by R. J. Blacks
“Here, it’ll keep you warm.”
I put on the jacket and thank her.
“By the way, name’s Pam.”
“I’m Indigo,” I say, as I pull the jacket tightly around me to stave off the wind.
She removes an extra-large cup of espresso from her tote bag and hands it to me.
“Bought this for later, but I think you need it more than I do.”
I try to refuse, but she insists so I take the coffee and thank her. I’m hungry, and tired, and desperately need something to pick me up, and she is my angel. As I sip the hot coffee, the consequences of the whole incident begin to sink in and cause me great anxiety. Pam notices my despair.
“Don’t worry, we do this all the time,” she says. “Just routine. No one thinks it was your fault.”
“Thanks,” I say, glad to have a friend.
“It’s the D.A. What a firecracker!”
She leans over to me and lowers her voice.
“I don’t know what her problem is, but she prosecuted this senior from Florida State for rape, really bright boy, good future, even though the victim insisted it was consensual.”
“Was she underage?”
“Well... that’s where it gets interesting. It happened on her birthday. Police caught them in the back seat of his car. The D.A. managed to convince the jury that the alleged crime occurred a few minutes before midnight making the girl technically seventeen.”
“No room for ‘reasonable doubt’?”
“She kept hammering away at the jury, telling them the facts are clear and the jury must follow the law.”
“No compassion?”
“Not in her world. I really wish someone would put her in her place,” she says.
Pam notices the forlorn look in my gaze.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I said too much.”
“It’s okay. I need to know this anyway.”
Fargo hands out hearing protectors to everyone on board and then casts off the ropes. We head across the water at high speed under the glow of the full moon. Pam’s jacket flutters in the wind, but it’s keeping me warm and that’s all that matters.
I finish off the coffee just as we arrive at the cove. My airboat is still blocking the entrance so Fargo trains the spotlights on it and hops on board. He cuts away some of the branches and pushes it out of the way using the long pole. He hops back onto our airboat, guides it under the branches into the cove, and then, beaches the front end to give us easy access to the shoreline. He grabs a flashlight and leads us along the trail to the place where he keeps the canoe. I’m feeling very vulnerable, so I pass the others, and walk alongside him.
“I’m worried about the D.A.” I say.
“Yeah, she’s tough.”
“What should I do?”
“John’s a good man. Let him handle it.”
I nod in agreement, but secretly, I have a lump in my throat. What if I’m charged with murder? I would need a good lawyer and they cost plenty. Where would I get that kind of money? And then there’s my new job. The company might withdraw the offer if they find out about this. I’d have no job, no money, and an upcoming trial to worry about. What would I do?
Twenty minutes pass and we come upon the canoe. Fargo inspects it, then drags it back to the place where he stores it, under the bushes.
“Where’s the body?” Detective Bolt says.
I point to the water. The police investigators rush to the water’s edge and shine their flashlights all around.
“There’s nothing here,” one announces.
“It was right there. I swear.”
“Show us where you last saw it,” Detective Bolt says.
I walk to the water’s edge and point.
“He was here.”
They shine their flashlights at the water again, but find nothing. The two male investigators walk along the shoreline, shining their flashlights along the bank and out into the water.
“There’s something here,” one shouts, and leans in to get a closer look.
“Yep, it’s a body, well sort of.”
They both put on rubber gloves and drag the object out of the water. It’s grotesque. I turn away and retreat to the far edge of the clearing so it’s out of my line of sight.
“Looks like a gator got to him,” one of the investigators say.
Detective Bolt studies the body.
“Indigo, come here. We need you to ID this.”
“No, I can’t.”
Fargo comes to my rescue.
“Give her a break. Can’t you see she’s in shock?”
“Okay. I’m going to describe him and all you got to do is give me a yes or a no,” says the detective.
“I’ll try,” I say.
“He’s Caucasian, light brown hair, about six foot one and a hundred and seventy pounds. No facial hair. He’s wearing a light green shirt, white trousers, and white dress shoes. And my God, it looks like the spear’s gone clear through his heart.”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Okay, let me get a statement from you and then you can go.”
So once again, I relate the whole story to Detective Bolt about how I had first met Damon in a North Carolina bathroom, how he had tried to rape me, and how he had tracked me to Florida. He hastily jots it down in a notebook and then closes it.
“Fine, that’s enough. You can go now. We’ll finish this tomorrow.”
“Coming back with us?” Fargo asks.
“No, I’m not done yet. We’ll call in a police boat to get us back.”
We stand and watch for a moment as police inspectors photograph everything in sight, and then place the corpse into a body bag. Fargo and I return to the airboat and make the short ride home. He ties up the airboat and we trudge up the path to the cabin. All but one of the police cars have left and the last one looks like it’s about to leave at any moment.
Fargo opens the front door and we go inside. He heads to the living room and I to the kitchen. I search through the refrigerator out of habit not really knowing what I’m looking for. I should be hungry, but I’m not. My stomach is too tied up in knots to accept anything solid right now. I settle for the Muscadine, pour myself a drink, and then wander into the living room holding the glass in one hand and the bottle in the other.
“Want some wine?” I say.
Fargo shakes his head without looking at me. I plop into a chair adjacent to him and gulp the wine. I feel it travel down my throat and into my stomach giving me a warm pleasant sensation. I pour myself another glass and place the bottle on the night table. We both sit there stoically, staring at the walls, in frozen silence. I don’t know what to talk about, so I keep myself occupied sipping the wine and avoiding eye contact.
My gaze drifts to Will’s sleeping bag. It’s on the floor, in the same place he always left it. My eyes well up at the realization he will never use it again, and I fight off the urge to cry. I see Fargo glance at me briefly and notice a tear forming in his eye, but he quickly stands up and looks the other way.
“I’m going to bed,” he says, and strolls down the hall.
I hear his bedroom door open and then shut. I finish the wine then pour myself another glass. I feel myself getting lightheaded, but it’s what I need right now so I gulp it down anyway and then return the bottle to the refrigerator.
It’s almost ten o’clock so I shut off the light and head for my own bedroom. I slip out of my damp clothes, put on dry underwear, and then collapse on the bed. It’s hot and humid and there’s no sign of a breeze through the screened-in window so I just lie on top of the covers, stare at the ceiling, and recount the day’s events. Today was both the best day and the worst day of my life, if that was possible. The best day because I achieved the unimaginable; I brought a multi-national corporation to its knees with only my hard work and intellect, but the worst day because I lost someone who was like a brother to me. I realize now that success only matters when you have someone close to share it with, and Will was the cl
osest one I had in the whole world. And now he’s gone and I am once again alone.
The caffeine from that super-sized espresso, downed on an empty stomach, is pumping through my veins and keeping me awake. I toss and turn, try to relax, but can’t get my mind off the thought I might be facing a murder charge from an overzealous D.A. I need a distraction, someone to talk to. I slip into the hallway and tap on Fargo’s door.
“What’s wrong?” he calls out.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I was thinking.”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
I timidly open the door and enter the darkened room. Moonlight streams through the window and I see Fargo on his back in his boxer shorts. There’s a sheen to his skin from a thin film of perspiration. His hands are clasped behind his head and he’s staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t move when I enter.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
“Stuff.”
I sit on the edge of the bed facing him.
“Do you mind?”
“It’s a big bed.”
“I need a friend right now.”
“Yeah,” he says, and lays his arm across the pillow.
I snuggle up next to him and lay my head on his shoulder. I gaze at his face, but he continues to stare at the ceiling, as if I’m not even there. I wonder: Has my constant harping about not having time for a relationship gone too far? Have I rebuked him one too many times? Or is there some other reason he’s ignoring me?
His bronze body, glowing from the subdued light of the moon, and marvelous in its anatomy, entices me; I feel my inhibitions evaporate. I lay my fingertips on his chest, and with the lightest of touch, begin caressing first one side, and then, work my way to the other. He doesn’t move, stares at the ceiling, totally ignores me.
“Are you gay?” I ask.
“Why would you ask that?” he snaps.
“I never see you with women.”
“Will never told you I was married once?”
“He said you didn’t have time for a wife.”
“That was my mother talking. After the divorce, she used to tell anyone that would listen I was too busy to have a wife. I guess Will forgot who said it first and thought it was me.”
“Who was she?”
“A waitress, at a truck stop off I-95. Her name was Trish. Had this blond hair, put up in a ponytail, and skin white as a morning frost. I’d seen her there several times, but she paid me no mind. Then one night I was the only one in there and she comes over to me and starts chatting. Tells me she gets off in five minutes and if I’d take her to a bar. I was young and dumb so off we go to this sleazy bar she knew. We drank and danced and drank some more. Then she tells me she wants to go home.
“And then?”
“She gives me directions to this mobile home park so I drops her off. She convinces me I’m in no shape to drive home, offers to let me sleep on the couch. Except she had other ideas. Next thing you know I’m in her bed.”
“Sounds like love at first sight,” I say.
“More like trouble at first sight. We dated a bit, but my mother hated her right off. Told me to stay with my own kind. Said white women are trouble. Turned out she was right.”
“What happened?”
“We married about six months later, but she kept her job. She used to make the sixty mile trip every day even though I told her we didn’t need the money. Her hours were three till eleven, but then she started coming home later and later. Told me the tips were better late at night and didn’t want to miss out. Some nights she wouldn’t get here until 3 AM.
“Did you suspect anything?”
“At first no, but then things didn’t add up. Finally I drove to the truck stop at midnight. The other waitress told me Trish had gone home. I drove around for a while and then drove over to her old trailer. She told me she sold it, but something told me I had to check it out anyway. I park my car about a half-mile away and creep up to the trailer. It was dark inside, but I hear these noises, human noises. I peek in the window and there’s my wife—with another guy! It came out later she was picking up truckers and giving them a ride for cash, sometimes three or four a night.”
“How do you deal with that?”
“I busted open the door, grabbed my wife’s hand, and pulled her out of bed onto the floor, naked! She starts arguing with me, as if I was the one doing wrong, but I was in no mood to negotiate so I picks her up, still naked, and carries her towards the door. Then I feel this pain in my back. The son-of-a-bitch stabbed me so I drops my wife and busts this chair over his head knocking him out cold. I could have killed him I was so mad.”
“What stopped you?”
“I learned at an early age if an Indian injures a white man, the burden of guilt always falls on the Indian, especially when he’s on white-man’s land. Then there’s the lawyers, the trial, putting up bail, and all the hassle it would create, but most importantly, the worry it would give my mother. So I just left my wife on the floor, slammed open the door, and then drove myself the sixty miles back to the rez, bleeding all over the seat. The camp doctor fixed me up, but that scar on my back reminds me my mother was right.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“The divorce was easy. She wanted out and I was all too happy to get rid of her. Turns out she had twenty-five grand in the bank from her late-night gigs so she wasn’t entitled to any of my property.”
“And now you hate women?” I ask.
Fargo turns and gives me a kiss on my forehead.
“No, I don’t hate women,” he says, and lays back down staring at the ceiling.
I continue caressing his chest with the most delicate touch, all around his well-developed pectorals, first one side then the other. And then I work my way down to his rock-hard abs.
“Keep that up and there’s going to be consequences,” he says.
I stop what I’m doing and gaze into his eyes.
“I want the consequences,” I say.
Fargo stares at me with the most befuddled look I had ever observed, but I maintain eye contact. Then after a moment of contemplation he leans over to me and meets my lips with his, ever so gently, just making contact. He pulls back and locks eyes with me testing my resolve. I raise my lips ever so slightly telegraphing my approval. He leans towards me and we kiss again, gentle at first, but then explode into the most gratifying display of human emotion. The warm humid air causes us both to sweat profusely, but tonight I don’t care. It raises my excitement and intimacy to a level I have never felt before.
Our kisses increase in fervor until I can stand it no more. I shed my impediments and Fargo does the same. And then, he accommodates me. For several precious moments we become one body and mind, sharing our thoughts, emotions, and feelings. Our breaths have become short and rapid and of such intensity it would appear we are engaging in a marathon. Fargo grunts and groans and the floorboards creak to the rhythm of his thrusts. I moan in ecstasy as my body tingles with the most euphoric sensation. We both shudder and then erupt into an intense and satisfying conclusion. I feel his muscles relax and then he rolls to his side without placing any weight on me. We both lie there, catching our breath, and I experience the most perfect feeling of intimacy. I wonder to myself, is this the first time... or is it the last? Will this great passion be repeated... or will we just go back to our hum-drum lives and pretend it never happened?
CHAPTER 38
I awaken to rays of sunlight streaming through gaps in the blinds and onto my face. It’s 10:00 AM and Fargo is gone. I peek out the window and see that his jeep is missing. I slip out of bed, pick up my underwear, and then dash into the shower. Warm water streams through my hair and down my back. Oh how good it feels. I watch the soap residue glide past my toes, circle the drain, and then finally succumb to it. The shower leaves me feeling totally refreshed, as if the soap has somehow washed away the events of the last twenty-four hours making me a new woman.
I dry
off, wrap a towel around me, and sneak into my bedroom. I hear a car approaching and see it’s Fargo’s jeep. I quickly put on shorts and a tee-shirt and greet him in the kitchen.
“Want some eggs?” I say.
“Sure, if you’re up to it.”
I whip up some bacon, eggs, and toast, place them on the table, and then sit down and join him.
“I was with Detective Bolt this morning,” he says.
“Is it something I should be worried about?”
“They found a switchblade in Damon’s pocket. The coroner said the blade matched Will’s injury exactly and they even found traces of dried blood inside the handle that matched Will’s type. They’re totally convinced Damon was the killer.”
“And what about Damon?” I say.
“Detective Bolt surprised the D.A. by taking your side. Showed her how Damon was holding you under water when you jabbed him with the spear. The coroner said the trajectory of the wound confirms your story. He said there was no way you could have stabbed him at that angle unless he was above you. But then the D.A. countered that you and Damon were in it together, that you killed Damon to hide your tracks.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Then she concocts this bizarre story about how Will was jealous and wanted you all for himself. How he smacked you across the mouth with the back of his hand when he saw you flirting with Damon. Damon attempts to protect you, but Will beats him up and that’s why he was found unconscious in the ladies room. So then, you and Damon conspire to kill him in revenge. They’ve already put a trace on your cellphone records for evidence you and Damon did this in premeditation.”
“This is totally absurd,” I say.
“She kept bringing up the point that if Damon was the original perpetrator, why was there no police report? The cut on your lip was consistent with a beating so why would you not file a report back in North Carolina? They even managed to get a statement from the police officer that had observed your swollen lip. He said you appeared edgy during the interrogation, as if you were hiding something.
This was the perfect opportunity to file a complaint against Damon, but you didn’t because it never happened. In fact, she said you told the officer you never saw Damon, then changed your story all around and told the investigators that Damon had assaulted you in the ladies room. This brings your credibility into question and that’s why she believes you and Damon were in this together. When the police officer originally questioned you, you wanted to disassociate yourself from Damon so you could use him later to commit murder for you. She kept insisting your actions back in North Carolina were not consistent with an attempted rape.”
