Discovering Normal

by Cynthia Henry

  Chanta-Clara had shimmied down beneath the sheets, only the tip of her long nose and the points above it were visible.

  Dara-Dawn shifted and fidgeted, folding and unfolding her fingers. Such a human reaction.

  “Enough!” he screamed. And the day had seemed so promising. The first shipment of the powder had departed from a Swedish dock just that morning. Chanta-Clara had come to his bed without any difficulty.

  And Christopher Stoddard was poised for payback.

  But Dara-Dawn was getting on the very mortal part of The Most Masterful’s nerves.

  She trembled and shook and wrapped her arms around her torso. “We have it on good authority that The Evil Stoddard and his wife, The Divine Farley- Fauna, are no longer living together.”

  And to quote the simple boys he’d heard on the streets of Wales when something so wonderful and surprising had occurred, “Fucking A.”

  Dara-Dawn curtsied and at last looked to the girl in the bed. “What would you have us do, your Excellency?”

  He tapped his long fingers against his lips, once, twice, three times. Could there be a more perfect sign? The Most Masterful could hear his father in the divine heaven above muttering, “As it should be. As it always should’ve been.”

  “Proceed. I will send specific directions to those in need.”

  Dara-Dawn looked genuinely confused. The long thick braid that she’d fashioned her hair in swung behind her. “But, your excellency--”

  He tilted his head and she stopped. “Dare you question me, Dara-Dawn?”

  She curtsied for the third time. “Why no, Most Masterful, but certainly the results will vary given this new set of circumstances.”

  He raised his hand with a flourish. “But all is intended, Dara-Dawn. Nothing at all is random. This is the way the Evil Stoddard needs to be taken. This is the way it shall be.”

  “As you wish,” she said and backed from the room, never raising her eyes from the floor.

  “Now where were we, my darling?” The Most Masterful asked as he pried the sheet from Chanta-Clara’s hands and climbed in beside her.

  Chapter 7

  “You are so lovely,” George almost whispered. He reached to cover Beth’s hand and she allowed him this time.

  “Thank you,” she said softly and adjusted the linen napkin on her lap. A waitress appeared and refilled their glasses of Merlot without being asked.

  The Manhattan was Beth’s parents’ favorite dining establishment. The Williams family had come for brunch every Sunday of Beth’s life until she left for college. In fact, she and Chris had brought her parents here to announce their engagement. Her father cleared his throat, sipped his rye and managed to shake Chris’ hand. Her mother, though not surprised, was less than pleased. Recalling that now, Beth found it odd that her mother had suggested The Manhattan for her dinner with George.

  Exorcising past demons she supposed.

  George lifted his hand when their salads arrived. He waited patiently for Beth to be served and then picked up his small fork. “This looks good.” He glanced around the posh dining room and then back. “This place reminds me of The Derby in Albany.”

  Beth speared a bit of romaine. “I don’t believe I’ve ever spent much time in Albany.” Beth took a nibble and speared another. Until recently her dinner conversation with Chris--like everything else in their lives--had always been passionate. They’d talked of the Bureau, the Phillies versus the Red Sox, which of U2’s albums was better: The Joshua Tree or Achatung Baby--she liked the former, he the later. They talked about cars and farms, politics and religion, their kids and the families they’d been raised in which now were evident in their offspring.

  But George, God bless him, was undeterred. “The architecture in Albany is exquisite. We’ll have to make sure you see it.”

  Beth poured a bit of dressing from the tiny tureen on her plate. “I’d like that.”

  George dabbed the side of his mouth with his napkin. “I believe that Albany has somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred homes on the National Register of Historic Sites.” He stabbed a mandarin orange wedge.

  Beth took a sip of ice water. George kept talking--something about art and literature. Beth had to remind herself that he was a Bureau Agent and a good one. Though he’d never had Chris’ physical prowess or gut wrenchingly accurate instincts, George was an excellent profiler who now mostly just taught the craft. But he’d always stuck out a bit among the rough and tumble agents who felt at home with a brew and a recent issue of Playboy.

  Maybe that’s why Beth found herself drawn to him now. He was the kind of man she’d been raised to gravitate to, though she’d messed up and followed the wrong path when it’d really counted.

  “Have you?” George asked.

  Beth suspended her fork near her mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “Have you?”

  Beth set the fork down and lifted her napkin to her lips. “I’m sorry, George. My mind was wandering a bit. What was it you asked?”

  He tilted his head, but the sandy waves of his short hair didn’t move at all. “I was asking if you’d looked into citizenship for the children. I know with American-born parents they should automatically have it, but it’s too important of an issue to leave to chance. I’d recommend you look into it immediately.”

  “Oh, George.” Beth exhaled and folded her hands in her lap. Her light blue linen suit was going to wrinkle. “Please slow down. I know what you’re feeling, what you want, but please don’t crowd me. It’s all so new.”

  He met her eyes in the candlelight. “But I thought you were certain that it’s over with Chris.”

  Beth reached for his hand and squeezed. “I am certain. But I was in love with Chris for a very long time. I need some time and some space to just heal. The kids do too. If I had to venture a guess, I’d guess that we will remain here--or very nearby--and the children will eventually have to have everything in order, but that’s still a long way down the road. I haven’t even unpacked yet.”

  George reached for his wine with his free hand. “I just assumed--”

  “I know what you assumed, but I have to think about my children and what will be easiest and ultimately the best for them. I have to decide what I’m going to do. I’ve considered teaching and I would like your input on that. I’ve also been tossing around the idea of writing a book about the Jaelyn experience.”

  George hitched a brow. “I’ve never heard you speak of it.”

  “I haven’t, but I’m thinking maybe it’s time that I did.” She gave his hand another gentle squeeze. “What I really need from you is for you to be my friend.”

  He was hurt, that was evident, but he stayed cool as he sipped. He lowered the glass. “Can I be so bold as to ask if I can become a friend with benefits?”

  Beth smiled and lifted her own wine. “I think that when the time comes, that may be a very welcome distraction.”

  ***

  Chris killed the engine and laid his head on the wheel. He could hear the thumping of the mediocre bass from inside the rowdy bar, silhouetted now in darkness and smoke from the cigarettes of patrons assembled outside for momentary relief from the crowd.

  He’d spent the day working and working and working still more. He tended to stuff he hadn’t done since he’d hired the staff.

  He even fixed the banging screen door.

  When night had finally fallen and the cows had all been milked, he’d ambled inside to fry a hamburger patty to black char and ate it with what was left in an open bag of chips.

  He showered, called his mother back, called the kids to say goodnight then immediately wished he hadn’t. The sound of Noah’s voice and Audrey asking where he was, was enough to carve his heart out with a plastic knife. He attempted to watch TV, but all he could manage to focus on was the quiet--the quiet house, the quiet night, the realization that even though he and Beth hadn’t been doing much talking lately, he was now utterly and completely alone.

  Some raw need forced him
to take the stairs two at a time, rip the sheets off of his bed and stuff them into the washer. He had no idea how to work the thing, but he’d brought down drug consortiums for crissakes--he could run a damn Maytag.

  He stood over the machine as it quivered and shook and wondered briefly if he should’ve added the fabric softener that stared back at him with a damn smiling bear on the bottle. It didn’t matter though. He just had to get them clean, get himself clean. Rid them of Anita Borden, but even more, of Beth.

  Chris wrenched the dripping mound from the washer into the dryer and turned it on with a slap of his palm. That was when he decided to leave, decided that the night was too long to start at 10:30 when he just knew he’d still be wide awake at 3:15.

  But now that he was here at Flaherty’s, he didn’t want to go inside. Whether Beth believed him or not, he’d always preferred drinking at home with a cold Heineken and the Phillies or Eagles on TV. It wasn’t until the nagging had begun that he’d taken to leaving and drinking in peace at the bar with Jackson or one of the other locals at his side instead of an unsatisfied wife.

  Chris stuffed his keys into his pocket and climbed out of the truck. Jackson’s car was here. Jack was always good for a bit of distraction. “Hey, Chris!” he heard as he wandered through the door. Just as he’d feared Anita was working, pouring shots in her revealing, skintight tee shirt and doing her best to catch his eye.

  Jackson stood up and made a place for Chris at the bar. “Hey,” he smacked Chris’ back and motioned for Anita to give him what he himself had been having. “How are you holding up?”

  Chris adjusted the cocktail napkin that Anita set down and tried everything he could think of not to look at her. The fingernail marks down his back that stung like hell were evidence enough that they’d screwed. “I’m okay. The house is just so damned quiet. I thought I’d like it, you know? I always thought it would be welcome, but I sat there and all I heard was Sundance’s tail thumping against the floor. It was weird.”

  Jackson upended his drink. “You’ll get used to it I’m sure, and if you don’t there’s enough noise at my house to go around a couple of times. Stop over.”

  Chris crossed his arms over the smooth bar top. “I doubt I’m Ramona’s favorite person.”

  “You’re our friend, Chris. That’s not changing.”

  “Thanks,” he said and really felt grateful.

  Anita returned with the bourbon, slamming it down in front of Chris. It splashed onto the bar and Jack didn’t miss it.

  “What the hell is up with her?”

  Chris shrugged and took a swig.

  Jackson leaned back and watched Anita punch the buttons of the cash register, fling the money he’d left her in and then hurl the drawer closed.

  “What the--” Jack asked, wide-eyed.

  Chris took another swig. “I slept with her last night.”

  Jack turned to face him, his eyebrows hoisted on his doughy face. “You’re shitting me?”

  Chris shook his head and polished off the drink.

  “Man, you work fast.”

  Chris knocked the glass away with his fingers. “It wasn’t all that tough.”

  “Well?” Jack asked with another raise of his brow.

  Chris met his eyes.

  “Well?” Jack asked again, this time with a shove of his shoulder into Chris’.

  Chris glanced at Anita, holding a bottle of scotch high and swinging the liquid over three different glasses. “The doing it part was okay, but then--”

  “Then?”

  Chris leaned back against the rungs of the rotating seat. “Then I just wanted her gone.”

  Jack rubbed an affectionate circle over Chris’ back. “Understandable, buddy. This is all pretty new.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”

  “You will. It’s that or swear off sex until you find another bride.”

  Anita appeared then and sweetly asked Jack if he’d like a refill. She didn’t bother to ask Chris.

  “There’s no other bride for me,” Chris said as he watched her stomp away.

  ***

  “Last call!” Anita yelled.

  “You up to it?” Jack asked, looking a little woozy.

  Chris yawned. “Nah. I think I’m officially tired. I’m gonna head home.”

  “Can you drive?” Jack asked with a hiccup.

  Chris dug his keys from his pocket. “Can you?”

  “I rode with Van Davis. We could drop you.”

  “I’m fine. Really. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Okay, but take ‘er easy. Wouldn’t look good if a government agent was busted for DWI.”

  “I suppose not.” Chris smacked Jack’s shoulder and ambled to the door. He doubted that Jack noticed he’d only had two drinks here and one beer at home hours ago now. He’d still been feeling the remnants of last night’s hangover and he was a cautious man. “See ya,” he said and pushed through.

  Chris squinted and adjusted the rearview mirror. The car behind him had been following too close since he’d left the bar. He sped up; it did too. He slowed down and the car made no attempt to pass, just fell into a steady pace behind him.

  “Shit,” Chris muttered, too tired to deal. He pulled over to the side of the road near Dennison’s field only a mile or so from the turnoff for his farm. Let the goddamn guy pass already.

  He waited, but the car pulled over and killed its lights. What the hell?

  Chris tried to focus, but couldn’t see much in the thick darkness of 2 a.m. Instinct made him rummage the empty seat for a gun though he was well aware that there wasn’t one. He never left them in the truck or the house. He’d heard the stories, seen the pictures, of too many kids stumbling over their dad’s shotgun and finding out all too quickly that it wasn’t a toy. He kept his Remington rifle and his Glock that had been leftover from his other life securely in a safe in the barn.

  Though he was sober, his reaction time was a bit off. Anita maybe? She was the most likely candidate, but she’d still been at Flaherty’s when he’d left.

  Hell with it. Whatever this idiot was selling, Chris didn’t want to buy.

  He signaled and pulled onto the road, watching the rear the entire time. Damn. The car slid back into the lane right behind him without turning on their lights. Chris sped up; the car did too. What the fuck was going on?

  A light flashed a few feet away. High beams on, off and then on again. Chris swerved, but found a long limousine spread across the road. There was no way around it. He hit the brakes and came to a screeching stop no more than ten feet from the car.

  Chris slammed into park and yanked the truck door open. He hopped out only to see a shadow emerge from the car. He squinted, considering, then stopped considering all together when an iron fist, bat or cannonball maybe, smashed into his gut.

  Chapter 8

  Beth heard the incessant ringing of the phone and pulled a fluffy pillow over her head. Still it echoed.

  She uncovered, reached to peek at the clock and then her cell. She’d turned it off before she’d crawled into bed so she was all but certain that it wasn’t hers, but the caller was merciless.

  Finally it stopped and she shifted to find comfort. It was only 6--she still had a good hour before the kids were up and needing her. A knock sounded at her door.

  She hoisted to her elbows. This couldn’t be good. “Yes?”

  “Elizabeth.” Her father’s voice sounded thick with sleep or concern or maybe both.

  “Yes, Daddy. Come in.”

  He pushed the door and pulled tight the sash of his robe. “There’s a call for you. I picked it up in my room.”

  Beth snatched her robe and threw it on. “Who would be calling me at this hour?”

  Her father’s face looked ashen. She touched his arm on the way by and then quickly spun back. “The children are both all right?”

  Her father nodded and reached into his pocket for his pipe. “They’re fine. I just checked them.”

>   Beth exhaled and moved her palm from her chest to the phone in the hallway.

  “Yes?” she said into the receiver.

  “Bethie?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Deej.”

  Cosmo DeJohn, the five foot four, two hundred and fifty pound Bureau chief who had hired her. Despite his size, he’d once been the best of the best and was one of the few people who Chris truly respected. A character in every possible way, Deej had remained a faithful friend to them both, but she hadn’t spoken to him since she and Chris had attended his wedding to his long suffering fiancée last year.

  “Deej! Hello.”

  “Hi, sweetie. I’m sorry to call you like this. It took a while to track you down.”

  “How did you?” she asked with what she knew was a curious question in her voice.

  “Well, that’s part of why I’m calling. First off, Bethie, I’m sorry about you and Chris. I feel so bad.”

  “Thank you, but I have to admit I’m a little nervous here, Deej. What’s going on?”

  He sighed and she could just see him in a shirt that was undoubtedly too tight with a mochaccino in his hand. “It’s Chris, Bethie. His truck was found not far from your driveway by a friend of his. He called the police; they did some investigating and found a suicide note in the cab.”

  Dear God!

  The world froze and spun at the same time. Beth struggled to find her breath as her heart hammered and jumped as far north as her throat. She must have uttered a choked sob because her father rushed to her side as she fell into an upholstered chair beneath the framed portrait of her Grandfather Winston Williams.

  “That makes no sense.”

  Deej cleared his throat. “His wife just left him, Bethie.”

  She felt tears now as they bubbled out faster than she ever could’ve halted them. “How did you find out?” she managed to ask as she lowered her head to the antique chest the phone sat on.

  “We’re notified when any agent dies in an unnatural way. I thought you’d remember that. I must say this is the hardest one I’ve ever encountered.”