The Overnighter's Secrets

by J. L. Salter

  “If everyone will line up on the north side of the mat...” He apparently assumed eleven women each knew their compass headings. “Then have a seat.” After three students perched on the east edge, the instructor cleared his throat until they realized their navigational error.

  “Okay, I’m Randy, and I’ve been with the County Sheriff’s Department for over ten years. I’ve been teaching this course about once a month for nearly four years.”

  He seemed to expect some reaction, and Connie complied by saying, “Wow.” It was probably less about his credentials than his looks, and it was easy to see that Connie was already smitten.

  “Now, let me present our dummy.” Randy pointed to the corner near the complex’s kitchen door, where a man in a heavily padded suit struggled to stand up straight after leaning against a large wooden crate. He seemed to combine two rather dissimilar looks—a heavily-armored knight and the Michelin Man. With his padded helmet wedged beneath one arm, he looked a bit like a headless creature suitable to scare children at the upcoming Halloween festival. The dummy waved awkwardly with his free hand and moved slowly toward the mat. His knees didn’t bend at all.

  “I won’t introduce you properly,” Randy shrugged his broad shoulders, “because it’s best—this evening, anyway—if you think of him only as your attacker. We don’t want to personalize him. When it comes time for each of you to let loose, you can’t be worried that you’re smacking Marvin or Wilmer or whoever. Understand?”

  Since everybody seemed to comprehend, he continued. “So we’ll just call him Mugger.” A smile beamed from above Randy’s chiseled jaw. Connie nearly swooned. Muscular arms burst from the short sleeves of his tight tee shirt and nobody could have any doubt that a tight six-pack of abs rippled above the buckle of his thick belt.

  Mugger looked bored and kept eyeing the large clock above the door everyone had entered. He probably needed to lean against another box and maybe smoke a few cigarettes. Or take a stiff drink.

  As he checked the pre-registration page on his clipboard, Randy went down the line of students seated on the mat’s edge. From left to right, in order, each student had to tell her name, occupation, and give at least a superficial reason why she was there. Most of the reasons sounded secondary and rather objective. Only one woman admitted she lived alone and shopped alone, and was scared walking to her car at night. She wanted to lessen her fear. Honesty.

  On Beth’s turn, she revealed that she had been injured when her house was broken into about a week earlier and the investigating policeman had recommended this class.

  Connie frankly explained that she was only there to keep Beth company, but that she was glad she’d come. No doubt she would have verbalized more but her heavy sighs and dreamy eyes conveyed a lot. It was pretty obvious Connie had already fallen in love... or lust.

  Randy held them spellbound with his rapid-pace combination of statistics, strategies, a few horror stories, and—most importantly—several examples of women who’d successfully fended off aggressors. Speaking so quickly, Randy took several deep breaths, each time revealing a prominent chest with terrific pectoral definition. He urged avoiding potentially dangerous environments and said successful flight was always better than fight.

  Then Randy called for a volunteer. Connie launched her hand into the air and nearly jumped to her feet... but Randy waved her down. “No, you’re too eager,” he chuckled. “I don’t want Mugger to get worried. How about the young lady to your right?”

  Throughout her entire school days, including college, Beth had always hated going first.

  Randy motioned for Beth to rise and approach.

  She complied, though with considerable hesitance.

  Randy continued his verbal instruction, using Beth’s obvious reluctance as an example of how not to act. “Be confident, be firm, and be loud,” he intoned.

  Everyone could see that Beth was scared, mushy, and quiet.

  “Remind me of your name?” He flashed another big Hollywood smile.

  “Bethany Muse. Call me Beth.”

  Randy took a final look at his clipboard before tossing it out of the way. “Beth, we’re not going to practice what you might have done—” his fingers made quotation marks, “—differently the other night. That experience is too fresh and it might give you the wrong idea that you’re being reprimanded.” He placed a large hand on her shoulder. “It’s important to remember that it’s never your fault if you’re attacked by a criminal. And it’s not your fault if you get overpowered by that person. Remember, the perpetrator began the situation knowing his intentions. The person being attacked—as a first step—has to cope with shock and fear.” He let that sink in and removed his hand from her shoulder. “So, what you’re gonna be doing here this evening is all the proper things: prevent, prepare, plan, and practice.”

  Beth didn’t feel particularly prepared or confident, but she was relieved at Randy’s understanding and compassion. With his calming manner and smoking body, this man could get under any woman’s skin... or beneath her clothing.

  Fortunately, Randy seemed oblivious to her thoughts. As he explained each maneuver, he demonstrated some holds on Beth.

  She felt Randy’s closeness and heat... and the confident power within him. If you took away all the jealousy—and added some action hero muscles—Shane would feel like this.

  The instructor walked her through a few counter-moves—first, with Beth posing as the mugger, so Randy could demonstrate the proper responses. Then they switched and Randy became the mugger, allowing Beth to practice those same reactions.

  Connie held up her hand.

  Randy smiled rather tersely. “I forgot to say that I’m not taking questions during this physical instruction part, but let’s hear this one.”

  “What if somebody holds a gun on you?” That had obviously never been far from her mind since her robbery in Memphis all those years ago.

  Randy walked over to a large plastic tool box at the other side of the mat and pulled out a pistol. Several ladies gasped. “It’s okay. Non-firing replica, about the same weight as a real .45. Better for training than just posing your finger and thumb.” He demonstrated the latter.

  There were a few nervous chuckles from the gallery.

  “In the movies, somebody sticks a gun in your ribs or right against your head and everybody thinks that’s the end. Resistance over... do exactly what the perp wants.” Randy paused. “Wrong! Actually, the opposite is more the truth. You’re safer with the perp’s gun that close because you might be able to deflect his hand or maybe even knock the gun away. Or maybe you can roll quickly to one side and while he’s recovering his aim, you can whack him with something.”

  “Sounds awfully dangerous.” That student’s voice had a nervous timbre.

  “Of course it is. And I’m probably not supposed to even suggest it. But consider that the attack itself is potentially very dangerous and could result in... well, a lot of problems. So anything you do to change the attacker’s script usually makes you better off. At least, not any worse off.”

  Several students still looked confused. Some appeared rather frightened.

  When Randy sighed heavily, his stomach muscles tensed. “Look, if the gunman is a few paces away, his first shot is coming right at you... real close range. Not a good situation. But if his gun is right on you, or extremely close, you’ve got a chance to roll around to his side, maybe jump away. You might even disarm him. Several possibilities and all are much better than being shot.”

  Randy demonstrated a few times with Beth holding the gun closely against his firm body. When she poked the muzzle into his side, his muscles felt more rigid than the practice pistol.

  Randy switched and let Beth perform the escape maneuvers. They were quite close, nearly intimate, during this demonstration.

  At Randy’s signal, Mugger waddled to the center of the matted area and put on his helmet.

  “Okay. Now that my partner is fully padded, we’re going to place Mizz Muse
exiting the mall after dark, with shopping bags in both hands... and her car’s at the far end of the lot, away from any lights.” Randy quickly explained how each of those conditions was unsafe.

  When Randy motioned, Beth practiced on Mugger, though—as instructed—without any intensity. Randy made a few corrections, explained why to the class, and then Beth went through the maneuvers again.

  “Now that you’ve practiced the moves slowly and with no appreciable impact, you know what to do. But if a dangerous attack does ever happen to you, it will be fast and hard. That’s what your reaction has to be.”

  With Randy’s sign, Beth attacked Mugger again, with greater intensity. But Randy sighed. “Still too tentative.”

  With additional urging from Randy, Beth finally connected to her inner warrior and actually enjoyed battering the beans out of Mugger.

  When she finished, sweaty and panting, Beth looked at the instructor’s face.

  He smiled proudly. “Good job, Beth Muse. Very good.”

  Beth giggled like a schoolgirl and slowly made her way back to the gallery.

  Then Randy ran all the other ladies through similar exercise, without repeating all the foundational material. Connie was second to last and appeared to have additional pent-up energy of some sort. Beth suspected it was not aggression so much as good old-fashioned horniness.

  In fact, part of the time it seemed as though Connie was trying to grope the man beneath those pads instead of striking the pads themselves. Even Randy seemed to notice.

  By the last student’s turn, no verbal instructions were needed: just quick practice and then she beat the stuffing out of Mugger.

  The class ran to two hours—about thirty minutes over schedule.

  Mugger went over and started stripping down. He was literally soaked with sweat. Connie watched attentively and then approached. Her voice wasn’t audible, but she had obviously offered to help towel him down. From his motions, Mugger apparently insisted he didn’t need any help, but Connie stood near, watched intently, and kept handing him towels.

  As the students were leaving, Randy motioned Beth aside. “Do you understand why I took you first? And spent more time with you?”

  Beth’s brain flashed with the kind of adrenalin she hadn’t experienced since a cute and popular boy asked her out in high school. “Well, not exactly.”

  He looked around and lowered his voice. “After what you went through the other night—at least what I can piece together from your summary...” He eyed what remained of her bruise. “I figured you needed to get up on that horse again real soon and do some riding... hard and fast.”

  The imagery was a bit convoluted, but Beth understood his meaning. “Oh. Well, thanks. It felt good to pound on that guy a little.”

  “You did more than a little pounding.” Randy chuckled. “But you needed that. Good for your confidence.” He looked over at Mugger and Connie, and smiled. “It’s real important for you students to know this: if you ever are in a dangerous attack, don’t leave anything at home. Give it everything. Hard and fast. Don’t think too much, but don’t freeze up. Almost anything you do defensively is better than doing nothing. And nearly everything you do offensively can help neutralize the attacker.”

  Beth nodded slowly. “This is more than you covered in class.”

  “Our formal instruction has to be approved by the Sheriff’s Department. But, personally, I think it falls short in a few areas. We’re not supposed to tell students to do anything—some problem with potential lawsuits, apparently. This is just me talking.”

  Beth gulped. “Okay.”

  “We don’t use the word victims much anymore, but it’s hard to tiptoe around it. In a violent attack, the big difference between a victim and a survivor is that the victim often doesn’t fight back... and, unfortunately, many of them get whatever the perpetrator wants to dish out.” Randy paused for a deep breath, which swelled his massive chest. “But what I call the attack survivor has managed to derail quite a bit of the perp’s intentions... in some cases, even overcome them altogether.” He smiled grimly. “You see, they really don’t expect you to fight back.”

  Mugger—now suitably dried-off and wearing a clean, tight tee shirt—was nearly as nice a male specimen as Randy.

  Connie headed toward Beth.

  Randy’s voice sped up slightly. “I’m just saying... don’t think about being lady-like and don’t be concerned that something you do might be embarrassing under any other circumstances. Some people have died from embarrassment, if you get my drift.”

  She did.

  “Just revert to your animal instinct for survival and don’t hold back.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Randy inhaled deeply and smiled. “Well, good night.” He strode toward Mugger and helped him finish packing the heavily padded suit into an enormous zippered bag with several sturdy strap handles.

  Connie watched the instructor walk away. “What was that all about?”

  “Never mind me. What on earth were you doing with all those towels? Looked like you tried to wipe down a racehorse.”

  Connie laughed wickedly. “He’s a thoroughbred all right.”

  “I saw him hand you something. Phone number?”

  She was clearly disappointed. “No, just the title of a book they recommend. The hunky instructor mentioned it. Remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Here, you take it. Maybe your library buddy can get you a copy.” Connie’s eyes remained on the two handsome law officers. “You know, you could date Randy. He obviously took a shine to you.”

  “Oh, he did not! He just explained... it was because of my break-in. Wanted me to get back up on the horse and ride.”

  Connie giggled. “That’s the same thing I’ve been telling you!”

  Beth slapped her friend’s forearm. “That’s not what he meant. And stop worrying so much about when I start dating again, if ever.” Beth worried enough about that, all by herself.

  “Okay,” said Connie, “I remember a promise you made, and I’m starving.” She poked Beth’s ribs as they exited the armory. “But it’s too late for a burger. I want something sweet. And lots of it.”

  They decided on sundaes from the Dairy Barn drive-thru. Sitting in her car in that ample parking area, Beth pointed her long plastic spoon at Connie. “You know, I think I see the appeal. I mean, partly.”

  “Of what? That dreamy instructor?”

  Well, that too. “No, the physicality of self defense.”

  “Huh?” Connie was on an entirely different wave length.

  Maybe this was how Shane felt at times. Beth rolled another small dollop of ice cream around with her tongue. It was cold and smooth. “It feels good to kick somebody’s keester.”

  Chapter Eleven

  October 7 (Friday)

  Kaser was back in his modest hotel suite in a quiet part of Nashville. It fit his needs, with sufficient space for his spread-out files and folders, his laptops, and all the other operational gear. He allowed the cleaners in only at specified times, after he’d thoroughly stowed anything he didn’t want seen. Kaser tipped well and had every expectation the staff would adhere to all of his non-standard stipulations.

  Presently, he reviewed his progress and planned future activity. Most of his travel had been to the west end of Tennessee and Kentucky, with a few excursions into Arkansas. But he’d already made a visit to California and knew there would be at least one more trip there soon.

  A seasoned investigator, Kaser had mainly expected hazy oral history and typically innocuous family legend, but this case had taken interesting twists and turns. To use a hackneyed image Kaser actually liked, these were smoking guns in terms of his primary assignment. Old man Barkley had been meticulous with his Vernon family correspondence, so Kaser presently had the names of several people who’d been given this incriminating information by the Slate family. During Barkley’s lifetime, he’d tried valiantly to sway the Slates from their ardent beliefs and rather talkative h
abits. Of course, most of those correspondents were dead... or soon would be. And if still living, their insistence about the Vernon family would most likely be viewed as senile dementia. But Kaser still had to find out if they’d shared their knowledge with any descendents who believed it. In one case, so far, he’d already located a granddaughter of a Vaudeville entertainer who’d been told the Vernon saga.

  Kaser looked over the notes from his September twenty-third conversation with the granddaughter, Helana Ross. She’d been extremely cooperative, providing Kaser with all the dates and information he needed for his subsequent steps, including a probable trail of certain material which might include some of those smoking guns.

  Nobody but Kaser could have found those sources, those problems—for the ambitious politician—which only Kaser could make disappear. Any other operative would have let things drop with the death of Barkley, the Vernon family descendant who knew too much. But not Kaser. Thorough was his middle name. Obsessive result was his game.

  Kaser also examined his notes from a few days after his phone conversation with the actress’s granddaughter, Helana. But he didn’t actually need his eleven-day-old notes—Kaser remembered the convenience store conversation, practically verbatim.

  It was a small neighborhood grocery a few blocks from Helana’s grandmother’s former home in North Hollywood. A throwback from the more modern 7-Eleven stores, this place had likely thrived in the Forties and Fifties when the grandmother lived there.

  Kaser asked the Saticoy Grocery owner/manager if he’d been around about five years ago.

  “Yeah... an’ a lot longer,” said Ramirez.

  Kaser asked when were the dumpsters were emptied.

  “Thursday mornings. Always been Thursday.”

  Had Ramirez ever seen a cleaning crew dropping off a lot of papers?

  “People do that all the time, man... an’ I have to chase ‘em off. I pay rent on that dumpster, man. It’s not a public service. Let ‘em drive out to the dump in South Pasadena.”