“Currency is a mechanism that acquires its value only once it can purchase what we want or need,” Grant Sandham told someone once. He should know. His affluence has yielded little joy, and now cannot overturn his terminal condition.

Contents

Captain Curtis – Come fly with me

A night in Skaneateles – I do, but can’t

Reconciliation – Help me my boy

Tell me about your childhood – Good-bye my captain

Lilies and Belgium chocolate – Good-bye mother

Welcome to Janesville – Samantha and the bikers

more… 12- 35

GRANT SANDHAM; IT'S TIME...

They had met at a Wealth Builder symposium sixteen years earlier; it was yesterday. The charismatic presenter brandished his new investment manual in the air like an overzealous preacher delivering a fiery sermon. During the energetic presentation, Grant scanned the auditorium of captivated, hopeful faces.

“These snake oil salesmen peddle hope,” he muttered in dismay. Victor was seated next to him and overheard; he had similar reservations.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Victor said and introduced himself. “Victor Howard”.

“Grant Sandham,” he said shaking Victor’s hand. “There’s a vast market for that commodity,” Grant continued. “It’s as Charles Revson once remarked – something along the lines of; ‘we don’t sell cosmetics, we sell hope.’” Victor was familiar with the quotation; also, that the cosmetics industry was a multibillion-dollar market. Snake oil at its finest!

“It’s human nature,” Victor said shrugging.

“It is, and that’s the missing link.”

“The missing link?”

“We employ sophisticated algorithms, streams of real-time data, trends, and a host of other information, as insurance devices.” Victor would have ended their conversation were it not for his intuition and something in Grant’s demeanor.

“Grant, if you don’t mind my asking; what do you do?”

“I’m an actuary – quantitive financial engineer.” Victor reassessed Grant – fascinated how swiftly one’s preconceptions can adjust with new information.

“And this missing link, what do you believe it is?”

“It’s as you identified earlier – human nature. It’s what sets companies apart from others – like Galaxis Capital for instance.” The mention of the company name jarred Victor. He looked at Grant and frowned; uncertain if Grant knew who he was. “Would you allow an artificial intelligent system to make investment decisions? Not simple buy-sell instructions based on some threshold or external indicator, but actual decisions?” Victor raised an eyebrow. If Grant had not told him he was an actuary he would have suggested Grant buys the investment book on sale at the conference. His interest was piqued.

“Would you?” Victor asked.

“Yes, but with modifications.” It annoyed Victor that Grant did not elaborate, obliging him to ask the obvious question.

“Such as?”

“Profiling. One cannot take human nature out of the equation, and yet that’s what we do. It’s all mathematics and brilliant algorithms, eventually undone by obtuse human intervention.” He took a breath and looked towards the stage where the presenter was still raving before turning back to Victor. “But I believe you already knew that.” Victor was taken aback; he could not place Grant and needed to dig deeper.

As founder and CEO, Victor had built Galaxis Capital surrounding himself with a formidable inner circle of financial talent, and sensed that with the right guidance, Grant could become a valuable member of that team. He was to be proved right. He arranged a lunch meeting with Grant, and by the time they had coffee, Grant had a new employer.

Grant’s training and intuition helped put Galaxis in a commanding position. At heart, Grant was a mathematician; statistics, economics, and predictive modeling formed the backbone of his arsenal. He understood to do this effectively he could not allow distraction to distort his reasoning. Religion and petty politics did not feature in his world. He was a typical polymath with a broad range of disparate interests allowing little time for anything else. Some believed him to be indifferent – even cold-hearted.

Victor allowed him to test and integrate his profiling module into Galaxis’ financial models. He did not know all the details, but aware it entailed profiling of not only a prospective investment, but also drilled down into everyone involved; their traits, habits, careers, education, friends, and associates. Victor was unaware it further included their religion, sexual orientation, indiscretions, strengths, weaknesses, and debt exposure – among others. It was similar to a profile compiled by the FBI to help identify a wanted criminal. Victor never asked how he assembled the database of information – he was more concerned that it was legal. Grant’s techniques further constructed relationships between bank accounts, events, coincidences, and unrelated information that appeared irrelevant and useless. His ostensibly innocent network exposed unholy alliances that could reveal pending or unanticipated events. It aggregated, assembled, and assessed the data, then injected these covert gems as encoded auxiliary information into Galaxis’ traditional financial systems.

They called it Grant’s Profiling System – the GPS, and stress tested it alongside their conventional routines. It became a temporary game. Victor pitted his experience and instinct against the machine and was mostly in the ballpark, on other occasions he disagreed. Over a six-month period Victor’s test account was up 22% and he was pleased, but shocked to learn that had he followed the GPS, he would have been three times better off. Victor was impressed but dejected.

“What the hell is happening here?” he asked.

“Do you remember a guy by the name of Jimmy the Greek?” Victor did not. “Well, in the 1948 presidential elections contested between Thomas Dewey and Harry Truman, he made a $10,000 bet at 17 to 1 that Truman would win. It was a lot of money back then. When asked about his windfall later, Jimmy said he knew Truman would triumph because American women didn’t trust men with mustaches.” Victor looked at him dumbfounded.

“You can’t be serious?”

“I am. I know it’s fickle, and I’m not sure if that’s how American women felt back then. What I’m trying to get across is that sometimes the signs are so obvious that we fail to grasp their value or make connections. Our GPS ensures we don’t miss any mustaches.” Victor was skeptical, but the evidence was incontrovertible. It seemed wrong, and it bothered him, yet, investment decisions were made on similar principles; available and predicted information, and even ‘insider information’. The GPS took it to a higher, sophisticated level. He sighed and looked at Grant.

“I’m in awe of what you’ve achieved. Nevertheless, I want a flag built into the system, and still want to sign-off on the deals – even though it rather defeats the purpose. I’m old-school and will be more comfortable.” Grant understood Victor’s reservation; men build tools then distrusted them. Some pilots have encountered the phenomenon when flying in instrument meteorological conditions. They experience spatial disorientation for lack of visual reference – like flying in heavy cloud. The pilot has the sensation of flying upside down, concluding the instruments are faulty, and makes corrections – sometimes with fatal consequences.

“The flag was the first thing I built,” Grant said smiling. “The worst that can happen is that it functions like the principal system. The GPS does not make investment decisions; it will evaluate the information and offer a suggestion.” They did not involve anyone else in the project, and Victor decided to keep it that way. Unknown to Victor, the GPS contained sensitive information of prominent people who would be incarcerated if their activities came to light.

Grant’s rapid rise to Chief Risk Officer was a responsible and executive appointment. He had hurdled more senior candidates, but no one could deny him. He was thirty-one, and had the respect of not only the Board and staff at Galaxis, but also of the financial community. Soon afterwards, Grant announced his engagement to Margot Hays, and they were married a year later. Then, the night of the tragic accident. Grant and Margot were returning home from a function when a car came out of nowhere, jumped a red light and T-boned them on Margot’s side. She died at the scene. A few blocks further up a man had attempted to rob a deli but botched it, and fled in what later was discovered to be a stolen car. The culprit never came forward and could not be identified from the security camera in the deli. Her death had a devastating effect on Grant, and deepened his already reserved disposition.

As part of his succession planning, Grant had appointed Charlie Mayer as his protégé a year earlier. She appeared a few years younger than Grant, mid-thirties Victor guessed, and thought she might be of Irish descent with her rich auburn hair, pale skin, and alert green eyes. Throughout their meeting she showed no emotion, and seemed to suppress an irritability to get back to work. Victor reserved judgment placing his trust in Grant, and noticed her signature on a growing number of analysis sign-offs and recommendations. They were spot-on.

For all Grant’s virtuosity, Charlie had something he did not have – a serrated edge. Grant defeated his foes with sheer mesmerizing logic; she called a spade a spade – often with colorful language that had her antagonists squirming. Victor did not approve of her abrasive disposition but could not deny her effectiveness. Part of her armory was her offbeat attractiveness. When she did smile, she could make the recipient feel special. It was not a wide flashy smile; just a demure parting of her lips and the sensual lifting of an eyebrow – as if alluding to something intimate. He had seen its disarming effect on her adversaries many times.

It appeared to be a typical morning until Grant walked into Victor’s office and closed the door. Grant’s expression stirred an unease in Victor.

“Victor, I’ve been thinking of how to break the news and it appears there’s only one way; be painfully direct – as I’m learning from Charlie.” He took a deep breath. “Victor, I’m dying…”

Victor kept looking at him – his face paled as the words reached their strength. His mouth opened to say something, but it caught in his throat. Grant nodded to confirm he had heard correctly. Victor jumped out of his chair.

“No!” he cried. “What… when…” Grant did not expect Victor’s reaction. Knowing Victor, he believed he would take the news in his stride, even if only on the surface.

“I’m sorry to have-”

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry!” he repeated a little louder. Victor was fighting to gather himself. Grant read the question in Victor’s eyes.

“It’s pancreatic cancer.” Victor looked tired. He returned to his chair and sat down.

“I can’t believe this. How long have you known – how did you find out?”

“Two weeks. It was picked up during a routine check-up for our key-man insurance policies. I told Dr. Robinson I was experiencing occasional abdominal cramps. When the blood tests and X-rays came back it was inconclusive, and he arranged a biopsy.” Grant sighed. “The results were positive. Dr. Robinson explained my options; surgery, chemo, or radiation, but none guaranteed a cure – even if surgery could remove all traces of the cancer. After consideration, I opted for the non-invasive palliative route. He prescribed analgesic patches to manage the pain and I have a supply of morphine tablets for sudden peak attacks.” Both men had composed themselves and the conversation was calm. “I’ve got between five months and a year.” They sat in silence contemplating the consequences. After a while, Victor released a long breath.

“You’ve had time to consider your options; what do you want to do?” Grant knew he only had Galaxis. There were no children, he and his mother estranged, and his wife deceased. He had nowhere to turn; Galaxis was his life.

“I want to stay on and do what I do until I can’t any more. It will also give me time to hand over to Charlie, and I’ll ensure that Galaxis-” Victor got up from his chair.

“For God’s sake Grant, listen to yourself. You apologize for dying and now more concerned with the company’s ventures. Is there a real person inside there somewhere?” Victor asked unable to suppress his annoyance. Victor did not know how deep he had struck; Grant had considered his dreary life in depth over the past two weeks. He did not like what he saw, neither his limited options. Victor pushed his hands into his pockets then seemed to forget what he was going to say. After studying the carpet for a few seconds, he turned to Grant.

“I wish I had words but I’m dry. I can tell you I’m experiencing one of the saddest days of my life. Grant, I… I’m deeply, deeply sorry…” His voice seemed dream-like and coming from somewhere other than his mouth.

“Victor, I have nothing – you know that. I have money and Galaxis.” He avoided Grant’s eyes and walked to the window behind his desk.

“I’d do anything to support you through this period Grant,” he said staring out over the city, “but I’m at a loss.”

“No,” Grant said, “there is nothing, but thank you.”

“Who else knows?”

“Just you.”

Their silence hung in the room like a smothering haze. When Grant walked out of the office, he left Victor standing at the window – his shoulders shaking. It mystified Victor that Grant had not sought a second opinion of his diagnosis, but in context of his abstemious life, Victor realized there was no motivation. Grant had achieved all he could have, but had no one to live for – no one to share it with. It seemed to Victor as if Grant had given up on life; the acceptance of his fate paving the way back to Margot. It saddened Victor that such a good man had gone to waste.

It was Friday afternoon; four-forty. Within twenty minutes, Victor would reincarnate a man’s life or marshal it to self-destruction – there was no middle ground. He trusted his assessment of the consequences, and after coming to his decision, made peace with it. He was apprehensive of Grant’s acceptance, but certain of the conclusion. He turned from the window behind his desk, looked up at the ceiling, and closed his eyes.

Victor had considered discussing his decision with senior management and the Board, but decided against it. He did not want to risk his resolution being challenged or overturned. It was a personal decision; Victor thought of Grant as a son. What put Victor’s mind to rest in the small hours of the morning was Grant’s social life, or rather, the lack of it. After the death of his wife, Grant spent most of his time at the office. Galaxis celebrated its successes regularly, and on occasion, senior management would gather at Victor’s beach house for a social get-together. Now he never attended their functions unless Victor insisted. They stopped inviting him; he had become an island.

Victor stared at the clock against the opposite wall in his office; it seemed to be stuck at four forty-five. He still had fifteen minutes if he wanted to reconsider, but it had been too painful getting to this point. What seemed like an eternity ticked by, and at four fifty-nine, Grant walked into Victor’s office. Victor was pleased Grant had not asked about the meeting’s agenda.

“Hi Grant! It’s a mundane question, but I do care and want to know how you’re doing,” Victor said as they walked towards the coffee table. Grant sat down relaxed and smiled.

“I’m feeling good. I’ve come to terms with the situation.” Grant’s response did not indicate which way he was leaning.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with the rest of your life?” Victor asked in a caring tone. Grant looked surprised; to him it was a foregone conclusion he would stay on at Galaxis.

“Yes. I’m ready to discuss it with the team and believe they’ll be comfortable for Charlie stepping into my shoes when the time comes. I’m glad I found her when I did.” It was not what Victor wanted to hear.

“Grant, are you saying you intend staying on at Galaxis until… the end?”

“Absolutely!” He was not sure what to make of the change in Victor’s expression. Victor got up and walked to a cabinet to the side of his office. He put two sturdy whisky glasses on the counter and turned to Grant who looked on amused.

“Join me,” he said pouring generous measures. “Although you’ll have the urge to interrupt, please allow me to finish what I have to say.” They looked at each other and it was silently agreed. Victor twirled and inspected his glass. He would have toasted with ‘L’chaim!’, but it seemed inappropriate. “Cheers!” Grant’s hand was unsteady as he brought the glass to his lips as a disquiet pushed up in him. “Please forgive me for my next observation, but it comes from a special place in my heart. You have willingly surrendered your life and deprived yourself of the many joys it has to offer. If you think it will help preserve Margot’s memory, you’re wrong.” The mention of her name sent a charge through Grant’s body. “She will always be in your heart no matter what you do or where you go. Last night I had a strange thought. I wished I could get Margot’s response to a question; would she approve of you having died with her, or would she have wanted you to go on and have a full and happy life?”

Victor’s heart was breaking, but he knew he needed to wedge the emotional lid Grant sealed so securely. “In a way I take responsibility for this going on for so long,” Victor continued. “As you’re aware, most things can be fixed one way or another, and I’m going to fix this.” Grant realized what Victor was implying and felt sick. “There is a world waiting out there, and nothing could make me happier knowing you’re going to spend the remainder of your life discovering its joys.” Victor was relieved he had not emotionally stumbled getting to this point. “As far as I’m concerned, this is the only life we’ll ever know. The odds that we are here on earth today are so minuscule that we cannot begin to grasp how rare it truly is – you understand that better than most.” Victor gestured the ‘no interruption’ truce was over. Grant swallowed his nausea and steadied himself.

“Tell me the rest,” he asked after a few moments.

“You resign,” Victor answered without hesitation, “and cash in your shares. You take that fortune and go have fun.”

“Do I have an option not to resign?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then I’ll take that option.” Victor looked up at the ceiling.

“I considered that you may choose that route although I hoped you wouldn’t, and I’m saddened you didn’t hear what I’ve been telling you. If you don’t want to leave of your own accord, I’ll have to go to plan B.” Grant had heard every word – he just needed time for it to solidify. Deep down he knew Victor was right, and what plan B was, but he needed to hear it. He was about to lose his career and his life, and that clouded everything.

“What is option B?”

“There isn’t an option B, only a plan B – for me. I think you know what it is.” Both their tones were mild and even.

“Humor me.”

“I’ll fire you.”

“You’ll go that far? You’ll fire me?”

“Sure.” Grant gave it thought.

“Well, then I suppose I’ll have to be fired because I can’t see myself walk away from a company that runs in my veins.” Victor shrugged and walked back to his desk.

“OK, if that’s what you want.” He pushed a document across to Grant. He studied it – unable to hide his surprise of his Termination of Services notification.

“You’ve prepared this in advance without knowing what I’d decide? I see the Board has not been known in this matter either; this is your decision.” Victor did not answer. “I understand,” Grant said coldly, “my resignation will be on your desk within the hour. I’ll leave at the end of the month.” He started getting up but Victor motioned him to remain seated.

“No need.” He slid another document forward. Grant scanned it then lifted his hands into the air.

“You wrote my resignation as well! You’re casting me to the wolves Victor.”

“No Grant, I’m casting you into life.” Grant sat back in his chair and looked at Victor who had his chin resting on one of his palms – his face expressionless. Grant took a pen from his jacket and signed his resignation. Victor did not immediately notice; his hands partially covered his face as he massaged his forehead with his fingertips as if nursing a headache. He suddenly looked old and tired, and Grant’s heart went out to him. It dawned on him what Victor had gone through coming to his agonizing decision, and did not want to prolong it any further. The best way to repay Victor for all he had done for him was to make this as painless as possible.

“What about the GPS?” Victor looked up.

“We eased into it, and we’ll ease out of it, and I’d prefer it remaining confidential.” Grant jotted a combination of characters and numbers on the back of the termination document, and pushed it over to Victor.

“Just enter this code when the GPS asks for your password – it will disengage and self-destruct; you’ll have your principal systems back.”

Victor recalled one occasion where the GPS had saved Galaxis. Victor wanted to override a suggestion the GPS offered. He was certain of his decision, but Grant cautioned him and asked for a thirty-minute reprieve. He then delved through his back door into the guts of the system and directly interrogated the databases. On the surface the deal Victor was contemplating looked solid, but concealed a rotten core extending into a network of international offshore money laundering operations. There was no way Victor could have known – the GPS never divulged the basis for its suggestions. Grant urged Victor to withdraw from the deal and suggested he also caution Jock Marshall. Victor was first annoyed, then became angry, but begrudgingly capitulated, already wondering how to relay the news to the eager investors who had committed substantial sums for a swift, lucrative return. Victor was about to make a $250 million decision based on Grant’s word. He studied Grant for a few moments, then gave instructions for his team to disassociate Galaxis from the transaction.

Victor did not ask how Grant knew Jock Marshall was involved, but called his old friend anyway. Jock took Victor’s advice at face value, and severed himself from the deal. It turned out the Securities and Exchange Commission had been following the trail for months and were about to close in. The SEC launched forensic investigations into everyone involved. It was the last thing one wanted if the financial world was your oyster – being subjected to a proctology examination by the SEC. It left many tears, painful anuses, red faces, and poorer people in its wake. Victor was shaken for days.

Victor’s office seemed strangely quiet. They got up and stood facing each other. In a few silent seconds, years of heartening recollections exchanged between them. Victor broke the spell, and put his arms around Grant in a paternal hug.

“You’ve been one of the most influential people in my life,” he whispered, “and it’s an honor I will cherish.” Grant fought back his sadness as he felt Victor’s arms shaking. Then Victor sighed and stood back. Grant was still not able to speak. “I know long good-byes are not for you. Just clear out your office – a clean cut heals quickest. I’m meeting with the Board over the weekend – which I’m not particularly looking forward to – and am seeing Charlie on Monday morning to fill her in, and the team after that.”

Victor walked back to his chair behind his desk as if he had just finished a marathon; his drooped shoulders making him look frail. Grant’s mouth was dry. When he wanted to talk the words jammed in his throat, only his lips said “Thank you.” Victor stood up when Grant offered his hand, and with one final visual exchange, Grant turned and walked out of Victor’s office he would never see again. The metallic taste in his mouth had him in urgent need of the men’s room.

Victor had timed it well. Most of the staff had made a head start on the weekend, and Grant’s activity of packing his personal effects almost went unnoticed. He became aware of Charlie standing at the door of his office when she spoke.

“Need a hand?” He glanced at her and smiled.

“No, I’ll be OK, thanks.” She had her laptop slung over her shoulder and ready to leave.

“I think I know what’s going on.”

“You do?” Grant asked surprised.

“Well, maybe not all the details but over the past weeks I’ve noticed a change. I have a suspicion you will not be here Monday.” She stood in front of him so that he could not avoid her eyes and smiled. “It’s Friday, the gang is heading to Parker’s for drinks. How about you and I find a quieter place?” He was about to decline but changed his mind.

“Charlie, it’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

SAMANTHA SAGAN-
SANCTUARY OF DARKNESS

Halfway up the hill, Detective Samantha Sagan cut the engine and headlights, then let her car glide to a halt between a thicket of bushes off the side of the road. She crept into a hidden alcove she had scouted a few days earlier that gave her a clear view of the warehouse below, as well as the dilapidated road that led into the area. A naked streetlamp near the prefabricated office was the only light in the yard, and the place appeared deserted. She doubted it.

She scanned the vicinity with a small pair of binoculars, then checked her pistol and made herself comfortable; she was early, and acutely aware of flouting law and protocol. It was an unauthorized stakeout of an event she had orchestrated – and she was on her own. She believed her interpretation of The Doctrine of Double Effect applied; where an immoral or illegal act justified securing a favorable result – a term she would reconsider.

Villains, rapists, and murders she had helped take off the streets often walked free. Missing dockets, contaminated evidence, and petty technicalities were exploited by savvy lawyers, and not too deep down she resented them. It felt as if justice favored protecting human rights, and her turning point came when she witnessed an unscrupulous lawyer tear a molested minor boy apart under cross-examination. The terrified child practically admitted the event never occurred. It broke her heart, and she took it on herself to do something about it. Her transfer to narcotics provided that platform.

Her snitch, Walt Cramer, a wiry man well known to New York City’s Police Department, had furnished her with many snippets. She in turn would supply Walt with misinformation of a deal going down in a rival gang’s territory, and then plant the incriminating paraphernalia – an illegal practice known as ‘flaking’. Even though the defenders of the territory would pitch up, they would discover evidence of the rival gang’s presence. She was constructing a more elaborate net to draw out the bigger fish, and tonight was such an operation – she wanted to see who would show up.

A sliver of moon hung between dark scattered cloud cover. She turned up her collar against the night’s chill – then froze. Something momentarily blocked out the faraway streetlight at the warehouse. Nothing could have caused it; no trees or branches that could have swayed between her and the streetlight. Then it happened again, and she knew she was not alone. The darkness made it difficult to focus, and her eyes narrowed as she strained to adjust her vision. Then she saw the shadowy outline of a figure take another few silent steps in the road. She held her breath. She was not afraid, but did not want a confrontation. Is he here for me? she wondered. The shadow walked closer to where her car was hidden, and she prayed it would go undetected.

She shifted her eyes when a car approached on the road below, and stopped under the streetlight in the yard. Two men got out and went back to the trunk. They were too far away to identify, and she cursed inwardly that she could not risk using the binoculars. They dragged a man from the trunk – his hands tied behind his back, and made him kneel in front of the car. He looked dazed and disoriented, and she instantly recognized his gangly manner. Oh my God! It’s Walt!

“Do you think she’s watching?” one of the men in the yard asked.

“I don’t know, but I hope the bitch is.” He looked down at Walt before swinging a kick into his groin. Walt doubled over and fell with his face in the dirt. The man looked around, as if pleased with himself and waiting for applause. He swung around; another kick connected with Walt’s head. The other man had lit a cigarette and was standing idly against the car.

The shadow man had taken a few steps closer to Samantha.

“This is it Kev,” a deep voice said from her right on the opposite side of the road. The shadow man was almost looking at her then stepped back and joined his crony to look down at the warehouse. Fuck! There are two of them.

At the warehouse, the man heaved Walt onto his knees and pulled a pistol from his belt. Like a circus announcer with his arms extended, he looked out at his unseen audience. He walked to stand behind Walt and raised the pistol a few inches from Walt’s head. Samantha had no doubt it was for her benefit, and fought to hold down the bitter nausea that had built in her throat. Walt’s chin hit his chest as the bullet entered the back of his head and blew part of his face away. She heard the faint retort a moment later. The shadow men laughed.

“Wherever that bitch is, I hope she enjoyed the show; she’s next,” one of them said.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here.” They blended into the darkness as silently as they had materialized. The two men in the yard dumped Walt’s body back into the trunk and drove away. Samantha waited until she felt she could leave her hideout, then got into her car, kept the lights off, and drove away slowly in darkness. She resisted using the brakes – riding the parking brake instead until she was well clear of the area.

It was a thirty-minute drive back to Manhattan. The hypnotic road markings strobing by added a surreal dimension to Samantha’s witnessing of Walt’s execution. She had seen people die in her line of work before, but was emotionally detached. This was different – she knew Walt. She did not like him, but he was a harmless, small-time petty criminal. Watching a man being executed that one had orchestrated was a different matter. She turned down her window to let the cool evening air clear her head. Walt’s execution disturbed her, but she was more concerned with the shadow men. They had been there for me – they knew I’d be watching, she thought grimly, and that I’d be alone. A chill skewered her as she considered what they would have done if they had caught her. No one knew where she was – she would have disappeared from the face of the earth. She banged her fist on the steering wheel. “Fuck!” She understood the grave danger she was in, and realized the only way they could have learned of her identity was if they had forced it from Walt. She gripped the steering wheel tighter. “They wouldn’t have killed him if they weren’t certain who I was.”

Then another thought rocked her. They’ll know where I live! It would not be too difficult to find out. She brought her hand up to her mouth and slammed on the brakes. The car swerved and came to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Her hands trembled as she covered her face. After a few moments she turned off the engine and sank back in her seat. “Think Samantha, think,” she urged herself. “They’re probably at my fucking apartment this very moment.” She hit the steering wheel again. “You must get a grip Samantha my girl, now’s not the time to panic. You got yourself into this shit, now get yourself out of it.” As a last resort, she considered calling Myles Ferguson, her Captain, and confessing. He would come down hard on her and there was nothing he could do. If he protected her, he would be incriminating himself and the entire NYPD. He would never do that. At best, he would suspend her and turn her over to Internal Affairs. She could face multiple third-degree murder charges, voluntary manslaughter, even possible accessory to murder and other civil suits. In her mind she saw Walt’s body fall to the ground again, and clenched her eyes. But there was something worse than the wrath of Internal Affairs and the law. With the city’s drug lords putting a price on her head it would only be a matter of time before they got her. She shuddered, thinking what they would do to her, but was certain it would be slow and painful. She sat motionless for a few minutes before starting the car. She had made up her mind on how she would deal with tonight; tomorrow would require a radical plan.

Samantha continued her journey and left her window rolled down. Her face was cold but she needed the vitality. Her anger empowered her, and she felt more determined than ever to root out the scum that seemed above the law. “If they want a fight, I’ll fucking give it to them.”

The road behind her was dark – until the faint headlights of a car far behind appeared and caught her eye in the rearview mirror. She gripped the steering wheel tighter. The car was coming up fast. She lifted one hand off the steering wheel to check her speed. Sixty-five. She eased off until she was doing fifty miles an hour, and watched the approaching headlights intently. The car was a hundred yards behind her when it suddenly swerved into the oncoming lane then back again. This is it! she thought, and gripped the pistol on her lap. The car had not dipped its lights and blinded her when she tried keeping track of it in the mirrors. She lifted the pistol and held it out of view below the windowsill. The car moved over into the oncoming lane again as it prepared to overtake her. She was ready. The moment she felt threatened she would perform the PIT maneuver; letting the nose of her car clip their rear end – a technique all but ensuring them losing control – then she will pounce.

As the car drew level, she turned to face her executioners. She was poised to perform her maneuver when she saw a woman leaning over towards the driver’s side and beating him with her fists. Samantha was stunned. The driver tried fending off the woman’s attack with one arm while still keeping the car on the road. Their car had moved just ahead of her in the oncoming lane when she saw a sharp flash inside the car before it swung sharply in front of her. She veered into the oncoming lane to avoid them, but the car followed her and there was nothing she could do to avoid the collision. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel as their car hit her passenger door, forcing her off the road. She braked hard as she watched their car swerve twice more and then disappear over the edge on the opposite side of the road. The beams of their car’s headlights swept through the treetops that were otherwise invisible in the darkness, then died with a dull metallic thud. It was eerily quiet. Samantha’s mind had frozen; trying to grasp what had just happened. Then, as if shaken by someone, she sprang into action.

She jumped from her car clutching her pistol, and raced across the road. Without hesitation, she began her descent down the steep embankment. It was too dark, and the vegetation too dense for her to negotiate the terrain, and lost her footing on loose gravel – savagely twisting her left ankle. She yelped as she fell headlong down into the darkness – coming to an abrupt halt as her head connected with the base of a tree. Her vision flickered with bright pulsating flashes – then faded to black.

A pounding in her head and the painful throbbing in her ankle stirred her back to consciousness. She became aware of the red taillights fifty yards ahead, and a small sinister flickering beneath the car; it did not register immediately. She was confused why everything was blurred until she tasted the blood running over her left eye into the corner of her mouth. She wiped her eye against her shoulder and watched as the flickering suddenly roused. With a loud whoosh, it erupted into flaming tentacles gripping the car. The surrounding foliage caught fire and spread into the dry underbrush.

She had the urge to lie down and sleep, but the faint muffled cries of children shot her back to reality. Children? Children! I didn’t see any children! her mind screamed. She cried out when she put weight onto her ankle and collapsed to the ground. The muted screaming of the children fused with a woman’s cries forced her past her pain. She stood up and hopped on her good foot, praying it would not suffer a similar fate as her left ankle. She made it to the edge of the ring of fire – flames leaping several feet into the air. She frantically searched for a spot that offered the least resistance, then closed her eyes and hopped through the wall of flames. She smelled the sweet rancid odor of her hair singeing as she crossed into the smoldering blackened area around the car. She hobbled closer but the intensity of the heat kept her three yards from the car as black toxic smoke spewed into the air. Through the shimmer she saw a little boy and girl on the backseat, hysterically hammering against the side windows as they tried escaping their hell. She could not see the woman; the man’s head bowed against the steering wheel.

“Oh God, no!” she cried. She looked around in desperation for anything to break the windows, and found a brick-sized rock. She hopped as close as possible, then arched her back like a javelin thrower and launched it. It was way off target – she had no leverage standing on one leg, and it hit the door below the window she was aiming for. Raw sobs of hopeless frustration shook her. The muted children’s screams where reaching her from down a hollow hallway. The little boy desperately slapped the smoldering in his hair. The girl’s curls had mostly disappeared, exposing a blackened and bloodied scalp. Whatever she had been wearing had already burned away, revealing her hideous peeling skin. Their hands and arms bled as they clawed against the windows; their eyes wide and lips blistering as they screamed and begged for help.

Samantha cried out in anguish – knowing time was running out to save them from a horrific and painful death. The emotional intensity overwhelmed her, and on hands and knees, she threw up. The bitter aftertaste renewed her strength. She jumped up, stripped off her jacket and sweater and wrapped them around her hands before aligning her attack to the back door. She took a deep breath, looked up at the heavens, and charged in. She knew she would have seconds to succeed before she would succumb to the heat. Even before reaching the car the intense heat licked at her face and naked torso. She shielded her face with her upper arm and tugged at the door. It was locked. The blistering air engulfed her, burning her lungs as she gasped for breath. She coiled her arm and punched the window with all her strength. A thin metal beading strip running above the window whipped free and sliced her forearm, before cutting across the bridge of her nose, dissecting her eyebrow and ending above her left ear. She backed off heaving – unaware of the smoldering on the side of her head. When it hit her she screamed in pain, slapping at her hair.

She had one last alternative, and reached behind her back for her pistol. Her jaw dropped as she tried recalling what had happened to it. “No! No!” she cried as a deep convulsion shook her. She turned back to where she had fallen down the embankment and hobbled as fast as her bad ankle allowed. “Please God,” she sobbed bitterly, “let it not be at the top of the embankment.” Her mind was functioning on a level beyond her control. Her body was screaming for her to stop, but her brain had taken charge, disregarding all distress signals. The further she got from the inferno, the less light she had to find her black anodized pistol – except for the small silver ridge of the barrel that locked into the ejection port. It would be near impossible finding in darkness. A few yards ahead the flames in a tall tree reflected off something small and shiny. She shouted with joy.

Samantha hopped back to the blazing car. The little boy had his back to her still frantically trying to escape from the far side window. Parts of his shirt were missing; some fused into his blistering skin. She lifted her pistol and took aim. The shimmering heat and his frenetic movements made him a difficult target. She clenched her smarting eyes to soothe the stinging, then opened them slowly, aimed for his heart and squeezed the trigger. The force threw his little body against the window before he bounced backward and fell down. Samantha was shaking uncontrollably, and felt strangely cold in the heat haze. The little girl’s face was fixed in a bewildered expression – peering through the window that had shattered before her. Bits of glass like giant grains of sugar were encrusted in her face. The fire instantly roused and raged with new vigor as oxygen was sucked into the car. Samantha had a clearer shot. Her hands trembled as she raised the pistol again. She drew a deep breath into her burning lungs then held it until she had steadied herself. The shot struck the little girl between her eyes, throwing her back, and disappeared into the inferno. A long, raw howl burst over Samantha’s lips. “Noooo!” She fell to her knees in the blackened debris and wept. “This can’t be happening!” she screamed, “this can’t be fucking happening!”

Samantha tilted her head towards the heavens but stopped midway in astonishment. She was looking into the screaming eyes of the woman in the front passenger seat. Her hair had caked into her scalp and the skin on her face repulsively blistered, peeling off in places and exposing the pink tortured flesh. Her lips were grotesquely bloated and taut with a fixed snarl-like grimace that bared her teeth in a sadistic grin. For an instant there was a silent exchange between them. Samantha bit down too hard on her bottom lip, oblivious of the cut she was making, and summoned her remaining reserves. She took a deep breath and fired. In her beleaguered despair she pulled the shot, and the bullet hit the door below the enflamed gorgon’s window. The woman jerked as it shattered her pelvis, and fell forward with her gelatinous face smearing down against the searing window. With the ferocity of a wounded wild animal, Samantha charged forward into the suffocating heat. A long, unnatural bellow erupted from her embattled body as she fired three shots into the woman’s neck and face at point-blank range.

Samantha struggled for breath between her whimpers as her quivering arms fell to her sides. She stood in what seemed like silence – the screaming had stopped. The conflagration raged on with erratic pops and sizzles as the car’s components disintegrated. She was oblivious of people with fire extinguishers and flashlights hurtling down the embankment.

Her pistol slipped from her hand as the last of her strength drained away. As fate severed the strings, she crumpled to the ground like a liberated puppet; her head bowed in suppliance. Then the flames waned, and the sounds faded away. A frail smile reached her bleeding lips as her eyes rolled back. In the beckoning tranquility, she surrendered to the sanctuary of darkness as it mercifully draped its cloak over her.

THE BLUE JEWEL - EMMA CURTIS

It had been a month since being severed from Galaxis Capital. The company was never far from Grant’s thoughts and hindered him coming up with a plan for the remainder of his life. He stood in the kitchen and looked out at the garden. The pool behind the white and yellow roses sparkled in the morning sun. A few chaise loungers were arranged in front of the gazebo on the far side of the garden. He smiled looking at the bronze Manneken Pis water feature at one end of the pool. It did not appeal to him but Margot loved it – spending a small fortune.

He went outside and made his way to one of the loungers. He lay down and looked back at the house. Why did we ever need five bedrooms? he wondered. He and Margot had not planned a family, and the discovery of her pregnancy came as a sad surprise. Now he was grateful there were no children to consider. What would have become of them? He was an only child, as was Margot. She had lost her parents many years ago. His own father had also succumbed to a premature death, and he had not spoken to his mother in over a decade. Child Welfare, foster homes, and orphanages came to mind, and he closed his eyes as if saying a ‘thank you’ prayer.

“Mr. Sandham?” Grant screwed his eyes against the light and came up onto his elbows.

“Oh! Hi Franco.”

“I didn’t see you there for a minute sir,” Franco said, surprised to find his employer in the garden. “I can come back later; I just want to check on the pool but don’t want to worry you.” Grant got up fixing his robe.

“No, please, I think I’m done for today.” Grant watched as Franco opened a little shed in the corner of the garden and brought out a bucket and a few other items, and headed back to the pool. He walked over to Franco.

“The garden looks beautiful.” Franco beamed. “Truth be told,” Grant continued, “your garden looks beautiful.”

“No Mr. Sandham, it’s your garden.”

“Franco, without you there would be no garden, and I’d have pea soup for a pool.” Grant walked towards a cocktail table under a wide umbrella and motioned Franco to join him. Franco hesitated before wiping his hands on the back of his trousers. He sat down on the edge of his chair and looked at Grant expectantly.

“Is everything OK Mr. Sandham?”

“Yes Franco, everything’s fine. You’ve been here for about twelve years now, right?”

“I think it is thirteen this year sir.” Grant studied him for a moment.

“Tell me about your family Franco.” It caught him by surprise.

“I… I have a wife and kids sir.” Grant nodded inviting him to continue. Franco shifted on his chair.

“Am I…” He cleared his throat. “Am I going to lose my job Mr. Sandham?” Grant smiled and shook his head.

“No.” Franco’s relief was visible and he relaxed.

“My wife’s name is Silvia, we have four kids. Mario is the youngest; he’s just three. Hector and Juan are seven – they’re twins, and Maria is eleven.”

“Sounds like a good family.”

“I’m very blessed sir; I have a good wife and good kids.” Grant admired how proud he was.

“They’re also blessed Franco; they have a good father.” Franco looked at his shoes trying to hide his awkwardness. “I’ll leave you to get on with your chores,” Grant said getting up, and extended his hand to Franco who hesitated then wiped his hand on his trousers. “Thanks for the chat, and send my regards to your family,” he said as he turned to leave. Puzzled, Franco watched Grant walk away.

“Thank you sir.” Grant stopped and looked towards the corner of the house. Franco came up behind him. “Is something the matter sir?”

“Why did I need four garages Franco?” Grant asked without looking at him. Franco looked at the garages but could not think of a suitable answer. Grant shook his head and went inside, leaving Franco to keep studying the garages – wondering what the answer was.

The world cruise Victor once suggested seemed like a dull event. Trapped on a small piece of expensive floating steel in the middle of a mighty ocean seemed a little daft. After thirty days, and outside the heading, the page of Grant’s bucket list remained blank. It troubled him that it proved to be so difficult; most people have hundreds of things they wanted to do before they died. He did not appreciate the lack of diversity it exposed in him, and it was dawning on him that, as Victor had suggested, he had died with Margot. At first, he opposed this notion, but began accepting it as something he had subconsciously chosen.

He had searched for ‘adventure activities’, and such a web page was displayed on his monitor. He leaned forward to go through what was on offer. Skydiving, rock climbing, excursions to wild, exotic, and desolated places; none of these appealed to him. River rafting, bungee jumping, cave exploring, mountain climbing… some of the activities were dangerous but it was not a factor he considered.

A small, animated advertisement in the corner of the page caught his attention. It was a venue promising a free welcoming cocktail. Amused, he clicked on the advertisement and it promptly displayed a larger image of the concern with further details. ‘Join us for happy hour!’ scrolled across the bottom of the screen. He smiled. “Thanks,” he mumbled, “it may be all I have time for.”

As the limo driver made their way into West Village in Manhattan, Grant had no idea what he was going to do at The Blue Jewel. He thought he might test them on their ‘welcoming cocktail’, but other than that he would sit at the bar, have a drink, watch the crowd, and then come home. It seemed absurd; he could do that now without the loud music, jostling crowd, and extorted prices.

After paying the cover charge, a young waiter appeared carrying a tray loaded with plastic shot glasses, and held it out to him. He hesitated before picking up a tiny sticky glass and swallowed the sherry in one gulp. He stripped off his jacket and found a seat against a wall facing the bar. The low thumping drone of the music had not enticed anyone onto the dance floor, and he again wondered what he was doing there.

He watched amused as primal intent maneuvered towards its genetically ordered goal – a melting pot of human need and desire. At least three valiant suitors had made an effort to engage a young woman at the end of the bar, but each turned away looking dejected. Some of the crowd clustered in small groups laughing and chatting, others just floated around scouting the talent. All Grant had ever done needed a clear objective with measurable results, but being here did not offer anything but extortionate scotch. What a waste of time. He was about to finish his drink and head home, then changed his mind. He picked up his glass and made his way towards the woman at the end of the bar. The area was bustling, and it took a few minutes before an opening became available, and he slipped in. He studied his drink for a few moments before turning to her. She seemed deep in thought; nudging the ice cubes in her drink with a stirrer.

“Hi!” he said, expecting her indifference. He turned his attention back to his drink – appearing not to care if she responded or not – but watched her in the mirror behind the bar. She turned her head slightly to look at him. Before she could look away, he turned to her. “I’m Grant.” He paused a moment. “I’m not here to bother you; I’ve got fifteen minutes before I have to honor a dinner date up town.” She was still stirring her drink and seemed uninterested, then frowned.

“Honor a dinner date…?” she asked, not taking her eyes off her drink. He nodded.

“Yes, a friend in need. I’d offer to buy you a drink,” he said looking at her half-filled glass, “but it seems you’re doing all right.” He checked his watch as she studied him for a moment.

“Are you trying to pick me up?” He smiled in mild surprise.

“Do you mean like the few guys before me? No. No, I’m short on time and it’s obvious you’re not so inclined,” he said picking up his drink. “Anyway, it’s clear you’ve come here for some peace and quiet.” From the corner of his eye he noticed her stirring stop. He put down his glass and faced her. She looked at him for a moment before her face eased into a faint smile.

“I think you’re full of crap Graham.” He wanted to laugh but turned his attention to his glass and nodded. He sensed she was still watching him.

“It’s Grant,” he corrected her.

“I know, I was just checking. So, you’re keeping tabs on my prospective suitors – that’s kind of creepy.” He shook his head,

“No, it was just a painful observation.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I doubt you’ll understand it. It’s never easy dealing with rejection, but it’s the risk men are willing to take.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Would you prefer if men rather ignore you?”

“That’s a leading question,” she said scowling.

“Perhaps, but what do you suggest guys do?” She sat back in her stool.

“All right, you’ve made your point.”

“Well, I’ve introduced myself; May I ask your name?” She seemed to consider her answer.

“Emma. What do you do for a living Grant?” He hesitated.

“I’m unemployed.”

“Really,” she scoffed, “with your Pringle shirt and all? Perhaps I should become unemployed.”

“It’s sadly true.” She looked at him for a moment then finished her drink. “What do you do Emma?”

“I’m usually high,” she said, then laughed softly seeing the disbelief on his face. “I’m in aviation.” He shook his head.

“If you want me to believe you’re a flight attendant, I’m not buying it.”

“Something wrong with being a flight attendant?”

“No, not at all. It’s just that…”

“Just what?”

“Well, I sense you have something more significant to offer.”

“I’m a pilot,” she said after a pause as if he had wheedled it from her.

“Props or jet?” She frowned.

“Jets – I’m a commercial pilot.” He nodded.

“You must be very good. I hope you consider it a compliment but you seem a little young to-”

“How old do you think I am?” He shook his head.

“Oh no, I’m not going there; that’s a loaded question.” Her silence suggested she wanted an answer. “Seriously, you want me to guess?”

“Seriously…” He studied her face for a moment then took in the rest of her.

“Twenty-two, twenty-four.” She smiled.

“Now it’s a compliment; twenty-eight.” They were silent for a few moments and he realized it was the signal to offer buying her a drink. Instead, he looked at his watch again.

“I’ve enjoyed meeting you Emma,” he said standing up. “You may be interested to learn that I’m not just full of crap.” He pulled a paper napkin closer. ‘Graham – 212 555 6723’ he wrote and pushed it towards her. She picked it up and chuckled.

“Yep, it’s confirmed; you are full of crap.” She became serious. “Are you married?” He saw her eyes fixed on his left hand where he still wore the gold band Margot had given him.

“No, it’s a remnant of days long past.” He studied her for a moment. “Call me after ten-thirty; good night Ms. Earhart.”

Grant stared at the blank page of his bucket list and tapped his lip before typing.

Contact Mother (make amends)

He scratched through an old folder and found Joan Sandham’s outdated details. The number was out of service and he decided to take a drive to his childhood home in Princeton, New Jersey. He had not spoken to Joan or been home in over ten years – it was time. He was out of the shower and dressed in thirty minutes, and headed towards the New Jersey Turnpike. Once on the open road he wondered what their conversation would be like – they had a lot to talk about. It would be uncomfortable for both of them, but he had to see it through, and hoped she was willing and ready for their reconciliation.

For reasons he never understood, Joan did not take to Margot. She even tried persuading him to find someone ‘in his class,’ as she put it. It angered him but he suppressed it. Joan was civil towards Margot, but that was as close as they got. Margot’s response was to endure Joan’s aloofness for Grant’s sake. They went to visit her one Sunday to announce their engagement, but Joan was indifferent and changed the subject. It was too much for Margot who broke down in tears. Joan shrugged. “Grant, I want the best for you. You deserve the best.” Then she stood defiantly in front of him to confront his disbelief. “What do you want me to do; lie to you?” Grant and Margot left, and on the way back to Connecticut, Margot swore she would never put her foot in Joan’s house again. They sent her a wedding invitation but Joan did not respond, nor attend the wedding; that was how it stayed.

Grant wondered how he would break the news of Margot’s death and his own pending demise. He felt anxious considering that she may express less than credible condolences, at which point, Grant decided, Joan would cease to exist – for good.

The journey sped by and he soon turned into the leafy Riverside Close. He was looking out for the tall pine tree in their front garden, but it had been cut down. The house was repainted, and the once-beautiful garden re-landscaped. On closer inspection, he realized it was simply abandoned. He took a deep breath and knocked. He doubted his mother would have left the garden this way, and was about to knock again when a woman spoke.

“They’re not in – nobody’s home,” an elderly woman wearing a colorful wide-brimmed sunhat standing at the fence next door said.

“Good morning,” he said.

“They’ll be back around five-thirty,” she said starting to turn away.

“Who are they?” The woman looked him over, ignoring his question.

“Who are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for Ms. Sandham; Joan Sandham,” he said removing his sunglasses. She reached for her spectacles hanging from a beaded necklace, and slipped them onto her nose. She tilted her chin to get him into focus.

“You!” she exclaimed. Granted was taken aback. His mouth opened to say something but she continued. “She said you may come looking for her someday,” she hissed. “Well, you’re too late, she’s gone.” She turned and started walking away. Stunned, he called after her.

“Excuse me ma’am, who do you think I am?” She swung around.

“I know who you are.” Her anger had left her a little breathless. “You’re Grant,” she said, then added absentmindedly; “I’m done talking,” and made her way back to her front door. For a few seconds Grant stood confused, then walked around and stood at her gate. She eased herself into a cushioned rocking chair on the porch, and untied the ribbon under her chin.

“May I come in ma’am?” When she did not answer, he entered and walked up to the porch. As he got closer, he realized the woman was weeping softly. “Are you all right ma’am?” he asked concerned. She lifted her head and looked at him wiping her sleeve across her face.

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here after all these years,” she said, not hiding her bitterness. Grant wanted to respond but allowed her to continue. “You broke that poor woman’s heart.”

“I know; I’ve come to make amends,” he said, wanting to avoid a long explanation. He allowed a few moments of silence. “Is there a way I can see her?” The woman shook her head. “Is she… is she still alive?” he asked just above a whisper. She seemed distracted and he was not sure she had heard him. He was about to repeat his question.

“She doesn’t want to see you…” Grant sighed with relief and dismay.

“No matter what has happened in the past, I am her son – I will always be her son.” He felt a tightening in his throat and paused.

“She made me promise that if you ever came looking for her, I should not tell you anything about her or where she was.” He considered it for a few moments.

“Sometimes,” he said in a gentle tone, “we have to do something questionable for a good thing to come about.” She looked at him with skepticism. “If you break your promise to my mother, it will be a bad thing – you’d have betrayed her trust. But your betrayal will bring about an estranged mother and son being reunited.” After what seemed like five minutes of silence, he decided not to push her further. He stood in front of her and took her soiled hands in his. “Thank you for being such a loyal friend to my mother.” He turned and walked away. She allowed him to get halfway to the gate.

“Grant,” she called, “she… she’s in Mount Sinai Hospital. She is very ill.” She looked around, fearing a lightning bolt would strike her for her betrayal. “She’s very ill…”

Grant had mentally prepared for an awkward reunion, but the news of her infirmity, and that she did not want to see him came as a shock. The image he had of her was of a strong, feisty woman; he could not picture her any other way. He decided against going directly to Mount Sinai Hospital; he first wanted to talk to her doctor.

The hospital declined to part with patient information. After being transferred to different departments, a stern woman told him he needed to speak to Dr. Gerber.

“Could you put me through to Dr. Gerber please?”

“I’m sorry sir; Dr. Gerber is out on his rounds. Can I take a message?” Grant sighed frustrated.

“Yes, please. Could you ask him to call Grant Sandham? I’m Joan Sandham’s son.” He sat back and wondered if she had not passed away, and that it was the doctor’s duty to inform family and friends. He shuddered and decided to wait for Dr. Gerber’s call.

NEW YORK CITY’S FINEST
MERCY KILLER?

Dr. Tom Gordon greeted the young uniformed police officer stationed outside the door before entering the private ward. Samantha’s eyes opened with a lethargic flutter.

“Good morning Detective Sagan, how are you feeling?” Her head was dressed covering her left ear. Tiny stitches were visible below the gauze strip plastered over her bottom lip. Her left ankle was strapped in an ankle brace, and both hands bandaged.

“Good morning doctor,” she murmured, “I’m feeling fine.” He grinned at her.

“Nonsense! I’m a doctor, and I know you can’t be feeling fine,” he said jovially. She clenched her eyes when she tried to smile. “You see, you’re still hurting?” Dr. Gordon said. He pulled a chair closer and sat down. “OK, I have good news and I have bad news,” he said, then chuckled. “It sounds like I’m going to tell you an old doctor’s joke.” He looked into her expectant eyes. “The good news is very good. You-”

“I’d rather have the bad news first,” she said barely moving her lips.

“OK, the bad news first. Your boss, Captain Myles Ferguson, asked I inform him the moment you were able to answer a few simple questions. I’ve just spoken to him and he’ll be here shortly.” It was near imperceptible, but he saw the grimace on her face as she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry; I’ve already delayed him for two days…” Two days! Her eyes opened in consternation.

“How long have I been here?”

“Today is Thursday, and you accepted our, um, hospitality Tuesday evening.” Dr. Gordon gave her an account of her injuries with assurances of her complete recovery. There was a knock on the door. “I think your party has arrived.” Just before he opened the door to let Captain Ferguson in he turned to her. “I’m very proud and in awe of what you have done Samantha. I hope my courage is never tested as yours was. Brace yourself though; some may not see it for what it is.”

Myles Ferguson undid Dr. Gordon’s geniality when his tall figure strode into the room. He walked to the foot of the bed and looked at her for a moment.

“Good morning Sagan, how are you doing?”

“’Morning Captain, I’m feeling OK,” she said moving her hand to her mouth to show her difficulty talking more loudly. He shook his head.

“Dr. Gordon informed me of your injuries on Tuesday. Overall, it sounds like you’re going to be all right – I was happy to hear that.” He looked at her a moment before sitting down. “Sam, you know how this goes, so I won’t beat about the bush. Just so you know, my being here is twofold; partly in my personal capacity, and the other official.” He looked towards the window. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but it’s as if someone has kicked over a beehive at NYPD.”

“I’m sorry Captain…” He smiled then became serious.

“I don’t think you’re aware of the bullets we’re dodging. I know you don’t know but we’ll get there shortly. Let me just say that this is all off the record. Internal Affairs are biting at the chomp to get your statement; that’s where we’ll work from. However, I need to get a handle on this. Take a deep breath, take your time, and tell me how the hell you got yourself into this ward,” he said moving closer.

“It was about eleven-thirty; I was on the Saw Mill River Parkway on my way home.” She paused. “I noticed a car coming up quickly behind me.” She went on to explain the fateful night in as much detail as she could between pauses and sobs. Myles did not interrupt her and listened patiently. When she finished, her lip was bleeding, and she dabbed it with her bandaged hand. Myles was moved and felt guilty that he had put her through it, but he needed to determine if there were any kinks or loose ends.

“What… what a terrible experience,” he said. “My God Sam, I cannot think of anything worse.” She trusted she had relayed the events faithfully, even though having omitted the first part of the evening. “It all fits with the CSI’s preliminary report. However, your car had collision damage on the passenger side; their vehicle had damage on the driver’s side. Do you see where this is leading?” Samantha took a breath to answer but Myles continued. “There is a theory taking hold that you may have forced their car from the road causing the accident.” Samantha stiffened under the sheet.

“No!”

“I know you haven’t seen the press, and I ensured there wasn’t a television in your ward and no newspapers. I did this because I anticipated the media would have a field day – I needed you to hear it from me. Some of the headlines include; ‘Cop shoots mother and two minor children’ – ‘Killer cop in hospital’ – ‘New York City’s finest mercy killer?’, and some others.” Samantha had held onto her dignity as long as she could and let the tears flow over her cheeks. After a few moments she took a deep breath.

“What possible motive could I have to push a stranger’s car off the road?” she asked. Myles ignored the question.

“Right now only I know that you considered the other car to be speeding, and-”

“They were speeding. When I saw the headlights rushing up I checked my speed. I was doing sixty-five and slowed down.” Myles rubbed his bottom lip.

“You cannot with certainty say how fast they were going, and I suggest you ignore it. If you insist on making this point you’ll be adding to a possible motive.”

“What motive?”

“That the car was speeding in your judgment, and you tried to pull them over. When they didn’t stop you tried to force them, and in so doing, caused the accident.” Samantha was stunned – a heat pushed up into her neck.

“That’s bullshit!” she said as her bottom lip began bleeding again. Myles nodded.

“I know,” he said. “More troubling is that it may appear as a fabrication to conceal something else.” She stared at Myles confused. “That brings me to the part I deeply hope you weren’t aware of.” Samantha heard the sinister edge in his voice. “Do you remember Jay Fernandez?” The question took her by surprise.

“Yes. I arrested him on narcotic charges about a year ago. He was a dealer.” Myles nodded.

“That’s correct. He’s still doing time.” He leaned closer. “You knew he had a brother, right?” Myles’ face was serious; his voice soft and even.

“Yes – but never had anything to do with him,” she finally said.

“Think carefully Sam,” Myles said inviting her to review her answer. She thought back to the night of Jay’s arrest.

“There were other men taken into custody the night I arrested Jay, but my target and focus was only Jay. I don’t know who the others were; they were in various parts of the building and other officers dealt with them. I did learn later that Jay’s brother was among them.” He considered her answer for a moment and nodded.

“Oh boy,” he sighed. He walked towards the window and stared down at the lurking media contingent for a few moments, then turned back to her. “The man in the car was Lou Fernandez; Jay’s brother.” Samantha felt the blood drain from her face. Myles did not need to elaborate on the implications.

Oh fuck! she thought, her mind racing. Myles could see her anxiety but did not say anything. They were quiet for a while.

“You said you never shot the man – Lou?”

“No. He looked dead behind the wheel.”

“He was. He was probably dead before the car went down the embankment. Forensics confirmed it – no smoke in his lungs. You said you saw a sharp flash before the car left the road, and that it resembled that of a gun being fired. You were right. From your account, they appeared to be arguing. We cannot tell what happened, but the bullet hit him in the heart and he must have died instantly. It was the only bullet in his body – as far as CSI can tell.”

“Doesn’t that substantiate my version regarding the collision marks?”

“I can’t say, but I believe it does. However, it leaves that little door of doubt ajar, and believe me, the Fernandez family will do all they can to pry it open. I’m already hearing multimillion-dollar lawsuits. He sighed. “You know Chad Wilson over at CSI?” he asked.

“Yes…”

“Well, I’ve asked him for a preliminary heads-up. He said it is almost impossible to collect evidence in these cases – it’s mostly burned away. He said they think they know what caused the car to ignite and the fire to spread so rapidly. His team initially thought the fuel line may have ruptured, but it wasn’t. It appears the central locking system somehow got jammed; probably why you couldn’t open the door, or why the kids couldn’t escape.” He tapped his bottom lip as if he had just realized something. “You know Walt Cramer, right?” Myles frowned as he saw her go pale. “Something the matter Sam?”

“No sir.” In her mind she saw Walt’s execution again, and felt nauseous.

“Well, we’re a snitch short – Walt was roasted; incinerated in the trunk.” He watched her carefully, and she fought to keep her face in a blank expression. She was afraid he would hear her heart hammering in her chest or see her trembling beneath the sheet. She wanted to say something but nothing seemed appropriate. “The poor bastard; he should have known his life would end violently one way or another. Lucky for him, he was dead long before the accident. Half his face was blown off – probably an execution. It’s not public knowledge that Walt’s charred body was found in the trunk. The Fernandez scum would not want that to be linked to them in any way, and may rather want this thing to just go away. Maybe they could surreptitiously find out,” he said half smiling at her. “Anyway, it might be that whoever killed him was going to cremate him anyway. Wilson said there was a twenty-five gallon canister of gas in the trunk, and the cap was off. He thinks it may have popped open when the car went down the embankment, and the slight angle the car was at, meant the gas would have run into the car’s interior. All that was needed was a spark. That’s why there was so much fire inside the car – it was the accelerant.” Samantha considered it for a moment.

“Why.., why would a family be driving around with a body in the trunk – it doesn’t make sense?” Samantha asked. He nodded.

“We have a theory but we simply didn’t know.”

“What theory?”

“Well, with a family in a car, we think Lou Fernandez may have been used as a mule – unaware of his stiff cargo.”

“That’s bizarre.” Myles checked his watch and frowned.

“I have to go; there are other pressing issues. But before I do, there’s one more thing. I understand the ordeal you’ve been through and you’ll need professional help to effectively deal with it, but at the risk of bringing up the horror images again, I think it’s better you hear it from me. The little boy’s name is Leo; he’s nine years old.” Samantha jerked under the sheet. Is nine years old? she thought as cold fingers gripped her heart. “He survived; he’s in the Jacobi Medical Center’s Burn Unit in the Bronx.” Samantha struggled to breathe as her body tensed before a wail of despair broke over her lips. Myles walked closer and put his hand tenderly on her shoulder as sobbing convulsions shook her. “Your bullet shattered his left shoulder and it appears the little girl fell on top of him, partially shielding him from the flames, fumes, and smoke. If help hadn’t arrived when it did, he’d be dead; if not by the flames and heat, then either by the poisonous gasses or bleeding,” he said gently before taking a deep breath, and allowed a few moments to pass for Samantha to steady herself. “Have I told you anything today Detective Sagan?” he asked earnestly. She was about to say; “Yes. Thank you sir,” but hesitated a moment.

“No sir.” Myles Ferguson smiled and curtly nodded. She understood Myles had gone out on a limb for her, and it filled her with a deep respect.

He made his way to the door, but paused with his hand on the handle.

“I forgot, there was one other thing. What were you doing on the Saw Mill River Parkway, and where had you been?” She could not help but avert her eyes; she had no alibi. “Detective Sagan?”

“I… we were simply in the wrong place at the right time…” she said softly, avoiding his question, and looked at him blankly.

“You can’t tell me, can you?” It felt as if her heart had stopped beating for a few seconds. He put his hands on his hips and studied his shoes for a moment. “Oh my God!” he said as if he knew exactly where she had been. “Do you know what that little oversight might cost you and NYPD?” His voice was angry, and looked at her with near contempt. Dr. Gordon walked in.

“That’s enough for now Captain Ferguson, she needs to rest.” Myles ignored him and kept glaring at Samantha.

“We’re done,” he said through his teeth, and marched out the ward.

ENTER DR. GERBER - GOING DUTCH AT DIMARIO’S

Grant checked his watch before answering his phone.

“Sandham.” A man at the other end cleared his throat.

“Is this Mr. Grant Sandham?”

“Speaking; who am I talking to?”

“Mr. er, Sandham, this is Dr. Alan Gerber.” Grant sat upright.

“Dr. Gerber, thank you for getting back to me. I want to-”

“Is this a sick joke or some other scam operation sir?” he asked harshly. Grant was stunned.

“What?”

“The law has ways of dealing with men like you, and I’ll not hesitate-”

“What are you talking about?” Grant asked annoyed.

“Mr. whoever-you-are; do you think you can pull this off? What kind of a reprobate are you?” Grant gathered himself.

“Dr. Gerber,” he said, keeping his voice calm, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding or something – this conversation is not making sense.”

“Damn right!” Gerber continued. “Anyway, you can expect a visit from the authorities in due course.” Grant was livid and ended the call. “Idiot,” he said under his breath. His phone rang again and he snatched it.

“Don’t call here again.” He had already started moving the phone away from his ear when he heard a faint female voice.

“Grant…?” He froze. “It’s the Earhart girl…” He closed his eyes and cursed silently.

“Emma?”

“It is. Did you mean what you just said?”

“No. Oh no! I’ve just had a perplexing call and I thought they were calling back. I’m sorry Emma; my mind was elsewhere.”

“Well, I was in two minds to call, but wanted to see if you wrote down your real phone number.” He smiled.

“Do you think a man will actually lie to you?” he asked in japed surprise. She laughed, and he enjoyed the sound of it.

“I thought that if you had given me the right number, then maybe you weren’t so full of crap after all.” His laugh came easily. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked.

“It’s ten thirty-seven,” he said checking his watch.

“You said I should call you after ten-thirty; you didn’t say a.m. or p.m., or which day.”

“Damn, you’re a stickler for detail,” he said smiling, “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“Good idea. Tell me, what else do you know about Amelia Earhart?” He thought for a moment.

“Well, I had a crush on her in junior high, but she was oblivious of my existence. I think it scarred me for life.” Emma laughed.

“Do you know that if she were still alive she would have been well past her hundred and tenth birthday?”

“Seriously though, I don’t know much about her except that she was the first woman to do a solo crossing of the Atlantic. Also, that her plane went missing and has never been found.” He paused for a moment. “Oh yes, and that she was a founding member of the ‘Ninety Nines’.”

“I’m impressed.”

“No, don’t be, I hoard a lot of useless information,” then hastily added; “not that what Amelia Earhart achieved is trivial by any means.”

“Well saved there.”

“Emma,” he asked after a moment, “why did you call?”

“Jeez, not even a little chit-chat; get right to the point. Well, you’re the first man to ask me if I flew jets or props, then you said the magic word.”

“The magic word?”

“Well, more like a sentence. I liked when you said; ‘Good night Ms. Earhart.’ Best pickup line I’ve ever fielded.”

“It wasn’t a pickup line.”

“Well, it worked on me; it was as if you knew more about me than you should have. I also liked that you didn’t crowd me – I don’t like clingy – and you placed the decision in my hands if we were to meet again.” He sensed there was more and remained silent. “You also didn’t try and impress me; in fact, you were even self-effacing – I was intrigued.”

“I was?”

“Yeah, you told me you were unemployed. What girl do you think would want to hook up with an unemployed guy she didn’t know? Normally it’s the opposite; all the crap about their millions or high-flying executive positions.” She paused. “Is this your first lie to me Grant?” she asked as if he were a misbehaving child.

“No, it was not a lie, I really am unemployed.”

“Retired perhaps?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I was at the point of being fired but my resignation was accepted instead.”

“Oh! Grant, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you were serious.”

“No need to apologize; I’m not convinced yet, but it may turn out to be one of the best things that’s happened to me.” She heard the smile in his voice. “For one, I wouldn’t have been at The Blue Jewel if I had still been employed.” He paused a moment. “Emma, if you don’t have any arrangements for Thursday evening, I’d like you to join me for dinner.”

“I’m in Jacksonville in the morning, and should be back around four ‘o clock. I can be in the city at, say – five-thirty. Are you asking me on a date?” He chuckled.

“Yes, I am. There is a small catch though; can we go Dutch?” She laughed.

“Dutch it is! How can I expect an unemployed man to feed me?”

“It’s a date then. I’ll SMS you the details during the day tomorrow.”

Grant’s hand came out from under the duvet when his phone rang. It sounded louder than usual in the quiet early morning.

“Sandham.”

“Mr. Sandham, this is Dr. Alan Gerber.” Grant sat upright. “I apologize for calling at such an early hour, but I’m going into theatre and won’t be out until much later; I didn’t want this to stand over until then.” Grant checked his bedside clock; 6:50 a.m.

“I hope we’re not going to have the same baffling conversation as before,” he said.

“No, and I apologize for that. I was acting on information, or rather, the lack of it.” He drew a breath and Grant could hear activity and faint voices in the hollow background. “Yesterday, a regular visitor of Ms. Sandham asked me if her son had been to see her yet. I was a little surprised, and told her that Ms. Sandham did not have a son. She then told me the whole story.” Grant did not respond. “Mr. Sandham?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Well, as I’ve said, I was unaware she had a son. She never mentioned it to me in the past, even though I asked her about family, and her records indicate the same – no next of kin.” Grant felt an awkwardness creep over him; he could imagine how it looked. “So, I sincerely apologize for being a little harsh during my last call, but I thought you may be an unscrupulous swindler of some sort with dubious motives.”

“It’s all right Dr. Gerber, under the circumstances it was the right thing to do. How is she doing?”

“Well, she’s very weak, she’s in the latter stages of colon cancer. We’ve done all we can for her, but I’m afraid it’s terminal… I’m truly sorry.” Grant waited a few moments before he felt he could get words past the restriction in his throat.

“Thank you for being frank with me. We have a lot of ground to make up, and I’d like to see her as soon as I can.”

“I do not think it will be a good idea if you just appeared at her bedside unexpectedly. Her friend, Ms. Snowden, the woman you met when you went to look up your mother, has not mentioned anything to her, and I asked her not to bring up your name until I had spoken to her and to you. I’ve treated your mother for the past year and I believe I have built a trust between us. I’ll prepare her for your initial visit, and see what I can do to get her strength up a bit. Your re-emergence into her life might be a more significant event than we may think – we should not underestimate the impact it could have on her.” A gloom came over him as he pictured his mother helpless and frail in a hospital bed.

“When can I see her?” he asked.

“I think the soonest will be Monday afternoon, I-”

“Monday? It just seems so far away.”

“Mr. Sandham, it’s a few days; how much of a difference can it make considering the time you’ve been estranged?” There was no malice in Gerber’s voice; he stated it as a simple fact, but it annoyed Grant that he brought it up.

“You’re right Dr. Gerber.”

“All right. If I do not call you again, could you meet me in my office at one-thirty this coming Monday?”

“Of course, I’ll be there.”

“Good. I’ve got to run. Good-bye Mr. Sandham.” Grant heard the rhythmic, high-pitched beeping of a monitor and the faint wheezing of a ventilator behind his voice before the connection ended.

Grant sat back and watched as more tables became occupied in the large outdoor garden area in DiMario’s Ristorante. The atmosphere was jovial as the patrons soaked up the last of the Indian summer days. He checked the message he sent Emma the night before. ‘Hi Emma, looking forward to seeing you again. Mulberry Str; DiMario’s Ristorante – 6:00pm. Happy landings. G.’ He could not recall when last he had been to DiMario’s, but it was years ago. The semi-formal environment was relaxed and it seemed nothing had changed over the years. It was one of the few establishments that appeared to have more waiters than patrons and it made for effective service. He was a little nervous; it had been a long time since he had been on a date – Emma was the first in over a decade, and he still was unsure if he was doing the right thing. Emma was young and vibrant – smart and sassy. Her life lay ahead whilst his was in the final stages of decay. He did not know anything about her, but there was something that intrigued him, and he wanted to see her again.

Grant stood up as the Maître d’ escorted Emma to the table.

“Hi Emma. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Hi Graham,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I hope you’re not going to leave in ten minutes to honor another dinner date up town.” He smiled and shook his head.

“No. I’m all yours tonight.” After placing their drinks order, they looked at each other for a moment. Her short sandy hair looked as if she had driven in a car with the top down, but he knew it probably took a while to make it look that way. He preferred long hair, but he could not imagine her with any other hairstyle. He could not see if she was wearing make-up outside her lightly glossed lips. Her eyebrows were perfectly contoured above her smoky blue eyes.

“You look…” he started saying. She leaned forward placing her elbow on the table, cupped her cheek in one hand, and gave an impish smile. He realized he had not finished his sentence and was staring at her. “You look fabulous.”

“Thank you. I see your Social Security grants must have improved dramatically; you look pretty dashing yourself.” He smirked.

“Thank you. I think you’re never going to let me forget this unemployment thing; I’d better set the record straight. In a nutshell, I did resign, but it’s all good.” He lifted his glass. “Forever happy landings,” he said. “How was your flight today?”

“Uneventful, and it had me thinking about what I was doing with my life.”

“You have an enviable career; many would love to do what you do. So, what were you thinking about your life and flying?”

“Well, the flights can be lonely and unexciting with long periods of waiting at destinations, and one has a lot of time to think. I realized I was bored. I’m nothing more than a glorified cab driver.” She looked at her glass as if regretting having shared that information. “When you’re young you make decisions based on dreams and aspirations; not considering the real world – how could you?” She sighed. “Anyway, I’m seriously thinking of making a career change.” She suddenly looked up at him. “What am I doing?” she said. “Here I am burdening you with my baggage on our first date. Shouldn’t I be telling you about my favorite author or something?” she asked trying to lighten the mood. Grant looked at her, and for a moment she believed she felt a soothing come from his eyes.

“Six weeks ago I wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what you were talking about,” he eventually said, “I’m beginning to see things your way.”

“Are you saying I should make a career change?”

“Not necessarily, but I think you should do what makes you happy. Ecstatically happy, and pursue it with all you’ve got.”

“What if it’s a big mistake?” He smiled.

“It can’t be a mistake to pursue happiness. However, there might be trade-offs you’d need to consider.”

“Like?”

“Well, you may have worked yourself into a cozy and financially secure position. Happiness might be at the other end of the scale.” He became pensive for a few moments before continuing. “Few people have the will or strength to make such a difficult decision; most people don’t even know how unhappy they really are. Those who do try finding some middle ground – a compromise. Sadly, most people are trapped in their lives; some know it, some don’t.” He took a sip of his drink and clammed up. Emma felt annoyed for bringing up the subject; it seemed to have put a damper on proceedings. She was not sure how her minor career concern could bring out this somber side in him.

“I’ve never been here before,” she said, changing the subject. “It’s nice that we can sit here in a garden – it’s a great setting.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He talked and laughed easily and she felt at ease and comfortable. Her last few dates were all once-offs. Having spent some time with them – often mere minutes, she knew she would not agree to a second date. Her previous suitors could not stop talking about themselves; Grant avoided it. From one end of the scale to the other, she thought.

“And that?” Grant asked noticing her scowl.

“Oh, I can’t tell – I’ve broken a cardinal rule.”

“Well that’s exactly the stuff I want to hear,” he said, but he could see she was not going to share her thoughts. “OK, how about I tell you about my own little indiscretion in exchange for your saucy bit?” She leaned forward folding her arms on the table.

“Talk,” she said with a mischievous grin.

“Well, maybe it’s unfair; I was going to tell you anyway.” She fluttered her eyelids in mock expectation. “I, er, I-.” Emma interrupted with a twinkle in her eye.

“Is it about your dinner date you had to honor?” When he blushed she burst out laughing, and he hung his head in mild embarrassment before joining her.

“You knew?”

“Of course! All girls know when guys are lying – you guys just don’t know we know.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Anyway, I’ve long forgiven you, and in your case, you didn’t leverage your er, indiscretion. In a twisted way it was flattering.”

“Flattering?”

“Well, yeah. You took the trouble of conjuring up a story because you thought it may be worth it.” Grant drooped the corners of his mouth bobbing his head considering her viewpoint having merit.

“True,” he conceded. “You know, you’re a strange girl.”

“You’re not doing too badly yourself, Mr… damn; I don’t even know your last name.”

“It’s Sandham.”

“We should formalize this. Grant Sandham, I’m Emma Curtis.” She held out her hand.

“I’m very pleased to meet you Ms. Curtis.”

“Likewise.” The waiter appeared placing leather bound menus before them.

“Would you be ordering any wine with your meals?” the waiter asked. Grant looked at Emma.

“That would be nice.”

“Red?”

“Perfect.” He scanned the wine list recalling one of DiMario’s specialties – South African vintners, and fingered a Kanonkop.

“Do you have stock of the 2004 pinotage?”

“We do sir.”

“Good. Bring us a bottle please.”

“Are you a connoisseur?” Emma asked once they were alone.

“No. I just know a few good wines I like.” She smiled, knowing he was being modest. “And that smile?” he asked.

“I… I just feel uncomfortable feeling so comfortable.” The waiter returned and tended their glasses. “What were you doing before you resigned?” she asked.

“I was a risk officer.” She remained silent inviting him to elaborate. “It was my duty to ensure that whatever the company was exposed to had adequate plans in place to manage or even eliminate the risk factor.”

“That sounds a bit tricky. Did you enjoy it?”

“With all my heart – I lived for it.”

“What would happen if you assessed the risks incorrectly?”

“Well, I’d cost the company a lot of money, as well as potentially lose prospective investors.” He laughed softly. “I’d also spend the next month trying to get Victor’s shoe out my ass.”

“Who did you work for?” Emma asked still laughing.

“Galaxis Capital.”

“I’ve heard that name somewhere before. Yeah, I think I overheard two executives I flew to Denver recently mention it.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“No, not really. They were disembarking so I just caught a snippet. Something about a sexy wunderkind running the backroom at Galaxis Capital, or something like that.” Grant smiled. “Do you know her?”

“Yes. She’s a pretty amazing woman,” he said.

“And sexy?” Emma asked with a glint in her eye.

“You know, I never really thought of her in that way, but I know I was in the minority – if not the only one.”

“What’s her name?”

“Charlie, Charlie Mayer.” He picked up the menus and offered one to her. “I don’t think you’re the kind of girl who’d want me to order for her.”

“Very perceptive.”

Dusk had drawn a slight chill into the garden. A few tables had their small pear-shaped glass lanterns flickering away, and it created a magical fairy-like setting with gentle laughter supplementing the blithesome atmosphere. Emma put down her menu and took in the surroundings. It’s too perfect, she thought.

“Are you cold?” Grant asked.

“No,” she said picking up her wine, “I’m just taken by the atmosphere; one could get very relaxed here.” The waiter returned, lit their lantern, and waited on their order.

“Have you decided?”

“The gnocchi looks like a winner – I’m going with that,” she said.

“Good choice. I think you’ll be impressed; I’m joining you.”

The conversation during dinner was light and easy. He listened amused when she told him of an incident where an amorous executive tried making a pass at her during a flight. He stood leaning at the cockpit entrance trying to chat her up. To get rid of him, she asked him to return to his seat as there was bad weather ahead. When he refused, she made some ‘bad weather’; not anything serious to trigger flight data abnormalities, but enough for him to hold his stomach as she let the jet drop. Then, as he stumbled back to his seat, she lifted the nose making the man drop his drink and run past his seat all the way to the back of the cabin. As he started staggering back, she leveled out and flew silkily smooth. She turned and looked into the cabin. His face had taken on a bleached complexion. “I think we’re through it Mr. Newman, what were you saying?” He did not answer, and did not bother her again. He also did not greet her when he disembarked.

Grant smiled and was pensive as he stirred his coffee.

“A penny for your thoughts?” she asked.

“I’m just thinking; I have some business Upstate.”

“Where?”

“Skaneateles; you know the town?”

“Hmm, isn’t it near Syracuse – in the Great Lakes area?”

“It is, about half an hour or so by road from Syracuse.”

“What’s your business?”

“I need to sign some documents for a property I’m selling.” He smiled at her. “It would be nice if someone could take me…” She looked at him for a moment before making the connection.

“Aha!”

“Precisely. I’d appreciate you doing the honors.”

“When do you want to go?”

“Saturday morning.”

“Damn, I’m out of town for most of the day Saturday. It would have been great if I could have flown you,” she said not hiding her disappointment. “Nevertheless, I’ll make the booking arrangements for you tomorrow if you like, but you’ll need to sign some forms and leave a few Social Security dollars on the counter.”

“Thanks, I’ll take care of that, I still need to confirm the time with the estate agent.” They were silent for a while before he noticed her eyes on his hands. He knew it was the ring that held her attention. He took a deep breath and decided he had nothing to lose by telling her, but felt a slight unease; he never mentioned Margot’s name to anyone except Victor. Now he was going to share details with a virtual stranger. He did not understand why he wanted to do it.

“Her name was Margot,” he said softly.

“Grant, you don’t need to-”

“It’s all right,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve mentioned her name to anyone in the past few years, and perhaps it’s time I do.” He studied the flickering in the lantern for a moment. “We were married three years. This year would have been our fourteenth wedding anniversary.” He looked up and studied Emma for a while before continuing. “I’m rapidly finding out what a poor husband she had chosen. I think it’s the guilt that gets me, but I know it’s who I was – I’ve accepted it with great difficulty.” He looked away to avoid her eyes. “I don’t believe people change; I think they adjust their behavior to improve their chances at more favorable outcomes.”

“Grant…” Emma started saying seeing his hurt, and wanted to stop him. He continued as if he had not heard her.

“All she wanted was me, but there was no me. I couldn’t give something I didn’t have.” He shook his head slowly. “Sometimes a bad event must occur for the sake of a good result.” He sighed and sat back. “Sadly, her life was cut short…”

“Oh no,” she whispered. She could see him crying but there were no tears, just a deeply trapped pain. He sat stunned for a moment.

“Oh! Emma, I’m sorry,” he said as if realizing what he had just said. “Talk about ruining an evening. I’m really sorry.” He shifted in his chair as a strange sense of relief came over him; a burden lifted.

“I… I’m so sorry Grant,” she said softly.

“Perhaps you were half right; I might not be full of crap, but I am damaged goods.”

“You’ve not spoken about her in over ten years?” she eventually asked.

“Only with Victor, my ex-boss.”

“Well, I consider it an honor. It’s not easy opening up if you’re not the type – I know.” He nodded.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked changing the subject.

“No, thank you. You can call for the bill.”

“It’s done.” Emma looked at him questioningly as he stood up and drew her chair.

“It’s done? What about the ‘going Dutch’ thing?” He smiled and led her towards the entrance. As they approached, their waiter stepped forward, bowed slightly, thanked them, then turned and walked away.

“What just happened there?” Emma asked.

“It’s an express checkout,” he joked, and raised his arm when they got outside. A stretched limousine parked on the opposite side of the road made a U-turn, and stopped in front of them. The driver got out and held the back door open. “I trust you took a cab to the restaurant?” Grant asked.

“I did.”

“Well, then your carriage awaits.” She turned to say something but slipped in onto the backseat.

“You’re a strange man, but I like your style Mr. Sandham.”

“Where can I drop you?”

“Corner of 12th and Hudson – West Village, thank you.” The driver nodded and drove off.

When the car stopped outside her building, she leaned over and kissed him on his cheek, then got out and resisted looking over her shoulder as the car pulled away.

This is the end of Residues’ 5 sample chapters; hope you’ve enjoyed them. If you’d like to learn how it all turns out, the book is available from Amazon.

Signed In visitors can read an additional 5 chapters. Click here to go there now.

Here you go…

Captain Curtis - Come fly with me

Name and company recognition streamlined Grant’s chartering of a plane from Connecticut Business Jet Services at Danbury Municipal Airport. He had one more request.

“One of your pilots come highly recommended. I want Emma Curtis to be the pilot.”

“Er, the pilots cannot be booked Mr. Sandham, they’re on schedules,” the woman said. He was unperturbed.

“Is she available?” He heard tapping on a keyboard.

“I’m sorry Mr. Sandham; Ms. Curtis will be out in Austin the entire Saturday. I can assure you that all our pilots are stringently selected.”

“Can her schedule be rearranged to accommodate me?”

“I’m afraid not sir.”

“Is there anyone I can speak to who may be able to consider my request?” She hesitated.

“Mr. Max Jones is the manager; shall I put you through to him?”

Max was at pains explaining the irregularity. He could make an exception in emergencies, but it would incur a levy. Grant accepted.

“Good morning Mr. Sandham,” Franco greeted when Grant walked into the garden with a cup of coffee and his newspaper. He had become used to seeing Grant wander around the garden or lie in the sun lounger, and enjoyed their chats. Grant waved the newspaper.

“Good morning Franco.” He suddenly froze and dropped the newspaper, then his cup slipped from his fingers. He had a bewildered look on his face before doubling over and fell to his knees. Franco came rushing over.

“Mr. Sandham! Mr. Sandham!” Grant clutched his stomach; his head slumped onto his chest as he gasped for breath. Franco knelt next to Grant. “Mr. Sandham, are you all right?” he asked concerned. Grant did not answer but kept heaving and gasping for air. Franco grabbed Grant’s coffee cup and scooped some water from the pool before rushing back to Grant. He held it out to him. Grant gripped the cup and drank deeply, then emptied the rest over his head. He lay down on the lawn covering his eyes with his arm. Franco looked around nervously. As the pain subsided, Grant came up onto his elbows. Franco had taken out his mobile phone and was about to dial.

“It’s… OK Franco,” Grant said, motioning him not to call. Franco went to Grant’s side, helped him to his feet, and guided him into a chair under the sunshade near the house. He managed a weak smile and pointed to his coffee cup on the lawn.

“Franco, can I have some more water please?” Franco did not understand until Grant gestured a drinking motion. Franco was about to scoop water from the pool, then hesitated. Grant nodded. He filled the cup and brought it back to Grant.

“Thank you,” he said after gulping down half of it. His complexion returned as he recovered. “I’m glad you’ve kept the pool so sparkling clean; it seems the water has medicinal properties.” Franco did not understand Grant’s humor, but nodded his agreement. They sat together for a few minutes while Grant regained his strength.

“Are you all right Mr. Sandham?”

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine.” Franco looked unconvinced. “It’s nothing serious,” he said getting up. “I think I’m going to lie down for a while. Please keep the pool filled Franco, you never know how much of this water I might need,” he said winking, and went into the house.

Grant’s mobile on the bedside table woke him.

“Good morning Captain Curtis.”

“Oh! Grant, what have you done?” she asked in feigned surprise. He laughed. “I got this call from my boss who said my schedule for Saturday had changed. I asked him where I was flying to and he said Syracuse. Then it hit me.”

“Am I hearing consent?”

“I told you, I’d love to fly you. What did you say to Max; I’m surprised he agreed?”

“Well, he said it was irregular at first unless I considered it an emergency.”

“And… you said it was an emergency?”

“Yes.” Emma laughed then thought for a moment.

“Is it?”

“It is,” he said touching his stomach.

“Well, I’m blown away – it’s the last thing I would have expected. Anyway, you’ve done me a favor. Remember that Newman guy I told you about; the one I made bad weather for…?” He laughed. “I discovered this morning he and three others were my passengers for Saturday.”

“One is glad to be of service.”

“What did you mean ‘good morning’ when you answered the phone?” He looked at his watch.

“Damn! Three-thirty. I can’t believe the time. I thought I’d catch up on a quick nap.”

“I want to make a suggestion; do you have any luggage?”

“No luggage, just baggage.”

“Good,” Emma said laughing. “Why don’t you meet me at my apartment then we could go to the airport together – I’ll take you.”

“Sounds good to me. What time should I be at your place?”

“We should leave no later than eight-fifteen,” she said, and gave him her address.

“I’ll see you then captain.”

The limo dropped Grant in front of Emma’s building. He pressed her apartment number and waited a few seconds.

“Hi, Grant, come on up,” she said over the intercom and buzzed him in. He stopped outside her apartment and checked his watch; eight-ten, he was early. He was about to knock when he noticed the door slightly ajar, and slowly pushed it open.

“Emma?”

“Hi, come in, I’m running a little late – sorry,” she said; her voice coming from somewhere inside. He stood in the living room and watched the morning gain momentum in the street below. Eight-thirty – he wondered if he should be concerned – the trip was over an hour. He smiled when Emma walked into the room. She wore her Connecticut Business Jet Services corporate outfit; navy blue slacks, matching jacket with the CBJS insignia embroidered on the left chest, and a small gold metal badge with two wings just above it. Three gold strips adorned the jacket’s epaulets and cuffs. She seemed a little taller. Her eyes and shaggy, short spiky hair was all that seemed familiar.

“Ta-daaa!” she announced striking a model pose with one hand on her hip. His mouth was slightly open.

“Emma,” he said, taking in her image. “You look… strikingly official.”

“Indeed,” she said checking her watch. “Oops! We’ll have to make up some time but I think we can manage that.” She walked over to the coatrack, lifted two full-face motorcycle helmets off their pegs, and held one out to him. He stood frozen. “Surprise!” she said, and pushed the helmet into his hands. She turned and walked to the door. Grant stared down at the helmet.

“You haven’t put a lot of thought into this, have you?” He saw her dismay and savored the moment. “Look at my jacket Emma; it’s brown. Do you know how this lime green helmet is going to clash with it? It’s a fashion faux pas of note,” he said tapping the helmet before breaking into laughter.

“You little shit! I was busy dying here,” she said shaking her head. He walked to her and pecked a kiss on her forehead.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“The kiss or your cruel joke?” He grinned.

“Both.”

Emma’s lime-green Kawasaki ZX14R looked aggressive, and seemed in motion while still on its stand. It purred with bridled power as Emma deftly weaved through the traffic. The last time he had been on a motorcycle was during his college days. He felt awkward; the footrests were higher than he had expected, forcing him to straddle the small pillion seat like a jockey. Emma still seemed unhurried as she turned off the city streets onto the on-ramp of the expressway. She reached around and pulled his arms around her waist before turning back and lifted her visor.

“Hold on, we’re going to make up some time.” He held her delicately, as if they were dancing – until she twisted the throttle and the bike responded. The motor screamed joyously as it soared through the smooth gearshifts. He tightened his grip but had no sensation of her slim body in his arms. The traffic came up fast and flashed by. He knew how dangerous this was on so many levels, yet, it made him feel alive; vibrant and liberated. Adrenaline coiled his body as they taunted death, but it felt good. He believed this would be a better way to die than what was in store for him – a lot more dignified and quicker. He felt anxious for Emma; she had so much to lose.

The motorcycle bucked as Emma geared down; the engine’s banshee scream protesting against the reigning in of its freedom. She drifted off the exit, stopped at a traffic light, and popped her visor turning to him. She winked before facing forward again. He tightened his hold around her waist; he could not know she was smiling. The speeding was over, and she judiciously continued the rest of the journey before pulling up outside Connecticut Business Jet Services’ offices just after nine-eighteen. She lifted off her helmet and ran her hand through her hair. It looked as it did before they left her apartment. She took his helmet and pointed towards the office entrance.

“It’s in there. I’ll see you when you board,” she said, before setting off towards the hangar.

They drove Grant to the steps of the waiting Cessna Citation CJ4; the two jet engines casually whining. Emma appeared in the cabin doorway when he got out of the car, and smiled down at him. His reaction surprised him; he had the urge to run up the airstairs. He had seen her less than fifteen minutes ago, and glad to see her again.

“Welcome aboard Mr. Sandham,” she said smiling.

“Captain Emma Curtis, you’re something else.” She laughed.

“Here, let me take your jacket. You’re right; you did look uncoordinated and ghastly in that helmet. I think you should consider getting a matching jacket,” she said as she closed and locked the cabin door. “You can choose any of these seats.” He selected one where he could have a view of the cockpit. “Would you like something to drink before we take off?”

“No thanks, I’m OK for now,” he said as he sat down in the plush leather seat. She checked her watch.

“We’re on time, the weather is good, and there’s no other traffic. We’ll be airborne shortly; we’ll talk more then,” she said as she entered the cockpit.

The CJ4 taxied to the runway awaiting clearance. A man from the control tower mumbled something before the thrust pushed him first gently, and then more forcibly into his seat. The engines wailed in harmony as the plane accelerated before the undercarriage’s vibration abruptly disappeared and the jet climbed into the sky. After a minute, Emma turned and looked into the cabin.

“Grant, come join me.”

“You’re not going to make any ‘bad weather’ are you?” She laughed.

“Only if you don’t join me. We’ll be leveling off in about ten minutes,” she said as he sat down in the copilot’s seat. He looked over the array of instruments and large LCD displays. The layout was near identical on his side.

Through breaks in cotton candy clouds, the earth lay still below; a quilted mantle crudely sewn with winding threads of rivers and roads. Emma eased back the power and leveled the plane. She made a few adjustments then turned to Grant.

“Thank you for saving me from that horrible Mr. Newman. On top of that, it was likely to be a crappy flight; the weather did not look good out Austin’s way.”

“Perhaps I saved Mr. Newman.”

“Yeah, maybe you did,” she said laughing then became serious. “I want to apologize for putting your life in danger this morning; I don’t know what came over me. It was very dangerous and stupid. I wanted to get here fast, but not that fast. At one point we were doing in excess of a hundred and ten miles an hour.” She shook her head. “That’s very, very stupid – I should know better. If anything had to happen at that speed there is absolutely nothing one can do. You’re approaching objects at… I estimate around fifty yards a second. It would be hard seeing a man standing on the express way a hundred yards ahead, yet, you’d be on him within two seconds.” Grant could see her regret was sincere.

“I know, but I can’t tell you how alive it made me feel. For now, all’s well that ends well.”

“Thanks for that.” She undid her seatbelt and stood up. “We’re on auto pilot. Don’t touch anything; I’ll be back in a few seconds.” He looked at her amused before she left the cockpit. He heard some rustling and smiled – wondering what she was up to. She’s right, he thought. He could see how lonely it could become in a solitary sky. It had a double effect; cut off from people as well as the world.

“Almost done,” Emma’s voice came from the cabin.”

“No rush – I’ll shout if something comes from starboard.”

“That’s really a nautical term,” she said laughing. “We don’t use it much in aviation anymore.”

He nodded. Here I am, alone in a cockpit cruising at nearly 400 knots just over six miles above the earth, and having no input or control. It’s unnerving placing your life and trust in someone else’s hands – much like a relationship.

“OK, I’m back,” she said entering the cockpit and taking her seat. His mouth opened slightly in surprise. She had changed into an oversized white T-shirt that hung loosely over a pair of shorts. Colorful beach sandals had replaced her high heels.

“I hate that damn uniform,” she said grinning. “It’s Saturday, and this feels so much better.” Her toned legs captivated him before he tore his eyes away.

“We have to wear our corporate gear when on duty, but I don’t consider you a client.”

“Why not?”

“Well, we’ve been to dinner, you’ve been to my apartment, and you’ve been on my bike; not something any other client can claim.” She scanned the instrumentation, adjusted one of the many dials, and sat back. “It’s strange, it’s almost as if I know you, yet I don’t know anything about you really.” He did not say anything. “You see,” she exclaimed in mock accusation when he did not respond, “you’re secretive, mysterious. As long as you’re not a serial killer, I think it’s an intriguing trait women generally find appealing. You know how we are; drawn to the darker, dangerous side – mostly to our own detriment.” He turned to her, narrowing his eyes into slits, and looked at her with as much menace his nonexistent acting abilities could muster. She glanced at him and burst out laughing. He sat back and shrugged as his Jack Nicholson impression failed.

“Some killer I’d make,” he said.

“You’re hilarious.” He smiled, happy to hear her laugh. “Have I told you of the incident with the new flight attendant?” she asked.

“No…”

“Well, she had joined a new crew and was busy assisting passengers getting settled in the back of the plane – it was a terrible thing,” she said, her face somber. “The captain had noticed her earlier, and neglecting to check his interphone, remarked to the flight engineer; ‘Man, what I’d like now is a cup of coffee and then to make passionate love to our new flight attendant.’” Emma shook her head disapprovingly. “The blushing young woman started rushing forward to reprimand him and alert him his microphone was on.” Grant looked concerned. “Before she could get to the cockpit however, an elderly lady stuck out her hand and grabbed hold of her. ‘There’s no need to rush my dear, he’s first going to have his coffee.’” Emma watched as Grant realized how neatly she had set him up in the joke before he broke into laughter. He looked at her and smiled, shaking his head.

“Captain Curtis, you’re cut from beautiful but extraordinary cloth.” She gave him a sideward smile as she altered a few controls before flicking off the auto pilot switch and summoned air traffic control at Syracuse Hancock International Airport.

“We’ll be down in about fifteen minutes.” His eyes were involuntary drawn to her velvety legs as she worked the rudder pedals – the slight muscle movements in her calves and thighs had him captivated. Emma noticed the direction of his stare from the corner of her eye. He forced himself to look out his side-window taking in the scenery as they started their descent. “It’s official, this has been my best flight in a very long time,” she said.

“In a very long time…?” She turned and looked at him for a second.

“OK, strike ‘in a very long time’.”

When Dr. Gordon walked into the ward, Samantha was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hey Sam, this is it, time’s up – we need the bed,” he teased.

“Be my guest.” She had become fond of Dr. Gordon. He never fussed over her, and if anything, seemed unconcerned, but she sensed his protectiveness and caring. Although her partner and a few other detectives had visited her, her chats with Dr. Gordon were uncomplicated and less fatiguing. Her sister, Helen, flew up from Fort Lauderdale and stayed for a day. When she offered to pick up a few personal items from Samantha’s apartment, Samantha stalled, offering flimsy reasons why it was not necessary. She had no idea what Helen may be walking into, and wanted to keep her out of harm’s way – this was between her and the Fernandez thugs. Helen eventually bought her a few necessities and a tracksuit. Myles came back once after his initial visit, and then only to tell her it was in the interest of the investigation she takes furlough. She should use the time to recover her strength – translating into being indefinitely suspended. Her firearm and badge were already in his possession.

Dr. Gordon gently touched the blotchy pink areas of her torso – her smooth, unharmed breasts in stark contrast with the damaged surrounding skin.

“My girl,” he said, “you should be thankful you were wearing a bra. If your nipples looked like this, you’d know about it!” He closed her gown and stood back.

“Speaking of which, where is my bra and stuff?”

“Sam, they were ruined, we’ve, er, incinerated them, except the sneakers,” he said. She thought for a moment.

“My panty was ruined? Is it what I think you’re saying?” He nodded. “Damn!” she said self-consciously.

“Severe trauma does that,” he said downplaying the incident. “It’s the body’s way of saying; ‘no more.’” He pulled a chair closer and sat down. “Other systems in the body can also shut down in those circumstances – which of course is a good thing.” He looked away for a second. “In some cases the brain will not record any of the events; it’s a protection mechanism. However, this is not always the case, and the night sisters have told me of your crying and nightmares. I wouldn’t have known from my talks with you – you hide it too well.” He locked their eyes for a moment. “Sam, of all your injuries, this might be the one that will take the longest to heal. Don’t try being too tough; if you neglect this, your whole body will suffer. How ever difficult it is, deal with it.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a business card.

Gene Haver
Psychologist
(212) 555 1957

“Gene’s a good friend of mine. He’s a little crazy, but a prince amongst men. However, I suspect NYPD have their own way of dealing with this kind of thing, and would probably have their own counselors check you out. If the going gets rough Gene will be able to help you keep perspective.” He smiled at her as he stood up. “Detective Sagan, you’re free to go. If at all possible, please don’t come back here again. Now get dressed; a porter will be here shortly with your limo.”

“Dr. Gordon, I assume you know about the little boy…” she took a breath. “The little boy who was in the car and now in the Jacobi Medical Center’s Burn Unit – fighting for his life.” Dr. Gordon turned around.

“Yes…”

“Until Captain Ferguson told me, I did not know he had survived. Can you tell me about his condition?” Dr. Gordon looked at her pursing his lips.

“Sam, you’ve been through a lot already. The boy is in good care. You should concentrate on your own recuperation.”

“Dr. Gordon,” she commanded softly, “tell me.”

“Are you sure you-”

“Yes.” He looked at her and nodded.

“He’s going to lose his arm; they’ll amputate as soon as it’s possible,” he said and took a breath. “He’s on the edge. If he makes it, it will take years of skin grafting and reconstructive surgery. He might lose his eyesight, and will be badly disfigured.”

After leaving the ward, Dr. Gordon chastised himself for having gone into detail. Samantha wept bitterly, knowing little Leo was now also an orphan.

I believe this essay was originally published in a 1986 edition of The Writer magazine and republished in the 1988 edition of The Writer’s Handbook. I have reproduced it here as a matter of interest, and a must-read for aspiring writers.

Stephen King’s

“Everything You Need to Know About Writing Successfully – in Ten Minutes”

I. The First Introduction

THAT’S RIGHT. I know it sounds like an ad for some sleazy writers’ school, but I really am going to tell you everything you need to pursue a successful and financially rewarding career writing fiction, and I really am going to do it in ten minutes, which is exactly how long it took me to learn. It will actually take you twenty minutes or so to read this essay, however, because I have to tell you a story, and then I have to write a second introduction. But these, I argue, should not count in the ten minutes.

II. The Story, or, How Stephen King Learned to Write

When I was a sophomore in high school, I did a sophomoric thing which got me in a pot of fairly hot water, as sophomoric didoes often do. I wrote and published a small satiric newspaper called The Village Vomit. In this little paper I lampooned a number of teachers at Lisbon (Maine) High School, where I was under instruction. These were not very gentle lampoons; they ranged from the scatological to the downright cruel.

Eventually, a copy of this little newspaper found its way into the hands of a faculty member, and since I had been unwise enough to put my name on it (a fault, some critics argue, of which I have still not been entirely cured), I was brought into the office. The sophisticated satirist had by that time reverted to what he really was: a fourteen-year-old kid who was shaking in his boots and wondering if he was going to get a suspension … what we called “a three-day vacation” in those dim days of 1964.

I wasn’t suspended. I was forced to make a number of apologies – they were warranted, but they still tasted like dog-dirt in my mouth – and spent a week in detention hall. And the guidance counselor arranged what he no doubt thought of as a more constructive channel for my talents. This was a job – contingent upon the editor’s approval – writing sports for the Lisbon Enterprise, a twelve-page weekly of the sort with which any small-town resident will be familiar. This editor was the man who taught me everything I know about writing in ten minutes. His name was John Gould – not the famed New England humorist or the novelist who wrote The Greenleaf Fires, but a relative of both, I believe.
He told me he needed a sports writer and we could “try each other out” if I wanted.

I told him I knew more about advanced algebra than I did sports.

Gould nodded and said, “You’ll learn.”

I said I would at least try to learn. Gould gave me a huge roll of yellow paper and promised me a wage of 1/2 cent per word. The first two pieces I wrote had to do with a high school basketball game in which a member of my school team broke the Lisbon High scoring record. One of these pieces was straight reportage. The second was a feature article.

I brought them to Gould the day after the game, so he’d have them for the paper, which came out Fridays. He read the straight piece, made two minor corrections, and spiked it. Then he started in on the feature piece with a large black pen and taught me all I ever needed to know about my craft. I wish I still had the piece – it deserves to be framed, editorial corrections and all – but I can remember pretty well how it looked when he had finished with it. Here’s an example:

(note: this is before the edit marks indicated on King’s original copy)

Last night, in the well-loved gymnasium of Lisbon High School, partisans and Jay Hills fans alike were stunned by an athletic performance unequaled in school history: Bob Ransom, known as “Bullet” Bob for both his size and accuracy, scored thirty-seven points. He did it with grace and speed … and he did it with an odd courtesy as well, committing only two personal fouls in his knight-like quest for a record which has eluded Lisbon thinclads since 1953….

(after edit marks)

Last night, in the Lisbon High School gymnasium, partisans and Jay Hills fans alike were stunned by an athletic performance unequaled in school history: Bob Ransom scored thirty-seven points. He did it with grace and speed … and he did it with an odd courtesy as well, committing only two personal fouls in his quest for a record which has eluded Lisbon’s basketball team since 1953….

When Gould finished marking up my copy in the manner I have indicated above, he looked up and must have seen something on my face. I think he must have thought it was horror, but it was not: it was revelation.

“I only took out the bad parts, you know,” he said. “Most of it’s pretty good.”

“I know,” I said, meaning both things: yes, most of it was good, and yes, he had only taken out the bad parts. “I won’t do it again.”

“If that’s true,” he said, “you’ll never have to work again. You can do this for a living.” Then he threw back his head and laughed.

And he was right; I am doing this for a living, and as long as I can keep on, I don’t expect ever to have to work again.

III. The Second Introduction

All of what follows has been said before. If you are interested enough in writing to be a purchaser of this magazine, you will have either heard or read all (or almost all) of it before. Thousands of writing courses are taught across the United States each year; seminars are convened; guest lecturers talk, then answer questions, then drink as many gin and tonics as their expense-fees will allow, and it all boils down to what follows.

I am going to tell you these things again because often people will only listen – really listen – to someone who makes a lot of money doing the thing he’s talking about. This is sad but true. And I told you the story above not to make myself sound like a character out of a Horatio Alger novel but to make a point: I saw, I listened, and I learned. Until that day in John Gould’s little office, I had been writing first drafts of stories which might run 2,500 words. The second drafts were apt to run 3,300 words. Following that day, my 2,500-word first drafts became 2,200-word second drafts. And two years after that, I sold the first one.

So here it is, with all the bark stripped off. It’ll take ten minutes to read, and you can apply it right away … if you listen.

IV. Everything You Need to Know About Writing Successfully

1. Be talented

This, of course, is the killer. What is talent? I can hear someone shouting, and here we are, ready to get into a discussion right up there with “what is the meaning of life?” for weighty pronouncements and total uselessness. For the purposes of the beginning writer, talent may as well be defined as eventual success – publication and money. If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn’t bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented. Now some of you are really hollering. Some of you are calling me one crass money-fixated creep. And some of you are calling me bad names. Are you calling Harold Robbins talented? someone in one of the Great English Departments of America is screeching. V.C. Andrews? Theodore Dreiser? Or what about you, you dyslexic moron?

Nonsense. Worse than nonsense, off the subject. We’re not talking about good or bad here. I’m interested in telling you how to get your stuff published, not in critical judgments of who’s good or bad. As a rule the critical judgments come after the check’s been spent, anyway. I have my own opinions, but most times I keep them to myself. People who are published steadily and are paid for what they are writing may be either saints or trollops, but they are clearly reaching a great many someones who want what they have. Ergo, they are communicating. Ergo, they are talented. The biggest part of writing successfully is being talented, and in the context of marketing, the only bad writer is one who doesn’t get paid. If you’re not talented, you won’t succeed. And if you’re not succeeding, you should know when to quit. When is that? I don’t know. It’s different for each writer. Not after six rejection slips, certainly, nor after sixty. But after six hundred? Maybe. After six thousand? My friend, after six thousand pinks, it’s time you tried painting or computer programming. Further, almost every aspiring writer knows when he is getting warmer – you start getting little jotted notes on your rejection slips, or personal letters . . . maybe a commiserating phone call. It’s lonely out there in the cold, but there are encouraging voices … unless there is nothing in your words which warrants encouragement. I think you owe it to yourself to skip as much of the self-illusion as possible. If your eyes are open, you’ll know which way to go … or when to turn back.

2. Be neat

Type. Double-space. Use a nice heavy white paper, never that erasable onion-skin stuff. If you’ve marked up your manuscript a lot, do another draft.

3. Be self-critical

If you haven’t marked up your manuscript a lot, you did a lazy job. Only God gets things right the first time. Don’t be a slob.

4. Remove every extraneous word

You want to get up on a soapbox and preach? Fine. Get one and try your local park. You want to write for money? Get to the point. And if you remove all the excess garbage and discover you can’t find the point, tear up what you wrote and start all over again . . . or try something new.

5. Never look at a reference book while doing a first draft

You want to write a story? Fine. Put away your dictionary, your encyclopedias, your World Almanac, and your thesaurus. Better yet, throw your thesaurus into the wastebasket. The only things creepier than a thesaurus are those little paperbacks college students too lazy to read the assigned novels buy around exam time. Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule. You think you might have misspelled a word? O.K., so here is your choice: either look it up in the dictionary, thereby making sure you have it right – and breaking your train of thought and the writer’s trance in the bargain – or just spell it phonetically and correct it later. Why not? Did you think it was going to go somewhere? And if you need to know the largest city in Brazil and you find you don’t have it in your head, why not write in Miami, or Cleveland? You can check it … but later. When you sit down to write, write. Don’t do anything else except go to the bathroom, and only do that if it absolutely cannot be put off.

6. Know the markets

Only a dimwit would send a story about giant vampire bats surrounding a high school to McCall’s. Only a dimwit would send a tender story about a mother and daughter making up their differences on Christmas Eve to Playboy … but people do it all the time. I’m not exaggerating; I have seen such stories in the slush piles of the actual magazines. If you write a good story, why send it out in an ignorant fashion? Would you send your kid out in a snowstorm dressed in Bermuda shorts and a tank top? If you like science fiction, read the magazines. If you want to write confession stories, read the magazines. And so on. It isn’t just a matter of knowing what’s right for the present story; you can begin to catch on, after awhile, to overall rhythms, editorial likes and dislikes, a magazine’s entire slant. Sometimes your reading can influence the next story, and create a sale.

7. Write to entertain

Does this mean you can’t write “serious fiction”? It does not. Somewhere along the line pernicious critics have invested the American reading and writing public with the idea that entertaining fiction and serious ideas do not overlap. This would have surprised Charles Dickens, not to mention Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, William Faulkner, Bernard Malamud, and hundreds of others. But your serious ideas must always serve your story, not the other way around. I repeat: if you want to preach, get a soapbox.

8. Ask yourself frequently, “Am I having fun?”

The answer needn’t always be yes. But if it’s always no, it’s time for a new project or a new career.

9. How to evaluate criticism

Show your piece to a number of people – ten, let us say. Listen carefully to what they tell you. Smile and nod a lot. Then review what was said very carefully. If your critics are all telling you the same thing about some facet of your story – a plot twist that doesn’t work, a character who rings false, stilted narrative, or half a dozen other possibles – change that facet. It doesn’t matter if you really liked that twist of that character; if a lot of people are telling you something is wrong with your piece, it is. If seven or eight of them are hitting on that same thing, I’d still suggest changing it. But if everyone – or even most everyone – is criticizing something different, you can safely disregard what all of them say.

10. Observe all rules for proper submission

Return postage, self-addressed envelope, all of that.

11. An agent? Forget it. For now

Agents get 10% of monies earned by their clients. 10% of nothing is nothing. Agents also have to pay the rent. Beginning writers do not contribute to that or any other necessity of life. Flog your stories around yourself. If you’ve done a novel, send around query letters to publishers, one by one, and follow up with sample chapters and/or the manuscript complete. And remember Stephen King’s First Rule of Writers and Agents, learned by bitter personal experience: You don’t need one until you’re making enough for someone to steal … and if you’re making that much, you’ll be able to take your pick of good agents.

12. If it’s bad, kill it

When it comes to people, mercy killing is against the law. When it comes to fiction, it is the law.

That’s everything you need to know. And if you listened, you can write everything and anything you want. Now I believe I will wish you a pleasant day and sign off.

My ten minutes are up.

GRANT SANDHAM; IT'S TIME...

SAMANTHA SAGAN-
SANCTUARY OF DARKNESS

THE BLUE JEWEL - EMMA CURTIS

NEW YORK CITY’S FINEST
MERCY KILLER?

ENTER DR. GERBER - GOING DUTCH AT DIMARIO’S

Signed In visitors can read an additional 5 chapters. Click here to go there now.

Captain Curtis - Come fly with me

Write what you know. Really?

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“Everything You Need to Know About Writing Successfully – in Ten Minutes”

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GRANT SANDHAM; IT'S TIME...

SAMANTHA SAGAN-SANCTUARY OF DARKNESS

THE BLUE JEWEL - EMMA CURTIS

NEW YORK CITY’S FINEST MERCY KILLER?

ENTER DR. GERBER - GOING DUTCH AT DIMARIO’S

Signed In visitors can read an additional 5 chapters. Click here to go there now.

Captain Curtis - Come fly with me

Write what you know. Really?

terms of service - privacy policy - cookies

about the author

“Everything You Need to Know About Writing Successfully – in Ten Minutes”

Thanks for coming by.

Contact us

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SAMANTHA SAGAN-
SANCTUARY OF DARKNESS

NEW YORK CITY’S FINEST
MERCY KILLER?