by Lee Taylor
Polite applause and laughter as Charlene and Harry took their seats. Michael caught the smile his sister threw his way. She was happy for him.
He glanced at his new wife. Her radiant smile filled his heart with gratitude. It was a smile he saw a lot more often after the test results finally came back. They confirmed Glazebrook hadn't raped her.
It had been a relief for him too. Though it wouldn't have made any difference to his feelings for Jessie, the anger might have consumed him.
His cock twitched. His bride looked like an elegant Spanish noblewoman from another era in the traditional Panamanian costume she wore, a generous loan from the alcaldeza of Las Piedras, Gioconda Ruíz.
He couldn't wait to get Jessie home to their condo on the beach and play knight to her lady. An erotic image of Jessie wearing only the multicolored floral pompoms that framed her lovely face flashed into his brain.
He congratulated himself on his decision to spend their wedding night at the Ciudad de David hotel instead of driving to Las Piedras.
He dragged his mind back to the audience. "I'd like to introduce my boss, Jim Strand."
Jim stood. Michael was glad to see he'd lost a few pounds. "Thanks for being here, Jim. Sorry Maureen couldn't make it. I'm afraid you'll have to manage without me for six months of the year while I'm in Panama."
Jim nodded. "We'll miss you."
Polite applause as Jim sat.
"You've probably noticed the young man taking photographs tonight."
Laughter.
"There he is, over by the band. Take a bow, Stuart."
Stuart's wave was followed by the flash of his camera.
"Stuart is my partner in crime, so to speak. Atherton and Baxter Investigations will be in good hands when I'm not there."
Michael thought it best not to mention Stuart's photographs had saved Jessie's life. He might get choked up, again.
He'd feared for a moment Stuart was going to kiss his feet when he'd offered him a share of the company. He'd babbled something about dreams coming true.
"We want to thank our hosts, Traw and Karen Hunter. This wonderful garden is a beautiful place for a wedding, the table decorations are fantastic, and the food--well, let's show them how much we enjoyed the food."
Guests stood to applaud. Traw smirked his usual sardonic grin, and Karen's bright smile lit up her dark Panamanian face.
Jessie nudged him.
"I think my wife--gosh, I haven't been able to say that for a while, but I'll never get tired of saying it--my wife has something to add."
"Thanks, Michael. My husband--"
Laughter.
"Karen and Traw, my husband forgot to mention how grateful we are that you offered your home for our wedding. Holding the ceremony here in David instead of having the Notary travel to Las Piedras meant we could get married that much sooner. And thank you, Karen for being the loveliest attendant any bride could ask for."
More applause.
"And gracias to Notario Velasquez, for marrying us, and to Court Translator, Antonio Ruidiaz for making sure we knew what was going on!"
Laughter and applause as the two officials bowed their acknowledgement.
She fanned out the skirts of her dress. "And thank you to Alcaldeza Gioconda for this beautiful costume. I'm privileged to wear the traditional pollera. It makes me feel like a queen. Muchas gracias."
Gioconda stood and waved.
"Our generous lady mayor also provided the bride doll you see here on the table, and she'll help me distribute the charms off it to the ladies later on."
Whistles and cheers as a few Panamanians leapt to their feet dancing and singing the tamborito to the spontaneous accompaniment of the trumpet player from the Panamanian band.
Michael was looking forward to learning to play the traditional music now he was living in Panama. Too bad he planned to whisk his wife off to the hotel as soon as he could. A jam session with the Panamanian trumpeter would have been a thrill.
But he had other thrills in mind for tonight. He absent-mindedly patted the butterfly remote in his pocket, forgetting momentarily that Jessie wore the vibrator under her costume. They'd figured it would be their little secret during the wedding. Nobody else would know she wasn't wearing panties underneath the copious skirts of her dress.
Jessie squirmed, planting a death grip on his arm. "Michael," she hissed, a gleam in her eye.
Struggling not to laugh out loud, he fished in his pocket, hoping his fingers had found the OFF button. He guessed he had when Jessie almost sagged against him in relief.
Smoothing back his hair, he clamped an arm around Jessie's waist. He picked up his glass, tapping it with his knife. When all was quiet again, he said, "I'd like to propose a toast to my bride."
There was a flurry of activity as people recharged their glasses.
Michael bent to whisper in Jessie's ear. "No one noticed. Don't worry."
A lump caught in his throat at the sight of his collar around her neck, almost hidden by the elaborate costume. The missing key was in his pocket. Jessie had given it into his safekeeping just before the ceremony.
"Every man here will agree that I have today married the most beautiful woman in the world, a queen who honors me as her king. But, be warned. She's mine and only mine. I know here in Panama affairs are no big deal--"
Titters.
"--but any man who sets his sights on my wife will regret it."
Jessie nudged his foot with hers. He'd been growling, carried away by his racing heart. He was too hot, despite the balmy evening air. Puzzled faces waited for his next remark.
The faint aroma of a plant Jessie had earlier told him was citronella wafted into his nostrils. He steadied his breathing.
Stick to the script.
"Life without Jessie wouldn't be worth living. She completes me."
He winked at her. "She empowers me."
Jessie laughed, her cheeks reddening.
"Now we're bound together as one."
His wife coughed.
He raised his glass. "To Jessie."
"To Jessie," everyone echoed.
When all was quiet, Michael raised his glass again. "Here's to all of you, friends old and new. Thank you for sharing this special day with us. Traw and Karen have graciously offered to kick off our entertainment by singing and playing a few songs, a treat I know you'll enjoy. I'll lay odds they'll start with their favorite, Bésame."
Traw gave two thumbs-up.
"I'll sit down now, but not before I invite you all to Las Piedras to visit us in our new condo."
He cleared his throat again, feeling like a teenager. "Call before you come, just to make sure we're not tied up."
###
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I'm a Canadian author passionately in love with every one of the heroes I've created in my books, which automatically means I'm jealous of my heroines!
I spend quite a bit of time in Panama, a country I recommend you visit. You'll find the world's best undiscovered beaches there--very inspirational for writing--and wonderful, friendly people.
You can contact me on Twitter @roxyrogerson or check out my blog
I would like to acknowledge the invaluable suggestions of my critique partners, Reggi Allder and Sylvia Blenkin.
A Word About Elder Abuse
The only documented case I modified significantly to fit the plot of this book is that involving Phil Glazebrook. All other abuses investigated by Michael Atherton are based on fact--only the names and locations have been changed.
Even the Glazebrook case is mostly based on fact, minus the BDSM facet.
In my research I came across other instances of elder abuse that were too horrendous to include. I did not, for example, include cases of sexual abuse of seniors.
The World Health Organization has stated that elder abuse is a violation of human rights and a significant cause of illness, injury, loss of productivity, isolation and despair. Please do something about it if you have suspicions an e
lderly person is being abused.
Trusting Evil
Mary Leo
Copyright © 2011 Mary Leo
Published in the United States by Pryde Multimedia, LLC.
Trusting Evil is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is not intended to depict reality and is entirely coincidental.
For Veronica Lombardo-Banghart, and for my deceased childhood friend, Cathy Toporis-Kommer, both of whom made growing up in south Chicago bearable.
Contents
Start Reading
Authors Note
Copyright
* * * * *
Prologue — 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 — Epilogue
There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not for better…”
~ Lennon/McCartney
Prologue
South Chicago, July 14, 1966
The crowd went quiet. No one said a word as the first stretcher passed about a foot in front of me. The sheet, so sheer I could almost make out a face. I wanted to run, but I would stay until an adult told me to go home.
Three kids I didn’t recognize stood next to me, the youngest about six, the other two somewhere around ten or eleven, not much younger than I was. The boy was the oldest and seemed to be in charge of the two girls. He stood with his hands on his hips as the stretcher passed. Curious. Stoic. Staring at it like everybody else did. Like I did.
As soon as it passed, a sickening smell engulfed us. I didn’t think the grownups could smell it because they didn’t seem to react, and besides they were much taller than we were. I thought perhaps the smell hadn’t traveled up that far. The boy gazed over at me, but I didn’t react. Didn’t want to react. Much too embarrassing. I knew that smell. I had just gotten my period for the first time last month, but this was overpowering and caught in my throat. I could almost taste the blood. I thought I might be sick, but I didn’t want to leave. My knees buckled, and my stomach pitched so badly that I swallowed a few times, stood up straighter and held my breath until the stretcher was well past me. When I finally did take in air the horrible smell had vanished and the boy’s focus was on the front door of the townhouse, and not on me.
One by one, body after body was carried out of that townhouse. Some covered with blood-stained-sheets or blankets. Those were the worst. A short, chubby woman wearing a white scarf and a wrinkled green paisley housedress said, “They should’a covered up all that blood. These kids don’t need to see all that. This is a terrible thing. Who could’a done such a terrible thing? That person should be dragged through the streets.” But she never moved and held onto her little girl’s hand while standing directly across from me in the front row of people.
The police set the stretchers down on the ground perpendicular to the curb. All in a neat row. All seven of them. Seven student nurses. I thought they might not like having to lie down on the dirty street, on the hard cement with only a thin piece of cloth protecting them from the bugs, somebody’s spit or a discarded cigarette butt.
A man in a white, stained shirt yelled, “Here comes another one.”
I looked up the walkway as stretcher number eight was being carried out by four policemen. It looked like all the others. Perhaps a little more blood pooled on the top of the light gray blanket. As the body passed before me, I noticed that it wasn’t covered very well. Something was sticking out on my side of the stretcher. One of the little girls standing next to me actually reached for it, gently poking at it with her finger. “Look,” she said. I did, just as one of the policemen gently moved the little girl away and covered the exposed flesh with the blanket.
But I had seen it. A woman’s hand. Palm down. Fingers curled. Nails chipped and broken. Dried blood caked across her hand. She wore pink nail polish and a diamond ring. A diamond ring that I recognized, that I had admired and dreamed of having when I grew up. I had tried it on just two days before in a hot little apartment, where a group of young women made plans for a wedding and to go to the beach, Rainbow Beach, because we would be safe there.
I couldn’t breathe. It was as if the air had been sucked out of my lungs. I tried to hold back the tears but couldn’t. That’s when the shaking started. It was at that precise moment I knew that if I had only been a little brave and spoken up the previous night, this “terrible thing” might never have happened.
One
September 7, 1987
Life should be more like a movie where each day I had a script to follow. I could manage the routine of it better if I had a script. I wouldn’t have to think, I could just do. Mornings would be easy. Nothing to stress over. To consider. To ponder. I wouldn’t need a reason to get out of bed. I would simply do and say whatever was written on the page in front of me.
Easy.
With a script I could be anyone: a princess, a mother, a rock star, a nurse. If I didn’t like the way my story was going, I could call for a rewrite. Get the writer to add some pages. Change the dialogue. Move the locale.
My doctors think drugs partnered with hours of therapy will heal me. Thing is, I’ve been on drugs and all they do is flatten my emotions. A person needs their emotions. They’re what keeps us human. Keeps us in the mix. And forget about therapy. That’s merely somebody else’s idea of reality.
A good strong script is the way to go, one with vengeance and justice. Those are the stories Americans love. The characters we root for. The characters with a high moral code, a strong sense of self worth, and the innate ability to remain sober under pressure.
Exactly why I need that script.
I woke up this morning with a hangover, but then I wake up most mornings with a hangover. It’s all right. I can handle the hangover; it’s the voices that I can’t handle. Makes me agitated. Forces me to get drunk every night. All that talking. All that crying. Drinking’s the only way to make them stop. Dims their anger. Allows me some temporary peace until morning. I’m usually better in the morning.
I can drive, all I need is time to take a shower, down a few aspirin along with my coffee, pull my hair back and I’m on it. That’s what I told Mike, my ex-boyfriend turned business partner, when he came to pick me up from my apartment at eight a.m., an unheard-of hour, if you ask me.
But he didn’t believe me so he drove. I hate being a passenger. Usually get car sick, especially if he drives his van. That’s why I made him drive my Corvette, but somehow it still feels like I’m in his minivan.
Sometime after the first hour of morning nausea has passed I ask Mike, “How far is this place, anyway?”
My head is resting on my down pillow, pushed up between me and the reclined seat. I never travel without it. A pillow and a fresh bottle of JD tucked inside my suitcase. Something I learned from my mother—the pillow, not the JD.
“In this traffic, there’s no telling. Another half-hour. Hour, maybe. Why don’t you sit up, Carly. You might feel better,” he says.
We’re moving at snail-speed.
My seat is pushed back as far as it will go and I’m curled up in a ball, trying to sleep away the movement. The windows are open and a warm breeze blows my hair around my face. I’d give anything for a shot of bourbon to go with the moment, but Mike told me I couldn’t have any booze on my breath at a prison. The warden wouldn’t like it.
“The only thing that will make me feel even remotely better is a drink. Ever hear of hair of the dog that bit you? Old saying, but absolutely true. I’m sure we can find a neighborhood tavern that opens early.”
I can’t tell Mike I brought my own bottle, he won’t understand.
“I don’t think that’s a wise move.”
“Then, what good are you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. When
I was in high school I was voted most likely.”
I uncurl and look over at him. “Most likely what?”
“Now there’s the rub. That’s all the award said. Mike Holtzer is most likely to. And I’ve been trying to figure that out for eleven years now. Still waiting for the answer. Most likely to…” He shrugs.
“…stop and get me a drink. Just a small one. Something that comes in a shot glass would be fine. Nothing fancy. I don’t even need the chaser.”
He tilts his head and glances over at me. “Can’t do it. Come on, Carly. It’s a great day. Drink in some sunshine instead,” he says, nudging me with his hand as I try to regain my comfortable position.
He nudges me again. Reluctantly, I sit up and look around. The breeze slips across my face and plays in my hair. I close my eyes and enjoy the feeling. For a brief moment my headache vanishes and the nausea lifts, then he starts talking again. “Look over there.” He points to a small pasture with a few chestnut-colored horses grazing next to a wire fence. “Let’s stop and see if they’ll come over to the fence. I haven’t seen a horse up close in years. I used to ride when I was a kid. My uncle had a horse ranch. I loved going there. I could ride all day.”
I’m tempted, and if I had that damn movie script I probably would laugh and tell him how I own a horse ranch in Colorado then the two of us would walk off into the morning sun.
Fade out.
Roll credits.
But this isn’t a movie and I don’t own a horse ranch and my head is pounding again and I just want to get where the hell we’re going.
“You know, Mike, this thing was built to go over a hundred. We could be there in no time if you let me drive.”
He lets out a short little breath, looks straight ahead and I can tell by the look on his face that I hurt his feelings. He’s so damn sensitive. After all this time, you’d think he’d know not to mess with me in the morning. I lean back on my seat and let the breeze do its thing. Mike moves in and out of traffic. Suddenly the road clears out in front of us. I can feel the engine purring. Feel the sense of speed that I love. The rush of it. I figure he’s probably doing eighty-five or ninety. Now I can relax. Go with the moment. Enjoy my blue sky. No clouds. No smog shit. Just clear blue for as far as forever.
