The Great Divide a novelette

by J.E. Ocean

  “What was the message?”

  I tried to remember, but the memory seemed as slippery as a soapy fish.

  “I remembered thinking what a load of garbage. But he seemed pretty convinced…” I close my eyes thinking back to that day I had all but forgotten about the man on the beach, that I wasn’t afraid, how he seemed polite, nonthreatening and we drank our beers while the tide washed the sand. “I remember. He said, ‘Your life has changed incredibly. It will now be better than you ever imagined.’ ”

  Terry’s eyebrows shot up.

  “And?”

  “And since then, it’s been one blessing after another.

  “His name was Mercury.”

  “First or last?”

  “That’s all he gave me. I meant to ask him, but then he disappeared.”

  “You didn’t see him surf away?”

  “No. In fact, when I looked in my cooler, I still had five full beers left instead of two. Such a strange day…”

  “Okay. You’re practically proving my point.”

  I ignore Terry’s remark, not wanting to argue. I don’t understand what Terry means. Maybe I’m just being thick. I change the subject.

  “Did any other people get killed that day?”

  “Just one. The heart got nicked.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Woman.”

  “Well, I can’t remember anyone else’s name, so tell me. Who was it?”

  “It was you.”

  The End

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  Acknowledgements

  This book would not be possible without knowing the incredibly strong women I met at various crossroads of my life, beginning with Holly T.M., Sidney S. and Judy T.

  and the single mom’s group at VCC 2000 - 2004. We shared one another’s struggles, heart aches, heartbreaks and prayer with our broken relationships. These courageous women inspired me to keep writing about things I find important.

  A special shout out to my dear friend, confidant and fellow writer Lori Vogel who later led the group. Many thanks for the countless hours of listening to my saga and sharing yours.

  Cherri Morrow your insight and counsel were some of the clearest and most profound I ever received. You helped me find my footing after a divorce set me adrift. Reconnecting has been an awesome blessing. Thank you for that and for your time editing and proofreading.

  Enormous thanks to Jeaneen Eckhardt who taught me, “If you smile, you can ask anything of anyone.” You helped me find my joy. It’s been a comfort to have you as a spiritual sister and precious friend.

  Garnetta Livisay, you showed me how value of my thoughts feelings and find my voice after years of spiritual laryngitis.

  I cannot express enough gratitude to Vera Hassell who adopted me as a daughter and mentored me through my daughter’s tween years. I still think fondly about our Tuesday conversations over many cups of coffee and tea. Thanks for having the courage to speak truth into my life when it really mattered, and especially for encouraging my writing.

  Through all of you, I found my true source of strength.

  Cover Photo:  Bill Medlin  

  Model:  Sue Hagan Medlin  

  Retouching:  Jack Petersen  

  Bonus Material

  To preview my novel Painting the Rain keep reading!

  Thank you

  Painting the Rain

  A Novel

  J.E. Ocean

  Chapter One

 

 

  In Santa Fe County, on a late July afternoon, the asphalt is hot enough to light a cigarette. The only living things not sweating in the New Mexican desert are snakes sunning on boulders, smiling at the heat ghosts shimmering off the sand.

  Jack Petersen’s foot pressed the gas to the floor and the Maserati flashed over the highway like a rocket. The sound of the engine jammed full tilt while Radar Love blasted from the speakers. If he timed it right, he would be home before sunset, where he and his wife liked to watch the magical twilight sky with a few enormous white clouds turning hyacinth by degrees, the peaks of which sometimes blushed rose-lavender.

  Even though they were miles behind him, Jack saw flashing blue and red lights in his rear view mirror along the western horizon. He let up on the gas long enough to exit on 40 and drive across the desert. Dust and pebbles tinged off the underbelly of the car. Jack’s eyes darted to the mirror. The scenery behind him obscured by brown plumes of dust, he slammed the pedal to the floor and felt his body press into the seat. He knew soon they would attempt to close the gap.

  Ever since he’d been a little boy, he’d dreamt of racing cars. He watched all the NASCAR races and when he couldn’t, his wife recorded them on TiVo. In fact, she was recording tonight's race as he drove the Maserati through this rough terrain. Jack had convinced himself that his passion for racing had kept trouble at a distance for over twenty years. It was also what made him do what he did. This was supposed to be his last run on this job. And he was not going down today.

 

 

  The speedometer on the police cruiser’s dashboard read one hundred and thirty-nine. The dotted line on the highway became a continuous streak. Michael Ortega watched the diminishing silver Maserati disappear into a billowing cloud of dust. Xavier Dominguez pointed the radar gun at the tail of the car. The green digital readout wavered at one-forty five and still climbing. Ortega floored the gas pedal.

  “I can catch him.”

  “Ortega, it’s a Maserati. He’s just toying with you. When he opens that thing up, he’ll vanish.”

  “I‘ve raced policia in this desert too. I can catch him.”

  Dominguez shook his head. He’d given up on drinking coffee while riding with Ortega. Ortega loved a good car chase; he loved memorizing the hot sheet every day and watching for the stolen cars.

  “You should have been a racecar driver.”

  Ortega disregarded the remark. He’d once been a second-generation gang member. His supernatural ability to detect stolen cars was a bit of a legend in Torrance County. But not as legendary as the one they called Le Mirage. They’d followed this car for fifty miles. The cruiser still lagged behind.

  “Who is this guy?” Dominguez scoffed.

  “Only one guy has the guts to speed like that in a Mas,” Ortega smiled. “It’s got to be him.”

  “You say that every time we’re in a chase. So far, your Mirage has not surfaced.”

  “Esse, if we catch him, he’s not Le Mirage. Le Mirage is elusive. He has never been caught. He’s been haunting these deserts for many years.”

  “So, he is an old man?”

  “He slipped up.”

  Although Ortega didn’t want to lose the collar, the driver of the Maserati endangered lives. Dominguez called for backup and had radioed the standby units of Bernalillo and Santa Fe Counties which bordered them to the North, and whose borders he would probably cross.

  “He just went off-road heading east...We’re in pursuit,” Dominguez spoke into the radio. Dispatch immediately broadcast their report.

  “Suspect is a white male, brown hair, between twenty-five and thirty-five. He’s fleeing North of Interstate 40 in the Torrance County desert. Santa Fe and San Miguel County Units are standing by.”

  “Where is he headed?” Ortega asked aloud.

  “You know what traffic is like on 285 this time of day?” Dominguez asked. He spoke into the radio.

  “Suspect’s trajectory is US 285 at an approximate speed of one-forty-five.”

  Ortega gripped the wheel tightly and sped after the Maserati. He wanted to apprehend Le Mirage. Prove hi
s existence to all the scoffers.

  “Be advised car sixteen, San Miguel County units are currently diverting traffic at Clines Corners and Encino.”

  Dominguez shot a look at Ortega. They flew over the gullies and stones at one hundred forty miles an hour.

  “He can’t be doing what I think he’s doing…” Dominguez trailed off.

  “Which is?”

  “We’re traveling northeast. You think he’s crazy enough to cross oncoming traffic to maintain trajectory?”

  “What do you think?” Another police car joined the chase.

  “At this rate, cars may still be on the road. He’s not even slowing down. You think he’ll make it?”

  “If he does, I’m gonna kill him for endangering motorists.” Ortega turned on the cruiser’s bullhorn and spoke into the radio microphone. “Driver. Stop your vehicle. Driver! Stop your vehicle!”

  But the driver didn’t slow down. The silver car ran parallel to the highway. In his wake, dust coated the windshield of the police cruiser. Ortega hit the wipers, smearing ochre colored dirt.

  The Maserati driver continued racing at 150. He veered onto state road 285.

  The cloud of dust cleared just in time for Ortega and Dominguez to watch the Maserati rocket over 285 South barely missing one swerving car. A car horn blew while a northbound driver slammed on his brakes.

  A pickup truck had lost part of his load. The driver was sauntering toward the timbers scattered in the northbound lane. In a desperate move, the Maserati driver pegged the speedometer. But the car’s tires hit the lumber and the front right blew out. The car rolled end over end, losing parts on every bounce. It landed outside the highway like a balled up gum wrapper.

  On a barely traveled desert road in Santa Fe County, a dusty Chevy truck sat on the berm idling. In the driver’s seat, Max Petrov watched the crash through high-powered binoculars. Though he looked to be about forty, he was much older. He dropped the binoculars onto the seat and slammed his fist on the dash repeatedly, until its veneer cracked.

  He rubbed his temples with his eyes closed. After a moment, he opened them and ran strong fingers through his dark hair. Glancing at the side view mirror on his left he checked for oncoming traffic, then safely merged onto the highway and drove toward Santa Fe. There was no time to replace the Maserati. They would have to ship the rest of the list without it and face the consequences.

  Chapter Two

 

 

  The Emergency medical unit drove into the Paradiso de Suenos condo community. Danni Baxter, a twenty-something willowy blonde, stood waving frantically from the side of the driveway. She shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun, with her hand, even though a pair of sunglasses hung from the collar of her orange t-shirt. EMT’s stopped in front of her.

  “You the one who called?” the driver asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your relationship?”

  “Best friends… “

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Elyce Petersen. This way,” Danni led them through the front door. All the mini blinds had been drawn down, shutters closed. It took their eyes a moment to adjust.

  “Is she taking any medications?”

  “No, not even aspirin.”

  “Does she drink alcohol?”

  “Well, yeah, but not like an alcoholic or anything.”

  “Any allergies?”

  “No.”

  “Any history of seizures or medical conditions?”

  “Not that I know of…”

  The EMT’S carried a gurney past holes punched in walls. They tripped over the debris on the floor: ripped canvases, broken picture frames and smashed mirrors. Dining room chairs were upended, nearly everything destroyed. It looked as though the entire condo had been ransacked. They stopped in the living room, lit only by a TV ablaze with a NASCAR race.

  “What happened in here?”

  “She said her husband died recently. I’ve been calling her for days. She didn’t answer. I knocked but she wouldn’t come to the door.” Danni gestured to one wall. “This is how I found her. I’m not sure how long she’s been like this.”

  A leather recliner lay on its side. Elyce Petersen sat on the floor oblivious to the people in her apartment. For an African American woman she seemed pale in the blue light of the television. Swollen-eyed with medusa-wild hair, dried mascara trailed down her cheeks. Fetally coiled, she cradled a stuffed rabbit and whispered into a dead cell phone, nearly catatonic.

  “Just come home. Just come home...”

  “Elyce?” Danni stepped closer to Elyce and attempted to get her attention. “Elyce, honey. I brought some people to help.” Danni got no reaction.

  “Just come home, just come home...” Elyce chanted like a mantra.

  “Is there anyone else? Family?” the EMT asked.

  “No…” Danni saw a cut on Elyce’s hand. “Oh, look, you’re bleeding,” Danni touched her hand. Elyce rose up screaming. She threw the phone. It hit the wall and exploded into a shower of plastic and wire. Everyone backed off. She pulled down the window covering. Daylight blasted into the room and Danni and the EMT’s were temporarily blinded.

  Both EMT’s grabbed Elyce. She fought against them while they tethered arms and legs to the gurney rails with leather straps. One filled a syringe with sedative to calm her. When Elyce saw the needle, she screamed louder, more agonized.

  “Stop touching me! What is that?”

  “It’s okay, honey,” Danni soothed. “I’m right here, Elyce.”

  “Jack, help me! Where is everyone? Where are they?”

  “We’re here to help, Elyce. This is for your own good,” one EMT said. He injected the sedative into her thigh.

  “Get your hands offa me! Help me, Jack! JAAAAAAAAACK!!” Elyce screamed.

  Danni bit her lip. She didn’t know what she’d expected them to do when they arrived. Elyce had not been herself since the news. Danni felt like she’d just betrayed her only friend. She followed the EMT’s out of the apartment and down the stairs. They shoved the gurney into the back of the ambulance and slammed the doors. Elyce’s screaming could still be heard inside.

  “Where are you taking her?” Danni asked. She trembled slightly. Elyce had always been the strong one, the put together one. Danni wondered if there were signs that she should have been watching for. Maybe she wasn’t such a good friend after all.

  “St. Vincent’s. They’ll evaluate her she’ll probably be fine.” The EMT’s exchanged quick glances while one strode to the front cab.

  “Probably? What does that mean?”

  “Look, I’m not a doctor. Your friend seems bad off.”

  “How bad?”

  “Maybe psych-ward bad. She’s going to need someone to pull her through.”

  The driver got in the Ambulance. The lights flashed and the siren wailed as they drove away. Danni stood in the same place she had been when they arrived. She hugged her arms around herself and wondered why she felt so empty as the ambulance became smaller and smaller. The wailing continued, loud as ever. When the ambulance disappeared she realized the sound came from her own mouth.

  Chapter Three

 

 

  In the Aspen woods at the end of a row of fence posts, half a dozen black Mylar balloons pulled at black curling ribbon, tethered to a mailbox emblazoned with the name Bogdanov. A wide, log-lined gravel driveway led to a ranch-style cabin. The black banner stretched across the wooden porch announced Happy Half-Century in twelve inch yellow letters. Black streamers fluttered in the breeze and the aspen leaves quaked, sounding like the applause of hundreds.

  Four-wheel trucks and a few jeeps were parked along the driveway and in the side yard.

  In the kitchen, Aldo Bogdanov waited until Jorie dipped into the fridge, then finger-swiped cake icing. He took more than he’d intended, a streak of bare cake showed through.

  “Are you planning to stick fifty candles in this cake?”


  “You want a bonfire or a cake?”

  He stuck his finger in his mouth just as she stood.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “You saw that?”

  “You’re losing your edge,” she teased. Opening a drawer she took out two fat, wax number candles—a five and zero—and stuck them atop the German chocolate cake.

  “Fifty isn’t decrepit,” he said. He was still muscular and good-looking. His features were long, the hard angles replaced by a dignified old world charm. He was aging gracefully, Jorie thought. She was staving off old age, or at least the look of it. She worked out with him three times a week and dyed her hair a natural looking shade of blonde.

  “Pace yourself, old man.”

  “Old man? I could drink these guys under the table and still love you like a young man,” he said. He leaned over and kissed her neck. She dodged him, playing hard-to-get.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her close. His breath smelled of beer and a smudge of icing glistened on his lip. She planted her mouth on his while her hands roamed below his belt. His eyebrows shot up.

  “I think I’ll pace myself.”

  “It’s a date then.”

  Aldo smugly nodded his head and winked. He carried bottles to back door. A classic rock-music band jammed outside. Partygoers milled around the deck with drinks in hand.

  “Who’s ready for another beer?” Aldo called out the back door. He traded cold beers for empties. “You guys ready to get your butts kicked in horse shoes?” Men from work razzed Aldo about his age as he handed off the bottles.

  “Hey birthday boy, aren’t you drinking? Or are you ready for a nap?”

  While horseshoes clinked, Jorie handed a plate of skewered veggies out to a grill cook, who placed them above the sizzling steaks. The faint chuh-chuh-chuh of a helicopter drew near. Jorie’s cell phone rang.

  “Hello? Jacob! What happened to you? Your dad’s party has already started.”

  “Sorry mom, I had trouble wrapping his gift. You outside?”

  “No, I’m inside doing all the stuff you were going to help me with.” Jorie peered through window to the yard.

  “Could you go to the deck?”

  Phone in hand, she walked through the back door; the slightly inebriated faces all around her changed to curiosity as the helicopter grew louder. Trees shook in the turbulence.