll provide an easement to the land to use as a pasture, but we won't lease the land." I grinned and added, "No charge." "That'll help," Hank said. "Show us the stable design." I set the site plan on the table and put the rendering of the stables on the chair. "This is a watercolor rendering of the stables." "Gorgeous," Sue gushed. "Thank you," I said. "You made this architectural design possible, Sue. When I expanded the stables to house twenty horses, the structure took on a horizontal look that pleases the eye and fits the land and environment that surrounds it." "We'll want the stables to house thirty horses," Hank said. "Hank, the land won't support that many horses," I said. "Quit teasing her, Dad," Sue said. "Tell her about the adjoining land." "What adjoining land?" I said. My father grinned and said, "Hank's ace in the hole. He's buying twenty acres adjacent to and west of our property." "Sue, I'll want you to design my house for me," Hank said, "and Garth will build it. I made a hellofa deal on the land. It doesn't have road access, but Garth said that wouldn't be a problem, that you'd figure out how to handle both parcels for access, and the additional acreage will provide the pasture space we need. I'll also put ten of the acres into alfalfa. I understand I can get two alfalfa crops a year here. I would like some other changes. I'll need an equipment shed as well as a barn, but both structures can be situated on my property, which should give us room for another arena on your property." I didn't know what to say or do, so I sat down. I looked at Sue. "You knew about this?" "Yes," she said. "How long has this been going on?" I said. "That depends on the starting point," Sue said. "We didn't finalize our deal with my brother until the day before yesterday. Dad made an offer on the land yesterday. The seller countered. Dad countered the counter, and the seller accepted Dad's counter offer. The sale will close in sixty days. The sale is contingent on Dad executing an acceptable lease for the land and buildings on the Oakman property." "Will you be moving into your Dad's new house?" I said. "Good heavens no!" she said. "I'm buying one of your condos, remember?" I chuckled. "If memory serves, until a few minutes ago I had less than five acres to work with for a horse boarding and training business. Now, it appears that I have slightly less than twenty-five acres to put together a small horse ranch. Forgive me if I give the impression of being a little confused." "We thought the changes would excite you, Debra," Sue said. "They do, but ... I guess I need a little time for them to sink in." I looked at Dad. "You and Hank have been playing with the numbers. What's a fair lease price for the land and improvements for the horse facilities on our eight acres?" "We figured a ninety-nine year land lease would work best. Hank will pay for the improvements with a construction loan and a take-out mortgage." I nodded. "That'll work. In fact, it's the perfect solution." I looked at Hank. "The lease price must include the care, feeding, and training for four horses." "Four?" "Yes, one for Dad, one for Mom, and two for me," I said. "Fair enough. I'll pay you $25,000 a year for the land lease and take care of four horses for you," Hank said. "Vet bills and farrier costs are yours, though, and you buy the tack. Any expenses to show the horses will be yours, as well." I did some numbers in my head. "$25,000 a year is too much," I said. "How about $20,000 a year but with a cost-of-living adjustment every five years?" "All right, but I'd like a cap on the adjustment, say five percent." "Ten percent," I said. "That'll work for me, but I want first refusal rights for the horse acreage and improvements on your property in the event you decide to sell." "I should hope so!" I said with a grin and stuck out my hand. "You've got yourself a deal, Hank Johnson." He took my hand and shook it; then he hugged me. I liked the hug more than the handshake. ------- Chapter 23 We sat in Angela's architectural firm's presentation room. Dad and Mom were there, of course. Angela and a partner from her firm named Bob Daniels sat with us. Stan was front row center armed with his marketing plan. After some preliminary enquiries, we'd decided that we'd prefer to work with Wells Fargo Bank. Two executives from Wells Fargo sat at the table with us, Mr. Joshua Peyton and Ms. Maria Canella. Peyton was local, in his mid-thirties, fit and tan. Canella had flown in from the home office for the presentation. I put her age in the mid-fifties. Like, Peyton, she was fit, but looked like the responsibility of her job or a stressful personal matter weighed heavily on her. She wore a navy wool business suit, with slacks, though, not a skirt. We were ready. Bound presentation books rested on the conference table in front of each attendee. We'd spent a bundle preparing the books. They covered every detail. The narrative copy was well-written and proofread, not once but three times. The photography depicting the various renderings and design boards in the books was professional, and the captions for the photographs were easy to read. We'd rehearsed the presentation, not once, but three times over a three-day period, improving with each rehearsal. I'd start off the dog-and-pony show presenting the preliminary designs for the project. Then I'd introduce Bob Daniels and Angela to discuss their architectural firm's involvement in the project, and they'd list the engineers that had been engaged to round out the design team. Dad would take the floor next to detail development issues and problems and our solutions for the problems. Then he'd move on to construction costs and schedules and list the subcontractors that he'd hire as the general contractor, at which time he'd turn the presentation over to Stan, who would present our marketing plan. I'd take the floor again for the question and answer period. The presentation proceeded as rehearsed. I dazzled them with the preliminary designs. Dad's presentation was as professional as any developer presentation I'd witnessed during my life as Aaron MacDonald, and the construction numbers not only worked but were also corroborated in the presentation book with preliminary bids from material suppliers and sub-contractors. Stan's presentation was outstanding. Like me, he was familiar with slide show and PowerPoint presentations, and his sales prattle was just right, not too hard-sell, not too soft. I noticed the bankers were impressed when Stan stated that we'd presold two units at this stage, but I found out later that it was the money we were willing to plow into the marketing effort that really impressed them. Then I took the floor again. "Questions? Comments?" I said. "I have a comment and an admission," Maria Canella said. Of the two representatives from Wells Fargo, she'd impressed me the most, and it hadn't taken me long to figure out that Peyton answered to her, not the other way around. "Your presentation is the most professional and comprehensive for a project of this size I've ever seen. That's my comment. Now my admission, I came here today expecting an amateurish presentation, at best, and was prepared to turn your loan request down without looking any deeper." She smiled. "Now we must look deeper. Your presentation didn't include your financial statement, Garth." "The financial statement for the LLC that will develop the project, and a financial statement for the corporation I use to operate my general contracting business are included in the presentation book," he said. "This is my first development and my first job as a general contractor, so I knew I'd be required to sign personally for the construction loan, so I also included my personal financial statement as well as a resume listing my previous construction experience. The inn is free and clear, which after demolition, provides equity of $3,300,000, or the appraised value of the land. The appraisal is included in the presentation book. If you study the development costs, you'll see that I deferred payment of half the value of the land until each unit sells, at which time I'll add additional land costs in the construction draws for sales realized during each draw period. Katy, Debra, and I also have bank accounts and other investments that total over $1,000,000. We have no debts." Joshua Peyton said, "Garth, you'll be the general contractor for the project as well as the developer. I noticed that you're taking fees for both activities. Wouldn't one or the other be sufficient?" "For my needs yes, but if I didn't take developer fees, for example, then that would say to you and me and everyone involved that my time and effort as a developer has no worth," Dad said. "I can't and won't say that. I wear two hats on this project. I should be paid for both functions. Besides, as a developer, I'll have expenses that aren't covered by the general contractor fees." "Good answer," Maria said. "If you'd caved on the issue, I would've had some doubts about the potential success of the project." She looked at Stan. "Your marketing plan impressed me, and I was happy to see that you've presold two units, but the amount of funds committed to advertising, promotion, and sales really impressed me. You did an excellent job getting these folks to allocate that much money to market the project." Stan said, "I didn't have to twist any arms for the money allocated for marketing, Maria. If anything, Debra pushed the issue more than I. She understands marketing. For someone her age, with no experience in marketing, she's phenomenal." Maria turned to me. "You're also a phenomenal architectural designer." "Thank you," I said. Maria picked up the presentation book and said, "We'll study this, but I can assure you right now that Wells Fargo wants your business. We'll get back to you next week with a construction loan proposal." The bank performed as promised. Dad accepted their loan proposal. He had no reason to do otherwise. The terms and conditions they offered fit our needs and were even more favorable than I had expected. Mom was happy, too. We closed the inn. She vowed that she'd never put herself in a situation again where she had to serve ungrateful, demanding sourpusses. ------- After the presentation to Wells Fargo for a construction loan, Angela asked me to stay, stating that Bob Daniels wanted to speak with me about another subject. I was thirsty. Angela offered soft drinks, coffee or iced tea. I asked for a glass of tea. "No sugar and a wedge of lemon if possible," I said. "No problem," she said. Bob didn't open the subject of the meeting while Angela retrieved our drinks. He talked about the outstanding success of the presentation. He was an interesting man. Short, thin and wiry, he was a dapper dresser, close to sixty years old, I guessed. He wore his still thick but pure white hair long, but it wasn't shaggy. He was the managing partner for the firm but was not charismatic. He led with his tenacity, Angela had told me. He went at any problem from all sides until he found a solution. When Angela returned with our drinks, I took a large swallow of iced tea and smacked my lips. "I needed that. Talking dries out my throat. Bob, Angela told me that you wanted to speak to me about something. What's on your mind?" "Daniels, Harrison & Billings is a good architectural firm," he said. "We are not, however, an exceptional firm. We're not exceptional for one reason. We're weak in creative design. Boyd Harrison is a good designer, but he isn't an exceptional designer. Tom Billings is more an engineer than an architect. I'm a better business manager than a designer. Angela, here, is probably the best designer in the firm. She's been elevated to partner, by the way." "Angela! Congratulations!" I exclaimed. She grinned. "On the other hand, you, Ms. Oakman, are an exceptional designer," Bob said. "Maybe so, but I am not a licensed architect," I said. "This is true," Bob said. "But that issue can be handled. We'd like to engage you as a design consultant for the firm. Because of licensing requirements, your work out of necessity will be presented under the banner of our firm but would also include your name as the designer. Such an approach circumvents licensing requirements." "I hope you're not talking about a fulltime job, Bob." "Not at all. Believe it or not, most of our clients don't want exceptional design. Their top priority is cost of construction. Other clients want what I call tried-and-true design. Anything ground breaking or different would frighten them away. I'd say only about two or three clients a year have the taste to appreciate exceptional design." He grimaced. "In the past, we've tried to satisfy clients with taste, but almost always fell short, not seriously short, but nonetheless we didn't perform to the discerning design requirements of the client." "What kind of projects are you talking about?" "Private contracts, mostly expensive custom homes, but right now we have a client who wants to develop a garden office project for professional tenants. He's turned down two of our preliminary designs already. Angela says you could knock his socks off if you designed the project. I tend to agree with her." "Do I have to do the work in your offices?" I said. "No, except for a weekly design review meeting, which I think would work best in our presentation room," he said. "What would be my cut of the fee?" I said. "That would vary. The firm must cover our expenses and make a profit after paying your fee, though. This arrangement must work for both of us, or it won't work period." "What is your fee for the garden office project?" "Three percent of the construction costs, which the developer estimates at $15,000,000." "What would be my cut?" "Three-fourths of one percent," he said. "Approximately $112,500 for less than one month's work." I nodded. "I wouldn't want to be responsible for supervising the production of working drawings, drafting the specifications, working with engineers beyond the preliminary design stage, or be involved in any inspections," I said. "And most of all, I wouldn't want to hold the client's hand. I'll consider your proposal, Bob; in fact, I think I like the idea, but when the client signs off on the preliminary design, I'm finished." On the surface, Bob's proposal sounded ideal, but I worried. I'd be sliding back into the kind of work I performed as Aaron MacDonald, work that had not satisfied all my professional needs. "Angela will work with you to prepare the preliminary designs, and then she'll take over from there, including babysitting the client," Bob said. I looked at Angela, grinned and said, "We work well together." "We do," she said, returning my smile. "What's the timing on the office project?" I asked Bob. "I understand you're currently doing preliminary work for a residential compound for you and your family and some adjoining acreage for another home and a small horse ranch. If you'll take the time to present the condo project to the client as an example of your work, I think he'll accept a delay until your current work is finished," Bob said. "Okay, let's try it," I said. "Please schedule two hours with the client for tomorrow or the next day at his convenience, and I'll make the presentation. If he'll accept a delay for..." I sighed. "I forgot; we're moving into a rent house on the first of April. The world is too much with me, Bob. I won't be able to start work on his project until about April 7th. If he'll accept that much delay after seeing my work, send a consulting contract to my attorney, Shelly Melton, for her review." "You'll be doing the work on spec. The contract will stipulate that you won't be paid unless the client signs off on your preliminary design," Bob said. "I understand, Bob. I wouldn't have it any other way," I said. ------- Hank answered the door. "Hi, Debra," Hank said. "Are you here to see Sue?" "I am, but I'd like a short conversation with you, as well." "No problem. Let me tell Sue that you're here," he said, and then looked back over his shoulder and added, "She might be asleep." "If she is, let her sleep, and we'll talk about your little horse ranch." He offered me something to drink, and I asked for iced tea. "Can do. I made some sun tea," he said. "Can't make sun tea in Idaho this time of year. Your mother showed me how it's done. I'll check on Sue first. If she's asleep, I'll pour a glass for myself and join you." I sat in the living room to wait and chuckled. Sun tea and a blazing fire in the fireplace. The dichotomy made an interesting picture. I suddenly realized that I liked living in Sedona. Ely was too damned cold, probably like Pocatello, Idaho. And Phoenix summers can boil your brains. Not to mention the awesome eye candy Sedona offers in every direction. "Sue and Candy are sound asleep," Hank said when he returned. "I'll get us our drinks." "May I help?" "No, sit tight. I'll be right back." He returned with our drinks in large, frosty glasses, and took a seat on the sofa facing me. "How is Sue doing?" "Improving every day. She gets tired easy, though; that's why she's napping now. I'll be forever indebted to you, Debra, for saving her life. Your mother told me you were having a difficult time coming to terms with the fact that you killed that poor excuse for a human being." I didn't know my mother was aware of my inner battle about taking a human life. Shows how much I know. "For a while, I forgot that the commandment that says thou shalt not kill really means thou shalt not murder," I said. "I killed him, but I didn't murder him. I did have a debate with myself about whether the final kick that broke his neck was absolutely necessary, but I believe if I had it to do over again, I'd do the same thing. He was injured but still conscious. He still had that knife in his hand, and he was close enough to Sue to raise the knife and plunge it into her body. A split-second, that's all the time it would have taken. I couldn't let that happen. I just wish the kick had broken his jaw, not his neck. For a short time after the incident, the personal trauma of taking a human life made me lose faith, mostly faith in my own humanity, but I pulled myself out of my personally induced pity party and celebrated Sue's recovery—and mine. Hank, I managed to handle the post traumatic stress caused by the event. Sue might not be able to do that. She was injured much more seriously than I, and although I stopped the creep before he could rape her, rape was involved. It might be wise for her to get some professional help to cope with the trauma mentally." He nodded. "I've been thinking along the same lines myself, but I haven't broached the subject with her." "What subject?" Sue said. She was standing at the entrance into the living room from the bedroom wing of the house. "PTSD therapy," Hank said. "Huh?" she said. "PTSD stands for post traumatic stress disorder," Hank said. She sat on the sofa next to her father instead of next to me on the loveseat. I was probably wrong, but I sensed that Sue had retreated from our previous intimate relationship. "I'll just say it. I do need professional help dealing with the mental trauma of that terrible night," she said. "I've been having nightmares. And I have a question. I'm very angry about what happened to me. I've incurred huge medical expenses. I can't work, and I work on commission, so I've lost income. What do we know about the rapist? I saw him. He was well-dressed. He looked prosperous. If the rapist left any assets behind, I want to be reimbursed for my losses. And if he left a lot of assets behind, I want some of them for my pain and suffering." Sue looked at me. "Does Shelly handle this kind of legal work?" "I don't know, but if she doesn't, she can refer you to the best local attorney or law firm that does," I said. She gave me a curt little nod as if to say, "That's the way it will be, then." Hank started to gather himself to stand up and said, "I'll leave you two to talk." "Hang around for a minute, Hank," I said. "As I told you when you answered the door, I've got some questions about the horse ranch." He settled back and said, "Fire away." "What will be the nature of your business? With the exception of the Oakman horses, will you be boarding and training horses for others, or do you plan to breed, train, show, and sell horses?" "I've been thinking about that," he said. "I'd prefer the latter, but at first out of financial necessity, I'll do both." "What kind of horses?" I said. "Warmbloods," he said. "I'm undecided about the specific breed, though. Sue told me you were interested in Arabians." "I was, but I'm not close-minded on the subject. Warmbloods, huh? You've trained horses. Have you trained them for show?" "I have. As a young man, I spent some time in Europe. I worked with an amazing trainer. He didn't use bridles, mediakanas, cavesons, or halters, only cordeo, which is a thin strap that lies free on a horse's neck. He truly understood the essence of the relationship between man and horse. He believed that the general principles of a horse's education were collection, discipline, lunging, cordeo, touching, and composure. Training a horse without any means of painful control, like a bridal and bit, requires the highest form of mastery in horse training skills. I didn't spend enough time with this old man to learn these skills, but my time with him made me a much better trainer. I use bridles and halters but I'm ever mindful about the harm these tools can do to a horse's nose and mouth. I train horses for dressage, but I've trained some jumpers and hunter jumpers, and some quarter horses for reining competitions. I'd like to breed, train, show, and sell warmbloods like the Hanoverian, Andalusian, or Lipizzaner, but I don't think I can afford to buy champion blood in those breeds, so I'll probably go with the quarter horse, or maybe appaloosas." "I believe you can purchase champion potential in the breeds you mentioned that you can't afford in the $20,000 to $40,000 range," I said. "Let's do this. My parents and I will buy three champion broodmares in the breed of your choice for my family's riding pleasure. I'll also buy the finest stallion available up to $75,000. I'm not interested in making money off the horses. That's your bailiwick. You can use my stallion for stud; you keep the fees. And you can have the foals born to the broodmares to do with as you wish, unless my mother falls in love with one of them and just has to keep it." Hank frowned. "Why would do this for me?" "Why shouldn't I, is a better question. I'm buying four horses; that's a given. Why not buy horses that will fit my trainer's preference? Of the three, the Hanoverian, Andalusian, or Lipizzaner, which do you prefer?" He smiled as if from a fond memory and said, "The Andalusian." "That would have been my choice," I said. "The Iberia peninsula. Spanish horses." Like Hank, my thoughts drifted momentarily. "Here's my situation," I said. "I must complete the preliminary designs for the compound and your ranch, and I've just been handed a commission to design a garden office complex. I'll be free of design work around the first of May. Sue, when does the doctor think you can return to work?" "May, June, it depends," she said. "Why?" "You ride, correct?" "I do. What do you have in mind, Debra?" she said. "I'm thinking of a horse-buying trip around the first of May, say two weeks. If your doctor will release you to travel, I'd love it if you went with me. And Hank, as my trainer, I'd appreciate it if you'd join us. Your advice would be invaluable for any purchasing decision." Sue frowned. "Isn't that putting the cart before the horse? At the earliest, the horse facilities won't be finished until ... what? September? October?" "Thereabouts," I said. "I'll board the horses I purchase with the horse farms that sell them to me and ship them here when our facilities are ready for them." "What about Candy?" Sue said. "We can take her with us," I said. Then another thought came to mind. "I'm not positive, but I think my mother will want to travel with us. She'll want to select her own horse. If she does, she'll be happy to help us take care of Candy during the trip." "Candy is in school, Debra. I'm not sure when the last day of school is for her, but it's near the end of May, not at the first of the month," Sue said. She was putting up road blocks at every turn. Why? "Then we'll plan the trip to start after school lets out," I said. "By then the doctor will release me to return to work. I can't not work, Debra. I have responsibilities. I..." Tears filled her eyes. Money! Or rather the lack of money was behind her reluctance to go on the buying trip. I could fix that, but should I? I moved onto the sofa and took her in my arms to comfort her. She stiffened, and pushed me away, and then jumped up and hurried from the room. I looked at Hank. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "She's on an emotional roller coaster, Debra. You'll need to give her some time. And she has money problems. I offered to help, but she's a very independent, stubborn young woman and declined my offer." I understood what he was saying, but... I stood up and started to walk toward Sue's bedroom. "Don't do it, Debra," Hank said. "You won't like what she'll say to you." I stopped. I was completely confused. Turning to Hank, I said, "Give me some clues." "She abhors violence in any form. If she was a man and was drafted into the military, she would be a conscientious objector," he said. I still didn't understand. "I need another clue," I said. "Until the incident at L'Auberge', she'd never been subjected to violence. She's a bit of an empath, you know." "Yes, she told me," I said. "She used her gift to avoid violence and violent people. The sub-human that attacked her fooled her. Her gift betrayed her. She doesn't feel safe anymore. You saved her life. She is grateful for that, but..." I interrupted him. "I saved her through violent means. I saved her by killing the man who attacked her." "Something like that. She's afraid of you, Debra. It's irrational, but it's how she feels." Tears stung my eyes. "God, what a mess!" I muttered. "Like I said, give her some time; she come around," he said. "Get her some professional help, Hank," I said. "I will." "Give me a call when you think she's ready to talk with me without being afraid if I get too close to her." "I will." ------- I dove into my work. The presentation to the developer for the garden office complex went well. He agreed to the delay. I finished the preliminary designs for the compound and Hank's house and ranch structures and turned that work over to Angela. The move to the rent house was grueling but went off without a hitch, mostly due to Mother's organizational skills. I'd envisioned a huge yard sale for the personal property at the inn, but Mother hired an auction house to peddle the antiques. Dad stripped the inn of items like light fixtures, hardware and other sellable items and sold them to a junk dealer. And at long last, he started the demolition work on the inn. I presented my preliminary designs for the garden office complex on April 23rd, and the developer signed off on the designs. He also agreed to put Oakman Construction Company on his bid list. And oh by the way, I celebrated my 20th birthday on April 15th. Mom and Dad made a big deal out of it. I loved them for their effort. They invited Sherry and Angela and Hank and Bob Daniels. Stan showed up with his bevy of beauties, including Sue. Sue didn't stay long. Then I suddenly found myself with no preliminary design work in front of me. No deadlines. Nothing. I was at loose ends. I was a poker burnout by then. That had happened to me frequently during my life as Aaron MacDonald. I didn't play poker for recreation. I played to amass investment money. I'd chosen art for my life's work, so I went out and painted some watercolor scenes of the red rock county, but my heart wasn't in it. It was a solitary activity, and I wanted to be around other people. I missed Sue. I missed our intimate relationship. I'd talked with Hank about her from time to time. He'd managed to get her into therapy, and she was improving, but she still didn't want to see me. He said that her therapist had told her to put the incident behind her and move on with the rest of her life, and that approach seemed to be working for her. "I'm sorry, Debra," Hank said, "but part of putting that incident behind her includes putting the relationship the two of you had behind her. With my personal and business relationship with you and your family, and with Stan handling the marketing for the condo project, she knows she'll see you from time to time. Sue and I talked about that. Given some more time, she thinks the two of you can be friends, but she doesn't see the two of you becoming close friends, let alone lovers. She started working again two days ago." I had to do what Sue's therapist advised her to do. I had to put Sue Thomas behind me, which wouldn't be difficult. We'd been intimate for only one night, and I didn't love her. Like with Robyn, love could've happened, though, and it hurt that she'd rejected me because I was violent and she feared me. I'd never physically hurt her, not in a million years. The following week, I received a call from Marlene Heston, and I met her and the rest of her gang at the turquoise arches. Within minutes, I knew I'd never fit in with Marlene and her friends. I was their age physically, but I was decades older mentally. I excused myself and left as soon as I could. My mother, with a mother's instincts, noticed my melancholy. "You've been mopping around here doing nothing for days," she said. "What's the matter?" "You said it. I've nothing to do and all the time in the world to do it," I said and laughed. "If you could do anything you wanted to do, what would you do?" she asked. Visit Piper, I thought but kept the thought to myself. Then I thought, why not? Why not visit my past, the places, the people? "I think I'll do a little traveling," I said. "I'd tentatively scheduled a horse-buying trip for this down time. I'd wanted Sue and Hank to go with me, and I figured you might go because you'd be interested in selecting your own horse, but Sue and I are finished, and Hank is busy putting together the financing on his ranch, as well as helping Sue with Candy. And right now, as busy as Dad is, he can't do without you. I'm a mature woman, but with my memory loss, I'm only five months old. I think I'll take a couple of weeks and go out and see some of the country I live in, maybe buy my stallion, too." "You can't travel alone, Debra," she said. "Why not?" I said. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. You know that, Mother." She looked like I'd pushed a row of thumbtacks across her forehead, which made me laugh. "Dad and I drove to Phoenix, but I really didn't have an opportunity to experience the city. I think I'll spend a day or two in Phoenix, trade in the Honda for a new car, and do some shopping at some of the big department stores. I've reached my weight and fitness goals. While I'm traveling, I'll improve my wardrobe. From Phoenix, I'll drive up to Las Vegas, maybe take in a show in one of the hotels." And from there to Ely, Nevada, I added silently. "From Vegas, I'll slip over into to California." Via Reno and Piper. "According to the internet there are only about 2,500 Andalusian horses in the United States, roughly 900 of which are in California. While I'm in L.A., I'll do some more shopping on Rodeo Drive. Then I'll swing down through Southern California to San Diego, stopping at some horse farms and ranches en route, and then return through Phoenix. I'll take my cell phone with me, and my laptop. You'll be able to reach me at anytime via phone, and I'll send e-mails when I can." "That sounds like a fun trip, and as hard as you've been working, you deserve a vacation," Mother said. "I just wish you had someone to take it with you." ------- "Katy! Why are you crying?" Garth said. "Our baby is leaving our nest," Katy said. "What? Where is she going?" "Starting tomorrow, Debra is going on a road trip," Katy said. "Oh, I thought you meant she was moving away from us. A road trip, huh. Tell me about it." Katy brushed the tears from her eyes and blew her nose, and then gave her husband Debra's itinerary. "That's a long road trip. I'm glad she's buying a new car," Garth said. "Did she say what kind of car she plans to buy?" "No. Why are you taking this so calmly? Don't you care?" "I'd care a lot if she were actually leaving our nest. She's just taking a break, Katy. She's been working night and day to fix our miserable financial situation and make both of us happy with new careers. In five months, she finished everything she set out to do and then some. She's the most amazing young lady I've ever met or will ever meet, and she's my daughter, Katy. Our daughter. Sometimes I'm so proud of her I can hardly breathe. Let's not begrudge her need for a two-week vacation." "She'll be alone," Katy said. "She's capable of taking care of herself." "Is she? Are you absolutely certain about that? I'm not. Five months ago she had a difficult time tying her shoelaces. What happens if Hector abandons her and she reverts? And except for the trip to Phoenix with you to buy her architectural and art equipment, she hasn't been outside Sedona. She's amazing, yes. She's capable of performing skills impossible for other girls her age, but that's a big world out there, Garth, an often cruel and evil world. She's gorgeous, absolutely breathtaking. Men will hit on her. She has no experience with men. She..." "Any man hitting on her would be wasting his time, Katy," he said, interrupting her. "Which could make him angry, which..." He interrupted her again. "Katy, Debra can take care of herself in any physical confrontation with a man." "Maybe so, but..." "No butts, Katy. Let her go. That's our job now: letting her go and supporting her so she can become all she can be. For Debra, that will be a lot, Katy. For Debra, that will be huge. Let her spread her wings a little. It's just for two weeks." ------- Chapter 24 In Phoenix, I traded my Honda for a Mercedes E550 Sedan with all the bells and whistles, which took most of the afternoon on the first day of my road trip. Then I checked into the Phoenician, a hotel on Camelback Road, one of Keating's fiascos that later turned into a world-class hotel. After ordering from the room service menu, I called the folks. Dad wanted to know about my new car and complimented me on my choice. "A sedan is always best, Debra," he said. I think he feared that I'd buy a sports car. Mom still seemed upset, but maintained a stiff upper lip and tried to sound cheerful. My meal arrived while I was still talking with them. After I ate, I drove by the house I occupied as Aaron MacDonald. It was dark and obviously vacant. I had hidden a key, and I knew the code to disarm the security system, but upon reflection, I didn't want to go there. It would be too much like visiting my own grave. Instead, I went to Scottsdale Fashion Center. My new killer body needed some new killer clothes. I dressed myself the way I liked women to dress when I was a man, which meant I would exude class with a capital C. The next morning, I donned my magazine reporter disguise: a business pant suit, big hair, too much makeup, and high heels. I also added a few of business cards I'd printed before I'd left home that said I was a freelance journalist. At the Arizona State Hospital, I asked to speak with someone in administration about one of their patients. The administrator bought my journalist persona and told me all about Aaron MacDonald, the patient at ASH that had been struck by lightning not once, but twice. That the patient had been struck by lightning twice had been an educated guess on my part, but in the guise of a freelance journalist, it was the only angle I could think of that would allow me to uncover as much information as possible about whoever was currently occupying my original body. From what the administrator told me, I was able to deduce that John Windom and I had in fact swapped bodies last October, but John Windom couldn't handle the swap and ended up in a psych ward at County General. Then the vile creep raped a catatonic woman. Talk about sick! I had no sympathy for him, and I certainly wouldn't help him. He ended up at ASH right after the second time lightning came down out of the sky and hit him. The administrator frowned. "It appears that the patient changed pathologies at that time. Strange, that rarely happens, especially moving from paranoid schizophrenia to a regressed personality." He looked up from the file that was giving him the information he was giving me. "The patient also speaks only three words now: mama, papa, and conk. The attending psychiatrist has no idea what the patient means by conk." He looked down at the file again. "Except for a short-term hunger strike, Aaron MacDonald has been a model patient since coming to ASH." I'd just found Debra Oakman. The last simultaneous lightning strikes created a three-way swap—minimum. John Windom could have moved to another body, or he could have died when he reentered his own body. Or ... The possibilities were too many and varied to follow. I might have clarified the swaps somewhat but I had not solved the conundrum. I asked about the patient's health and his overall demeanor, and the administrator told me the patient was in good physical health, and for the most part appeared happy. I left a few minutes later undecided what to do for Debra Oakman, if anything. ------- I stayed at the Bellagio in Las Vegas, dined at the Tuscany Kitchen, called the folks, and then took in Cirque du Soleil and watched the dancing fountains in front of the hotel. Did I get hit on while dining out alone, wandering through the casino, while attending the Cirque du Soleil unaccompanied, and while standing by myself and admiring Bellagio's fountains? You'd better believe it. Dressed to the nines in my new killer body, I'd have been crushed if I hadn't. I was also proud of the way I managed to say no to the potential suitors without putting them down. I am woman; hear me roar. I briefly considered looking up Anthony Ferrari, the pimp that murdered John Windom's wife, to exact a partial measure of justice by way of a few broken bones, but I didn't even check with Lieutenant Valdez to determine if he'd made any progress on Yvonne Windom's murder case. As Valdez said, justice would eventually be served one way or the other. The next morning I drove to Ely and took a room in the Copper Queen Ramada. It wasn't the Bellagio or the Phoenician, but it had some fond memories attached to the motel. Architecturally, Ely hadn't changed. It was still ugly. But as I'd learned during my short tenure as John Windom, a town's architecture doesn't matter. What matters are the men, women, and children occupying a town. Armed with my freelance journalist business cards, I drove to White Pine High School. The emotional force of the nostalgia that struck me as I entered the school made my knees wobble. I wanted to say, "Hi, Evelyn," when she greeted me at the administrative office's counter. Instead, I gave her one of my business cards and asked to speak with the principal. "I'm doing a story on men and women who were struck by lightning twice during their lifetimes," I said. "Oh, my," Evelyn said, "you're talking about Coach, aren't you?" "Was John Windom a coach at the high school?" I said. "He sure was, a football coach. He was a wonderful man," she said, glanced at the business card and added, "Ms. Oakman. Let me check with Mr. Early's secretary to see if he can meet with you." The name on the card read D. Grace Oakman. I'd emphasized my middle name in case I was asked for identification while in the persona of a freelance journalist. The address was fake, but the cell phone number was real. It was, however, a different phone than the cell phone I used as Debra Oakman. Tom didn't make me wait very long, and I soon found myself sitting in front of his desk. The rascal liked my legs I noticed as I crossed them after retrieving a notebook and pen from my purse, additional implements of my disguise as a freelance reporter. The interview achieved my purpose. When it ended, he called Robyn to his office and introduced us. Nostalgia from walking into the high school had made my knees wobble. Seeing Robyn again made my entire body shake. The emotions raging inside me were almost too much to take. This wasn't working. I think it was Sam Ewing who wrote or said, "When you finally go back to your old hometown, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood." I didn't have a childhood in Ely, Nevada, but I lived in the town for a brief time with a brand new body, a pseudo-childhood, and I missed that time and the people I knew who called me Coach. I thought seeing Robyn again would give me pleasure. It didn't. Seeing her again was excruciatingly painful. I wanted to take her into my arms and hold her, but couldn't. I'd planned to interview Tom, Robyn, Orville, Gloria, and Elizabeth, as well as some of my football players like Larry, Helen, Cal and Cory, and also talk to Nora Daniels and Marylyn Pope, the morning workout girls. I'd also planned to speak with Agnes, Elizabeth's Uncle Lou, and Mabel, my ranch manager, and finally spend a few minutes with the sheriff. But seeing Robyn again turned my plans upside down. I knew I couldn't handle the emotions that would overwhelm me after interviewing so many friends from my life as John Windom. After speaking with Robyn, I'd interview Elizabeth. I had to talk to Elizabeth to find out the disposition of assets like the money in John Windom's bank account, but after interviewing Elizabeth, I'd leave Ely, Nevada, never to return again. I should have listened to Thomas Wolfe: You can't go home again. Pretending to have done my homework before driving to Ely, I asked Robyn about the teachers and teenagers on my list, and she filled me in on what had happened to each after lightning came down out of the heavens and put an end to John Windom's life. My praise regarding Orville's ability as a football coach had been heard, and Tom had made Orville the head football coach for the next football season. The extra money from the head coaching job would give Orville the money he needed to retire when the time came to hang up his cleats. Thank you, Tom Early. Danielle was engaged to Larry Wiggen; a June wedding was planned. Danielle stopped attending the early morning workouts. I wasn't surprised. Gloria Sanger, the home-ec teacher, supervised the workouts now, and ten students were huffing and puffing and eating nutritious meals to lose or gain weight and get fit. Robyn still taught them pilates, and the beginning form of tai chi had become a tradition to start the workouts. Cory and Nora had become a couple, and an almost svelte Marylyn had also found a boyfriend. Larry Foreman and Helen had become high-school sweethearts. Larry's alcoholic mother was still on the wagon, and instead of the local community college, Robyn had wrangled a full academic scholarship for Larry at the University of Nevada in Las Vegas, the same college Helen would attend. Cal, it appeared, was no longer a bully. As I was leaving Robyn's office, she said, "I loved him, Ms. Oakman. I loved Coach, and I miss him." I didn't respond, and I didn't turn back toward her. I just left. I didn't want her to see the tears in my eyes. In my car in the parking lot, I sobbed like a baby. As I approached Elizabeth's office door, I ran into Larry Foreman, not literally, but we passed in the hall. The rascal looked me over, but he was just being male, and I appreciated his interest. Seeing Elizabeth was almost as difficult for me as seeing Robyn. Where Robyn was forthcoming about the people I knew at the high school, Elizabeth was not, forthcoming, that is. She was wearing her lawyer hat, and my questions were trampling on confidentiality issues. "Ms. Conner," I said, "I'm writing a human interest story about the life of John Windom, one of very few individuals who were struck by lightning twice during their life. The disposition of his estate is crucial to the story. I'm not asking for amounts. I don't need that kind of detail, but my research about his life indicated that he left a young daughter behind. Can you just tell me if the daughter will be well cared for financially?" "The answer to that question is yes, Ms. Oakman," Elizabeth said. "Thank you," I said. "My research also revealed that John Windom's mother is still alive, or was at the time of his death. Did Mrs. Jacobs assume the responsibility of raising the child?" "She did," Elizabeth said. "Thank you," I said again. "Mrs. Jacobs resided in Reno, Nevada. I'll be driving to Reno tomorrow to interview her and Mr. Windom's daughter." "Then you'll be wasting a trip," Elizabeth said and then laughed, probably at the confused expression on my face. "Carol lives in Ely now," she added. "While John was alive, he purchased some land from my uncle that he planned to turn into a little horse ranch. He even purchased two appaloosa horses to start the ranch, and he left behind some unfinished architectural plans and sketches that showed the layout of the various buildings on the land and the look of some of the structures he'd planned to build. Carol decided to turn John's dreams for the ranch into a reality. Some changes were made. John purchased three parcels of land for the ranch, but Carol managed to talk the seller of one of the parcels into returning the earnest money, and she completed the sale on the other two parcels, hired an architect to redesign the ranch, and put the construction project out for bid. Construction started on the ranch house about a month ago." I smiled. Way to go, Carol! I wondered where the money had come from, and then I remembered she'd married a man named William Jacobs, who was "in construction". I'd never inquired about Carol Jacob's financial situation. From what I'd just been told, she had to be worth millions to make my dream for the ranch a reality. Way to go, Carol! I pretended to check some notes. "That would be land sold to John Windom by Louis Hailey?" "Yes, a total of 80 acres. Lou and Mabel Grant will live on the ranch. Before his death, John hired Mabel to manage the ranch and train his horses, and Carol honored John's wishes in that matter as well. She also hired Agnes Smith, John's housekeeper and Piper's nanny." "May I have Carol Jacob's address and phone number? To round out my story, I'll need to speak with her and John Windom's daughter." "I'd give the address and phone number to you, but they won't do you any good today. Carol and Piper are out of town on a horse-buying trip. Lou and Mabel went with them. If I remember their itinerary correctly, they're currently in Mississippi. I don't expect them back until next week." "That's disappointing," I said. "I'd like the address and phone number anyway. I have enough of John Windom's story now to draft an outline of the story I will write and send to some editors. If one of them bites, I'll need to speak with Mrs. Jacobs and Piper. Perhaps I could do that via the telephone." I wasn't truly disappointed. I was relieved. Seeing Robyn and Elizabeth was almost more than I could handle. I wanted to see Piper again in the worst way, but no way would I have remained composed if I saw her. I would bawl like a baby. I jotted down Carol's address and phone number. It was the address of the rent house I'd been living in when lightning struck me the second time, and the telephone number was my also my number. I thanked Elizabeth and left, checking out of the Copper Queen Ramada, and driving back to Vegas that night. The next morning, I discovered that there was a horse show in progress in Vegas. I attended the show and bought my Andalusian stallion. Jubiloso was a champion in every sense of the word, a rare pure black, 16.2 hands, the only stallion in North America bred by the famous Paco Lazo Diaz of Seville, Spain, and the list of first place and champion awards Jubiloso had won went on for two pages. Two of the awards were for best Andalusian Breeding Stallion for Competitive Dressage. Because the price on the beautiful animal was almost twice what I'd planned to spend, I didn't go off half-cocked. Before I put up any money, I conferred with Hank over the phone, related the horse's bloodline, and read the list of awards. The stallion was also featured on a video on YouTube, so Hank could watch him perform musical freestyle dressage. Hank was thrilled. He said with a stallion like Jubiloso, the success of his little Andalusian horse ranch was guaranteed. I spent an extra day in Vegas so a vet could check out the stallion. He was sound and healthy, so I transferred the funds to pay for him and made arrangements to have him boarded and his training continued until the ranch in Sedona was ready to welcome him home. Then I pointed my new Mercedes toward Los Angeles and Rodeo Drive. The next day during a rain storm, I was rushing from my car in a parking lot near Rodeo Drive when Hector decided I'd achieved whatever goals he'd set out for me to accomplish as Debra Oakman and sent another bolt of lightning from the heavens to kick my mind into another body. I regained consciousness in a hospital room. "Ah, you're awake," a nurse said. She fussed with me, took my temperature and checked my blood pressure, and then said, "I'll go get the doctor and your father." My new body was male. I checked. That pleased me. I wasn't very successful as a woman. And the body was even younger than Debra's. I guessed my new age at fifteen or sixteen. I wasn't fat, just the opposite. I was very thin. The doctor arrived first. He poked and prodded and finally proclaimed, "It looks like you're going to be all right, young man." "What happened to me?" I asked. "You were struck by lightning," the doctor said. "Who am I?" I said, initiating the retrograde amnesiac persona I'd need to stay out of the psych ward of the hospital. My voice squeaked. Was it changing? Was I younger than I first assumed? "You don't remember?" the doctor said. "No. I don't remember..." I twisted my face with a grimace. "This is scary, doc. I don't remember anything." "Hmm, that's ... ah, unusual," the doctor said. A man walked into the room. He looked like a six-foot-tall beanstalk with a slightly bulging bean in his belly. He had thinning blond hair, pale blue eyes and a farmer's tan. He was dressed in chino slacks and a starched, long-sleeved, white shirt, no tie, and his cuffs were rolled up on his long arms. His hands looked oversized. "This is your father," the doctor said. "He'll answer your questions." "What questions?" the man said. "Like who am I?" I said. "It appears," the doctor said, "that the lightning strike messed with his brain. He says he doesn't remember anything." The man frowned. Then he shrugged and said, "You're my son. Your name is Eric Kleiner. I'm Johannes Kleiner. My friends call me Stick, for obvious reasons. You call me Dad." "How old am I" I said. "Sixteen," he said. "Where am I?" "Santa Fe, New Mexico," he said. Another art community and tourist town, I thought. "You're my father. Do I have a mother or any brothers and sisters?" "Your mother left us five years ago. No siblings," he said. "What kind of kid am I?" I said. He frowned again and said, "Troublesome." "In what way?" "Drugs, mostly. Two months ago, you were expelled from high school and arrested for dealing drugs." Lovely. "What kind of drugs?" I said. "Meth." If I was dealing meth, I was most likely an addict. That would explain my scrawny, emaciated body. I looked to the heavens. Thanks a lot, Hector, I said silently and sarcastically, if sarcasm can be transmitted silently. That's when it hit me. Would Garth and Katy Oakman have to deal with a teenaged boy's mind in their daughter's body, a mind that had been fried with methamphetamines? "Are we rich, poor, or somewhere in between?" I asked my new father. "In between on the poor side," he said. I turned to the doctor. "You said I was all right? May I leave?" "No, with your memory loss, I'll need to do some tests. Memory loss after a traumatic event is usually temporary, but the loss could be an indication of brain damage that will require treatment." "The words 'brain damage' are scarier than no memory. Did you flunk bed-side manner in medical school, Doc?" I said. He laughed and said, "I skipped that class." ------- Garth Oakman hung up the telephone. All the blood had drained from his face. His hands shook, and tears had flooded his eyes. Katy stepped into the room. "Who was that on the phone, honey?" she said, and then stopped in her tracks when she saw the look on her husband's face. "What's wrong?" "It's Debra, Katy. She was struck by lightning again." Katy's eyes rolled back in her head, and she crumpled to the floor. Garth was quick but not quick enough. He picked up her limp body and set it on the sofa. He was sitting next to her and holding her in his arms when she came to. "Tell me," Katy said softly. "She didn't make it this time," Garth said and started to sob. "She didn't make it this time. Oh, God, Katy, what are we going to do? What are we going to do?" "Where? Where was she when... ?" Katy said. "Los Angeles. The police officer ... Oh, God, Katy, I can't stop crying. I can't." He gasped, gulping in air between sobs that wracked his body. "What are we going to do?" "Were going to finish everything she started, Garth. We're going to L.A. and get her body. I want her body here, Garth. In Sedona. We'll bury her here. We'll grieve. We'll miss her, but we will finish everything she started. That's what we're going to do, Garth. Do you hear me?" "Yes. I hear you. I can't stop crying." "I know. I'll cry later. When you're finished crying, I'll cry." They held each other while Garth cried. Finally, he could talk again. "We had two daughters, Katy." "Yes we did," Katy said. "One was a little girl for nineteen years. One was one of the most amazing young women I ever met for five months. I loved them both, and I'll remember both of them, Katy. I'll grieve for both, but the amazing young woman will dominate my thoughts and memories." "I know. I'll do the same. I want to curse Hector for taking the amazing young woman away from us, but at the same time I want to thank him from the bottom of my heart for the five months he gave us with the grownup Debra Oakman." "The grownup Debra gave us a future," Garth said. "She did. That's why we must honor her gift by finishing everything she started. After..." Tears escaped her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "After the funeral, we'll have her stallion transported here. We'll board Jubiloso in Sedona. We'll ride him, talk to him every day, feed him apples and carrots and ... Oh, Garth! It's my turn now ... my turn to cry." ------- "What do you do for a living, Dad?" I asked. I'd been released from the hospital, and Dad was driving me to our house. "I do yards," he said. "Huh?" "Landscape maintenance, you know, yard work, pool cleaning and maintenance, that sort of thing." He paused and added, "For rich folks." "Do you like the work?" "No," he said and didn't elaborate. "I'm sixteen. Do I have a driver's license?" "Yes." My new father was a man of few words. "You told me that I was arrested for dealing drugs. Will I go to prison?" "Don't know." "Has a trial date been set?" "Yes." "When is it?" "Tuesday, next week, at ten o'clock." "Do I have a lawyer?" "No, can't afford one." I was in deep shit. "I'm a minor. Are they going to try me as a minor or an adult?" "As a minor." I had to know, so I asked, "Will you be happy to be rid of me if they send me to ... wherever they send minors who deal drugs?" His head spun toward me, and when he turned his head, he turned the wheel. "Watch out, Dad!" I hollered. He turned the wheel the other way, just missing the car next to us, and then straightened the pickup until it was in the center of the lane. "No, I won't be happy to get rid of you. You're my son. You're all I have," he said through tight lips. We drove in silence for a few blocks. I broke the silence. "That being the case, we should probably take the steps necessary to make sure I'm not sent away somewhere," I said. "What steps?" he said. "I don't know, but we'd better find out." He looked at me again, but only with his eyes. "You don't act the same as you did before lightning hit you." "In what ways am I acting differently?" "Yesterday, you didn't care what happened to you," he said. I nodded. "Dad, am I a drug addict as well as a dealer?" "They say you are," he said. I wondered if my body would go through withdrawal now that it was being controlled by a different ego. Waddaya say, Hector? Am I going to have the DTs or whatever meth addicts have when they go into withdrawal? As usual, Hector didn't answer my question. He wasn't worth much. I fix the problems associated with one body, and he moves me to the next to start all over again. "Dad, what I'm about to say probably won't mean much. I've probably made the same promise before, but as of this minute, no make it the second that lightning came down out of the sky and ripped away my memories, I promise you that I will never take an illegal substance into my body again." His eyes rolled toward me. "You've never made that promise, Eric. You're troublesome; you're a drug addict, but you aren't a liar. You don't make promises you won't or can't keep." How about that? Eric Kleiner wasn't all bad. "Addicts stash their drugs. I probably have a stash in the house," I said. "When we get home, let's find it and flush it down the john." "We'll do that." "Other than drugs, have I gotten into any other trouble?" "A few fights. You have the courage of a lion. Unfortunately, you have the body of a lamb. You lost the fights." That'd change, I thought. "That's it, a few fights?" I said. "Your grades went into the shitter during the school year that ended with your expulsion. Before then you did all right. You weren't a genius, but you got Bs and Cs. I don't know what were going to do about your education. The high school won't let you return." "Did I have any special or unusual skills?" "No. You're just a normal teenage boy, Eric." "Do I have a bank account?" "No." "Do I have a computer?" "No." "Do you have a computer?" "No. Why the questions about a bank account and a computer?" "If I tell you, you'll think I'm nuts," I said. He laughed. "That's better than having to kill me if you told me." I laughed with him. My new dad sounded like a good guy. "I have friends, right?" I said. "Unfortunately," he said. "Are any of them worth keeping?" I said. "No." Before I could ask another question, he said, "Maybe Gary." "Tell me about Gary," I said. "Gary Ventura. He's your age, lives a block from us. A small boy, gets picked on a lot because of his size. Smart as a tack. You and Gary were best friends until you started high school. I don't know what happened, but you two stopped being friends about six months ago." "If I were to guess, I'd say that drugs happened, Dad." "Probably," he said. "Any girls?" I said. "No." Then he added, "Being around girls makes you stutter. That's another thing about you that's changed. You stuttered before. You haven't stuttered once since you came to in the hospital." "I'm happy that something good came out of my intimate bout with high voltage electricity," I said. "That's another thing that's different about you. You never said a sentence that long in your life." "Took after you that way, huh?" I said. "Yeah," he said and we laughed together. "You said my mother left us five years ago. What did you mean by that?" I said. He shrugged. "It means what it says. She was with us one day, and the next day she wasn't." "Are you saying she is a missing person?" He snorted. "No, she left a note. She had problems similar to yours, Eric, except her drug of choice was alcohol. She ran off with another man, another alcoholic. I tried to keep track of her, but ... Eric, I don't know where she is, or even if she's still alive." "Did you love her?" I said. "Yes." "Do you still love her?" "No, I feel sorry for her." "Like you feel sorry for me?" "Yes, except I love you." He pulled the pickup truck off the street onto a driveway. "We're home," he said. ------- Part 3 - Eric ------- Chapter 25 "Sit down," Hank said to Sue. "There on the loveseat." "Why?" she said. "Because I have bad news, and I want you sitting when I tell you about it." Sue looked alarmed, but she didn't argue. She sat on the loveseat. Hank kneeled in front of her and took her hands in his. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it. Debra is dead. While she was..." Sue jerked her hands from his and jumped to her feet, nearly knocking Hank over with her sudden move. "No!" she screamed, her arms stiff and by her side, her fists clenched. "No!" Hank moved upright and took her in his arms. She remained stiff. "While she was shopping on Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles, lightning struck her again. This time she didn't make it." As suddenly as Sue had moved off the loveseat she collapsed. With his arms around her, Hank caught her and set her on the sofa. He sat beside her. The tears came then, followed by gut-wrenching sobs. He held her through the release of her emotions. When she could finally speak, Sue said, "I loved her. I loved Debra but I was afraid of her." "I know," Hank said. "No, you don't know, Dad," Sue said. "I..." She swallowed another sob. "I pushed her away from me, not because she'd killed that man, but because I didn't feel worthy of her. She was a genius, Dad. She was a better architect than Angela, a better salesman and marketer than Stan, a better poker player than world champion poker players on TV. She was better than anyone at everything she did. It was freakish. She was a freak of nature! Five months ago, she had the intellect of a six-year-old, and then lightning struck her and made her a genius. Her freakishness frightened me. Oh, that she could kill and did kill pushed me away, too, but she was just protecting me, saving my life. I could have..." She sobbed again, but quickly regained control. "I could have handled her violence; I figured she'd be violent only when she had to to protect herself or someone she cared about. Hell, Dad, that's normal, one of the only normal things about her. That she could stop that man, a large man with a knife, that wasn't normal." She buried her face in her father's chest. "Now you know. I wasn't worthy of her, but I loved her. I loved her." ------- Sherry held Angela in her arms. Angela was asleep. She'd cried herself to sleep. Sherry had cried with her. They'd just lost a cherished friend, but Angela had lost more than a friend, she'd lost her mentor. "I could have learned so much from her, Sherry," Angela had said. "I was learning so much. Now..." She broke down in tears again. "I loved her, Sherry, I loved her, not like I love you, but I loved her. She was so unselfish, so giving." "Yes she was," Sherry said. "Debra Oakman will be remembered. Some will remember her as a freak of nature. What she did, what she could do wasn't possible, but she did them. But I, for one, won't remember her for doing the impossible. I'll remember her for what she did for others, especially for what she did for you, Angela." "I wish I'd had more time with her, a few more projects, and that's selfish. I feel so selfish, Sherry." "I'm angry. I'm mad at her. That's as irrational as you feeling selfish because you wanted more time with her. I'm angry because she swooped into our lives like a tornado, lifted us up to heights neither of us had ever reached and then suddenly plunged us back to earth again. I want to curse her for abandoning us, but I won't. You were closer to her than I. I won't grieve as deeply, but I'll grieve, and I'll support your grief, Angela. I love you so much." "I love you, too, Sherry," Angela said. "I know," Sherry said. "I'm so sleepy; suddenly I feel so sleepy I can hardly hold up my head." "Sleep then," Sherry said. "Go to sleep in my arms." ------- Home was a double-wide trailer in a trailer park. It took my new father and me a while, but we finally found Eric's drug stash and flushed it down the john. Besides meth crystals, the stash included marijuana, some pills, and some drug paraphernalia. The paraphernalia went in the trash. "Can you cook?" I asked my father. "Some," he said. "Can I cook?" I asked. "Some," he said. "Let's cook," I said and opened the refrigerator door. Some milk, six bottles of beer, and a bottle of grape juice were the liquid offerings. Lettuce, a green pepper, a bunch of celery, two tomatoes, and a cucumber were in the crisper. Another drawer in the refrigerator produced cheese—two kinds, sharp cheddar and pepper cheese—a package of flour tortillas, and a tub of crated parmesan cheese. The meat drawer held bacon and sausage, and a package of biscuit dough, the kind that pops when it's opened. There were the usual things in the refrigerator door, including butter and eight eggs. I found a package of frozen chicken tenders in the freezer, some hamburger patties, a London-broil steak, a package of uncooked shrimp, a quart of coffee ice cream, and some ice cream sandwiches. "Is there a pantry?" I asked. "No, we store dry food in the cupboards," he said, pointing. I rummaged through the pantry. We had the makings for at least six dinners for two, maybe seven or eight. Breakfasts wouldn't stretch that far, and lunches would be mostly Campbell's soups and different kinds of sandwiches. Snack foods were abundant. I'd want more spices; I like spicy food, but the cupboard wasn't bare like the cupboard I walked into in John Windom's house. "Do you plan meals?" I asked. "No," he said. There was a microwave oven on one of the kitchen counters. "How about a baked potato, some breaded and fried chicken tenders, canned corn, and a salad for dinner?" I said. With my thin body, fried foods weren't a problem, and as Debra Oakman, I'd missed fried chicken. He gave me a curious look, but said, "Fine by me. I'll do the potatoes." I laughed. "In the microwave, right?" "Is there any other way?" he said. "Okay, but let me unthaw the chicken tenders first." Twenty minutes later we sat down to dinner. Dad sliced off some fried chicken, put it in his mouth and chewed. "Very good, Eric. Now, tell me where you learned to fry chicken like this?" I swallowed the chicken in my mouth and said, "Can't. No memories, remember?" "Your mother didn't know how to fry chicken like this. I don't know how to fry chicken like this. And as far as I know, you've never fried chicken, period. When I said you cooked some, I lied. If any meals were cooked in this house, I did the cooking." I shrugged. "It's weird, Dad, but I think I can do a lot of things I couldn't do before lighting flashed out of the sky and put me in a coma. That's why I was asking about a computer. I think I'm pretty handy with a computer. I'm not a hacker, but ... I don't know. It's difficult to explain." I scrunched my brow purposefully. "Could I draw before? You know, like an artist?" "Draw flies, maybe, but not like an artist," he said. "After dinner, let's test one of the feelings I have. Let's find a piece of paper and a pencil and I'll draw." "We'll do that." He grinned malevolently. "One thing you could do and do well before was the dishes." "Yeah, sure, Dad. If I believed that, someone could also sell me the Brooklyn Bridge." "I've got a quitclaim deed handy for that bridge, too," he said and chortled. We cleaned up the dinner mess together, evidently another first for Eric Kleiner. The paper was a standard 8 ½" by 11" piece of paper; the pencil was dull. I sharpened it with a kitchen knife. "What do you want to draw?" Dad said. "How about you?" I said. I'd made my spending money in college drawing caricatures in a number of sports bars around Phoenix. "Sit on that chair. I'll draw on the table. How about a caricature?" "Whatever blows your whistle," he said. I drew him with an oversized head, a tiny but long, thin body, pushing a wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow contained a bush that would be planted. It took me ten minutes. I didn't sign the drawing. I didn't know how to spell my last name. So I wrote "Stick" under the drawing and handed it to him. "I'll be go to hell!" he exclaimed. He looked up at me with a stunned look on his face. "You can draw! This is professional, Eric!" "Not really," I said. "I don't know why, but I believe I can do professional work, though." "Okay, now tell me why the questions about a bank account and a computer," he said. "I won't think you're nuts." "We can't afford an attorney, right?" "Yes, mostly. I have a little money put aside, but you didn't care what happened to you. Still what I've put aside isn't much. I don't think it's enough for attorney fees." "How much do you have?" "$750," he said. "No, that won't do it. This money you've put aside, is it in a checking account with a bank?" When he nodded, I looked at my left wrist to see what time it was. I wasn't wearing a wristwatch. Did I own one? "What time is it?" "7:30," he said. "What time does the library close?" "I don't know. Why?" "Libraries have computers with internet connections," I said. "Do you have a library card?" "Yes," he said. "So do you." "We'll use yours because we'll be transferring money out of your checking account to a web site." "Why?" "So we can turn $500 of the $750 into $4,500. Then we'll use $1,000 of the $4,500 to turn it into $9,000, which will turn the $750 you've put aside into $13,750, including the $750." "Will you be breaking any laws?" he said. "Yes and no. What we'll be doing will be done in your name, so what we'll do will be legal. The thing is I'll be doing it, not you, and at my age, it's illegal for me to gamble. We're going to play Texas hold 'em poker on the internet, Dad. I've got this feeling that I'm really good at the game. The feeling is just like the feeling I got that I could draw. Are you willing to risk $500 of your $750 so we can make enough to pay an attorney to help me at my trial?" He sat gazing off into the distance about a thousand yards, his lips pursed, his thin shoulders hunched over. Finally, he nodded and said, "Let's do it, Son. You're going to need a lawyer." "Grab your checkbook. We'll need the routing number on a check, and hurry. As it is, if the library closes at nine o'clock, we'll be lucky if we have enough time for one tournament tonight. We'll have to play the larger buy-in tournament tomorrow." We hurried. I won the $500 buy-in tournament at the moment the lights started to flash on and off to announce that the library was closing. I left $1,000 on the site for the next tournament and transferred $3,500 to Dad's bank account. "Check tomorrow to make sure that money hits your account," I said to my astonished father. "I will," he said. On the drive home, I said, "Do you work tomorrow?" "Yes." "Do I have a bicycle?" "Yes, but the tires are flat. You haven't ridden it for a year. Why?" "I thought I'd ride to the library and play that other tournament. If I win, I'll keep playing until I lose a tournament. Then I'll quit for the day." "Oh," he said. "Do I have a suit?" "A suit?" "Yes, I can't go into court dressed in clothes like I'm wearing." "Oh. No, you don't have a suit." "I figure we'll need $10,000 for the attorney. $500 for clothes for me. Do you have a suit?" "No." "Plus $500 for clothes for you. And I don't want to continue going to the library to play hold 'em, so I'll need a computer, a laptop with all the bells and whistles, say another $1,500. Plus, we'll need a high-speed connection to the internet at the house. Do we have cable TV?" "Yes, just the basic package, though." "Does the cable company offer an internet connection?" "I don't know." "I'll check." When asked, he told me the name of the cable company. "With the internet connection fee, our clothes, my laptop computer and the attorney, we'll need about $13,000. But that's not all. I'll need a job. If I can get a job before Tuesday next week, that'll show the judge that I'm serious about rehabilitating myself. To work, I'll need a car. A used car will be fine to start with, say another $10,000. And you'll have to pay taxes on the money I win for us. To net $23,000, I'll need to win about $30,000, depending on your tax bracket. Damn, I wish that court date was two weeks away instead of less than a week." I sighed. "We'll just have to do the best we can." "I'll take off work for an hour and drive you to the library in the morning when it opens and pick you up when I get off work," Dad said. "That'll work. Tomorrow evening, plan on shopping for clothes, a computer, and a car. And cell phones. I forgot about cell phones. We'll both need cell phones. We'll eat fast food for dinner while we're out. I'll start looking for a job while I'm at the library tomorrow. The classifieds for newspapers are on the internet. What's the name of the local newspaper?" "Santa Fe New Mexican," he said. "The job will be a crap job, Dad, not one to be proud of, and as soon as I can, I'll quit the job." "With the way you play poker, I don't blame you," he said. "Poker will not be my life's work, Dad. I don't know what it will be, but it won't be poker. I'll use poker to amass investment money, not as a vocation." "Oh." After a short pause, he said, "I understand. I like it that poker won't be your life's work. Maybe you can be a professional artist?" "Maybe. We'll see." ------- I played and won four tournaments the next day and transferred $30,000 to my father's checking account. That evening, I bought a used Honda Civic sedan, a laptop computer and color printer, and two cell phones. The stores closed before we could shop for clothes. "We'll shop for your suit tomorrow night, Dad, and I looked in my closet this morning. I need more than a suit. My wardrobe sucks. I'll spend part of the day tomorrow putting together a new wardrobe." He laughed and said, "Another difference between now and then. I hated the way you dressed, but..." He stopped talking and looked upward, as if in prayer. "What kind of music do you like now?" "I don't know. I'll listen to the radio on the drive home and tell you when I get there." We had two vehicles: the Honda and Dad's pickup truck. "No, I'll call you with my new cell phone and tell you on the drive home." Ten minutes later without turning on the radio, I called him using speed-dial number one. When he answered the call, I said, "Country music. I like country music." "Thank you, God," he breathed. When I parked at the trailer and went inside, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a beer. I opened the refrigerator, poured myself a glass of grape juice and joined him at the table. "Let's talk lawyer," I said. "Do you know any lawyers?" "Nope," he said. "Okay, I'll let my fingers do some walking tomorrow and pick one. Do you have the paperwork on my arrest?" "I put everything in a file. I'll get it." He jumped up and returned carrying a manila legal-sized file, which he gave to me. "And I'll need a signed check to pay the attorney a retainer fee," I said. He hopped up again and returned with a check. His signature was scrawled on the signature line. The payee and the amount was blank, which made me smile. "Thanks for trusting me, Dad." "Hell's sake, Son, it's your money." "Uh-uh, our money. We're partners, Dad." He tipped his beer bottle toward me and bobbed his head acknowledging my statement. "I checked on a cable internet connection," I said. "You'll have to call and order it, but I can drop by the cable company and pick up the router and install it. You can call them from work with your cell phone." "I'll do that," he said and hopped up again. He searched through the phone book next to the house phone, found the number he wanted and jotted it down. "About your work, Dad. Is it your business, or do you work for someone?" "It's my business. I have three Mexican laborers working for me?" "Illegals?" "Probably," he said. "Do you speak Spanish?" "Un poco," he said. "Enough to get by." "You told me you didn't like your work," I said. "I don't," he said. "What kind of work would you rather do?" "Instead of landscaping maintenance, I'd like to do contract work for new landscaping projects." I nodded. I could make that happen in short order. I kept the idea to myself for the moment, though. Dad and I had to concentrate on keeping me out of teenager jail before tackling his work preference. Besides, I had another problem that I'd been dealing with. "Maybe we can make that happen—later," I said. "Dad, I'm fighting severe depression, have been all day, and I feel exhausted, and I'm restless and mentally confused. And hungry! I wanted to eat three lunches, not one. That's why I overate at Wendy's tonight. You said you'd been told that I was an addict, so I looked up meth withdrawal symptoms on the web. Dad, I'm going through withdrawal." "Shit," he muttered. "Sleep binges is also one of the withdrawal symptoms. I can't sleep beyond my normal sleep pattern until after the trial. There's just too much to do. So, wake me up, and get me up before you go to work tomorrow. Don't let me give you any shit. Roll me out of my bed physically if you have to. Okay?" He nodded. "Is there anything you can take or do that will relieve the symptoms?" "Exercise helps. I'll run after I get up in the morning. Maybe I should join a gym that has free weights. I'd tell you what really helped today, but you'd think I was nuts." He chuckled. "Tell me." "Tai chi," I said. "When the depression or cramps or whatever became too much, between tournaments I went outside the library and went through some forms of tai chi. I didn't know tai chi before, right?" "No. I mean right. You didn't know tai chi before. This is weird, Son." "Yeah, I know, Twilight Zone stuff," I said. "I should also speak with a nutritionist. I need to bulk up, so the eating binges aren't a big problem for me, weight wise, but if I go on eating binges, I should be eating nutritious foods, not foods full of sugar and fat, like I did today—maybe. I just don't know; that's why I think I need help from a nutritionist, so tomorrow I'll join a gym and meet with a nutritionist. I'm more worried about sleep binges than any other symptom. I'll need your help with that. I just can't sleep all the time until after the trial." "I'll help." "I might get obnoxious, call you names, even throw things, but don't let me sleep all the time, promise." "I promise." ------- As I was running the next morning, I suddenly realized something was missing from my new life that had given me immense pleasure during my short life as Debra Oakman. I missed Conk. Conk always ran with me. Well, not with me. He ran ahead of me or around me in circles. The loveable beast rejoiced in our morning runs. I staggered to a stop and sat on the seat at a covered bus stop. It was time for me to find out if Eric Kleiner occupied Debra Oakman's body. I took my cell phone out of my pocket and with trepidation dialed Angela's cell phone number. "Hello," she said. "I hope I'm not calling too early, Ms. Bright. I'm John Windom. I work for Crocker Development Company. Ms. Debra Oakman designed the new garden office project we're developing." "Yes, I'm involved with the project," Angela said. "I know. I need to speak with Ms. Oakman, but I don't have her phone number." "Ah, Mr. Windom, Debra ... oh, shit, this is hard. Debra Oakman was struck by lightning the day before yesterday. I'm sorry, Mr. Windom, but Debra..." I heard the start of a sob. "Debra Oakman is dead," Angela said, obviously trying very hard not to cry. "The lightning strike killed her. Maybe I can help you with your problem." "No, that's all right. I don't really have a problem, just a question," I said. "I don't want to intrude right now. My condolences, Ms. Bright." "Please ask your question, Mr. Windom," Angela said. "I don't ... frankly, Ms. Bright, I just wanted to call Debra Oakman and tell her that I loved her work. The office complex she designed is fantastic. Goodbye." I hung up. John Windom's body died. Debra Oakman's body died. My body is occupied by Debra Oakman. I occupy Eric Kleiner's body. What happened to John Windom and Eric Kleiner? Are they dead? I looked to the heavens. "Thanks, Hector, for not putting a sixteen-year-old boy addicted to meth in Debra Oakman's body. For Katy and Garth's sake, it's better that Debra is dead." I worried about Conk, though. While talking with Mother when I was in Las Vegas ... no, not my mother, not anymore. While talking with Katy, she told me that Conk missed me, that he was moping around the house like he'd lost his best friend. Well, I miss you, too, Conk. I stood up to continue my run. I miss you a lot. I wish you were running circles around me right now. ------- I shopped for clothes before meeting the lawyer that I picked out of the Yellow Pages, so I looked presentable when I walked into her offices. Yes, I selected a female attorney. I'd had good luck with female attorneys in the past. Would my luck hold? Darlene Kaplan wasn't a babe. Elizabeth and Sherry were attractive young women, Sherry more than Elizabeth, but Darlene was middle-aged, fifty, or thereabouts, overweight by thirty pounds, maybe thirty-five, but she had nice, kind brown eyes. She also wasn't a single practitioner like Elizabeth and Sherry. She was the only criminal attorney in her law firm, but she was a partner in the firm. She was reading the file Dad had accumulated on my arrest and other legal matters. "So, did you do it or not?" Darlene Kaplan said when she raised her eyes to meet mine. "Were you dealing meth at your high school?" "I don't know, but let's assume I was," I said. "I say I don't know because I was struck by lightning the day before yesterday, and the lightning kicked my memories into deepest, darkest space. I have retrograde amnesia, Ms. Kaplan." "That's Mrs. Kaplan, and if you think retrograde amnesia will be a winning legal tactic for your defense, young man, forget it," she said. I chuckled. "The thought never crossed my mind. In fact, I'd prefer the court not know about my memory problem," I said. "I don't remember dealing drugs, but I'm sure I did. I'm an addict, Mrs. Kaplan. I'm going through withdrawal as we speak. Withdrawal is not pleasant." "So, when you leave here, you'll go out and make a score, get high, and..." "No, after I leave here, I'll do what I'm doing while I'm sitting in your office. I'll suck it up and tough it out, and go on with the rest of my life, a drug-free life, Mrs. Kaplan. I'd also prefer that the rest of my life does not include a stint in teenager jail. Can you help me or not?" "Oh, I can help you. The question I must answer is whether I want to help you." "What can I do to help you answer your question? I don't have much time. If you won't help me, I'll need to scare up another lawyer who will." "There's the small matter of my fee," she said. "Which is?" I said. "My hourly rate is $300, $400 for court time, and I'll need a $5,000 retainer. Is this your first offense?" "Yes, according to my father," I said. "Then the retainer should cover my fee. Can you pay the retainer today?" "I can't, but my father can." I pulled out his check. "He trusted me with this check because I promised him that I'd never take an illegal substance into my body again. He accepted my promise because I don't lie, Mrs. Kaplan. With my memory loss, I can't tell you I don't lie. I don't know whether I lie or not, but that's what my father told me. I kinda liked it that I don't lie. That meant I wasn't all bad. Put yourself in my shoes, Mrs. Kaplan. You wake up from a coma induced by a lightning strike. You have no memories. Your past is a complete blank. You're frightened out of your mind because having no past is very frightening. Then you're told that you're a meth addict and dealer, and that you've been arrested for dealing drugs at a high school. That's almost as scary as waking up with no memories. The one bright moment I've had since I came to, is finding out that I don't lie. That's sad, but it's also uplifting somehow." I pushed the check toward her. "Should I fill in the payee, the date, and the amount, or should I take this check to another attorney?" She stared at me for a long moment and finally said, "Fill in the date and the amount. I'll fill in the payee." "In a minute, maybe," I said. "We've successfully answered the question you had. You haven't answered all my questions yet. What's the likely disposition of my case next Tuesday?" "That depends," she said. "On what?" "Will you give up your supplier?" she asked. "If I knew who my supplier was, I'd give him up in a heartbeat. The bastard got me hooked on meth. No, that's not fair. I got myself hooked on the junk, but he helped me. With my memory loss, I don't know who my supplier was. I'll tell you this. Between now and Tuesday, I'll try to find out, and if I'm successful, I'll give him up." "Your amnesia is convenient, isn't it?" "Ah, hell, I'm tired of your bullshit," I said standing up. "I'm trying to be straight with you, but all I get in return is sarcasm. I'm going through meth withdrawal. One of the symptoms is irritability, and you're aggravating that symptom. I'll find another lawyer." "I apologize. Please sit down, Eric. Let's talk some more." I sat down. I had to. She still had Dad's check in her hand. "Will you agree to undergo therapy?" "I will, if that's what it takes to stay out of teenager jail," I said. "But consider my situation. A therapist will want to explore my past to help me determine why I fell prey to dangerous drugs. I don't have a past to explore. I know the symptoms of withdrawal. I looked them up on the internet. I know there isn't much that will help me get through the pain and suffering I'm going through except exercise and good, nutritious food, and my father's support. I have Dad's full support, thank fate. I ran a half-mile this morning, and sometime today, I plan to join a gym and start working out with free weights. Tai chi helps. I use tai chi more for meditation than exercise, though. I also plan to meet with a nutritionist to help me design a diet to satisfy the food cravings I'm having. I'm skinny as a rail. Part of that is genetics. My father's nickname is Stick. But overeating won't cause me to become overweight, not with this emaciated body, not for a while anyway. Still I want to make sure I eat what I should to bulk up properly and not cram too many sugars or fats into my system." I sighed. "After the lightning strike, Dad and I searched our house and found my stash. We flushed the drugs down the john and threw the paraphernalia in the trash. I've been clean two days. How long does meth linger in the system so that it shows up on drug tests?" "Three days, but that varies," she said. "Some marijuana and some pills were in the stash with some crystals I assumed were meth," I said. "Marijuana hangs around much longer than meth, up to a month, sometimes longer. You won't pass any drug test before next Tuesday," she said. I groaned. "What?" she said. "I planned to get a job between now and Tuesday to demonstrate my sincerity in trying to rehabilitate myself. Most crap jobs, the only jobs I'm qualified for, require drug testing." She chuckled. "That's true, but a job at your age won't rank high in a judge's mind for a reason to give you probation, and probation is the best you can expect next Tuesday, Eric." "Marijuana and whatever drug was in those pills might show up on a drug test, but by Tuesday, meth won't be present. Won't that say something positive about me to the judge?" I said. "It might. We'll have you tested on Monday, but woe unto you if meth shows up on the test, young man." She sighed. "Here's what will happen on Tuesday, Eric. If you've told me the truth, if this is your first offense, you'll be given probation, probably until you're eighteen years old. The court might make you do some public service time, as well, and you'll be required to undergo periodic drug tests, and failing any of the tests will take you back to court. When you're eighteen, I'll either get your juvenile record sealed or have the charges expunged." She sat back in her chair. "Frankly, you've impressed me with your sincerity to live a drug-free life. If you'll hire me, I'll make what I just told you happen. The $5,000 retainer will cover my fees unless you fail a drug test and are sent back to the courts for further disposition. Also plan on about another $3,000 to have your juvenile record sealed or expunged when you're eighteen. And finally, plan on attending a charter high school this fall." Uh-uh, lady. By fall I will have my G.E.D. I took the check back from her, filled in the date and the amount and slid it back to her. ------- Chapter 26 I visited the gym I wanted to join and spoke on the telephone with the nutritionist I'd hire to design my diet, but I could neither join the gym nor hire the nutritionist. I didn't have any money. Also, my Honda was running on fumes. I needed my own bank account. I opened my cell phone to call my father to find out if he could meet me at a bank close to our house, but before I could dial the cell phone, the house phone rang. I answered the call. "Hey, Eric," the caller said. "Hey, yourself," I said, wondering who was calling. "Are you in need of any product?" Product? Whoa! Was my supplier on the phone? "Yes," I said. "I'm climbing the walls." The man chuckled. "But just think how good you'll feel." "I don't have any money," I said. "I figured that. You have a customer list, users at the school. I'm willing to trade." Smart, I thought. My predecessor wasn't a complete dumbbell. No, I take that back. I said, "I'll trade names and phone numbers but not all of them, not all at once." "Climb the fucking walls then," the caller said and hung up. I wanted to check caller ID, but Dad didn't have that feature on the house phone. So I pressed speed-dial number one on my cell phone. When Dad answered my call, I said, "Gotta minute?" "Yeah," he said, a little out of breath. I quickly told him about my meeting with the attorney, bare bones only. He was ecstatic with her prediction about what would happen Tuesday. Then I told him that I needed my own bank account and why. He said, "I'll close up work early this afternoon and take you to my bank, Son." He wasn't happy about the call from my meth supplier until I said, "I want to take him down, Dad, his supplier, too, all the way back to the cooker." "Cooker?" he said. "That's slang for the person who manufactures meth. Some cooking is involved. I learned this from the internet. I even found a recipe for meth that listed all the ingredients and step-by-step manufacturing instructions." "Jesus," he muttered. "I'd heard that anything you wanted to know was on the web, but ... Jesus." "The police officers that arrested me, do you think we can trust them?" I asked. "What do you mean?" "Do you think they're honest or corrupt? If they're corrupt, asking for their help to take this meth ring down could get me killed." "Oh! Damn, this is complicated shit. Is your attorney honest?" "Yes." "Ask her how to proceed." "That's good advice, Dad. Thanks." "That's why I'm the dad and you're the kid," he said and chuckled. After setting a time to go to his bank, I hung up and called Mrs. Kaplan. I told her about the call from my supplier and then outlined my fears and what I wanted to accomplish. "I need some advice on how to proceed," I said. "Do you think he'll call you back?" she said. "Yes, probably tomorrow. He wants my customer list, but he's willing to be patient. Time is on his side. He thinks I'm strung out, which I am, by the way. He knows I'm an addict. He knows I'll cave in to his demands eventually." "I agree. Let me make some calls. I'll call you back within an hour." I watched the boob tube and ate snacks while I waited. Dad had to pay the cable company for the internet connection before they'd hand over the router. I'd checked. So I couldn't play poker. Hell, I was too strung out physically to play poker anyway. With a different ego in control, I think the withdrawal symptoms were less than they would have been otherwise. With me in control, I believe I avoided flashbacks and hallucinations that the real Eric Kleiner would have experienced. My supplier was right to wait. Mrs. Kaplan called me back in forty-five minutes and gave me a name and a phone number. "I didn't know your arresting officers. I do know this man. He's an honest cop. Give him a call. He'll meet with you and set everything up." I hung up and called the number my attorney had given me. "Detective Newman?" I said. "Yes." "This is Eric Kleiner. My attorney talked with you about my situation." "Yes, she did. Would you please meet me at..." "My car is about out of gas," I said, interrupting him. "And I don't have any money to buy gas until my dad gets home at 3:30 this afternoon." "How about you and your father meeting me at Ausbaugh Park at 4:30? Use the Cerrillos Road entrance to the park. I'll meet you in the parking lot. I'll be driving a light blue Toyota Camry, this year's model." "All right, but can you make that 4:45. Dad's going to help me open a checking account before the banks close." "4:45 is fine. What will you be driving?" "A used white Honda Civic sedan. It's four years old." "See you then. Make sure you're not followed." He hung up. ------- Detective Rory Newman was a big man, six-four or —five, relatively fit for a forty-year-old man, broad shoulders, with only a small pot belly. He was bald enough that he shaved away whatever other hair he had on his head. He reminded me a little of Daddy Warbucks, the super-wealthy hero in the Little Orphan Annie comic strip, except Warbucks was handsome and Newman looked liked he'd just swallowed a lemon without a peel. "Were you followed?" Newman said when we slid into his Camry, me in the front-passenger seat, and Dad in the backseat. "No," Dad said. "I had Eric take some extra turns as I guided him here to make sure." The detective gave me a hard look and said, "You want to take everyone down from your supplier to the cooker, huh?" "Yes. I'm going through hell. I don't want those people to put other kids through what I'm going through," I said. "You'll be putting your life at risk," he said. I chuckled and said, "Are you trying to talk me out of doing this?" "No, I just want you to know what you'll be facing. This isn't that big of a deal. The police won't extend that much protection for you." "Why do you think this is a little deal?" I asked. "Because we've been investigating this ring since you were arrested. It's a small operation. They don't move that much product. One cooker, two dealers, maybe three. We know the name of your dealer and one other dealer. We don't know the name of the third dealer, if one exists, but it's our educated opinion that there is a third dealer. We don't have a lead to the cooker we can follow. We also don't have enough on any of them to arrest them. You were a throwaway dealer. I don't know why they contacted you again. They only need the name of one user at the school. Then the word will get around, and the other users in the high school you were servicing will go to your dealer. We don't want you involved beyond helping us put together an iron-clad case against your dealer. We'll use him to roll up the others involved." "Okay," I said, "What do you want me to do?" "Agree to meet with him wearing a wire. My partner and I will be in the next room. We'll arrest the dealer as soon as you complete the transaction." "There's a huge error in your plan," I said. "What's error?" "He'll know me. I won't know him. I don't know any drug lingo, or the price of the drugs, or how much I should buy. I was struck by lightning two days ago. I have retrograde amnesia." "Fuck!" he huffed. "I wondered why you waited until now to give up your dealer. Now I know." Then he sighed. "Maybe with a little coaching you can pull it off." "Maybe, except like I said, I won't know him, and he knows me. In fact, I think that's the way we ought to play it. When he calls, I'll tell him about the lightning strike and the amnesia. I'll tell him I don't know him, but that I'm seriously strung out, and then let him take it from there." Newman nodded. "There's more risk involved, but that might work. Do you have a list of users?" "Not that I know about. Dad and I plan to search the house tonight. Maybe I wrote down the customer list and hid it somewhere. Although if I did, we didn't notice anything like a customer list when we searched for and found my stash. We flushed the drugs down the toilet and tossed the paraphernalia in the trash. If we can't find a list, I'll offer cash for the product when he calls instead of the list. I'll tell him I pawned something, or stole the money from Dad—something plausible. One other thing, how about installing a video camera and wiring the kitchen in the house for sound instead of me? I'll offer to let him search me for a wire, if I think the offer is needed." "That's a good idea. We'll install the camera and microphones tonight. When he calls, we won't have to rush around to get you wired before he arrives to complete that transaction. We'll show you how to turn everything on for the same reason." ------- My supplier didn't call. He knocked on my door the next morning as I was about to leave for my morning run. I didn't know who he was until he said, "Hey, Eric," when I opened the door to his knock. I recognized his voice. "Am I glad to see you!" I exclaimed. "Come in." I turned and without looking back walked to the kitchen, surreptitiously turning on the camera and microphone as I passed the switches. He was about three steps behind me from the sound his feet were making, so I didn't think he'd seen me fiddle with the hidden on/off buttons. I sat at the kitchen table. "Wanna cup of coffee or a beer. My dad drinks beer. There's a beer in the fridge. Jesus, I'm strung out." He chuckled and said, "I'll take a beer." I jumped up and pulled a bottle from the fridge, opened it and asked if he wanted a glass. "No," he said. "I'll drink it from the bottle. Aren't you having one?" "No," I said and sat down. "Here's the deal. I don't know you. Three days ago I was struck by lightning. I have retrograde amnesia. My dad told me I was an addict and that I'd been arrested for dealing at the high school. I'm fucking wired, man, so I figured he told me the truth. Since you called, I looked all over for the list of users, but I couldn't find it, so I stole some money from my dad before he left for work this morning." I tossed out five twenties onto the table. "With amnesia, I don't know what meth costs or how much that much money will buy. Is it enough?" "That'll buy you a gram," he said. "It's enough." "Listen ... ah, what's your name?" "This is fucking strange," he said. I was losing him. "Come on, man," I said. "You can see how strung out I am. I need the fucking stuff." He tossed a small plastic bag on the table and picked up the money. I grabbed the bag like it was a life preserver and I was in the ocean during a hurricane. "Thank you! Thank you!" I gushed. He didn't move. "Go ahead. Get high," he said. Shit. I hadn't counted on him hanging around to make sure I used some of the drug. Then he surprised the crap out of me. He reached behind his back and pulled out a pistol. He held it in front of him twisted to the side like a gang member in a movie. He pointed the weapon at my face. "You're not stuttering. You're strung out but don't get high immediately. Go ahead. Get high, mother fucker. Get high or I'll blow your fucking head off!" My krav maga training kicked in. I was close enough to move to the right and move inside the weapon's aim at the same time. Then I grabbed the weapon and twisted it, standing up for more leverage. The weapon ended up in my hands. I pointed it at him and backed up, ratcheting the slide on the weapon to make sure it was ready to fire. It had been ready to fire when he pointed it me; a bullet flew out to my right and clattered on the linoleum kitchen floor. "I ought to blow your head off. You come into my house and shove a pistol in my face. That isn't nice. Face down on the floor, you bastard. Now!" I shouted. "Or I will blow you away." He was terrified. That pleased me no end, and he flopped onto the floor as I'd demanded. "Spread your arms and legs, dammit! Good. I'm going to make a call right now. If you move a muscle, you're dead meat." I flipped open my cell phone and pressed speed-dial number two. I'd programmed Detective Newman's number into my phone the previous night. When he answered my call, I said, "Detective, it's Eric Kleiner. I have a drug dealer spread eagled on my kitchen floor. How about coming to my house and taking him off my hands?" "How... ?" "Now, please. He pulled a weapon on me. I took it away from him. It's taking all the will power I have not to blow him away. Now, Detective. Come to my house right now." I hung up. "If you move, you creep, I'll kill you," I said to the man on the floor. "I'll tell the cops that you tried to escape, that I had to shoot you to stop you. No that won't work. I'll tell them that you attacked me, that I shot you in self-defense. That's it. That's what I'll tell them. Now, what's your name?" When he didn't answer my question immediately, I said, "Answer me, you sonofabitch, or I'll shoot you right now and claim self-defense. What's your fucking name?" "David Hobbs. Don't shoot me for chrissake! I'll tell you anything you want to know." "What's the cooker's name?" "Robert Jones," he said. "He's cooking out of the back of his car, an old Chevy station wagon." "How many dealers is he supporting?" "Including me, three." "Name them," I said. "Isodiro Escalante. He goes by Izzy. And Ben Chavez." "Is Ben for Benjamin?" "No, for Bernard." "Okay, when the police get here, after they read you your rights, tell them everything. Names, addresses, phone numbers, everything. Okay?" He said nothing. "I think I'll shoot you in the balls," I said. "The drugs you've been selling me have made me impotent. Shooting you in the balls would be justice, my kind of justice. Tell the police everything, or I'll come after you and make you a eunuch, that's if you don't bleed to death after I shoot off your balls. While we're waiting, tell me everything you know about Robert Jones." David Hobbs talked about his cooker until Detective Newman and his partner arrived. I'd unlocked the door, but didn't open it. When they rang the doorbell, I hollered at them to come in. They burst inside with their weapons drawn. "Drop your weapon, Eric," Newman said. "How about pointing your weapon at the creep on the floor, and then I'll give your partner mine, although it isn't my weapon. It belongs to the creep." Except for telling Newman that he wanted a lawyer, Hobbs refused to speak after he was cuffed. As two uniformed officers took him away, Hobbs said, "You're a dead man, Eric. Do you hear? A dead man." "Protect your gonads, punk," I said and laughed. "Do you hear me?" ------- "Nothing Hobbs told you after you took the weapon away from him can be used against him," Newman said. "He told you everything under duress." "Well, shit," I grumbled. "What's more, because the admission and evidence you extracted from Hobbs under duress is tainted, we can't use any of the information you extracted from Hobbs, period, which means we can't arrest any of the participants in the meth ring, except Hobbs. Hobbs we can arrest and have, and I think we can make the charges against him stick, including the charge of assault with a deadly weapon." "Well, double shit," I said. "Hobbs will be out on bail before the sun goes down," Newman said. I just groaned. Triple shit seemed like overkill. "I've seen that move you put on Hobbs somewhere before," Newman said. He'd watched the video with interest. "Krav maga," I said. "That's it! It's used by the Israeli armed forces, right?" "The combat parts of krav maga, yes," I said. "We'll post a police cruiser in front of the trailer on the street tonight. I don't know about tomorrow night," he said. "How about lending me a pistol?" I said. He laughed. "If you ever wonder why citizens don't step forward to help the police, think about what's likely to happen to me, and you'll know why, Detective." He stopped laughing. Dad and I went out to buy some weapons that night. I expected a waiting period for a handgun. I was surprised. No waiting period. Also no permit to own a handgun was required, and we didn't need to register as the owner of a handgun with the State of New Mexico. There wasn't a permit to carry a concealed handgun either because carrying a concealed handgun was illegal, period. The gun shop did run Dad's name through the FBI NICS instant check system, which didn't present any problems, and after we blasted away at paper targets for an hour, we walked out the door with two handguns, extra clips for each weapon, and four boxes of ammunition. Dad was terrible on the shooting range; I was fair to middling. I'd had training from a teacher at the Ben Avery Shooting Range outside Phoenix, Arizona, when I occupied my original body. The handguns were Sig Sauer P226 two-tone, semi-automatic pistols. We selected the 9mm model. Supposedly it's the weapon used by Navy SEALS. They cost a bundle, that's for sure. ------- Like Newman predicted, the police cruiser didn't show up the next night. Fortunately, neither did Hobbs nor any of his meth-ring buddies. I started to feel more human Sunday. The withdrawal symptoms weren't gone, but they were more manageable. "Dad," I said. "In an effort to get to know Santa Fe a little, I've been visiting local web sites and noticed that Café Pasqual's offers a Sunday brunch? Have you eaten at Café Pasqual's?" "No." "Wanna take in the brunch? My treat." "Sure," he said. "A free meal is a free meal." We had a great time. Dad ordered the Durango Omelet: three eggs with ham, jack cheese, scallions, sautéed mushrooms, guacamole, sour cream, and green chile d'arbol salsa, washed down with a Corona beer. I demolished Pasqual's Favorite: two pancakes with pure maple syrup, two eggs, and two strips of apple-wood smoked bacon. I drank iced tea. The food was delicious, the dining room large and noisy with people having fun. It was nice to get out of the house. After we ate, we visited Pasqual's art gallery, which featured Felipe Ortega's utilitarian stoneware, a painter from Oaxaca, Mexico, named Leovigildo Martinez (I didn't like his paintings), and LeeAnn Herried's jewelry. "You're not impressed, are you, Eric?" Dad said. "Only because the artists are so far removed from my style of art." He grinned. "Oh, you have a style of art now, huh?" I'd slipped up, but that didn't bother me. Johannes Kleiner had accepted so many changes in his son that more changes wouldn't upset him very much. "Maybe, let's check out a few more galleries and see." So that's what we did. I liked some of Tom Perkinson's mixed-media, watercolor landscape paintings in the Manitou Gallery; some of Sean Conrad's oil paintings, the mysterious Western gals that David DeVary painted, and David Harms paintings, all in the Joe Wade Fine Art Gallery, but John Oteri's watercolor paintings in the same gallery impressed me the most. "I think I can do watercolor paintings like these, Dad, not just like these, but similar using my style," I said. "Then I think that's what you should do, Son," he said. ------- The meth-ring bunch hit us at one o'clock in the morning on Monday, and they didn't fight fair. They raked our trailer with automatic weapons as they drove by, making a mess of our trailer, inside and out, but neither Dad nor I was wounded. They did temporarily kill Dad's pickup truck with bullets through the radiator. After we put on some clothes, Dad called 911 and Detective Newman while I stood outside behind a tree with my Sig in my hand in case the meth gang decided to take another pass at us. The police did nothing. Newman said they'd canvass the neighborhood, but he didn't anticipate finding any witnesses. "And you and your father didn't see anything or anyone. There's nothing I can do," he added. "How about another police cruiser parked on the street in front of our trailer," I said. "I'll talk to the lieutenant," Newman said and left. When Dad and I were alone, I said, "With so many laws designed to protect the guilty, the police have lost their ability to protect and serve. We're going to have to fix this messy and dangerous situation ourselves, Dad." "How?" he said. "Take the battle to them one at a time," I said. He sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say something like that." "Not until after Tuesday, though," I said. "I wonder if my homeowners insurance covers bullet holes," he said with a disgusted expression. "I'm going to miss two days of work this week, not one. It'll take me a half-day to fix my pickup." "This is my fault. I'll cover your losses, Dad." "No, this is not your fault. You stepped up and acted like a man, Son. I'm proud of you. I won't mind a little help with my losses, though." ------- Dad and I were eating breakfast when our doorbell rang. After peeking through the curtains in the window next to the door, I opened it to an attractive woman about Dad's age, maybe a year or two younger. "Hello, Eric," she said. "Hi, are you here to see, Dad?" "I am," she said. "I noticed his pickup by the trailer and took a chance that he'd be home." "He is. Come in. We're just finishing breakfast. Would you join us for a cup of coffee?" "I would, thank you." As I entered the kitchen, I said, "Dad, there's someone here to see you." He turned toward me, and when he saw the woman, he smiled and stood up. "Good morning, Maureen," he said. "Sit down and have a cup of coffee with us." He held out a chair and Maureen took it. "Eric, this is a neighbor or ours, Maureen Holland." "Eric knows me, Johannes," she said. "Actually, I don't," I said. "I was struck by lightning last week, and when I came to I didn't have a past. I have retrograde amnesia, Ms. Holland." "Really? You're not kidding me?" "It's true, Maureen," Dad said. I poured a cup of coffee for her and set it in front of her with the sugar dish and a creamer filled with non-dairy creamer. "Thanks, Eric," she said. "How was your trip?" Dad said to her. "You came back early." "Boring, nothing exciting happened until last night after I came home." She looked at me and with an utterly innocent expression said, "What did you do, Eric? Rip off your drug dealer?" I chuckled, which surprised her. "No, I turned him into the police. Last night was a get even." She looked at Dad. "He didn't stutter. He always stutters when he speaks to me." "Eric hasn't stuttered since he woke up after the lightning strike. There are a lot of things about Eric that changed after what he calls his intimate embrace with high-voltage electricity." I'd said intimate bout with high-voltage electricity, but I wasn't about to quibble. Besides, I liked his version better. "Like what?" Maureen said. "Like now he wants to stay out of what he calls teenager jail when before he didn't care, like he can draw like a professional artist now and couldn't draw a stick figure before, like he plays Texas hold 'em poker like a pro and won enough playing the game on the internet to pay for an attorney for the trial tomorrow, buy himself a used car, a computer, and..." "I don't believe you, Johannes. Why are you joshing me like this?" Dad shrugged and took a sip of coffee. "It's true. Everything I just told you is true. He also runs every morning and joined a gym to workout with free weights, and he hired a nutritionist to design a healthy diet to help him through withdrawal from his meth addiction and bulk up his skinny body. What else? Oh, yes, he can cook now, and he's a good cook, better than me. And he can do tai chi. Now that's a sight to see; it's like dancing in slow motion. Beautiful! And he's adept at krav maga. That's a self-defense system developed by the Israelis for Mossad, Israel's equivalent to our CIA. Krav maga is a combination of various martial arts and street fighting. I watched a video the police set up to tape a meeting Eric had with his drug dealer, so the police could arrest the dealer. In the video the dealer pulled a pistol from behind his back and stuck it in Eric's face. Eric took the gun away from him with a move so fast it was difficult to see, and then held the dealer here until the police arrived to take him into custody. That was a sight to see, too." He took another sip of coffee. "Did I leave anything out, Son?" I laughed and said, "I like country music now. I don't know what I liked before." "That's right, and that's a blessing from on high. Hell's sake, everything you can do now is a blessing from on high," Dad said. "A force in the universe maybe, a minor force, though" I said. "I'm not important enough for God to get involved. I named the force Hector." Dad laughed and said, "Good name. Hector. It sort of rolls off your tongue, doesn't it?" "You're both crazy," Maureen said, looking back and forth between Dad and me. "And you're both happy. Now that is a sight to see! Beautiful!" "By gosh, I think she's got it!" I exclaimed. "Yep," Dad drawled. "Maureen, are you Dad's ... ah..." She laughed. "He stuttered. He did. I heard him, Johannes." Dad laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. "Yes, Son, Maureen is my lady friend, my very special lady friend." "Ah, hell, Johannes, tell him like it is. We're lovers, Eric, that's what we are. This tall drink of water is my man and I'm his woman." She raised her left hand and dangled it in front of my face. That's when I saw the small engagement ring. "Dad, you old dog you! Congratulations!" I said. "Now," Maureen said with a deadly serious expression, "what the fuck happened here last night?" ------- Chapter 27 I sat back, sipped coffee, and listened to Dad tell his fiancée everything. I don't believe he left out even the smallest detail. I'd believed he was a taciturn man. What a joke! He also surprised me on another level. He was very well-spoken. And Maureen, what a woman! That she would become my fourth mother pleased me no end. She was tough and strong, like a lioness protecting her cubs, and Dad and I were her cubs. She was cheerful with a good sense of humor with a laugh that was contagious and a smile that could be demure or light up a room. Her ire was something to behold; it danced in her dark eyes like fireflies at night, and at the moment her ire was directed at the meth gang who had shot up our trailer and vehicles last night. Then her dancing eyes turned on me when Dad told her that I planned to take the battle to them one at a time. "You'll do no such thing, Eric," Maureen hissed. "I forbid it." I grinned at Dad. "She's a beauty when she's pissed, huh?" "Yep," he drawled. "Sometimes I make her angry just to see the fire in her pretty eyes." Maureen stamped her feet and said, "I'm serious, Johannes. Those men are dangerous. They're willing to kill, and they have automatic weapons, and..." "Eric is bait, Maureen," Dad said. "The police look at him and see a drug addict, a throwaway. They've staked him to the ground like a lamb hoping the rogue coyotes cooking and dealing meth will come after him. After the gang makes their kill, the police will make a case against them for murder and roll up the drug operation at the same time. The media will make them heroes. That my son will be dead won't even be a footnote in the story." I looked at my father with new eyes. He was not only well-spoken but also a complex and deep thinker. I had not envisioned the scenario he'd just described, but I knew instantly that his assessment of the situation was accurate. Why was this intelligent, complex man living in a house trailer doing yard work for a living? "Eric's court date is tomorrow morning," Dad continued, "which means the gang will come at us again today or tonight." He looked at me. "Let's cut your tether to the stake and get out of Dodge for the night, Eric. Tomorrow in court, stand up and name the sociopaths that want you dead. Include their names in the public record of your trial. Tell the judge that you are not a throwaway and neither am I, and now that Maureen has returned, that she isn't a throwaway either. Come with me, both of you," he said and stood up. Maureen and I followed him to his bedroom. He pulled his new suit from the closet and held it up. "Notice the bullet holes in my new suit. I will wear this bullet-ridden suit tomorrow at your trial. Point to the bullet holes, Eric. Tell the judge that unless something is done about the men you have named, that the next time they come after you that I might be wearing the suit. Then I will stand up and have my say. Perhaps, this approach will make your plan to take the battle to the sociopaths one at a time unnecessary." I nodded. Maureen was more demonstrative about her acceptance of his plan. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him passionately, which was awkward because he still held his suit in his hand. When she leaned back from the kiss, she looked at me and said, "Your plan sucked, Eric. Your father's plan is brilliant!" "It is," I said, "especially if we make certain the press learns about the proceedings, which will otherwise be closed to the media because of my age." "That is an excellent addition to my plan, Son," Dad said. "Do you have something in mind to make it happen?" "I do. Let's hire a public relations expert to attend the trial with us, an individual not known to the court as a member of the media. This expert's task will be the dissemination of our plea to the court to put an end to the sociopaths' intent on exacting retribution because I ratted them out." Maureen laughed. "As usual, Eric, you go too far. That is a horrible addition to your father's marvelous plan. That will make you a public figure in the community, a laughable public figure unfortunately. After all, you will be standing in front of a judge admitting to dealing drugs." I groaned audibly. "She's right, Dad." "And getting out of Dodge tonight, Johannes, is best part of your plan," Maureen said. "Where are we going?" "I had not developed my battle plan to that level of detail, my beauty," Dad said as he hung his suit back in the closet. "Generals leave the details of a battle plan to colonels and majors, I believe." "Dodge is your trailer, Johannes. You could get out of Dodge by staying with me in my trailer tonight," Maureen said. "No, the sociopaths are not yet aware of you, Maureen," I said. "Let's keep it that way if we can. We have money, Dad. The attorney cost half what I figured. Let's get out of Dodge to one of Santa Fe's fine resort hotels. We'll eat fine foods and drink fine wines, except for me, off course, and bask in luxury while we're hiding in plain sight." "Ooh, Johannes, I like Eric's plan this time," Maureen said. Dad grinned, rubbed his hands together and said, "I love it when a good plan comes together." "I'll go pack," Maureen said. "And I'll call a tow truck to haul my pickup to a radiator shop," Dad said. "Then I'll call my home-owners insurance company to see if my policy covers repairing bullet holes." "Call your auto insurance company for the same reason, Dad," I said. "I'll call and make reservations for rooms at a resort hotel. Any preferences?" "I've heard good things about La Posada de Santa Fe Resort and Spa," Maureen said. "Ah, Dad, I'll need your debit card. Mine hasn't come in the mail yet," I said. He handed me the card and said, "Don't forget your drug test at ten o'clock." "I won't," I said. ------- Dad wore a sport coat that wasn't bullet-ridden. I wore my new suit. Maureen wore a little black dress that showed off her outstanding figure. We looked good, and we felt good, and we had a good time laughing and talking and, on my part, getting to know my father and future mother a lot better than I knew them before. We were dining at Fuego, La Posada de Santa Fe's award-winning restaurant. I'd suggested the Chef's Grand Tasting Menu, but Dad stuck his nose in the air and said nobody could force him to eat foie gras stuffed peppered pigfeet, or rabbit with maniquette, whatever maniquette was. He had a point and the three of us went with the regular menu. We all ordered Kobe-style New York strips and truffles as our entrees but chose different appetizers. Dad ordered the wines. I stayed with iced tea. The food was delicious, the service impeccable, and my dinner companions were lively, happy, and interesting. I learned that Maureen was divorced and worked for an accountant as a bookkeeper. Financially crippled, she'd moved into the trailer court shortly after her divorce. Her husband had been a CPA and made good money, but his gambling addiction kept them broke and deeply in dept. She divorced him when he was arrested for fraud. He'd gambled away some of his client's money. He was currently in prison and would sit for his first parole hearing next month. "Money isn't what life is about, Eric," she said. "Remember that. Oh, I'll admit that it's better to be rich than poor, but strength of character and love put money a poor third in the total scheme of things." She took my father's hand and placed his palm on her cheek. "Your father isn't a wealthy man, but he is a good man, and he loves me, and I love him. We are rich in the important things in life." "Have you set a wedding date?" I asked. Dad flinched, I noticed. "We'd planned a June wedding, Eric," Maureen said, "but then you got in trouble, so we cancelled our plans. Our wedding plans are currently in limbo." "Damn! I'm really sorry that my weak character scuttled your wedding," I said. I looked at my father. "From what my attorney said, I will be given probation tomorrow for my crimes, and as long as the drug tests say I'm clean, my troubles will be resolved. Perhaps the two of you can slide your wedding plans out of limbo later tonight." "Perhaps," he said. "No, Eric, we won't," Maureen said. "We won't set a new date until your situation is completely resolved at your trial." "The sociopaths who want to do you harm have complicated the issue, Eric," Dad said. I groaned. "You would have been better off if I'd kept my mouth shut about my partners in crime." "Not at all, Eric," Maureen said. "What you did showed strength of character. What you did made your father proud of you again, and that is more important than our wedding date by a wide margin." Tears stung my eyes. "Maureen, I am very happy that sometime soon you will be my mother." "Oh, Eric! Hearing you say that makes me so happy! You can't imagine!" she exclaimed and gave me an awkward hug. Then she made it even more awkward when she pulled Dad into a three-way hug while we were all sitting in our chairs. "We're going to be a family, Johannes, not just husband and wife." "We are," Dad said, beaming. "We surely are." ------- That evening while I played hold 'em with my laptop hooked into the hotel's high-speed internet connection, I reflected on my new life. I was a drug addict, but I'd beat my addiction, and tomorrow the judge would put me on probation and set me free. My new father was an exceptional man, well-spoken, deep thinking, and in a job for which he was overqualified from every indication that I'd observed. I could fix that. My soon-to-be new mother—step-mother would be more accurate—was a delightful, pretty woman, very loving and very strong who appeared to have her priorities straight. And my father and future mother loved each other. I suspected that they were showing each other how deeply they were in love on a king-sized bed in the Fireplace Room that I'd reserved for them. I'd chosen what La Posada called an Artist's Studio for me. I didn't know what I could do for my future mother other than what I'd said at dinner that had made her so happy, but whatever I could do for her, I would. Huge amounts of money weren't needed, not like with the Oakmans, and I was only sixteen years old, so finding the love of my life for this life could and probably should be deferred for a few years. I rolled my eyes to the heavens. "Waddaya say, Hector? Why did you choose Eric Kleiner's body for me to occupy? At first blush, the problems don't seem very serious. Will my stay in Eric Kleiner's body represent a short visit, or is there something I don't know about yet that you want me to fix?" As usual, Hector ignored me. I won the tournament, shut down my computer, and went to sleep. ------- Johannes Kleiner held his woman in his arms. They were sated, and the cool air in the room was drying the sheen of perspiration on their naked bodies. "I'm glad you returned early, Maureen," he said as he gazed at the hypnotic fire that he could see from the bed. "I couldn't stay away like you asked, Johannes. I had to be here for you and for Eric at his trial." "He's changed, Maureen," Johannes said. "That's for sure." "It's like a different person occupies his body, like an alien being rode that lightning bolt down out of the sky and assumed my son's ego or soul or whatever it is that makes a person an individual." "Does that upset you?" "It frightened me at first. The differences between the new Eric and the old are so stark, so broad that it was as if I no longer knew my son." He snorted derisively. "Then again, I don't think I really knew my son before, not deep down where it counts. If I had, I might have been able to stop him from experimenting with and finally becoming addicted to drugs. Each difference was like a blow at first. I felt like I was in a boxing match with my hands tied behind my back. What happened to my son, what is still happening to my son, is impossible, Maureen. The events, the changes defy the laws of nature. He jokingly explains the impossibility of the strange conversions he underwent following the lightning strike by pointing to an insignificant force in the universe he calls Hector as the source of the changes in him, but..." He sighed. "I'm ashamed to say that I like the new Eric better than the old Eric. No matter what, I always loved my son, but there were times before he was struck by lightning that I didn't like him, and sometimes I even hated him for what he was doing to me—to us. That's sounds selfish, I know, but emotions can't always be controlled. Now I love him, like him, and I'm even proud of him. We can get married now, Maureen. I didn't tell you, but I was considering breaking our engagement because I didn't want to subject you to the pain of living with an addict. I know what living with addiction can be like, and because I loved you so much, I'd decided that I just couldn't put you through the pain." "Loosing you would have been much more painful, Johannes," she said. "Remember, I lived with an addict, too. Gambling can be just as addictive as drugs or alcohol. I would not have allowed you to break off our engagement." He chuckled. "You're probably right about that." "No probably about it," she said. "Johannes, before I left, Eric was not a nice person. I didn't like him, let alone love him, and like you, there were times I hated him. I not only like the new Eric, I feel love for him. When he told me at dinner that he was very happy that sometime soon I would become his mother, I felt love for him, Johannes. We're going to be a family, a loving, happy family." "What happens when his memories return? What if he reverts?" Johannes asked. "Then we'll deal with his reverstion together, sweetheart, just like we'll deal with any other pain and sorrow life will hand us as we grow old together." "I love you, Maureen," he said. "And I love you." "The fire is nice," he said. "Turn around so you can see the fire with me. Now cuddle back against me so we're like spoons in a drawer. Yes, like that. It feels so good to hold you in my arms again. Let the fire hypnotize you and put you to sleep to dream good dreams." ------- The meth gang was waiting for us as I drove the Honda into the parking lot of the Family Court Building, but I spotted Hobbs and two other men standing beside a SUV before they could adequately bring their weapons to bear. Instead of stopping, I jammed the gas pedal to the floor and aimed my vehicle directly toward them. They scattered, and I slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel at the same time, performing an almost textbook 180⁰ turn, except for banging the bumper against the SUV as the Civic completed the turn. I didn't have to scream at Dad and Maureen to get down. They were in the back seat, and I think Dad spotted Hobbs almost as soon as I. He pushed Maureen to the floor between the two seats and covered her with his body. As the Honda was accelerating out of the parking lot, I heard the sound of automatic gunfire. The exit I was taking was to the gang's left, and their bullets took out the rear-passenger window, and I heard other bullets strike metal with hollow plunking sounds. I skidded into a left turn as I exited the parking lot, side-swiping a parked car on my right. After straightening the skid, I pressed the gas pedal to the floor again and sped away. "We're clear now unless they follow us!" I yelled. "Is anyone hit?" "I'm fine," Dad said. "Me, too," Maureen said. I breathed a sigh of relief and glanced in my rearview mirror. They weren't following us, so I turned right and then took the next left. "Call 911 and Detective Newman, Dad," I said and then realized my instructions weren't necessary. He was already on his cell phone. We were still clear, so I used a speed-dial to call my attorney as I made another right turn. "Mrs. Kaplan, it's Eric Kleiner; please listen without asking questions until I'm finished. The meth gang was waiting for us in the parking lot of the Family Court Building. They fired on us with automatic weapons, but we managed to escape without harm except to my vehicle, a parked SUV, which I think belongs to someone in the meth gang, and a car that I sideswiped while escaping. I'm fully insured. My insurance will pay the damage to the other vehicles, but I couldn't stop. If I'd stopped, we all might be dead. My father is on the phone with the police, and we're a number of blocks from the court building. I want my day in court—today, not a month from now. Can you help me make that happen?" "I'll try," she said. "Eric, drive back to the parking lot at the court building," Dad said. "Detective Newman is there now. The sonofabitch used you as bait again, not that he'll admit it, but he's taken Hobbs and the other two men into custody." "Thanks, Dad." I spoke into my cell phone again. "Mrs. Kaplan, the police have the shooters in custody. We're returning to the parking lot. Will you meet me there and shove your legal weight around so I can have my day in court?" "Yes I will, Eric," she said and hung up. ------- "Your honor, I am a drug addict and to feed my addiction I sold drugs to other teenagers in my high school," I said. "That was reprehensible. I deserve any punishment you render today. About a week ago, a bolt of lightning came down out of the sky and struck me. Talk about a wakeup call! I wasn't immortal; I could die, I suddenly realized, and I made a personal vow and promised my father that I would never take an illegal substance into my body again. The drug test that I took yesterday declared me clean of meth, but still tested positive for marijuana. I promise you, your honor, that I will take another drug test a month from now, and I'll test clean of all drugs." I paused to take a deep breath. "I've been going through withdrawal all week. It isn't pleasant, your honor, but it's better than dying. I thought about the kids, teenagers like me, that bought meth from me, and I knew they would soon be going though withdrawal hell, like me, or maybe dying from an overdose, or eventually frying the synapses in their brains. Selling meth to teenagers, to anyone for that matter, is wrong, so when my supplier called me last week to see if I need more product, I set up a sting with the police so they could gain the evidence they needed to arrest him. His name, by the way, is David Hobbs. The sting did not go as planned. Hobbs showed up at my house when the police weren't there, but my house was wired for sound with a hidden video camera. The sting progressed as planned until Hobbs wanted me to take the drugs he sold me. I couldn't do that, your honor, not and keep my personal vow. That I wouldn't take the drugs worried Hobbs. After all, I was strung out, going through withdrawal, so he pulled a pistol from behind his back and shoved it in my face. I took the pistol away from him and made him lie face down on my kitchen floor until the police arrived. I also coerced him into tell me about the other men dealing drugs for the same meth cooker. Their names are Isodoro Escalante and Bernard Chavez. The cooker's name is Robert Jones. The police arrested David Hobbs but he was out on bail that same afternoon. I was told later that because I had coerced the names of the other participants in the meth ring from Hobbs that the police couldn't arrest them. For our protection, a police cruiser spent the night in front of our house trailer but didn't return the following night. Two nights ago, a vehicle drove by our trailer in the middle of the night and riddled our vehicles and trailer with bullet holes. Dad, would you please stand up?" He rose to his feet. "Please, note the bullet holes in my father's suit jacket. It's a new suit. My father bought the suit because he wanted to look nice for my trial. Thanks Dad." He sat down. "The next morning, my father's fiancée returned from an out-of-town trip to support Dad and me at my trial today. Fearing a repeat performance from the previous night, we checked into a local hotel to hide in plain sight. When we arrived at the Family Court Building this morning, David Hobbs, Isodoro Escalante, and Bernard Chavez were waiting for us in the parking lot. The automatic gunfire you might have heard earlier came from weapons directed at us. We escaped injury, but barely. Hobbs, Escalante, and Chavez are in police custody. My father would like to say a few words now." I sat down and Dad rose to his feet. "Your honor, I'm furious but I will try to speak respectively and remain calm," Dad said. "My son is a drug addict, that he's a recovering drug addict doesn't matter, not to cynical police officers who have witnessed more degradation than any human being should witness. My son wanted to do the right thing, he wanted to stand up and be a man, but the police didn't see him in that manner, they saw only an addict, a throwaway, someone whose life wasn't worth protecting. But he was valuable to them as bait. It was as if they staked him to the ground like a lamb hoping the meth gang would come after him. After the meth gang made their kill, the police would swoop in and make a case against them for murder and roll up the drug operation at the same time. The media would make them heroes. That my son would be dead wouldn't even be a footnote in the story. Your honor, my son is not a throwaway, and neither am I, and neither is my fiancée. "After we were fired on this morning, the police, who had to be standing by, swooped in and arrested three of the four men in the drug ring. Once again the police used my son as bait, but my fiancée and I were tied to the same stake as my son. Without the stellar driving ability my son carried out, we'd all be dead. I respectfully request that you order an investigation into the manner in which the police have handled this case." Dad sighed. "Your honor, my son told you the truth. Two weeks ago, Eric didn't care what the court did to him. When he came to after being struck by lightning, he changed. He cared. He wanted to make things right. I humbly ask the court for its tender mercy when it hands down its judgment on my son." I wanted to applaud. I didn't. Then the judge did precisely what my attorney said he would do. He put me on probation until I turned eighteen years old. I would have to submit to periodic drug tests at times determined by my case worker, and he sentenced me to perform 100 hours of community service. The judge swung his gavel and said, "Next case." As far as we know, the judge did not order an investigation into the manner in which the police handled my case. ------- My Honda had been impounded as evidence in the attempted murder case against Hobbs, Escalante, and Chavez, and my attorney disappeared immediately after the judge rendered his judgment on me. We were stranded, so I called a cab. "Drop me off at the radiator shop first," Dad said while we were waiting for the taxi. "If the pickup is repaired, I can get a half-day's work in." "Uh-uh," I said. "The three of us need to talk." "About what?" Dad said. "Our future," I said. "Son, if I don't work, my customers will find someone else to do what I do for them." "That's one of the things I want to talk about—your work," I said. The cab arrived. I opened the door for Maureen and dad went around to the other side, sliding in next to her in the back seat. I took the front passenger seat. "Where to?" the cabby said. "We'll go to my place," Maureen said. "Your place is a mess, Johannes." She gave the cab driver her address. "Besides, I have a bottle of champagne chilling in the refrigerator. We need to celebrate while we talk about our future." Dad chuckled. "I've been outnumbered. I do, however, agree that a little celebration is definitely in order." "I've been thinking about what happened in court today," I said as the cab moved onto the main street in front of the court building. "My attorney told me precisely what would happen. I don't think my impassioned speech or your plea for tender mercy had anything to do with the disposition of my case, Dad. I also don't think my attorney did anything for the $5,000 I paid her. I think all first offense drug cases in Family Court are handled in the same manner." "That's awfully cynical, Eric," Maureen said. "I thought your father's plea for tender mercy was sweet." "Being male, I didn't think it was sweet, but I wanted to applaud when he finished," I said. "Ah, shucks, t'weren't nothing," Dad drawled. "It meant something to me," I said. "Call me cynical, too, Maureen," Dad said. "I agree with everything that Eric just said. The judge listened but was impatient with both of us. He was bucking at the bit to move on to the next case." "I've gotta call me cynical, as well," Maureen said with a sigh. "Question," I said. "Are we safe now?" "Don't know," Dad said. "We're safer than we were, but the cooker is still at large." "The three men arrested today will be out on bail tomorrow," I said. "I don't think they'll take another run at us," Dad said. "We'll be called to testify at their trials," I said. "Unless they plead guilty," Dad said. "The police caught them red handed, so to speak. They'll plea bargain the attempted murder charge down to a lesser charge and plead guilty." "You think?" I said. "That's what I think. I'm getting jaded about our justice system." "What about the cooker?" "I don't think he was involved in any of the violence," Dad said. "And one of the men arrested today, will give him up for leniency. I think we're safe, but the operative word is think. I'll keep in touch with Newman. He owes us. He'll keep me informed." I nodded. "I think you've got the situation pegged, Dad." "Your father is a smart man, Eric," Maureen said. "He sure is; that's one of the things I want to talk about when we talk about our future." ------- Chapter 28 Dad muscled the cork out of the bottle of champagne without spilling a drop and poured the bubbly into three flutes. "That's an illegal substance for me," I said. "It's a celebration, Eric," Maureen said. "One glass of champagne won't hurt you." I shook my head and said, "But breaking a personal vow will. Do you have any iced tea, Maureen?" "I do." She hopped up and in short order I had a tall glass of tea in front of me. "To the future," I said and raised my glass. Dad and Maureen joined the toast, Maureen sipping the bubbly, and Dad gulping. He chuckled when Maureen looked at him as if he were a glutton. "I was thirsty. Speechifying makes me thirsty," he said. "You wanted to talk about our future," Maureen said to me. "I do. Dad told me he doesn't like his work. He wants to be a landscape contractor instead of doing landscape maintenance." "This is true," Maureen said. "Then that's what I think he should do. A man should be happy with his work," I said. "Just like that?" Dad said. "What about... ?" "Just like that, Dad," I said, interrupting him. "Oh, you'll need to make a business plan including milestones, or goals that you must meet along the way, but if you do, it'll happen. Do you want to know why I believe this?" "Why?" "Because you are overqualified for what you do," I said. "What about the jobs I have?" he said. "Sell your business to a competitor," I said. "Humph, easy for you to say," he grumped. "He's right, you know," Maureen said. "What about putting food on the table?" Dad said. I grinned. "I'll buy the groceries and pay the bills until your new business is up and running. What are kids for, after all?" "I don't like that," he said. I looked at Maureen. "He's being the man of the house now, isn't he?" Maureen laughed and said, "He is, and he's being grumpy about it." "Should I hit him with everything I have in mind all at once, or should I divvy it out in small chunks?" Maureen's dark eyes twinkled when she said, "Sock it to him." I looked at Dad and said, "Are you ready?" He laughed. "Maureen let me win once in a while when you weren't a factor, Son. Now the two of you are ganging up on me. I see a bleak future ahead." "I don't," I said. "I see an amazing future ahead for all of us, a future where each of us in our own way will become all we can be, a future where we support each other with love to make our dreams come true." Dad nodded and said, "I want that." "You'll have to put your man-of-the-house hat in your pocket," I said. "In what way?" he said. "As the bread winner, at least until your new business is profitable," I said. He gave me a hard look and said, "Poker?" "Poker," I said. "Part-time." "What about your education. You'll have to go back to school in the fall—somewhere. The high school you were attending won't let you return. I've been worrying about..." "Sometime this summer, I'll take the G.E.D test and pass it," I said. "I know this, Dad, like I knew I could draw like a professional artist and play hold 'em poker." "Now I know what you meant, Johannes, when you said you felt like a punching bag as blow after blow hit you every time the old Eric changed in front of your eyes to the new Eric," Maureen said. "You can do this, Eric, pass the G.E.D. test?" "I believe I can, and if I can, going to high school would bore me to tears. Dad, if I don't pass the G.E.D. test, I'll go to a charter school this fall, okay?" He nodded and said, "In the future you envision, you said each of us in our own way will become all we can be. Let's start with you, Eric. What do you want to be?" "A respected artist," I said, which had always been my life goal, even as Aaron MacDonald. "With hard work and tenacity and loving support from you and Maureen, I can achieve this goal." "I'll support that goal," he said. "As will I," Maureen said. "And I'll support your goal of becoming a landscape contractor," I said. "I will, too," Maureen said. I grinned at her. "What goal would you like to pursue?" She hesitated and said, "I want to be a wife and mother." "She's talking about being my wife and a mother for you," Dad said. "But she has other dreams. Tell him Maureen." "It's silly," she said. "I'm too old." "Tell him, or I will," Dad said. "I want be a potter," she said. "She's taken classes at the community college, Eric, and I think her work is very good." "That's because you're prejudiced in the extreme," Maureen said. "I'll support you in your goal to become a potter," I said. "So will I," Dad said. "Okay, were making progress," I said. "Dad will become a landscape contractor, Maureen will become a potter, and I'll become an artist. To meet these goals, Dad will need storage space and a lot of it, equipment, rolling stock, office space and a contractor's license. Maureen you'll need a potter's studio, potter's wheels and other equipment, kilns, whatever. You'll have to make a list. You, too, Dad. I'll need an artist's studio, art supplies and equipment. I'll make my own list. You know what this means, don't you?" "What?" Maureen said. "A new place to live. Two acres for the houses and outbuildings ought to do it. Next question, should we build or buy an existing house on acreage with outbuildings that comes close to what we'll need if we remodel and do some additions?" "Jesus," Dad breathed. "If we elect to build from scratch, which I think is the best option, but I'll listen to arguments to the contrary, we'll need to rent a house to live in, warehouse space for Dad, and studios for Maureen and me. I don't know about you guys, but I think we should pay cash for everything except a mortgage, and we'll pay off the mortgage as soon as possible, say a couple of years. What does acreage go for in Santa Fe, do either of you know?" "You're talking millions, Eric," Maureen said. I nodded. "More than one million, less than five, let's say three million as a wag. It'll take me about six months to make that much playing poker, but I'll have to keep playing for another two or three months to pay the taxes. Let's call it a year so I have time to start being all I can be with art." "That's crazy!" Maureen said. "You can't do that." "Maureen, he made more than $30,000 in one day," Dad said. "At that rate, he can make $3,000,000 in 100 working days." "I won't win every time I play; that's why I said six months," I said. "Playing poker can be a grind. If it's like everything else that can become a grind, it'll get old fast. That's why I said a year. I don't want to become a poker burnout until we have the investment money we need." I rubbed my hands together. "Okay, we have the bare bones of a plan for our future, but the most important future event hasn't been discussed. When are the two of you going to get hitched, and where do you want to go on your honeymoon? The honeymoon will be my wedding present, by the way." "How much time do you need, Maureen?" Dad said. "A couple of days," she said, her dark eyes full of fireflies. "Hmm, on second thought, make that a week." Dad looked at me, "Hawaii, Eric. Our dream honeymoon is in Hawaii." "Good choice," I said. "Maureen, do you have a car?" "Yes," she said. "I've got to buy a new car, and Dad needs a ride to the radiator shop." "New car?" Dad said. "Yes, nothing fancy, a new Honda Accord will do," I said. "My Civic is shot to pieces, Dad, and heaven only knows when the police will release it." ------- Johannes Kleiner and Maureen Holland became man and wife in a civil ceremony in front of a Justice of the Peace. I was the best man, and a friend of Maureen's named Eleanor Fry, was the maid of honor. After the wedding, I drove the newlyweds to the airport in Albuquerque, and they flew away for their honeymoon in Hawaii. I'd been playing poker like a mad man almost to the point of burnout, so I decided to spend the night in Albuquerque, a city I'd hadn't experienced in any of my lives. After I checked into the Best Western Rio Grande Inn close to Old Town Albuquerque, without even going to my room, I strolled out of the hotel and down to the plaza, where I looked inside the shops and galleries around the plaza without going into any of them. I wasn't dressed for what I was doing, and although I looked good, I also looked out of place. I still wore the new suit I'd purchased for the wedding. The Agape Southwest Pottery gallery interested me, probably because my new mother wanted to be a potter, so I stepped inside. The shop was well-named. All the pottery was Southwest in design, mostly Native American, and mostly very well executed. I made a mental note to tell Maureen about the gallery. After that, I went in and out of galleries looking at pottery and paintings. I bought a small painting in the R.C. Gorman Nizhoni Gallery, although it wasn't a painting; it was a scratchboard, an old, but little used medium. A scratchboard is a smooth, thin surface of hardened China clay applied to a board. The artist—in this instance, Judy Larson—paints the subject on the board with black India ink to create a silhouette, and then engraves the image into the surface of the board with sharp blades. Once the subject of the artwork is totally scratched, the artist applies color, and then usually re-scratches the board for detail. My scratchboard was titled: The Defiant. It depicted three proud horses in a marvelous composition showing only their magnificent heads and strong necks. In my opinion, the piece of art was worth much more than the $250 that I paid for it. I asked the salesperson if she'd have the scratchboard delivered to the Rio Grande Inn in my name, and she said she'd be happy to do that for me, and added a courier charge to my bill. When I walked out of the gallery and turned right to continue my looking and shopping, a young woman ran into me—literally. I wrapped my arms around her to keep her from falling, and then stood her back on her feet. She was beautiful. She was also terrified, but not of me. She looked back over her shoulder. I followed her gaze and saw two men striding toward us. They didn't look happy. I remembered my experience with Darlene and her step-father. If I helped this young woman, would I be getting myself in trouble? I didn't have time to continue my one-man debate. I'd unconsciously moved the woman behind me, putting myself between her and the two men. They were Hispanic, probably Mexican, mid- to late-twenties, both shorter than I, both heavier than I. I knew nothing about gangs, but they looked like gang members. I don't know why. Maybe it was the blue and white bandana tied around one man's head. Maybe it was the homemade tattoos in view on both of them. "Out of the way, joto," the man wearing a bandana for a hat said. The other man said nothing; he flipped out a knife, a switch blade. I remember thinking it should have been called a flip blade, because a flip of his wrist opened the knife. He'd used a knife before, knew how to use one. That was apparent. He didn't hold it to strike down at me. He'd thrust forward using more than his arm. He'd twist his torso and shoulders, and his chest was deep and his shoulders wide. The knife would penetrate my body to the hilt. As I said, the one-man debate was over. The choice had been taken from me. By happenstance, I was now protecting myself, not the woman. Bandana man tried to distract me so the man with the knife could strike a lethal blow. Why they'd want to unnecessarily kill an innocent, I didn't know. Was I misjudging their intent? Perhaps they were high on something. PCP or meth. I ignored bandana man, and when the man with the knife thrust forward, I moved my torso back and twisted, kicking the side of his knee without pulling the kick, grabbed the wrist holding the knife, kneed him in the stomach, and punched his neck below his chin while turning the wrist I held back on itself, which is painful and can break bones. I heard bones snap, and the man dropped the knife and fell to the sidewalk. Bandana man swung at me. I stepped inside the swing, head-butted his chin and kneed him in the balls. As he bent over, my elbow struck the side of his head with a forceful blow. When I walked away, my assailants were writhing on the sidewalk. The young woman was nowhere in sight. Others had witnessed the altercation, though. Tourists, mostly. Even at the odd hour during a weekday, tourists like me strolled the plaza, moving in and out of shops, experiencing the flavor of Old Town Albuquerque. I'd experienced all the flavor of Old Town Albuquerque I wanted, so I crossed the plaza and headed toward the Rio Grande Inn. I glanced back once, but my view was blocked by a church. I crossed Romero Street to walk along shops I hadn't seen. I'd walked the other side of the street when I'd walked to the plaza from my hotel. Suddenly, the young woman stepped out of a shop in front of me. "Will you help me?" she asked. I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress, always have been, always will be, and this character trait more often than not gets me into a heap of trouble. That she was so beautiful made me a bigger sucker than I would have been otherwise. "Walk with me and tell me your story. When you're finished, I'll either help you or walk away from you," I said. "Start with your name." "My name is Alana Perez," she said as she matched my strides. I'd shortened them so she didn't have to hurry. "Who are the men who attacked me?" I said. "I don't know their names. They're members of a prison gang, the Sindicto Nuevo Mexico, or New Mexico Syndicate. I've been marked for death by the gang." "Why?" I said. "For the accident of my birth," she said. "My brother, Paul, is a member of the gang. Some gang members murdered a police officer, his wife, and their twelve-year-old daughter. Paul is cooperating with the authorities regarding these homicides. Like me, Paul is marked for death. Yesterday, my parents were murdered. I escaped. I don't know how I was located; perhaps someone in the Syndicate or someone from one of the street gangs affiliated with the Syndicate saw me here earlier today. It doesn't matter how they found me. They did. I have no money. I have only the clothes on my back. If I go to a friend, they will kill my friend and my friend's family. I can't go to the police. Some police officers are in the Syndicate's pocket. If I went to the police, I'd be dead before the day ended." We'd walked out of the plaza by the time she'd told me her story. "I'll help you. I have a room in the Rio Grande Inn, but from what you told me, you might be spotted if you walk into the hotel with me. My car is in the parking garage next to the inn. I live in Santa Fe, not Albuquerque. If you want, I'll take you to Santa Fe with me right now. I checked in with no luggage; it was a spur of the moment decision to stay overnight in Albuquerque. I can call the hotel to check out during the drive to Santa Fe." "I'll go with you," she said. ------- Alana Perez was eighteen years old, a recent graduate of an Albuquerque high school. She lived with her parents and planned to attend community college in the fall to start coursework for an associate's degree. She wanted to become a paralegal or a legal assistant. When I'd first seen her, I'd put her age in the early twenties. She was stunning with long black hair, dancing black eyes, and a Mediterranean complexion. Her hips were narrow, an indication of her youth; her waist was tiny, her stomach was flat, her legs were long and shapely, and her breasts looked heavy under her clothing. She wore low-rider blue jeans, a t-shirt under a blue blouse, and open-toed sandals with a clunky two-inch heel. No tattoos or body piercings that I could see, except for her ears that displayed one normal earring each. I guessed her height at five-eight or —nine. I asked about her brother. Paul was five years older than she. He'd joined the 18th Street Gang as a boy and had been in and out of trouble since, mostly in. He was sent to prison when he was twenty for dealing drugs. The Sindicto Nuevo Mexico recruited him into their gang in prison. According to Alana, the Syndicate is led by a don, or general, and a group of respected inmates called "the Panel." Other gang members are called soldiers or carnales. Paul was a soldier. "How old are you?" she asked me. "I'm sixteen," I said. "I live with my father in a double-wide trailer, but we'll be moving soon. I was the best man in his wedding this morning. I put him and my new step-mother, Maureen, on an airplane in Albuquerque after the wedding. They're honeymooning in Hawaii for two weeks. We'll have the trailer to ourselves. Until my parents return, you can use my father's bedroom." She didn't comment on my age, so I said, "You'll need clothes. We'll shop before we drive to the trailer." "I don't have any money," she said. "I do. I'm a whiz at online Texas hold 'em poker. This is my car, not my father's. I paid cash for it a week ago. I'll buy some clothes for you. Can you cook?" "I'm a good cook," she said. "Good, you can pay me back by cooking while you stay with me. Okay?" She nodded and then smiled. "Okay." "We'll shop at Santa Fe Place. The mall anchors are Sears, Mervyn's, Dillard's, and J.C. Penny. Besides clothes, you'll need toiletries and makeup, maybe some things I don't know about because I'm a guy not a gal. I'm sure we'll find what you need at the mall. When did you eat last?" She blushed and said, "Yesterday." "Then dinner will come before shopping," I said. Alana was not a vegetarian. We ate at the Outback Steakhouse, sharing a Bloomin' Onion, and she demolished a dinner salad and a filet. I wiped out a New York strip, and we shared a tall slice of chocolate cake with raspberry sauce and vanilla ice cream. Then we hit the mall. I admit I had fun figuratively dressing her. I also admit that I imagined undressing her, too. I was after all a teenage boy with raging hormones. She was reticent to spend very much at first, selecting only items on fifty-percent-off racks, but I finally convinced her to buy clothes that she'd like to keep, otherwise she'd be wasting my money. "You're going to be living with me for a couple of weeks, maybe longer. I want you to look good," I said without leering. "We'll eat out occasionally in nice restaurants, so buy a couple of nice dresses and some business suits, but casual wear will be the norm." I think she had fun coming out of dressing rooms to get my opinion on whatever she'd tried on. I know I did. I also think the shopping spree helped keep her mind off the death of her parents and the trouble she was in. We shopped until the mall closed. At the trailer, I guided her to Dad's bedroom. Dad didn't have many clothes, and he'd taken a lot of what he owned with him to Hawaii, so there was ample room in the closet for her purchases. "You'll have your own bathroom," I said. "I use the one in the hall. Get settled in, and then meet me in the kitchen. We'll sit and talk some more while we drink hot chocolate." "May I take a shower?" "Of course," I said. While she put her clothes away and took a shower, I called the Rio Grande Inn and asked about the artwork I'd purchased. I hadn't remembered the piece of art that would be delivered to me at the hotel when I'd called them earlier to cancel my night's stay with them. Yes, it had arrived, the desk clerk told me. Yes, they'd forward it to me via UPS. They still had my credit card on file, and I told them to charge the expense plus a twenty percent gratuity to my credit card. I had Alana's hot chocolate ready for her when she walked into the kitchen. Her hair was still wet from the shower, and she still looked beautiful. Not many women are beautiful with wet hair. She wore a robe she'd picked out with my help while shopping, and it clung to her amazing body. I wondered if she wore anything under the robe. She was braless, that was for sure. The evidence was prominent and sexy. She sat at the table next to me. "When were your parents murdered?" I asked. Perhaps the blunt question was cruel, but I needed facts, and sooner or later, the pain of her parents' death would overwhelm her. It might as well be now, so she could go on with what she needed to do to survive. "Three days ago," she said. "I was in the garage when the men broke into the house. I hid in a storage closet until they left." Tears filled her eyes. "It was terrible, Eric. They..." She tried not to cry but couldn't stop the silent tears from changing into large, gulping sobs. I put my arm around her, and she clung to me. With me on one kitchen chair and her on another, it was an awkward position. After a while her sobs became more manageable, and soon afterwards she stopped crying. I found a box of tissues and pushed them toward her. "I'm sorry," she said as she wiped her face with a tissue. "No need to be sorry," I said. "If you weren't capable of grieving for the loss of your parents, especially considering the brutal manner in which they lost their lives, I wouldn't want to help you. What did you do after you saw your parents had been murdered?" I guided her through time from that moment until she'd bumped into me in front of a gallery in Old Town Albuquerque. She'd dialed 911 and reported the murders, but the more she thought about it the more she feared the gang members would return. She'd seen the men as they arrived through a window in the garage, and she'd recognized them for what they were when she saw a gang tattoo on one of them. They were the same men she'd seen after her in Old Town Albuquerque. After calling the police, she was so terrified that, without thinking, she drove away in her parents' car. She took no clothes with her, and she only had twenty dollars in her purse. She slept in the car for two nights, eating at MacDonald's and other cheap fast-food restaurants to save money and avoid being seen by using their drive-through windows. She washed up in restrooms, but she'd taken a shower at the YWCA the day I met her. Her parents' car didn't have much fuel to start with, and she ran out of gas close to Old Town. She figured she'd be safe among all the people in Old Town until dark, and she'd planned to return to sleep in the car again that night. She'd been able to pull the vehicle off the road and into a parking lot at a grocery store before it ran out of gas. "I didn't know what I'd do after one more night in the car. I was completely out of money. My clothes were starting to smell. I felt like a homeless person." She snorted. "I guess I was a homeless person." She gave me a grateful look. "And then you saved my life." She bowed her head. "You not only saved my life, you also bought me the nicest clothes I've ever had, fed me a fantastic meal, and took me in, giving me the largest bedroom in your house." She looked up at me again. "Eric, I'll cook for you as long as you let me stay with you, and I'll clean the house and do your laundry, everything I can, but I'll still owe you." I gave her a hard look. She may or may not be headed where I believed she was headed, but either way, I was going to nip it in the bud. "Alana, to my eyes you are breathtakingly beautiful, and I'd be a liar if I told you I didn't want you, but if you paid me back with sex, that would make you a whore, and it would make me someone who had to pay for sex. You're not a whore, and I don't buy sex. You're a damsel in distress. I'm a sucker for damsels in distress." She smiled, which warmed my heart. "Sir Eric, my knight in shining armor," she said. "Hardly shining, badly tarnished would be more accurate. You've told me about you. Now it's my turn to tell you about me." I told her everything, well not everything. I didn't tell her Hector had a habit of swapping my ego, memories and skill sets from body to body at a whim or for reasons I didn't fully understand. When I finished my story, she knew about my amnesia, that I was a recovering drug addict, and that I'd been arrested for dealing meth. I related my effort to shut down the drug ring, what they did to my family and me, and that they were probably no longer a threat. We'd repaired the bullet holes in the exterior walls, but she'd seen some of the holes still evident inside the house, so she believed me. Then, I told her about my trial, and that the judge had put me on probation and sentenced me to 100 hours of community service. Next I told her about my father and step-mother, including their goals and mine, and I told her in vague terms how we planned to achieve our goals. "To that end over the next two weeks, I'll be looking at acreage, or homes on acreage that can become our new home. I'd appreciate it if you'd accompany me on my search to give me a woman's point of view. What do you do for exercise?" She looked confused, probably because of the sudden subject change in our conversation. When she didn't respond, I said, "I run one morning and workout with free weights the next, and I do one or more forms of tai chi every morning to warm up before exercising. In truth I use tai chi as a form of meditation. If you run, I'd be pleased if you would join me for my morning run, and if you'd like to learn tai chi, I'd be happy to teach you." "I know tai chi, at least the beginning form," she said. "What I'd really like is to learn how to defend myself. What martial art did you use against those gang members today?" "Krav maga, although it isn't a martial art." I gave her a brief history of krav maga and told her I wasn't capable of teaching it, which was the truth—maybe. "It's a skill set that I know without learning it. After being struck by lightning, I knew krav maga. Before I didn't. If that sounds weird or impossible, it is, but it's the truth. I'm adept in a number of skill sets that I didn't have before the lightning event. Texas hold 'em poker is one of them. My ability in art is another." An idea suddenly entered my mind. "Hey, that's another thing you can do to pay me back. You can model for me." She smiled. "Nude?" "Not if you're not comfortable posing nude," I said. She yawned and then apologized. "Nonsense," I said. "It's late. I'm tired, too. Do you want to run with me tomorrow morning?" "Yes, and warm up with the beginning form of tai chi." "Okay." I reached for her empty cup. She slapped my hand away. "Cleaning up dishes is my job, Eric." I chuckled. She said, "Do you have breakfast before or after your morning run?" "After," I said. "Coffee before, though." "What time do you run?" "I warm up with tai chi at 6:30, or thereabouts" I said. "Coffee will be perking at 6:15. Before we go to bed, please show me around the kitchen." I did. Then we went to bed—separate bedrooms and beds. ------- The coffee was excellent. Alana had room for improvement in tai chi, and her running was ragged, but I had to give her an A for effort. I gave her body an A+. Alana's running might have been ragged, but Alana in running shorts was an invigorating sight. Her long legs were gorgeous, thin but muscular with curves in all the right places. Breakfast was exceptional. "What's the schedule today," Alana asked. "I'll spend the next two hours playing online poker. During that time, you can do what you wish." "I'll do some cleaning," she said. "I have an appointment with a real estate agent at eleven o'clock. We'll have lunch out. If the real estate agent is any good, I'll probably invite her to join us." "How should I dress to meet with the agent?" she asked. "Wear a business suit," I said. "That's one of the reasons I insisted on you buying a couple of business suits. I'm a kid; you're not, but you're close. If we're to get any degree of respect, we'll need to look professional. We'll put some appropriate footwear in the trunk of the car that we can wear if we start tramping over the acreage we'll be viewing." She nodded. "After we're finished with the real estate agent, we'll return to the house, at which time I'll play another one or two tournaments of poker. When I'm finished with poker, I'd like for you to pose for me, sketches only today, no finished work. While you're preparing dinner, I'll shop for art supplies, and I'd planned a visit to a book store. I'm starting to buy the books for my library in my new home." "Your new home?" "Yes, perhaps I confused you. The acreage will end up being a compound, which will consist of my parents' home, my home, an artist studio for me, a potter studio for my mother, office space for my father's business, and warehouse space for his equipment and supplies. I'm debating about whether to include any horse facilities. I like horses, but my parents have no interest in the wonderful beasts." When I mentioned horses, I noticed that Alana's eyes shined. ------- I did not like the real estate agent. She all but laughed in my face when I detailed my needs. I cut the appointment short, and Alana and I went to lunch. We ate at el Faro on Canyon Road. I enjoyed the restaurant and would return frequently. "I'm trying to experience Santa Fe, Alana," I said as we were waiting for our sandwiches. "I've lived here all my life, but I have no memories beyond a few weeks ago, so everything is new to me. I like what I've seen so far. I suspect the Santa Fe style of architecture will wear thin, but some of it is attractive. I prefer contemporary, and I've seen some good examples of contemporary residential architecture in Santa Fe on the internet. I also enjoy views of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. I'm hoping the land we purchase for the compound will provide eastern views of the mountains, and if possible, sunset views of the Jemez Mountains across the Rio Grande Valley to the west." "It snows in Santa Fe in the winter," Alana said. "I don't like the cold, but I've seen photographs of the snow in Santa Fe, and snow transforms the city into a wonderland. May I change the subject?" "Of course," I said. "This morning you said the compound would include a home for you as well as a home for your parents. Why? You still have high school to finish, and..." "I plan to test out of high school over the summer, Alana," I said. She looked dubious, so I explained. "Remember the new skill sets I mentioned last night that I didn't have before the lightning strike but I had when I woke up from the lightning-induced coma? I could be wrong, but I have a strong feeling that I can pass the G.E.D. test, and if I can, finishing high school in the normal manner would be boring. I want to be an artist, and I believe I also have the knowledge and skill to be one without going to college. Over the next two weeks we'll test my belief while I draw and paint you in different poses and using various media. I'm sixteen chronologically, but after the lightning strike, I believe I'm older mentally, perhaps older than you. After you've been around me for a while, I'd like your opinion regarding this belief." She nodded and said, "I still don't understand why you want your own home." "If I am indeed older than you mentally, Alana, I'll want to start making my own life, leave the parental nest, so to speak. At the same time, I can't alter the fact that I am sixteen years old, so my own house in close proximity to my parents' home satisfies their need to watch over me and my need for their support when I enter into contracts minors can't enter without adult involvement. My home in the same compound with my parents' home satisfies both needs." She smiled. Damn, I liked her smiles. They altered her otherwise slightly stern appearance and gave evidence of her youth. "I understand now," she said. ------- After moving some furniture to create the space I needed, I set a large pad of newsprint paper on an easel. I'd be working with charcoal and conte crayon and a soft pencil to do a number of quick sketches of my model. I'd also arranged two portable spotlights to light my subject, and I'd hung a backdrop behind the area where she'd pose. Alana walked into the room wearing a robe. I gulped. Did she intend posing nude? If she did, could I concentrate on the task at hand? Drawing with an erection is problematic. "Where to you want me?" she said. "To start with, sit on the bar stool I've set in front of the backdrop, and I'll arrange the lighting," I said. She nodded and dropped the robe. I stared. I could not do otherwise. Her nude body was breathtaking. Like the pleasing features on her face, her heavy breasts were perfectly symmetrical. They stood high and proud and her nipples were erect. Like me, I thought inanely. Her skin looked silky. I could see no blemishes or any evidence of tan lines. Her musculature met my concept of perfection for a woman, not overly pronounced but evident just under the surface of her skin. When she settled on the stool, her legs spread slightly, a natural move, not something she'd purposefully done to entice, but the momentary view was nevertheless enticing. She had prominent, plump outer labia with no hair. She'd trimmed her pubic bush, probably so she could wear a bikini, but she didn't present a bald look. I liked that. I wanted a woman to look like a woman, not a child. Her legs were magnificent. "Beautiful," I breathed out loud, not to her, but to myself. "Thank you," she said. Then she stared at me, at the bulge in my pants. She rose from the stool and walked to me. "You can't work, not like you are," she said as her hands covered the bulge. "I am not a whore, Eric, but I am a woman, and I want you. This isn't payback. I want you for you. You are the most amazing young man I've ever met, and I want you," she said. Her hands moved to my face. She moved up on tiptoes and pressed her lips to mine. The kiss started soft, feather-like, and made me want more. My arms went around her, and I pulled her close and deepened the kiss, luxuriating in the flavor of her mouth and the feel of her naked flesh under my hands. She moaned into my mouth and pressed herself yet closer to me as her fingers raked through the hair on my head. My shirt went away, then my trousers, and soon I was as naked as she. How we managed to achieve this feat while constantly kissing and caressing each other I can't tell you. We used the sofa that I'd pushed against the wall. She started under me, but we moved around. I thanked my youthful body when I climaxed too soon but didn't lose my erection. We weren't frantic, but what we did couldn't be called making love. We were a man and woman with intense needs, and we satisfied them each in our own way, but together. She was wonderfully orgasmic, and when she needed stimulation because of our position, she unabashedly touched herself. She climaxed three times to my two. Her life had been at peril, and she'd survived. I think she was celebrating life. I celebrated with her. I celebrated my new life as Eric Kleiner. And then we were finished, sated, panting, perspiration evaporating, cooling our overheated bodies. She cuddled next to me on the sofa, her face on my chest, her hair tickling my chin, one arm and one leg thrown over me. "Do you think you can work now?" she said. I laughed and said, "Not at this moment, but soon." "Good, because I don't want to move, not yet," she said. "You said at lunch that you wanted my opinion regarding your belief about your mental age. I can tell you now. I believe that you are older mentally than I. I also believe you are physically older than your chronological age. No sixteen-year-old boy can make love like you." "We did not make love, Alana," I said. She giggled. "You're right. We didn't make love; we fucked. We fucked and fucked and fucked. It was marvelous!" I chuckled and said, "Tonight, we'll make love." "Yes we will," she said. The telephone in the kitchen rang. Alana and I untangled our bodies, and I strode naked to the kitchen. ------- Chapter 29 "Hi, Eric," my father said when I answered the phone. "I thought I'd check on you. I'm also calling to thank you. The accommodations you arranged for us are fantastic." "I'm happy you're enjoying yourself," I said. "Listen, before I called you, I called Detective Newman. Hobbs finally rolled over on the cooker. Robert Jones is under arrest and in custody, and we have nothing to fear from him. Newman says he's non-violent, a nerdy chemist, not a drug kingpin. Escalante was the leader of the gang, the man behind the violence perpetrated against us. Hobbs and Chavez followed Escalante's lead. All four men confessed and agreed to plead guilty when offered plea bargains for lesser charges, so we won't be required to testify at their trials. Newman also told me that he didn't believe we'd be attacked again." "Is Escalante or either Hobbs or Chavez members of any street or prison gang?" I asked. "I don't know. Is knowing important?" "Maybe." I told him about Alana then, not in detail but enough that he could understand my concern. Of course telling him about Alana worried him, not because I was harboring a young woman in his home, but instead because I'd once again put myself in harm's way. "I'll check with Newman about any gang affiliations," I said. "All right. By the way, you can pick up your Civic." He gave me the vehicles location and a phone number. "Maureen wants to talk to you now. Take care, Son. I love you." "I love you, too, Dad," I said, and then listened to Maureen rave about the first-class seats on the flight to Hawaii, the greeting they'd received at the airport in Honolulu including orchid leis draped around their necks, the ride to the hotel in a limo, and the fantastic suite at the hotel. After she thanked me four or five times, we ended the call. When I turned, Alana stood in front of me wearing her robe. She had a tall glass of iced tea in her hand. "Are you thirsty?" "I am," I said. She handed me the glass and I gulped half of it before I tipped the glass upright. "Did you tell your parents about me?" she asked. "I told my father," I said. "Is he all right with me staying with you?" "He's concerned about the new threat to my safety, but as far as I know he has no other objection," I said and chuckled. "He's telling Maureen about you right now. I expect another call in a few minutes. Knowing Maureen, she'll want to speak to you." The ringing phone made me laugh. I answered the call by saying, "Hi, Maureen. Would you like to speak to Alana?" I listened to silence for two heartbeats, and then she said, "Yes, I'd like that." Before I handed Alana the phone, I covered the mouthpiece and told Alana I was going to take a shower. ------- "You spoke with the girl Eric rescued for a long time," Johannes said. "What do you think of her?" "The girl's name is Alana Perez. She's eighteen years old, well-spoken, and has a pleasant voice, and if she's not in love with Eric now, she soon will be," Maureen said. "Like with you and me, Eric rolled over her like a tank. If she's reasonably attractive and can excite Eric sexually, they'll be sleeping together before we return." Johannes nodded. "Eric described her perilous situation. The new Eric didn't have it in him to not help her. I understand and applaud him for helping her, but her situation is more dangerous than Eric's after he turned Hobbs over to the police. A powerful and ruthless prison gang has marked her for death. They've already murdered her parents, and Eric stopped two of the gang members from killing her in a very public place with many witnesses. If they'll go to that length to kill her, they won't give up. Fortunately, they don't know who Eric is, but they saw him, and his current proximity to the girl places him in the same peril that she faces. I worry about him, Maureen." "And you're considering cutting our honeymoon short to return to Santa Fe to help in any way you can," Maureen said. "No," he said. "I'll speak with Eric again tomorrow. He said he would call Newman to determine if Escalante or either of the other two dealers is a member of a prison gang, but that call has nothing to do with the girl. Learning what a prison gang did to the girl's parents, Eric realized if one of the meth dealers in the gang that attacked us is a member of a prison gang that it's possible, even likely, that more attempts at retribution could happen, not only against him but also against you and me. If Newman answers yes, I won't take you back into harm's way, which suddenly made me realize returning to help Eric would be foolish. Instead, I'll encourage Eric to get out of Dodge. He has the money. He can take that girl anyplace in the world. I'll only return if Eric refuses to leave Santa Fe. With that threat, he'll leave. The new Eric would not want to be the cause of ruining our honeymoon." Maureen kissed her new husband and said, "A brilliant solution, as usual, my husband." ------- This time I could work. Now, Alana's nudity was like the nudity of models I'd had in life drawing classes while in college many years ago. I saw the architecture of the human body from the bones to muscles and finally skin. I saw forms and color and light and texture, not the naked body of a desirable woman. I think, however, Alana was disappointed that she didn't excite me this time like she had the first time. The quick one minute-sketches were piling up on the floor. I'd started to understand her body, how it was put together, how it moved, and understanding enhanced her astonishing beauty. She was an amazing model. With Alana, I could celebrate the beauty and passion of the female form with my art. "Hold that pose for another minute," I said and continued the sketch I'd blocked out in the previous minute. She was leaning forward on her stiffened straight arms, her hands on the stool, and she'd pulled one leg up, resting that foot on an ottoman. Her stiff arms squeezed her heavy breasts together, not a lot, just enough. Her expression was introspective, and her dark hair flowed over the shoulder closest to me. The sinuous strands divided and framed one breast. I worked feverishly. I'd found the pose I'd want for my first painting, and I decided it'd use pastels as my medium. I could exaggerate her fantastic coloring with pastels and make her flesh glow on the paper as if it were alive. I added more detail with a rust-colored conte crayon, and then even more detail appeared. Conte crayons are harder and thinner than traditional pastels. I used them in sketches to compliment the line work of charcoal and give the sketch color. Her body took form on the newsprint, became three-dimensional with light and shading, instead of the two-dimensional line work limitations of soft charcoal or lead pencils. I went beyond the extra minute, and continued for two or three more before I stepped back satisfied with the sketch. "Take a break, Alana. And thank you. You're a very good model," I said. She rose erect and shook her shoulders, trying to remove some knots. Shaking her shoulders shook her breasts. Sexy. She smiled at me, slipped on her robe, and said, "May I see the last sketch?" "It's just a sketch, a study. I'll do more studies before I start the pastel painting that will be the finale for what we started today." She stood in front of the sketch and studied it. Without looking at me, she said, "Is this how you see me?" "One aspect of you, yes," I said. "Which aspect?" "Your introspective side," I said. "The pose shows you deep in thought but your passion, the fire in your belly, is close to the surface. It's an edge, a split-second, the moment in time before you make up your mind, and it's very female. I love the pose." "I am not that mysterious. I am not that beautiful," she said. "You are to my eyes. For other poses, I'll capture other aspects of you, and in each you will be beautiful but never flashy. In my paintings of you, your earthy passion will be forever submerged, just below the surface, evident but still elusive, and anyone who views the paintings will want to know you, experience your passion, uncover your mystery. The series will launch my career as an artist." "Yes," she whispered. "And because of you, I will become immortal." I chuckled. "Launching a career and ending up in future art history books are not synonymous. I will call the series: Aspects of Alana. The title for the first painting will be Introspection." She turned to me and said, "You will be in future art history books, and I will become immortal as your first model. Thank you." Her robe fell away and she kissed me. I didn't shop for art supplies and books that afternoon. I didn't mind the delay. ------- The next morning the sky was a blue-black angry, and I saw lightning flash on the mountains as Alana and I moved through the beginning form of tai chi. Is today the day, Hector? I asked my so-called personal power in the universe. Will you be moving my essence to another body? What do you have in mind for my next swap? A bag lady perhaps? Or maybe you'd like to see how I'd react as a prisoner on death row? How about a ninety-year-old man, or worse a ninety-year-old woman? What's next Hector? Or should I say who is next? How about a real six-year-old instead of a young woman with a six-year-old mind? And so far you've kept the swaps in the Western area of the USA. How about a female wearing a chador in Beirut, Lebanon? Or a black child in Darfur? I did not want to be moved again. I was doing what I'd always wanted to do—be an artist. As Eric Kleiner I could become all I could be. And I wouldn't be alone. Besides my new father and step-mother, I had Alana. I had a beautiful, devoted, inventive lover. My raging teenage hormones had been calmed, and my satisfied libido helped tamp down my withdrawal pangs. I felt fully human for the first time since I took over Eric Kleiner's body. I could see a wonderful life in my future as Eric Kleiner. I still had a long to-do list for this life. Just leave me the hell alone, Hector! Alana and I finished the form, and I moved inside to avoid the lightning. "This morning is a workout with free weights for you, right?" Alana said. "Yes." "I do not want to work out with free weights," she said. "I don't want pumped-up, bulging muscles. I'll stay here, fix breakfast, and start the laundry." "All right," I said. During the drive to the gym, I called Detective Newman. Yes, he told me, Escalante was a member of a prison gang. No, he did not belong to the Sindicto Nuevo Mexico. Escalante was a member of the more powerful Los Carnales. The Los Carnales, sworn enemies of the Sindicto, controlled the wholesale distribution of locally produced methamphetamine throughout the state. No, he didn't believe Los Carnales would assume Escalante's responsibility to exact retribution on me and my family. Los Carnales did not care about me or my family. They had their hands full protecting their turf from the Banditos, yet another Hispanic prison gang. The Banditos coveted control of the wholesale distribution of locally produced methamphetamine. "Eric, I have been seriously considering handing over the City of Santa Fe to the Hispanic prison and street gangs and emigrating to New Zealand," Newman said. "I'd do it, I swear, but my wife wouldn't go with me. She's in the middle of redecorating our living room." When I parked in the gym's lot, it was raining hard and lighting periodically lit up the sky. I felt safe from Hector sitting in my Honda. The vehicle was grounded. It would act like a lightning rod. I sat without moving until I realized if Hector wanted me, sitting in the grounded Honda wouldn't protect me. I jumped from the car and dashed inside the gym, heaving a sigh of relief as I moved through the entrance doors. ------- Alana prepared huevos rancheros for breakfast, one of my favorite breakfast dishes. While we ate, I told Alana about Los Carnales and the Banditos, and related what Newman had told me about the two gangs. My mentioning prison gangs must have reminded her of her brother because she said, "I need to check on Paul. I must know if he's still alive. He isn't worth much, but he's the only family I have left." "What must you do to check on him?" "Call the prison," she said. "I don't think so," I said. "Not from the phone here." "A payphone, then," she said. I shook my head. "A third party should make the call," I said. "Do you have a friend who will make the call for you?" "No, I don't want to put a friend in jeopardy," she said. "I must make the call." Against my better judgment, after breakfast I drove her to a payphone on the other side of Santa Fe and gave her the money to make the call. I had to catch her and hang up the phone when she collapsed after receiving the bad news. She sobbed as I half-carried her to the car. Instead of driving away, I held her until she partially recovered. "I'm alone now," she said. "You have me," I said. "Do I?" she asked. "Yes," I said. She fixed her tear-filled eyes on mine and held my gaze. Finally, she nodded and said, "Yes, I have you, Eric, my knight in slightly tarnished armor." The phone was ringing when we walked into the trailer. I wasn't surprised to hear Dad's voice when I picked up the receiver. He didn't waste time with niceties. "Here's the deal, Son," he said. "Either you and ... what is the girl's name?" "Alana Perez," I said. "Right, either you and Ms. Perez get out of Dodge or Maureen and I will cut our honeymoon short and return to keep you from harm's way in whatever way we can. You have money. You can take her anyplace in the world." "Dad, do I have a passport?" I said. "No," he said. "But you can get one." "Not overnight, and I'm a minor. I believe you'd have to be involved to apply for one with me. And it's my guess that Alana doesn't have a passport either." Alana was sitting at the table listening to my end of the conversation. She spoke up. "I have a passport. It's at my house in Albuquerque, though." "I stand corrected," I said and relayed Alana's comment to my father. "But I hear you, Dad. Alana and I will get out of Dodge somewhere in the United States where a passport is not required. We don't have the details, but Alana's brother, Paul, was murdered in prison yesterday. She found this out when she called the prison from a pay phone here in Santa Fe." Dad groaned. "Which means that it's possible for the prison gang to place her in Santa Fe." "That was going to be my next point," I said. "I think it's unlikely, but it is possible, so leaving Santa Fe is a good idea. Let me speak with Alana, and I'll call you back." After I ended the call, I sat at the table with Alana and said, "What is your preference for a dream vacation? The mountains or the seashore?" "What is your preference?" she said. "This time of year, I'd say the mountains," I said. She nodded and said, "I agree. What's this all about, Eric?" "My father wants us to get out of Dodge. He says if we don't leave Santa Fe that he'll cut his honeymoon short and return to Santa Fe to help keep me safe in any way he can." I chuckled. "He's not playing fair. He knows I won't ruin his honeymoon." "This is because of me, because I brought my trouble to your house, isn't it?" I grinned and said, "You betcha. I'm excited about this, Alana. This will force me to concentrate on my goals, on my art, will let me be selfish without feeling guilty." "Huh?" she said looking like I'd plinked a nail into her forehead with a pneumatic nail-gun. "I know what I want to do to launch my career as an artist. I want to paint you in all your guises. To protect you, we've got to make ourselves difficult to find. Combine the two, and what have we got?" Her furrowed brow took another spike from the nail-gun, maybe two, so I said, "Opportunity, that's what we've got—a month or two of concentrated work while being pampered. With that much time I can finish Aspects of Alana, ten or twelve paintings, enough for my first one-man show. I'll cut back my poker playing to two tournaments a day, one if my painting is going well. Modeling is hard work. You'll need some pampering, too. How about Jackson Hole, Wyoming? The Grand Teton. Jackson Lake. Horseback riding. Country music and line dancing. A day trip to Yellowstone. And work, work, work. My parents can search for property in Santa Fe for our compound while we live in the lap of luxury. Waddaya say?" She laughed and said, "Eric Kleiner, I love you." Then a terrified look crossed her face, and her hands went to her mouth. I chuckled. "That just slipped out, huh?" "Yes, forget I said it," she said. "Why?" I said. "Because..." Tears filled her eyes. "Because it's true, and..." I stood up and held out my arms. I did not want our embrace to be awkward. "Come here," I said softly. She jumped up and rushed into my arms. I held her tight and whispered in her ear, "I love you, too." She jerked her head back and stared up at me. "You do?" "Yes, you're an amazing young woman, beautiful in every way, and strong! Your strength under the dire circumstances you face humbles me. That you love me makes my spirit soar. Truth be told, I fell in love with you when you said, 'Will you help me?' on the plaza in Old Town Albuquerque, not a lot but a little, and each moment I've been with you since has deepened my love for you. I said nothing because ... Let's face it, Alana; I'm sixteen years old, a snot-nosed kid, and a recovering drug addict, to boot. Why would a stunningly beautiful woman like you love me?" She snorted. "Yeah, right, sixteen going on twenty-five is more like it. You're so far from being a snot-nosed kid it's difficult to comprehend. You're a man in every sense of the word, Eric. You talk like a man. You act like a man. You make love like a man. I couldn't love a snot-nosed kid, and I love you. I love you so much it frightens me sometimes. I didn't tell you how I felt because I was afraid that the strength of my love for you combined with the death sentence I face would chase you away." "If you'll calm your fears, I'll try to be the man you think I am. Deal?" She kissed me. "I just sealed the deal with a kiss." "I've got to call my father back and let him know about our decision. Is Jackson Hole all right with you for our hideout?" She laughed. "Yes, Jackson Hole sounds like heaven right now." "After I tell him, let's celebrate our love by making love." She brushed her lips to mine and said, "I'll be in the bedroom." She looked over her shoulder before she disappeared and added, "I'll be naked and waiting for you." ------- We selected the Four Seasons Resort in Jackson Hole as our home away from home while I created the paintings for my first one-man show. We made a reservation for a two-bedroom resort residence on the eighth floor with a mountain view. After I told the assistant manager at Four Seasons of my needs and committed to a minimum of thirty days, he agreed to move the furniture out of one of bedrooms so I could use it for my studio. At 1,720 square feet, the residence was much larger than the trailer in Santa Fe, and included a full kitchen and dining room with laundry facilities near the entrance to the residence. Before we left Santa Fe, I went online and ordered all the art equipment and supplies I thought I'd need and had everything shipped to the resort in my name, paying the extra shipping costs for overnight delivery. After I made arrangements for my Civic to be picked up from the impound lot and repaired, I sat down with Alana and opened a very painful subject. "Your parents and your brother deserve a decent funeral, Alana," I said. She reeled as if a golden gloves boxer had hit her with a right cross. "I've initiated the arrangements, but you must make some of the decisions. I'm very sorry you can't be at their funeral, but..." She jumped up, threw her arms around me, and kissed me. "God, I love you, Eric Kleiner. You're right. I can't attend the funeral, but later I can visit their graves and say goodbye to them. Thank you, thank you." "What kind of ceremony would you like? Are you Catholic?" "Yes," she said, and then she named the church and the priest that she wanted to perform the ceremony. "The church has arrangements with a nearby cemetery." "All right. You can't be involved. For that matter, neither can I. I'm in contact with a private investigator in Las Vegas. He will make the arrangements through a funeral home in Vegas, who will contact a funeral home in Albuquerque. The funeral home in Albuquerque will contact the priest. The money for everything will come from an untraceable offshore account that I set up. Once I give the private investigator the information you just gave me, everything will be set in motion. The funeral can't take place until the remains are released from the authorities, and if homicides are involved that could take weeks. After everything is set up, the investigator will tell me what it costs, and I'll wire the money to the funeral home in Vegas, who will pay all the funeral expenses for us. I've already paid the investigator. Does this work for you?" "Yes!" "Do you want me to make arrangements for gravestones now, or would you prefer to do this yourself when you can later?" "I want to order and pay for the monument stones later," she said. I nodded. "There's more. Did your parents' own the home they lived in?" "Yes." "Is the home mortgaged?" "Yes." "The car you abandoned. Does it have a loan against it?" "Yes. Eric, it's probably stripped by now. Let's not worry about the car." I nodded and said, "Did either of them have any life insurance?" "Yes, my father," she said. "Are there any other assets?" "No, they were poor but proud, Eric. My brother's problems put them deeply in debt. The house is mortgaged to the hilt. I doubt if any equity exists." "There will be items in the house you'll want to keep, photo albums for example, and your passport. Do you want to keep any of the furniture?" "No," she said. "The house contained no heirlooms. I have a hope chest. I'll want my hope chest and some of my mother's things." "I'll arrange for a moving company to remove the personal property from the house and, except for the furniture, put everything in storage, including your hope chest, until you can sort through what's there. I'll have the moving company deliver the furniture to a charity. If there's no equity in the house, or if the sales expense will wipe out whatever equity there is, you can let the house go back to the lender. If there's enough equity to make it worthwhile to sell the house, I'll make arrangements for its sale. I'll also make arrangements for the life insurance benefits to be paid to an offshore account I'll set up for you. From the offshore account, you can transfer the money to any bank you'll set up later." "You can do all this so nothing can be traced back to you?" she said. "I can," I said. "How can you possibly know how to make all this happen? You're just..." I laughed and finished her sentence. "A snot-nosed kid." She blushed. "I don't know how I know how to make this happen. I just know, Alana, like I know how to play poker. It's the way I am; get used to it." She fixed her gorgeous eyes on mine, held her gaze for a few heartbeats, and finally said, "I'll do that." ------- Our month in Jackson Hole stretched into two months. It was an idyllic time. The scenery was awesome, and the accommodations at the Four Seasons were exceptional. Alana and I started each day with tai chi and ran mountain trails every other morning. I worked out with free weights on opposite mornings in the resort's weight room while she enjoyed a massage in their spa or spent some alone time doing whatever. My efforts to improve my skinny body were effective. By the time we left Jackson Hole, I'd gained thirty pounds, mostly muscle. Another thirty pounds of muscle wouldn't hurt me because I'd also grown two inches in height, reaching six-two, and I figured I had one or two more growth spurts in me. We had fun exploring Jackson Hole and took two day trips to Yellowstone Park. We dined lavishly, or Alana made simple meals in our suite of rooms. She adored horses, and we went riding once a week. The horses were nags, but we didn't care. It was honeymoon-like, except we worked. She modeled until her muscles screamed for relief; I worked like a mad man on the pastel paintings that would become Aspects of Alana and another series of watercolors I'd come up with a few days after we arrived in Jackson Hole. And we made love whenever the mood struck us, which was frequent. My love for Alana had continued to deepen. I'd never loved another woman in any of my lives like I loved Alana. She was my soul mate. Alana's love for me didn't deepen. I believe she loved me completely from the first. A propitious event happened two days before we planned to return to Santa Fe. We'd just finished dinner at the Westbank Grill when a middle-aged woman walked up to our table. She introduced herself and asked if she could join us. Erin Persohn was an attractive, flashy redhead. I guessed her age at forty, but from the look around her eyes, I also guessed that she'd had some plastic-surgery done to maintain her youthful appearance, so my guess was probably shy of her real age by five to ten years. "I've been told that you are an artist," she said after I'd held her chair like a gentleman so she could sit. She had a gravelly voice. I suspected that she'd been a smoker not far into her past. "I am," I said. "I've also been told that you are a very good artist," she said. "I am," I said. She chuckled and said, "I am an artist's agent, a very good artist's agent. Perhaps we can do business." She gave me her business card. "Perhaps," I said. "May I see your work?" "Yes," I said. "When?" "Do you need the paintings hung and lighted to best advantage while I wax eloquently with metaphorical and lyrical phrases about my work?" She laughed gaily and said, "No." "Then now would be good," I said. I signed for our meal, and Erin Persohn rode with us on the elevator to the eighth floor, and I let her into our home away from home. "I was told that you've been using one of the bedrooms in your suite as a studio," she said. "You're remarkably well-informed," I said. "Thank you," she said. I said, "While I've been here, I've finished two series of paintings. One series includes twelve watercolor paintings of life in and around Jackson Hole. One evening shortly after Alana and I arrived here, we put on our shit-kicker duds and went out to do some dancing. I was struck that night by the interesting juxtaposition of authentic locals and duded-up tourists. I bought a good digital camera and took hundreds of photographs, did some sketching of some bar scenes, pencil and conte crayon portraits of some of the local characters and a few flashy tourists, that sort of thing, and from that field work created the series I call Life in Jackson Hole. We'll start with that series." In my studio, I laid a large portfolio case on a work table and opened it. I stepped back and motioned Ms. Persohn to leaf through the matted watercolor paintings. She didn't comment or hurry. She studied each painting with a critical eye, sometimes removing one of them and placing it on a nearby easel so she could step back and view the painting from the proper distance. When she finished, she said, "You have an amazing understanding of the medium for one so young." "Thank you," I said. "Please tell me you don't have an agent," she said. "All right," I said. "I don't have an agent." "I'll represent you, if you wish," she said. "We'll talk about that. Would you like to see the other series?" "I would," she said. I put the watercolors back in the portfolio case, zipped it up and set it aside, and then put an even larger case on the table. I opened it, and stepped aside again. "Jesus!" she breathed when her eyes landed on Introspection, the top painting in the case from my Aspects of Alana series. She handled the pastel paintings with care, but this time she hurried through the portfolio. When she finished, she turned to Alana and said, "You've been immortalized, young lady." "I know," Alana said. The agent went back to the portfolio. This time she took out each painting and placed them one at a time on the easel and spent a minute or two looking at each of them. She turned her attention to Alana again and said, "If I were a man, I'd have a hard-on." My jaw gaped. Alana giggled and said, "I'm happy to report that on occasion while posing for those paintings that I gave Eric a hard-on." "What do you call this series?" Ms. Persohn said to me. "Aspects of Alana," I said. "I named the painting on the easel Satiated." "That pose came about after one of the times I gave him a hard-on," Alana quipped. The agent laughed and said, "I like you, Alana. What's your favorite painting?" Alana placed the painting she selected on the easel. "This one. Eric calls it Love. He says my love for him oozes from my pores in this one." "Whew! It sure does. It sizzles!" She turned to me and said, "Let's sit down and talk business." "Let's," I said. In the living room, I offered the agent a drink. She asked for scotch on ice. "We don't have any liquor in our suite. I can order the drink from room service. They're fairly prompt," I said. "No need," she said as she sat in an overstuffed chair. Alana and I sat side by side in the loveseat. I took her hand in mine. She gave me a happy smile. "I can set up a one-man show here in Jackson Hole for the watercolor series," she said. "How would you price the paintings?" I asked. "An average of $1,000 to $1,500," she said. "What's your cut and what cut will the gallery owner want?" I said. "I charge my client's 20% of what they get. The gallery owners vary on their cuts. For unknown artists it can go as high as 60%." "What about shipping and framing costs?" I asked. "Again, that depends on the gallery, but the artist usually pays those expenses, especially if the artist is unknown," she said. "Ms. Persohn, I..." "Erin, please," she said. "Surely we can use first names by now." "All right, Erin it is. I'm not a starving artist, but what I make from my art is important to me. It's a matter of respect if nothing else. I'll pay you your 20% but I won't take less than 50% from any gallery, and I won't pay shipping or framing costs. But before we do any arm wrestling about these details, tell me what my work represented by Aspects of Alana will sell for, and where will you show the paintings?" She sat back and gave me a hard look. "You're a cocky buckaroo, aren't you?" Buckaroo indeed. I chuckled but said nothing. "I'll place Aspects of Alana in a New York gallery, a one-man show. The paintings will be priced at an average of $5,000 minimum. They could go higher depending on the buyer's list and attitude of the gallery owner I select to show your work. And the gallery will pay shipping and framing costs. Travel expenses for the openings will be yours, and I insist that Alana attend the opening with you." "I wouldn't have it any other way," I said. "Do we have a deal?" she said. "We do after I do some due diligence to find out if you can perform as stated," I said. "I'm a minor, but I had an attorney in Santa Fe—that's where we live—create an LLC for my art business. Prepare your contract for Aspects, LLC." I gave her a business card for Aspects that I'd made on my laptop. "E-mail the contract to me. I'll have my attorney review the contract while I'm doing the due diligence I mentioned. If the contract is approved and you check out, my father will sign the contract at my direction and return it to you. I assume you plan to lock all of my production into the contract." "Of course," she said, grinning. "I'll be busy over the coming year earning money otherwise, but after the year is finished, I will be able to do four one-man shows per year, maybe five. Keep that in mind when you draft your contract," I said. "I have an affiliation with a gallery in Santa Fe," she said. "Can you do a show there this year?" "Yes," I said. ------- Chapter 30 When Alana and I left Santa Fe, we wanted to avoid the airport in Albuquerque, so I chartered a plane to fly us to Jackson Hole from Santa Fe's Municipal Airport, an airport that provided no commercial flights. So, my reunion with my parents happened when Alana and I stepped out of the secure area of the Albuquerque airport. It was a joyful reunion. When Mom hugged me, she gushed, "Wow, Eric, you're turning into a hunk. How many pounds have you gained?" "Thirty, thereabouts," I said. "And it's all muscle," Alana said, beaming. I'd kept in close touch with my parents via cell phone during our stay in Jackson Hole. Dad managed to sell his landscaping maintenance business. He didn't get much for it, but his customers didn't suffer like they would if he'd just closed up shop. He was happy, so I was happy. He'd also sat for and passed the test to become a landscape contractor. And Dad and Maureen had found the acreage for our new home, a five-acre parcel with an older home already built on the land. We paid $650,000 for the property, and with a 50% down payment, the seller carried back the balance for five years with equal annual payments plus 8% interest with no prepayment penalty. The closing took place two weeks ago, and Dad and Maureen had moved into the house. Anticipating the move, they'd also sold both of their trailers. With help from the real estate agent handling the sale of the acreage, Dad e-mailed the plot plan, floor plan, and photographs of the house to me in Jackson Hole, and I'd been doodling with how the property could be best utilized considering our requirements. I'd get serious about that effort after Alana and I were settled in our temporary quarters with my parents. I think Alana's beauty stunned my father. I could hardly wait to show him the nudes I'd rendered of her in pastels. Would he get a hard-on? Then I chastised myself for the thought. It had just popped into my mind. Damn you, Erin Persohn, for putting it there. Alana had been worried that my parents wouldn't accept her. Maureen put those worries to rest before we arrived back in Santa Fe. I sat up front with Dad in my Honda Accord. He drove. And Maureen and Alana sat in the back. The ladies talked clothes and shopping. They talked makeup. They talked food and cooking and decorating. Alana answered question after question Maureen posed about our time in Jackson Hole, and Alana asked questions about the house and land that would become her new home. The old house had a double master suite layout with the living area in between the two bedrooms. After some remodeling, Dad and Maureen said the house would fit their needs, but we wouldn't remodel the old house until my home was ready for occupancy. We'd build my studio and Maureen's, and Dad's office facility and warehouse at the same time as construction proceeded on my house. "Eric, tomorrow without fail, you must call a woman named Paula Rittenhouse," Dad said. "She's your case worker with the Family Court. She wants to schedule a drug test and get you going on the 100 hours of community service. I have her phone number at home. She's a little irritated with the delays because you were out of town." "All right," I said. I'd frankly forgotten about both items. "What kind of community service does she have in mind for me?" "Don't know," he said. "Did UPS deliver my packages to the house today?" "Not before we left," he said. "What's in the packages?" "My art equipment and supplies, two portfolio cases with my finished artwork, and some clothing and other items we bought in Jackson Hole. As it was, I still had to pay extra for our luggage," I said. "I'm amazed how many more clothes, shoes, whatever, that women must have than men." "That's for sure," Dad said. "I heard that, Johannes," Maureen said. Dad laughed and said, "Tell us we're wrong." "I can't," Maureen said, "but it isn't nice to bring it up." ------- After a quick tour of the house, Alana and I put our things in our bedroom suite. It was a letdown after our residence in the Four Seasons in Jackson Hole, but we'd make do until we could build our own home. The Four Seasons would be a letdown after we lived in the architecture I'd design for my house. "Put on some shoes that can take some damage, and let's stomp around the acreage," I said. "We'll pick out the site for our house." She smiled and said, "I'm up for that. Your mother likes me; I'm not so sure about your dad." "My father wants nothing more than my happiness. You make me happy, Alana. He'll see that, and he will love you for it." "It's that simple, huh?" she said as she started to strip off her clothes. "Yes. What are you doing?" "Changing clothes. I can't wear hiking boots in a dress, silly." I grunted. That she made sense was scary. "I'll meet you in the kitchen," I said. "Afraid to stay and watch me change clothes, huh?" "You betcha. Now is not the time for some sexual shenanigans." She laughed. "Anytime is the time for sexual shenanigans when we're in these rooms, buckaroo." I groaned. She'd picked up on Erin's nickname for me. Mother was in the kitchen. "Iced tea?" she said. "Sounds good. Alana and I are going to walk around the acreage, possibly to pick out the site for our home, and maybe the sites for the other outbuildings." "May your father and I join you?" "Sure," I said as she handed me a glass of iced tea. "I'll go change clothes." I chuckled as she hurried from the room. Ice clicked in an empty glass when Dad walked into the kitchen. "Maureen said you were going to pick out the site for your home," he said as he poured a glass of tea for himself, motioned with the pitcher, and after I nodded, he filled my glass again. It was time for me to drop another bombshell of yet another skill set Hector gave me from on high. "Yes," I said. "Dad, I will do the preliminary architectural design work for our improvements to this acreage." Instead of looking surprised, he chuckled and said, "Fine by me. Besides art, you think you're also an architect, huh?" "You betcha," I said. "I'll want involvement with the landscaping plan," he said. "I figure the compound will become an example of the quality of work Kleiner Landscaping Company can provide. I'll also want to give you input on my offices and warehouse. I've been thinking about what I want out of life, Eric." He chuckled. "Being around you makes a man dream big dreams. Besides being a landscape contractor, I want to own a nursery, so I folded a nursery into my long-term goals. The nursery will be a wholesale operation to service other landscape contractors but will also have a small, quality retail operation for the general public. With this in mind, I don't want a large warehouse on this property, and the office space won't be my permanent office, more a home office than a place to do business." "Dad! That's a great idea!" I exclaimed. He cocked his head and said, "It means another year of poker playing for you." "No problem," I said. "I told you that I'd support you to become all you can be. This is fantastic! I'm very pleased." "Thanks," he said. "That girl of yours, she's a beauty." "Yes she is. I love her a lot, Dad." "I could see that. I could also see that as much as you love her she loves you more. I'm happy for you, Son." ------- I stood on the site of my new home and looked to the east toward the blue and purple Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Sunrise would be a sight to behold. "We'll build our home here, Alana," I said and hugged her waist with my right arm. "We'll do tai chi at sunrise and watch the light of a new sun march across the high desert and warm the earth." "Yes, we will," Alana said. "This area is a little steep," Dad said. "The entrance will be at ground level and it will have a walk-out basement," I said. "We'll mold the house so it fits the environment around it, so it flows with the land." I pointed to the left, down slop from where we were standing. "And I'll build my studio there." "Where will we build the barn and stables?" Alana asked. "Barn? Stables?" Dad said. "Yes," I said. "Alana and I enjoy horses and riding. Besides a small barn and stables for four horses, we'll use some of the land for a dressage arena. And with your help, we'll turn some of the acreage into pasture. Horses are like children. They need room to run and play." "Pastures use a lot of water," he said. "Use drought resistant native grasses," I said. He nodded and said, "I can do that." I pointed to the right and said, "The horse facilities will be situated in that direction, far enough away from our home that the smells won't intrude, but close enough so we don't have to go on a hike to take care of the horses. Mom, your studio can adjoin mine, one building, two spaces. We'll share some of the facilities, like a bathroom and small kitchen and lounge area." "I like that, Eric," Maureen said. "You don't know, but I got a job working with a potter, sort of an apprenticeship. I start working for him the first of the month. I figured if I wanted to be a potter, I'd learn quicker under the direction of a professional potter." "Mom! That's great! And I think you're right about how to learn the art." "I don't know if I'd call Greg Randolph an artist. Most of the pottery he sells comes from molds, but I'll learn the basics if nothing else," she said. "Yes, you will. Dad, with your reduced need for warehouse space, let's make it part of the garage structure." He shrugged and said, "Fine by me." "And if your office space will eventually become a home office, we'll do an addition to your house when we remodel that building for your offices. That way you'll have access to your home office without leaving your house." "I like the sound of that," he said, grinning. "It gets cold here in the winter." I rubbed my hands together. "Good. I'll go shopping tomorrow." "Shopping?" Alana and Maureen said at the same time. "For architectural equipment and supplies, not clothes," I said. They looked disappointed. "I'll also search for a temporary studio for both my art and my architectural work." "Don't forget to call Paula Rittenhouse," Dad said. ------- Paula Rittenhouse was a bitter overweight woman in her late twenties or early thirties. I suppose working with drug addicts can make you bitter, but I think Ms. Rittenhouse was born sour and grew more bad-tempered and disagreeable as she aged. She took an immediate dislike to me, and she didn't trust me. She drove me to the drug testing facility and by ordering a male lab technician to watch me pee in the cup made sure I couldn't defraud the test. On the drive back to her office, she said, "If you fail a drug test, I'll have you back in court so fast your head will spin." "I won't fail a drug test," I said. "We'll see," she said. "What do you have in mind for my community service?" I asked. "I'll leave that to you, but I want the 100 hours completed by the first of September, and don't select a community service that involves drugs in any manner, like volunteering at a halfway house for addicts." "While surfing the internet last night, I was impressed with what St. Elizabeth Shelter is doing for the homeless. They accept volunteers. I suppose some of the Shelter's homeless are involved with drugs, but..." "Volunteering at St. Elizabeth Shelter is acceptable," she said. "When we get back to my office, I'll give you a form to give them. They'll report your progress to me." "When will you have the results of the blood test?" "Tomorrow," she said. "Don't call me. If you don't hear from me, you passed. If you didn't pass, it'll be back to court for you." "When will you want me to test again?" I asked. "At a time of my choosing," she said. ------- I figured I'd better find my temporary studio before buying the equipment for the architectural work on the compound. To that end, I bought a newspaper and searched through the classifieds while I ate my lunch. The first two possibilities didn't pan out, but the third, although not perfect, would do nicely. It was a warehouse-like space with an overhead door, a people door, and a loft. The lower level had a freestanding double stainless steel sink, and the loft was configured into a studio apartment. I asked for a one-year lease, giving the real estate agent my Aspects, LLC, business card. "E-mail the lease to me this afternoon, if possible; I'll have my attorney review it. If it's acceptable, my father will sign the lease tomorrow. I'll call you when it's signed, and I'll give you a check for the security deposit and the first's month's rent when you pick up the signed document. When will I given the keys?" "As soon as the owner signs the lease. If you don't make any changes to the lease, you'll have the keys and your copy of a fully executed lease the day after you turn over the signed lease and check to me. As I said, the utilities are your responsibility. They're turned on now, but the owner will order them turned off a day or two after you take occupancy, so call the water, gas and electric company to put the utilities in your name." By then it was late afternoon. I hoped my attorney was still in her office. I had not met her. I'd hired her via the telephone to create the LLC while I was in Jackson Hole, and Dad had used her to form Kleiner Landscaping Company. Before I turned anymore work over to her, I wanted to meet her. She was still at her office when I called, and she said she'd be happy to meet me. Nancy Spiker, Attorney at Law, looked like Paula Rittenhouse at first glance. She was in her late twenties or early thirties and she was overweight. That's where the resemblance ended. Mrs. Spiker was a happy woman with a can-do personality. I liked her immediately. I told her about the studio lease and the forthcoming contract from my artist's agent. She said she'd review both documents promptly and call me with any problems. We chatted briefly. She was married and had a little boy. Her husband, Dennis, was also an attorney, except he handled criminal cases, and he was a partner in a medium-sized local firm. When I landed back at the house and hooked up my computer, the lease was in my inbox. I forwarded it to Nancy, printed it, and then read it carefully. I didn't see any problems. My art equipment and supplies had arrived along with the other boxes I'd shipped from Jackson Hole. "Are you going to show your parents your paintings?" Alana asked. "Yes, but not for a few days. I'll show them in my studio. They'll have more impact there than here in the house. The studio has track lighting and lots of wall space." She giggled nervously. "I hope your father won't think ill of me for posing nude for you." "I don't believe Johannes Kleiner is a prude," I said. ------- The next day, I signed up for volunteer work at the St. Elizabeth Shelter. They operated two shelters: the emergency shelter, and the overflow shelter. The overflow shelter was open every night from November to March for anyone in need of a safe, warm place to spend the night. No one was turned away. At 7,000 feet elevation, Santa Fe gets cold during the winter months and sleeping outdoors can become life threatening. They also offered some housing programs, sort of halfway houses where the homeless paid partial rents, and a unique service they called Street Homeless Companion Animal Assistance. For many homeless individuals, pets are their only family. St. Elizabeth, like most shelters, does not allow guests to bring their animals inside with them, so many homeless men and women choose to continue living on the streets rather than abandon their pets. The Companion Animal program assists these individuals to properly care for their animals, while enhancing their sense of responsibility and connection to society. The program provides leashes, harnesses, registration tags, and licenses, and pays for vaccinations, spaying and neutering, and emergency medical care. I hoped that I'd be assigned to work in the Companion Animal program. After I filled out the volunteer application, the woman I spoke with assigned me to man the front desk. She said all volunteers started at either the front desk or the Resource Center check-in counter. She did make a note of my preference. With an inward groan, I committed to four hours a day for five days a week to complete my 100 hours community service sentence before the first of September. I'd start Monday the following week. With poker, the preliminary design work on the compound, two art openings to attend, and twelve more paintings for the show Erin wanted me to do in Santa Fe this year, I was going to be a busy boy. That evening when I complained about the time I had to commit to community service right now and why, Dad said, "There's nothing that says you have to complete the service by September. I'll talk with Ms. Rittenhouse." Good luck, I thought. ------- Bureaucracies are a pain in the buttocks, and a utility company is nothing if not a bureaucracy. I wanted the utilities in the name of my LLC. With no payment history, the electricity and gas companies wanted deposits, and because I was a minor, Dad had to do the running around to pay the deposits. He cooperated, though, and I took occupancy of my temporary studio with the utilities in my name. The CAD Plotter and HP Scanner, and a desktop computer arrived separately from the rest of my architectural equipment and supplies. Dad helped me set everything up, and he had a million questions about each piece of equipment, what it did and how it worked. "Will the CAD Plotter print landscaping plans on large pieces of paper?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "Can you create landscaping plans using CAD software on your computer?" "Yes." "Will you teach me how to do that?" he said, surprising me. "I'll let you watch me do it, and I'll explain each step I take," I said. "And you can use this computer with the CAD software anytime I'm not using it, or we'll buy you a computer of your own and install the software. I'll also answer questions that come up while you're working with the software. The software comes with an instruction manual. I'm not a very good teacher, Dad, but I'll do the best I can." "Fair enough," he said. "If I can offer landscape design services along with landscape contracting, I'll get more jobs, sort of a design/build process. And with the nursery, I can be a one-stop service for other contractors as well as do-it-yourself buyers. I talked to Maureen's old boss. I don't know if you remember, but he's a CPA. He's helping me put together a business plan." "You've really been thinking about your future, Dad, and from what you've been telling me, I think you're on the right track. Keep in mind that you can hire someone with CAD experience to work for you, not a landscape architect, but rather a draftsman familiar with CAD. Also, the SBA will help you with your business plan. Help from two sources is better than one." "SBA?" he said. "Yes, the Small Business Administration. We fund the government organization with our tax dollars, so they don't charge for their assistance." "I'll check them out," Dad said. The door to the studio opened, and Maureen and Alana walked in. "We're here to clean," Maureen said, grinning. "Halleluiah!" I cheered. "You can start in the loft, and then finish up down here after Dad and I get everything set up. Alana, you've been decorating our bedroom suite. How about decorating the loft, too?" "I can do that," she said, smiling broadly. While Alana and I were in Jackson Hole, we'd talked about what we'd want in our house, and we'd surfed the internet together looking at architecture and web sites devoted to exceptional interior design. It didn't take me long to realize that Alana was a natural as an interior decorator. She'd spent hours on the computer by herself to visually hone the skill. Sometimes she'd show me an interior and tell me what was wrong with it and how she'd fix it. She was unerringly correct with both the assessments and the fixes. I don't know when she stopped wanting to be a paralegal and, instead, wanted to become an interior decorator, but she'd announced the new goal on the flight from Jackson Hole to Albuquerque. I'd told her that I'd support her new goal 100%. After the ladies climbed the stairs to the loft, lugging their cleaning gear, Dad said, "I talked with Paula Rittenhouse. God, what a bitch! She wouldn't budge an inch. Her negative, obstructionist attitude pissed me off, so I went over her head. You can perform your community service over a year's time from the date of sentencing." "Halleluiah!" I cheered again. I opened my cell phone, looked up the number of St. Elizabeth Shelter, and dialed. Certainly, I could stretch out my community service, I was told. Yes, two hours a day three days a week would be acceptable. They appreciated any and all volunteer labor they could get. I told them that I'd report in Monday, as planned, and discuss the schedule change then. "Thanks, Dad," I said after I hung up. "Hey, that's what Dad's are for," he said. ------- My first art opening was scheduled for Sunday evening. The attendees would total only two people: my parents. The show was a surprise. Ostensibly, they were meeting Alana and me to go out to dinner to celebrate our reunion. I'd made reservations at the SantaCafe. That morning, Alana had helped me hang my paintings and adjust the track lighting to highlight each painting. I'd grouped each series together on separate walls, and when I stepped back to view what my parents would see when they arrived, even I was stunned by the impact my paintings had on my visual sense. It was emotionally primeval for me, like I'd been taken back to the source of life. Art truly separates man from beast. "Hey," I whispered, "I'm a pretty good artist." I hadn't meant the words to go beyond me, but Alana heard them. "You're not just good, buckaroo, you're great!" I grinned. "That's because I had a great model." She suddenly looked worried. "What are you concerned about, Alana?" I said. "I'm worried about three things," she said. "First, as I mentioned before, I'm afraid your dad will think ill of me for posing in the nude. The other two worries are silly." "Tell me," I said. She groaned but said, "That your dad will get a hard-on." I silently cursed Erin Persohn yet again for putting that concept in our minds. "And my last worry is that he won't," she said, and grinned mischievously. I laughed uproariously. "I'll be damned if he does and damned if he doesn't," she said, grinning. "Which would you prefer?" I said. "Bulging trousers," she said. "Does that make me a bad person?" "No, just a woman who appreciates the male salute to her alluring beauty," I said, took her into my arms, and kissed her. ------- Dad and Mom arrived at the studio with a pickup full of ficus benjamina trees in earthenware pots, but I didn't find that out until a little later. "Gotcha a studio warming gift, Son," Dad said as he walked into the studio leaving the door open. "Nothing brightens a place up like some live green foliage. Where do you... ? Oh, my God!" The sight of my Life in Jackson Hole watercolor paintings had stopped his speech and rooted him to the floor. "Maureen!" he yelled. "You've got to see..." He stopped speaking again when he turned and Aspects of Alana came into his view. "What are you caterwauling about, Johannes?" Maureen said as she stepped through the door. "I thought..." Like her husband, she stopped speaking in mid-sentence, but added a breathy, "Jesus." "Surprise!" I said inanely. Alana giggled. "What you see is the result of two months of concentrated work," I said and took my mother's hand to walk her to my father. Like my dad, she stopped again when she saw Aspects of Alana. I had to encourage her by pulling on her hand, but finally I stood between the two of them, my left arm around my mother's waist, and my right hand on my father's shoulder as they gazed at my pastel Alana series." "I painted two series of very different paintings while Alana and I were in Jackson Hole. You're looking at what I call Aspects of Alana, fifteen pastel paintings that celebrate the female form and emotions." They didn't speak, so I continued my spiel, standing them at the proper viewing distance in front of each painting, naming the painting, adding some short explanatory comments, and then guiding them to the next. Alana joined us. My father put his arm around her waist and said, "You are a beautiful woman, Alana, but I didn't understand the extent of your beauty, not until now. Now I see you through my son's eyes, and your beauty through his eyes takes my breath away, stuns me." You silver-tongued devil, I thought. The Life in Jackson Hole series was anticlimactic for them after viewing Aspects of Alana. The watercolor paintings were very good, good enough for a one-man show, but they paled in comparison to Aspects of Alana. I worried that I'd never again reach the pinnacle of my art that Aspects represented. "While in Jackson Hole, an artist's agent name Erin Persohn approached me," I said. "Today via e-mail, I received the contract for her to act as my agent to set up one-man shows of my work. Since I returned to Santa Fe, I've been checking her out. From all indications she's on the top ten list of artist's agents in the country. The Life in Jackson Hole series will be my first art opening for a one-man show in Jackson Hole next month, and Aspects of Alana will be shown in New York City in another one-man show the following month. Erin has also arranged a one-man show at a gallery in Santa Fe sometime this year, depending on when I can turn over at least twelve paintings to the gallery. That's why I was so upset that my community service would be taking half my day five days a week. Thank you again for solving that problem, Dad." He grinned and said, "That's what dads are for." After Dad and I did some serious grunting while removing the ficus trees from the back of his pickup and placing them in various locations in the studio, we left for dinner. As we were leaving, I whispered to Alana, "Did he, or didn't he?" Understanding my question, she said, "He demonstrated the perfect response: a half-bulge." ------- Alana's father had not one but two life insurance policies. One was a straight-forward life insurance policy for $10,000, and the insurance company paid. The other was an accidental death policy for $100,000. Murder, which isn't an accident, was excluded from the policy. The insurance company that wrote the accidental death policy refused to pay, and the attorney I'd hired to handle Alana's affairs told me that suing the company would be a waste of my money. The equity for the house in Albuquerque was negative, so she let the house go back to the lenders to fight over. I wanted Alana to have her own money, so I didn't tell her the accidental death policy had no value, and instead, transferred $100,000 of my money into her off-shore account. With money of her own, she insisted on paying me back for the cost of the funerals for her parents and her brother. I could see that paying for the funerals was important to her, so I told her they cost $10,000 each, and she wrote me a check for $30,000. In truth the funerals, the way I had to go about getting them done, cost double that amount. So, Alana had some money of her own, and she came to me wanting to spend some of it. "Eric," she said, "I want to buy gravestones for my parents and brother, but I don't want to put you and your family at jeopardy if the Syndicate still wants me dead. Would you help me get this accomplished so it doesn't come back on us?" "I will," I said. "And I want to buy my own car," she added. "All right," I said. She'd been using the repaired Civic, but being a teenage boy, I understood the importance to her of owning her own vehicle. "If you buy a car, we won't need the Civic. You may have it as a trade-in." "No, give that car to Maureen. Hers is about to die a painful death—her words," Alana said. "Besides, if I used the Civic as a trade-in, the new car wouldn't be my car. It would be my car and your car." I grinned and said, "I understand." Then an idea came to mind. "Ask Dad to help you select the car and negotiate the best deal possible." Alana cocked her head, one of many enduring characteristics about her that I adored. She said with a grin, "That's Machiavellian." I chuckled and said, "No, just a perfect bonding experience. What kind of car do you want?" "I'm going to be an interior decorator, right?" she said. "You betcha," I said. We'd discussed college for her and decided to put it off for one more year. It would be too dangerous for her to have transcripts sent from her high school to colleges. Decorating our bedroom suite gave her hands-on experience, and she'd decorate our new home, so she would be learning the business by doing. She planned to handle the decorating of our home like a professional decorator with design boards showing the furniture, fabrics, floor coverings, and so forth, and I'd told her about CAD. She was reading the manual for the software, and when the time came I'd give her some lessons so she could create perspective drawings of what a room would look like after she'd applied her decorating talent. "And interior decorators haul stuff around, right?" she said. "Yep," I said. "I don't want a pickup truck. I'm not the pickup type, right?" "That's for sure," I said. Any other answer would have been foolish. Besides, she wasn't the pickup truck type, although she looked sexy as all get out braless in a wife-beater t-shirt. Whew! "I'd like an SUV," she said. "An SUV it is then," I said. When she spoke to my father about buying an SUV, he said, "You'll want either a Honda Pilot or a Ford Explorer. We'll test drive both, compare prices, and you can pick the one you want. Let me do the negotiations, though." She bought the Pilot in "formal" black, and the bonding experience with my father worked to bring the two of them closer than any other activity could have accomplished. Dad's new relationship with Alana did present a new problem for me. "You love her, right?" Dad said to me privately the day after he helped Alana buy her SUV. "Yes. She is my soul mate," I said. "And she loves you, right?" Dad said. "Yes." "Then you should make an honest woman out of her," he said, his expression leaving no room for argument. I wanted to marry Alana, but the longest period I'd occupied a body other than my own had been the five months I'd lived as Debra Oakman. I worried about Alana becoming a widow at age nineteen. Yes, nineteen. Debra had a birthday while we were in Jackson Hole. I did, too. I turned seventeen on the seventh of July. I had not known it was my birthday until Dad and Maureen called to wish me a happy birthday. Alana and I had gone out on the town to celebrate my seventeenth like we'd celebrated her nineteenth on the twenty-fifth of June. My father's admonition did, however, give me an idea. ------- Chapter 31 The occasion had been convened to celebrate my passing the G.E.D. examinations that officially made me a high school graduate. I had another purpose in mind. Alana wore a little black dress that knocked my socks off. I wore a new navy suit. My old suit no longer fit. I was 6'-3" tall and 185 pounds that night. My shoulders had widened, and my chest had deepened, and I had six-pack abs. I figured another fifteen pounds would do it for me if I didn't grow any taller. We turned heads when we walked into el Faro, the restaurant where we'd had our first lunch together. We hadn't returned for dinner, but if their dinner was a good as their lunch, el Faro would become my favorite restaurant in Santa Fe. When I say we turned heads, it would be more accurate to say that most of the heads turned for Alana. Still, I noticed a few women checking me out. We dined lavishly. I loved it that Alana didn't worry about calories when we celebrated, or if she did, she at least didn't mention how fattening everything was. She took her pleasures where she found them, and tai chi and running with me every other morning kept her weight right where she wanted it. Her hips had widened slightly, I'd noticed. I said nothing, but I appreciated her more womanly form. If Hector let me hang around long enough that Alana and I married and she became pregnant, I'd do a series of her depicting various stages of her pregnancy. I'd call the series the Miracle of New Life, and that series, I believed, could cap the Aspects of Alana series and become the new pinnacle for me to reach for and possibly exceed with my work. The next series, the Madonna and Child series, could do that. I need three more years minimum, Hector. Do you hear me? Nothing. No response. Back at the house, instead of retiring for the night, I suggested a walk to our new home site. "Okay," Alana said. "I'll change my shoes." "No, we'll be careful. There's a full moon, we'll be able to see well enough to avoid tripping or scuffing our shoes. We strolled hand in hand admiring the night sky and the black Sangre de Cristo Mountains off in the distance. When we stood on the ground where our new home would rise up to give us our own place to live and grow, I turned her to me. "Alana, I love you. I love you with all my heart, all my mind, with every breath I take. You are my soul mate. When I turn eighteen, when I become a man according to the laws of the land, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" I'd solved my dilemma about making Alana a widow at nineteen. If Hector swapped me again before I turned eighteen, she wouldn't be a widow. If he didn't transport me to another body until after I turned eighteen, then I'd marry her anyway. I loved her. I wanted her for my wife. I'd surprised her. The light of the moon shined in her startled eyes. I had another worry. Alana was Catholic; I wasn't. That roadblock had to be breached. "I'm not Catholic," I said before she could respond. "I believe in a God, perhaps the Catholic God, but if I agreed to become Catholic, I'd be living a lie. Nevertheless, I want you for my wife to love and cherish for all the remaining days of my life. I want you to be the mother of my children. Please say you will marry me." She didn't leap into my arms and exclaim, "Yes!" She didn't say no, either. She placed the palms of her hands gently on each side of my face, looked up at me with love in her shining, dark eyes and said, "Yes, I will marry you, Eric, my knight in shining armor. I love you more than I can say. Not spending the rest of my days with you would be torture. I'm Catholic, but my God understands." Then she kissed me with love, not passion. I took the engagement ring that I'd purchased for the occasion from my suit pocket and slipped it on her finger, which suddenly altered her serious demeanor. She squealed with joy, waved her finger in the moonlight and shouted, "I'm going to be Mrs. Eric Kleiner! Thank you, God!" ------- Milestones. Life is made up of milestones. I rushed the completion of the preliminary designs for the compound for two reasons. Winter would arrive in Santa Fe before we were ready. I wanted the new buildings closed in before the snows fell. And, I wanted the design work done before my first one-man show in Jackson Hole. While I worked on the designs, I selected the architectural firm we'd hire to do the working drawings, and Dad had pointed me at a general contractor that he believed would do a good job at a reasonable price. Dad and I also conferred with a bank about the construction loan. We'd paid off the seller of the house and acreage, so the property was free and clear. The bank liked that. We also had over $500,000 cash on hand. The bank liked that, too. And they really liked the backup take-out permanent loan we arranged should my poker winnings fall short. We didn't mention my poker winnings to the bank. I presented the preliminary designs for the construction loan in the presentation room in the offices of the architectural firm I'd selected to work with me on the compound. In attendance at the presentation were a representative from the architectural firm, the general contractor, two executives from the bank, and my family, including Alana. She and I had worked together to create some fantastic renderings of some interiors. My father would stand up to present the landscaping plan, which was phenomenal. He understood the climate and the plants that would flourish in Santa Fe, and his design sense surprised me. The presentation went well. The bank committed to the construction loan, and the architectural firm started the working drawings. Two weeks later, the plans were submitted for building permits, and the City Building Department responded faster than I'd believed a bureaucracy could act. We broke ground in time to close in the structures before the first snow flew—hopefully. My paintings sold out the night of the opening in Jackson Hole. The average selling price had been increased to $2,000 by the gallery owner when he received them in crates from UPS. The gallery owner was ecstatic with the results. So was Erin. She was really looking forward to the show in New York. So was I. After I finished the preliminary designs, I started the series of paintings for the Santa Fe show: Santa Fe Landscapes. I wanted to call the series Alana in Santa Fe, but with her death sentence and the possible publicity we'd receive from the opening, I couldn't. The paintings featured Alana both wearing clothes and nude in front of backdrops of Santa Fe scenes. I completed the series just before the New York show. Erin said she'd schedule the Santa Fe opening for the week before Christmas. Milestones, the events of life. I started to worry how long I'd remain Eric Kleiner. At the New York show, my life as Eric Kleiner would be five months old, the same term for my life as Debra Oakman. When I'd opened my eyes as Eric Kleiner, I was a drug addict, under arrest for dealing drugs, expelled from school, in other words, a complete mess. In five months I'd turned Eric Kleiner's messy world on its ear. My new father had married the love of his life and was working two landscaping contractor jobs, work he enjoyed and in which he excelled. My mother was happy working for a professional potter, trying to become all she could be. I'd saved my fiancée from a death sentence, and she was also learning her chosen craft and would become all she could be. And as Eric Kleiner I was succeeding even beyond my expectations. Given the time, I'd become the artist I'd always wanted to be. When I was Aaron MacDonald, I'd gone into architecture because I didn't want to be a starving artist. Texas hold 'em poker came later. I worried. Had I achieved what Hector wanted me to achieve as Eric Kleiner. Would lighting soon flash down out of the sky and move my essence to another body? Stop worrying. The two words resonated in my mind as if someone had spoken them. Hector? I said silently. I waited with bated breath. Nothing. No response. Did I stop worrying? No. As the days flew past I attributed the two words to my imagination. Wishful thinking, that's what it was, I told myself. I loved my life as Eric Kleiner. I liked my new, youthful body. I loved my new parents. And most of all I loved Alana. I'd told my father that she was my soul mate. I'd told him the truth. As Aaron MacDonald there was no Alana. As John Windom there was no Alana. As Debra Oakman there was no Alana. If Hector moved me again, I'd die. I wouldn't want to live without my Alana at my side. And my to-do list had not gotten any shorter. Each time I reached one milestone, I created another. I wanted to marry Alana. I'd create an Alana Wedding series from that event. And more than anything, I wanted to paint the Miracle of New Life and Madonna and Child series. I'd loved Piper. I still loved her. Whatever body I occupied, I'd love her. I'd love her until I died. In my mind, she was my daughter. But I would also love the daughter Alana and I would have. I'd love her as much as I loved Piper. And a little boy. I'd love my son with Alana, too. Just as much. Just as much. I need five more years minimum, Hector. Do you hear me? Nothing. No response. ------- The New York art scene is nuts. I'd never seen so many weirdoes in one place in my life, any life. I looked sedate in my navy suit, white shirt and regimental striped tie. Alana looked gorgeous in her little black dress. She stole the show. I didn't mind, except predatory men sniffed around her like she was carrion and they were hyenas. I loved her more when I saw how she handled their overtures, pushing them away without offending, except for one jerk. I stepped in and marched him to the door. I was pleased that I'd remained so calm. I didn't break any of his bones. The Aspects of Alana paintings sold out during the pre-show that Alana and I didn't attend. The average selling price for each painting was $10,000. I have to admit, I didn't know about pre-show sales. Erin had mentioned buyer's lists, but I had not known what she meant. Evidently, gallery owners have buyer's lists made up of art lovers, collectors, and investors that gallery owners give first rights to purchase works in their one-man shows. Except for one sour holdout, the praise from the art critics was effusive, and Erin told me the holdout praised only mediocrity. "He hammers real talent to justify his own self-proclaimed superiority," Erin said. "He's a mediocre man, mediocre as an artist in his youth, mediocre as an art critic. Don't worry about his scathing comments in the newspaper tomorrow. Everyone in the art world knows him, knows how he fashions his reviews. If he praised your work, you'd need to worry." Stop worrying, I'd heard in my mind a while back. I need ten more years minimum, Hector. Do you hear me? Nothing. No response. ------- The show in the Santa Fe gallery the week before Christmas was also a success, but my paintings didn't sell out during the pre-show, and one painting had not sold when the opening night came to a close. Part of it was price. After the success of the New York show, Erin insisted that Santa Fe Landscapes had to be priced 5 to 10% higher than Aspects, and part of it was the gallery owner's buyer's list. Erin explained the latter reason. "Santa Fe," she said, "is an artist community, but it's still a small town. There are a thousand times more buyers in New York than there is in Santa Fe." I thought the gallery owner would be upset. She wasn't. She raised the price of the remaining painting, and it sold before Christmas. I bought a puppy for Alana for Christmas, a black male havanese, also known as bichon havanis or Havana silk dog. I liked dogs more than I liked horses, and that says a lot. Some conversations with Alana told me she liked dogs as much as I, and after researching breeds, I selected the havanese. They're small dogs, 13 pounds full-grown, but they aren't yippers like most small dogs. They are very affectionate animals, smart, easy to train, and good with both children and adults. A curious thing happened. I think Maureen loved that little dog more than Alana, so for Maureen's birthday, which was December 28th, I gave her her own havanese puppy, a black female. Alana and Maureen got together and decided that they would start their own little business breeding havanese, so I had to add a kennel to the compound plans. I'd put off buying horses for Alana and me. Buying that Andalusian stallion seemed to be the trigger that sent me from Debra Oakman's body to Eric Kleiner's. I'd also started to be very careful where I stood at all times during any thunderstorms, so much so that Alana noticed. "I think you have a phobia," she said one afternoon during a storm. "What phobia?" "Lightning. It struck you once. I think you're afraid of being struck by lightning again." I started to argue with her, but I didn't. I admitted my fear. "I changed, Alana. After being struck by lightning, I change a lot. I like my life as it is. I don't want to change again, or worse, not wake up at all." She suddenly looked frightened herself. "Then by all means be very careful around lightning, buckaroo," she said. One day in early January, I was watching Alana and Maureen playing with their puppies on the carpeted floor in the living room and came up with an idea for another series of paintings. I spoke with Dad about it first. He had to give his blessing for the series or I wouldn't proceed. "Dad, I want to do a series of paintings with Alana and Maureen and their puppies," I said. He shrugged and said, "Then do it." "Ah, I don't know how to say this any other way, so I'll just say it. To make the series compatible with my other Alana series, I'd want Maureen to pose nude." "I figured that out when you brought up the idea, Son. I don't want what I'm about to I say to go any further, especially to Maureen, but when I first saw Aspects of Alana, I wanted to ask you to do Aspects of Maureen. I'd be thrilled to attend an art opening that presented my wife's nude body. What you do with the female body isn't prurient, Eric. It's art, and it's gut-wrenching, and it's beautiful." One barrier down, one to go. I caught Maureen alone that afternoon. "I know what I want to paint for my next series of pastels," I said. "Tell me," Maureen said. I said, "I'll call the series Alana and Maureen with Puppies." My step-mother's eyes widened with surprise, and then another curious thing happened. She suddenly looked sultry. She reeked with underlying passion and sensuality. "Nude?" she said. "Yes." "I'll need Johannes' permission." "You have it; I presented the idea to him first. Will you do it?" She slowly pushed all the air out of her lungs and then took a deep breath. "Yes. Do you want to know why?" "I do," I said. "For Johannes," she said simply. I nodded. I spent the rest of January and half of February painting the series. It wasn't as powerful as Aspects, but almost, and I'd brought in some light-hearted aspects of the two women. The puppies didn't model for me. A puppy sitting still unless it's asleep goes against the nature of puppyhood. Instead I took hundreds of photographs of the puppies, sometimes with their mistresses, sometimes alone, and even more photographs of all my subjects together at play. In one painting, I'd emphasize the aspect of one of the puppies; in the next, the other puppy, and the women each had their turn at center stage. The best paintings, however, emphasized none of them and all of them at the same time, if that makes any sense. My first nude modeling session with Maureen was awkward for both of us. I elected to start with a lot of one minute sketches, similar to how I'd started with Alana. I had to get to know her body, how she was put together, how she moved. She had a good body, not like Alana's perfection, but she had nothing to be ashamed of showing, either. Her large breasts sagged a little; she had the start of a bulging tummy, and her upper thighs were a little heavy, but she had a gorgeous pear-shaped ass. "You have a marvelous buttocks, Maureen," I said one day. I'd pronounced the word aping Forrest Gump's pronunciation, putting a hyphen between the T's. She laughed and said, "Johannes likes my buttocks, that's for sure." She aped my pronunciation. Havaneses can run like the wind and turn on a dime. Their little paws sound like a thundering herd of horses as they tear around a room. I couldn't capture how they moved with still photographs, so I bought a camcorder and studied their movements via video. Also, the two dogs weren't even brother and sister, but they looked enough alike to be twins. Regardless, they had very different personalities. I had to work hard to capture each of their unique personalities, their expressions, their eagerness, their pouts, their love, and that's what the series became: a celebration of love. Love shined from every face, woman or puppy, in every painting. The series turned out to be a joyful romp of naked females at play with squirming, happy puppies. I'll never forget the look on my father's face when I hung and lighted the series on the walls of my studio and then invited my family for a premier viewing. I thought Dad would wax eloquently. He didn't. After studying each painting, he turned to me and said simply, "Thank you, Son." I'd made a mistake with Aspects of Alana and Santa Fe Landscapes. I had not kept any of the paintings in the series. They were forever gone. I made a personal vow that I'd keep one painting from every series I painted. "Which painting is your favorite, Dad?" I said. "I can't pick a favorite. I like them all," he said. "Uh-uh, pick one," I insisted. He studied the paintings again and finally pointed at one of them. "That one," he said. He'd selected the painting I titled Maureen's Turn. Alana wasn't in the painting, and Maureen's puppy sat on her chest licking her chin. Alana's puppy was nuzzled against her neck and licking her ear. The look of utter joy on Maureen's face was the focal point of the painting. "It's yours," I said. "Huh?" Dad said. "It's yours, Dad, a gift from Maureen and me," I said. I went on to explain my personal vow of retaining one painting from each series I executed. "I'll be keeping that painting by giving it to you, Dad. You'd never sell it. You'll hang it in your home. I'll get to enjoy it every time I see it." He nodded and said, "Thanks, Son." Maureen was more demonstrative; she squealed with joy, hugged me and gave me a quick, wet kiss. Alana smiled. I'd told her what I'd planned to do, and she'd praised me for the gesture. ------- Alana and I were walking through the almost finished stables during the first week of March. The clouds were heavy on the mountains, and I was nervous. The negative circumstances of my new family when I became Eric Kleiner were fixed, or at least under repair and moving inexorably toward perfection. Eric Kleiner was a respected artist. I loved a wonderful woman, and she loved me. Our futures would be—normal. So, I was nervous. "What kind of horses would you like to own?" I asked Alana. I couldn't put off buying our horses any longer. "What kind do you prefer?" she said. "Uh-uh, this time you pick," I said. She cocked her head and studied me. Finally she nodded and said, "Arabian horses. I like Arabian horses. Arabians are the most noble of horses, the most beautiful. Like the Arabian proverb says: The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse's ears. Our stables will contain the wind of heaven." I said, "I like the Bedouin legend: And God took a handful of southerly wind, blew His breath over it and created the horse." She nodded and said, "We won't show them. We won't breed them for profit like Maureen and I plan to do with our havanese puppies. We'll just take care of them and ride them and love them." Lightning lit up the interior of the stables, and thunder rocked the land. Not yet, Hector. I want twenty more years minimum. Do you hear me? Nothing. No response. "I want you to paint a series of me with our Arabian steeds. It will be the most powerful series you'll do," Alana said. "I can see one aspect in my mind. An Arabian in full gallop, the neck arched, the mane flying, the tail held high, with me on the Arabian's back, naked, my hair flying behind me, my nipples puckered, and utter abandon etched on my face." I disagreed with her. The Madonna and Child series would be the capstone of my career, but Alana's Arabians would indeed be powerful. "All right," I said, becoming more concerned every second about the lightning flashing through the sky around us. "We'll go on a horse-buying trip next week." "Where?" she asked. I knew she'd select the Arabian for our horses, so I'd done some research. "Fox Meadow Farm in the serene foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Charlottesville, Virginia; Strawberry Banks Farm in East Aurora, New York; Ansata in Polk, Arkansas," I said. "The choices are many. We'll sit down together and plan our itinerary." Lightning struck again, and the thunder cracked like the earth had broken in half. She grabbed my hand. "Come on, scaredy-cat, I'll race you to the house. If we hurry, we can beat the rain." We were halfway to the house when the air crackled and a white light more brilliant than the inside of a star surrounded us. When I opened my eyes, I knew Hector had transported me to another body. What surprised me was the body I occupied. I looked at Erik Kleiner's body lying next to me. He was struggling to sit up. I'd jumped into Alana's body. Was she in mine? "What happened, Eric?" Eric Kleiner said. Then he screamed. If Alana had not suddenly become a man, the scream would have been at a highest range of vocal tones. "Damn you, Hector!" I said with Alana's voice. "This won't work. You've got your head up your ass!" Suddenly a white light more brilliant than the inside of a star surrounded us again. When I came to, I looked around. Alana's body was lying next to me, no not just her body. She was moving, trying to sit up. Then I put my hand in front of my face. For once Hector had listened to me. I was back in Eric Kleiner's body. Was Alana in her body or was she occupying another body somewhere at another place while that other person occupied her body? Then Alana put my mind to rest. "What the hell just happened, Eric?" she said. I helped her to her feet as the sky opened and let loose the deluge it had held at bay until that moment and drenched both of us. Stop worrying, I heard in my mind. "Did you hear that?" Alana said, her eyes filled with terror. "Did you just hear someone or something say, 'Stop Worrying?'" "Yes," I said. "Let's get inside out of the rain and we'll talk." "That's for sure, buckaroo. We'll talk; that's for sure," she said. ------- The End ------- Posted: 2009-09-21 Last Modified: 2011-02-03 / 09:31:22 am ------- http://storiesonline.net/ -------