“You want to be an actor, go be an actor. I want you out of my house by the end of harvest.” Waltona pronounced, firm, decided.
“That’s two months.”
“The way you’re going, you might not make it into next week. Keep a suitcase packed.”
Waltona disappeared. Olive sighed, defeated. She moved to inspect the damage to her car.
Duffel bag in hand, Nathan followed Laura out of the restaurant/bar and into the parking lot. Kent was already out there, watching from the shadows, drunk and still drinking from a flask, waiting for Nathan to exit. He took one final swig before he stumbled into view, intercepting Nathan from behind, shoving a gun up against the back of his head.
“Turn around.”
Believing the confrontation to be related to the altercation in the bar with Brady and his friends, Nathan responded by spinning savagely, unconventionally, sending Kent on a carousel ride that ended face-first through a car’s side window. Yes, it was over that quickly.
“You don’t make very many friends.” Laura pointed out, matter-of-factly.
“I can’t understand it myself.”
She smiled, throwing open her car’s passenger door.
“Get in, tough guy.”
Nathan took the keys from her.
“I’ll drive.”
“I don’t think so.” Laura responded, attempting to snatch back her key fob but Nathan was too quick.
“Look, it’s just a thing with me and machinery. I prefer to be in control.” Nathan offered, quite serious.
“I prefer to be in control too. But okay. You win. For now.” Laura said, playfully giving in before climbing into the passenger seat.
A pair of entangled bodies swayed in a darkened bedroom, sheets pumping. This wasn’t romance. This was two torsos battling for control. Attacking. Defending.
It was early morning and Nathan was staring into a bathroom mirror, trimming a rogue eyebrow hair, shirtless, three bullet-wound scars decorating his chest. Laura, eyes blotchy from lack of sleep and clad only in a loose fitting T-shirt, eased in.
“So… what’s your girlfriend like?” Laura asked, very nonchalantly.
Nathan half craned a look in her direction, responding only with a blank stare.
“I’m reasonably certain you’re not married.” Laura continued. “Married men of your generation tend to let themselves go. And grooming, that’s nonexistent. You’ve been taking advice from an independent single gal. So… what’s she like, is she a control freak like us?”
Nathan found a bottle of mouthwash and handed it to her.
“No offense, Lucy.”
“My name’s Laura.” she responded, taking no offense, but not taking the mouthwash either. She produced a pack of cigarettes instead, offering him one.
“No thanks. I only smoke when I’m pretty certain I’m about to hit someone.”
“Interesting. Were you fresh out that day three bullets were pumped into your chest? Or did you smoke one too many?”
“That honking earlier. Was that my cab?”
A car horn blared just as he asked that.
“Driver sounds irritated.” Laura offered, indifferent, as she lit her cigarette.
Nathan threw on his shirt, found his duffel bag and exited the house without saying goodbye. Laura stepped out onto her porch, still indifferent, calling out only when she realized he was about to hop into the back seat of the cab.
“I was wondering how this was going to play out… That control thing with you and machinery… doesn’t extend to cabs?”
“It does. But I don’t live in a perfect world.”
Nathan hopped in. The cabbie managed to keep the decibel level of his voice well regulated but he was incensed.
“I started the meter fifteen minutes ago. You don’t like it, get out.”
Nathan offered up an apologetic expression before dropping a one hundred dollar bill onto the front seat.
“I appreciate your patience.”
The cabbie perked up, tucking the Benjamin into his shirt pocket with a smile and his own apologetic expression.
“Where to, man?”
Nathan handed him Olive’s crop-dusters-for-rent advertisement. The cabbie drove off. Nathan leaned back, clammy all of a sudden, vulnerable, inhaling deeply, forcing his eyes closed, squeezing them shut, doing his best to ignore his rapidly accelerating heartbeat.
Amaxophobia is a real condition characterized by an abnormal fear of riding as a passenger in motor vehicles, and it runs the gamut from mild to severe. Nathan’s was debilitating.
This was the type of luxurious lakefront property that could easily serve as the main accent on an accomplished artist’s watercolor canvas. Erected by one of the fortunes amassed during the gilded age of the late 1880s, and tastefully upgraded over the years, it stood distinct and notable against its ostentatious – some might even describe them as flamboyant, even vulgar – steel and concrete neighbors. Even the guesthouse, which was well hidden from the main residence, was an architectural marvel. And while there was no large yacht in the private marina, there were certainly plenty of sleek pleasure watercraft.
Nathan’s former employer, fifty-nine-year-old CEO Colin Ford, always smartly dressed, which helped camouflage a well-upholstered gut, practiced his putting stroke on an authentic putting green as Roger, his personal assistant, approached. Colin never met his gaze, merely sensed him approaching, and proceeded to engage him as if continuing a conversation.
“You’re in that same burning hospital, Roger. In one room, there’s a newborn baby, in another room, there’s a Petri dish with a thousand human embryos ready for implantation. You only have time to save either the baby or the Petri dish. Which is it?”
“Funny you should mention hospital again. Your son was just discharged from one.” Roger offered back, grim-faced.
“What happened? Is he all right?”
“I think maybe you should answer those questions for yourself. He’s in the study.”
Colin’s study was spacious and just as impressive as the rest of the house. Roger stood off to one side, arms folded, listening attentively. Alphonse, and his size 14½ EEE loafers, stood nearby.
Colin popped the occasional cashew into his mouth as he listened to Kent, now sporting stitched facial lacerations from his date with the car’s side window.
“I’m absolutely positive, Dad. It was Nathan Cribbs.” Kent declared through blood-clotted nasal passages.
“Dr. Nathan Cribbs is dead.”
“I saw him with my own two eyes.”
“Bloodshot, I’m sure.”
“I wasn’t drunk, I mean, not that bad. It was him.”
Colin found Alphonse.
“Explain to me how that’s possible.”
“It’s not.” Alphonse answered, almost bored.
“The bodies were never found, Alphonse.” Kent argued, regarding Colin again. “Look, I don’t know how he survived, but he’s out there. He’s alive. He did this to me.”
Roger’s smart phone beeped with a distinctive ring. Colin knew what it meant. He was due in civil court in an hour and he acknowledged that he knew without ever looking at Roger. He was too busy staring down his son.
“What were you doing drinking alone at a bar three towns away?” Colin asked, in a direct effort to make a statement rather than elicit information. He was quite aware that his son had worn out his welcome in a diverse number of local nightclubs due to disorderly conduct and public intoxication and had since expanded his quaffing jurisdiction to include bars in a handful of surrounding towns, some of which had already likewise banned him.
“You’re a disgrace!” Colin said, raising his voice sharply, drowning out and interrupting Kent’s spurious attempt at an explanation.
“Dad.”
“Shut up! You’re going home to sleep off the rest of your hangover. Tomorrow, you’re checking yourself into a substance abuse clinic of my choosing and you’re not leaving until I say so – or Dr. Cribbs’ g
host materializes before my eyes, whichever comes first. Those are my terms and they’re not negotiable. Break them and you will forfeit your inheritance. All of it. Is that understood?”
There was real commitment in Colin’s voice. He meant every word. Kent nodded, still aggravated, but defeated. He exited without uttering another syllable. Colin found Roger.
“Baby or Petri dish?”
“Baby.”
“Life begins at conception, according to you. You’d sacrifice a thousand lives to save one?”
“I could keep the baby alive. The embryos, in an unprotected environment would perish. I’m assuming I wouldn’t be able to carry the equipment housing the Petri dish.”
“And if you could?”
“That would be another matter.”
“What do you think, Alphonse? What would Jesus do?”
Alphonse responded with a vacant stare. Not religion again.
“I’ll get the car.” Alphonse said, disappearing.
It’s true that farm fields that grow genetically modified crops are largely sterile. Insects that normally feed on the plants are nowhere to be found because the plants themselves are toxic to them. And usually where there are no insects, there are no birds or other wildlife that eat insects. It’s an assault on the food chain.
Waltona tended to a personal strawberry patch in a garden by her house as Nathan and his duffel bag approached, dust-covered and sweaty, Olive’s advertisement in hand. He had ridden as far as his phobia would allow and walked the final few miles.
“Good morning. I understand you have planes for rent.”
Waltona wiped her hands on a soiled rag, eyeing Nathan suspiciously.
“I keep a list in my head of county farmers who’ve expressed interest in the past and you’re not on that list. So who’s asking?”
“I’m a tourist. Thought it might be nice to explore the area from a bird’s perspective.
“Are you also a licensed pilot?”
Nathan produced a license and offered it up for her perusal. She took it, looking it over carefully.
“You’re a doctor?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Which branch of medicine?”
“I’m not a medical doctor. I’m a molecular biologist.”
“Well, Dr. Molecular Biologist, your pilot’s license has expired. My planes don’t fly unless I see valid paperwork.”
She handed the license back to him as she said that, quickly turning away. Nathan reached into his duffel bag, extracting a wad of cash.
“Check the expiration date on these.”
Waltona eyed the money. It was a significant amount. Time passed as she drifted Nathan toward her house’s porch, contemplating her decision.
“Look, I’m just an ordinary law abiding citizen on vacation. You know as well as I do that a few dollars is all it would take to have the government reissue this document with a fresh date.” Nathan said, trying to reassure her.
“Yet you didn’t bother with that before leaving home.”
“I wasn’t expecting I’d need it. Then I saw your flyer.” Nathan lied. He required a plane, his plan demanded one, and he knew he couldn’t just walk into a local airport and rent one without the proper paperwork. He was officially deceased, after all. His plan also required stealth so he intended to rent – or steal – a crop duster sitting in a farmer’s field somewhere.
“I’ve been a licensed pilot for over twenty years.” Nathan added as he followed Waltona onto her porch.
Waltona inquired about his driver’s license, which he provided and which mercifully, was still valid. She looked it over carefully.
“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” Waltona asked, never bothering to make eye contact.
“No.”
“Charged with one?”
“No.”
“Any arrests of any kind?”
“No.”
“None?”
“Zero.”
“Are you sure? Not even as a kid, for trespassing, shoplifting, things like that?”
“I got in trouble at school for the odd schoolyard altercation but I’ve never been in trouble with the law. Not like that, not like what you’re asking.”
“Okie dokie then. As a virtuous member of society, you’ve led a crime-free life so you couldn’t possibly be a psychotic serial killer or deviant sexual predator, or anything else that would’ve created a notorious public record, correct?” Waltona asked, finally establishing eye contact while reaching for her iPad, which sat prominently on a piece of patio furniture.
Nathan just looked at her without responding. Where was this going?
“I don’t know you so I’m going to run a quick public records search. If you’re OK with that, just hang out for a few. If you’re not OK with that, just ask that I return your license so you can tuck it back into your purse, along with your money as you walk away.”
Nathan found a chair and sat, simulating confidence, holding her eyes all the way. Waltona got down to typing and swiping, periodically cross-referencing particulars on his driver’s license.
“It’s amazing the amount of information you can find on just about anyone these days. I check all the time, great employer tool. Let me tell you something, had I wielded this kind of power in my younger years, my life would’ve turned out differently. Better. I definitely would’ve avoided a few dipstick boyfriends along the way for sure. Might never have gotten married either. Course, a website that could correctly predict a prospective husband’s future behavior, that would be the greatest thing. Maybe send in a sample of his DNA and receive a detailed forecast of what to expect, because the brutal reality is, you never know what to expect because most men aren’t who you think they are. And even if they are who you think they are, they inevitably change, some morphing into individuals you hardly recognize and end up vehemently disagreeing with all the time. At the very least, those types should all come with warning labels. Caution: Susceptible to permissive ideology. Deteriorating sets of values, principles and standards likely.” Waltona complained.
“Everybody changes.”
“Not everybody. Not foundation of belief and behavior. Not fundamental truth. Not those things.”
Nathan nodded. Waltona perceived it as a gesture of agreement but it didn’t really mean anything. The last thing he wanted was to inadvertently anger her, and his mind was elsewhere anyway. He’d done a Google search on himself in the recent past and found links connecting to stories about his (and Kate’s) presumed murders. Christa’s married drug cartel mobster lover was charged and eventually convicted of murdering Kate and Nathan on circumstantial evidence, in fact. He and one of his lieutenants were now serving life sentences despite the reality that no bodies were ever found.
Nathan didn’t know what sorts of information Waltona would unavoidably find during her search but his expression betrayed nothing. Had she simply Googled his name, she would’ve come across a handful of informative links. Instead, because she logged onto one specific website popular with employers in the farming community in her area, she found and focused solely on the conventional information provided. His age and address were correct. No priors.
“Employer name.”
Nathan supplied it. It matched but you’d never know it by Waltona’s expression. Other questions followed. Employer address, previous home addresses, mother’s maiden name, queries like that. Nathan answered them all quickly, effortlessly.
“What’re the last four digits of your Social?”
“That information is floating around online?”
“Last four.”
He provided them.
Waltona set her iPad down and approached Nathan. He found his feet as she arrived. In one smooth motion, she snatched the cash out of his hand, pointing out one of two crop dusters sitting idly in a field.
“The white one with the red stripes is all fueled up. You’ll get your driver’s license back when you return my property in exactly the same condition yo
u received it.”
“That’s not unreasonable. Thank you.”
Nathan turned for the plane. Waltona watched him walk away for a moment before pocketing the cash and crossing for her barn.
In the barn, a rehearsal was in progress. Olive stood off to one side of the stage directing a cast of young kids, dressed in western gear. The scene depicted a pair of gunfighters squaring to draw on each other.
“You can’t run from the law, Bart.” bellowed the boy playing the Sheriff.
The boy playing the outlaw flipped his poncho to reveal that he was wearing the fake dynamite belt.
“Ain’t no way you’re gonna cage me, Sheriff. I’ll blow us all to hell first.”
“Okay then. I suppose I don’t have anything else left to say except your next twitch will be your last.”
The showdown began, both kids shifting for position as other kids scrambled to take cover. Olive unexpectedly interrupted, addressing the kid playing the Sheriff.
“Wait, wait, hold on. You look nervous, Sheriff, and you can’t look nervous. You’re the hero, you’re cool. Bart’s the one who’s in over his head. You’ve got to move toward him with confidence. Like this.”
Olive demonstrated.
“See? A bit of a swagger. Give Bart something to think about.”
“Got it, Miss Beacon.” replied the kid playing the Sheriff.
“All right everyone, let’s reset, take it from the top of page eighteen.”
But before the kids could find their places, Waltona appeared at the barn door.
“Olive, get out here.”
“Not now, Mom.”
“Now! Get out here now!”
Olive regarded the kids, exasperated but feigning control.
“I’ll be right back.”
Olive stormed out, convening with Waltona outside, ready for confrontation.
“What is it?”
Waltona pointed out the crop duster, Nathan, his back to them, climbing in.
“We’ve got a customer.”
Wicked Seeds Page 3
