The Turning

by Micky Neilson

  His own dinner companions were a small family of Malaysians: husband, wife and young boy. If English was known to them, they did not use it, preferring to speak only with each other in their rapid-fire dialect. Alexander found this more than agreeable. Ideal, in fact.

  Outside of the lounge, he focused on areas he felt would provide the highest return on his time investment. The ship’s dance clubs and bars provided target-rich environments; there he listened in on dialogues to glean names. He observed body language and struck up conversations. Despite these efforts there were few potential suspects on the list. He skimmed his flowing cursive once more…

  “Nick,” athletic. Blue eyes, brown hair. Prescription glasses make candidacy unlikely.

  “Bob,” brown eyes, black hair. Timid nature and discomfort while engaging with the opposite sex make candidacy unlikely.

  “Rupert,” heavyset. Brown eyes, long brown hair with streaks of gray. Physical build makes candidacy unlikely.

  There were more. Twenty-three to be exact, eighteen of whom were excluded for one reason or another. Five possibilities, but he felt no strong inclination toward any of them. Small matter, for tomorrow he would have the entire day at sea. Plenty of time for investigative analysis. He flipped back to the first page, to the tail end of the offender profile he himself worked up and was comparing targets against.

  “Brandon”—white male, tall, heterosexual. Brown/black hair, athletic, confident. Attractive. Aggression, sexual promiscuity and abnormal strength during lunar phase.

  He glanced down to the final line in the profile, a warning to be observed over and above any other:

  Target must be considered deadly at all times.

  Chapter Three

  He was running through a night-enshrouded forest. Shafts of moonlight pierced the gloom. Somewhere above in the celestial sphere, the great round orb was invigorating, beautiful in its symmetry, pure in its perfection. The emerald sward fell away beneath his paws. He filled his lungs and ran as if no force on Earth could hinder him.

  Raised voices stirred Brandon from his reverie. His feet were pounding a treadmill in the ship’s gym. He loved to run, and when he did, he often fell into a trance-like state wherein he dreamt of speeding unchecked through some primordial world.

  A shout sounded from above and behind. Brandon clicked a button to reduce the treadmill’s speed until he was engaged in a light jog, before bringing the program to a halt. He glanced at the timer before turning away—forty minutes and he hadn’t broken a sweat. No surprise there.

  The sun was shining through a bank of windows fronting the gym’s bottom floor, providing a panoramic view of the waters ahead.

  The commotion was coming from the gym’s third level, which hosted the weights and weight machines. Brandon walked to get a better view, holding one of the small white workout towels in both hands. The three punks who had avoided his gaze at the terminal boarding area were surrounding a mountain of a man wearing a black tank top that barely covered his nipples. From what Brandon could gather, the disagreement involved the scumbags “hogging the weights,” in addition to just generally acting like jackasses.

  Several other gym-goers had stopped their workouts and were now watching the scene, transfixed.

  The most vocal of the goons was puffing out his chest and waving his arms out and back in some atavistic attempt to make himself look bigger. The other two hooligans were just generally looming. Tank Top was having none of it. In one smooth motion he swept his hand up, gripped the Chest Puffer by the throat, and shoved him against the polished metal “mirror” that formed the upper level’s back wall.

  As one of the punk’s cronies advanced, Tank Top dropped the gang leader, turned and shoved the skinny boy one-handed, knocking him back several feet.

  Brandon’s blood burned. His nostrils flared, and his heart raced. He could be up there in mere seconds, tearing into them with his bare hands…

  As one of the gym staff members raced up the stairs to level three, Brandon looked down to see that he had ripped the small white towel in half.

  Breathe. Get ahold of yourself.

  The running had brought on that trance-like state and the effects of it must still be lingering, despite the pills. There would be plenty of time to run through the snow-covered peaks in Alaska. Better to wait until then; stay away from the gym and anything that would spike his testosterone. Brandon dropped the two towel pieces into one of the “soiled towels” cans and hurried from the facility.

  ***

  Ginny didn’t feel like waiting until noon for lunch. She was on deck nine, through the Asian Express line and seated in a window booth by 11:45.

  She had just spooned in a mouthful of fried rice when He appeared out of nowhere and sat down across from her, fixing her with those smoldering eyes of his. Were they lighter? Maybe just a bit. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved since yesterday, but that didn’t bother Ginny at all. But why was he here? Suddenly she was convinced that he came to let her down easy— “thanks but no thanks.”

  “Brandon,” he said without preamble.

  “Hm?”

  “My name is Brandon Frye… but the name on my Sail Away card is Eric Milius.”

  Ginny set down her fork. Great, he’s gorgeous, and he’s into you, but he’s a lunatic. Or a felon. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

  “Uh, I’m confused,” she said around the rice, then swallowed.

  His gaze was unwavering. More than confident, it was a natural, effortless self-certainty.

  “I’m trying to start a new life.” He leaned in, elbows on the table. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except… I felt like I should. Does that sound stupid?”

  Yes.

  “No!” She stayed silent for a moment, watching him watching her. “It’s just that… what was wrong with your old life?”

  A veil passed over his eyes. For a moment he it seemed like he was transported somewhere else. The emotions she read in his features were conflicted. There was pain, loss… and something else as well.

  “You lost someone.”

  His eyes said yes. That was what else she saw: love. Whoever he lost, it was someone he loved very much. Then he spoke again, as if responding to something she had said out loud.

  “Her name was Celine. She was my mate.”

  “Mate?” Who the hell talks like that? You can still tell him to get lost.

  No, she couldn’t. This was just too damn interesting. Weird, but interesting.

  “She died last year. I’m here to spread her ashes in the Gulf of Alaska…”

  Is this his way of letting you down easy? He could just say, “I’m not attracted to you.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. So, hey if you need space, I totally get it…”

  His voice dropped even lower. He leaned in. “I just wanted to be honest with you.”

  Was that just a line? It sounded like a line. Her pulse quickened and she wondered if she was turning red. There was a growing sense of something within her, something that was becoming increasingly difficult to deny. It was more than just the physical attraction, which was insane. There was something… deeper. Even though she didn’t know him, she already felt connected to him.

  And honesty… if this really was honesty, how refreshing. Especially after her last relationship.

  Yeah, but do you really want to be someone’s rebound? His girlfriend just died.

  Well… wait a minute; he’d be my rebound. Didn’t that mean the negative energy would just cancel itself out? Sure, sounds plausible.

  Normal people don’t change their names just because a loved one dies. There was more to the story…

  Just get up and walk away.

  Much more. There had to be. He was still watching expectantly. Ginny leaned in.

  “You wanna get your ass kicked at ping pong?”

  ***

  It was 3 in the afternoon, and Alexander was dispirited. Long hours of investigation had yielded no actionable intelli
gence.

  In pursuit of rejuvenation he dressed in his finest suit and opted to partake in what the cruise line unapologetically advertised as “high tea,” with infinitely disappointing results. For someone who had savored afternoon tea at the Ritz in London, this masquerade was little more than a diversion—one made all the less palatable by his present company.

  For the past twenty minutes (which felt like an hour) the garrulous sow on his immediate right had opined on various passengers who had the distinct misfortune to cross her path. “Did you see the little Filipino girl with the cleft lip? I thought they could fix those now?” “Last night there were four drunk people right outside my door. Speaking Spanish of all things! I asked them to take the party elsewhere; they looked at me like I had grown an extra head! Lotta good it does to talk to those people in my language.” “The gal at the table across from me at dinner last night, she had rings in her eyebrows, some kind of metal bar in her nose… if the Good Lord meant for us to be walking tool chests, he would have given us a lid! She could be a pretty girl, too. Such a shame.” To say her rambling had grown tedious would be a generous understatement.

  She was speaking primarily to the older ladies seated near her, though she swiveled her head constantly in his direction. Weary beyond measure, his left shoulder throbbing, Alexander was preparing to depart when the sweaty gadfly said something that struck him.

  “Oh! Did you hear about the incident at the gym? Two black women down the hall were chattin’ about it this morning on the way to the elevator. Three punks picked a fight with some big fella. He choked one of ’em and shoved the other one!”

  As the goat’s prattling turned to the stupidity of young men and machismo in general, Alexander ran through a mental checklist: big, aggressive, athletic… he would need to know more, but the possibility was too enticing to overlook. “If these kids would crack open a book instead of playing shoot ’em up video games, they might grow a brain,” the heifer was saying.

  He decided to cast his line.

  “Intelligent men are cruel. Stupid men are monstrously cruel.”

  The cow turned her baggage-laden eyes to him and smiled. “Ooh, who said that?”

  “Why, I did, just now.” A blank gaze dominated the woman’s chubby features. Alexander waited for the realization that he was jesting to dawn. Finally she giggled, looking over to the other women to share the joke. He offered his hand.

  “Harlan.” It was the identity Alexander was cruising under.

  The bovine turned back and thrust out her balloon-animal paw. He lifted the hand and kissed it. A blush colored the woman’s ample cheeks.

  “Marie Harris.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Marie. A pleasure to meet you, and what an unparalleled pleasure it would be to meet the man who stood up to these hooligans you describe. I dare say I would buy him a drink.”

  Marie leaned in, her cleavage increasing tenfold. The flesh under her chin jiggled as she spoke. “Those black women said he was hard to miss. Huge guy in a tank top. I would have paid good money to see it all, but a gym is the last place you’d find me.”

  “Exercise is overrated.”

  Another giggle. “Easy for you to say.” Those weenie fingers reached out, brushed Alexander’s shoulder, and lingered.

  The hook is in.

  His sudden reversal of fortune lifted Alexander’s spirits. Not only had the loudmouthed hog provided a lead, but her obvious interest in him provided additional, even more intriguing possibilities.

  “I detect a bit of an accent. Where you from?” the pachyderm asked.

  Alexander turned his chair to face her. “I am a citizen of the world, my dear. Enough about me. I propose, in the temporary absence of our mystery hero… that I treat you to a drink. Perhaps something a bit stronger than tea? Unless you’re a teetotaler.”

  Marie gawked blankly again. Alexander held up his cup. Light struck her eyes. “Oh! Hah! You are so funny.” One of those plump hands waved him off. “I partake occasionally, but that’s hardly necessary…”

  “I insist.”

  The cow looked down at her nearly empty teacup. A sheepish grin crept over her expansive face.

  “What the hey, anyway? As long as my kids don’t find out…”

  “You’re accompanied by children? Here on the ship?”

  “No, I’m alone. I was joking about the kids. I teach fourth grade.”

  Perfect.

  With some exertion, Marie positioned her chair so she could face Alexander more directly.

  “And what about you? What do you do?”

  Alexander motioned to one of the wait staff, then gave Marie a close-lipped smile, the kind that spoke of well-kept secrets.

  “I work with animals,” he replied.

  ***

  Ginny prided herself on being a pretty damn good ping pong player. Her Dad had a table in the garage, and they had played throughout her childhood. But Brandon was a natural. Although his form was crap, he was faster than anyone she had ever seen. His hand/eye coordination was ridiculous. After five very sound thrashings, she threw in the towel. The two of them had then spent a solid hour and a half just sitting and talking.

  She stood now before the mirror in her room, sizing up the dress she had decided to wear for the cruise’s first formal night, reflecting on the time they had shared.

  During that time she had learned quite a bit about Brandon. He grew up on a ranch in North Dakota. When he was fifteen, he ran away from home. Not because his Dad beat him, no, because that would have required a display of emotion, something Brandon’s Dad was incapable of. When he was eleven, his Mother died of tuberculosis, which set in as a result of a weakened immune system from diabetes. Brandon spent much of his time with his Grandfather, who clearly had a huge influence, until he died at the fairly ripe age of eighty-four.

  After running away, Brandon worried that this Dad would come after him, so he went “incognito,” drifting from town to town, assuming different names and different vocations across the Northern United States. He had taken jobs as a movie theater usher, a logger, a short-order cook, a tow truck driver, a ranch hand, a bartender, a furniture mover, a trapper and half a dozen others. Mostly part-time jobs with minimal screening and low pay. When he needed state IDs or driver’s licenses, he found people who could make fakes. The latest last name he chose as an alias, Milius, was a nod to the director of Brandon’s favorite movie, Conan the Barbarian.

  Ginny didn’t want to pry, but she was curious as hell about the woman who died… Celine. She wanted to probe him for answers but she waited until he came around to the subject on his own. The two had met in a convenience store in Bonners Ferry, Idaho. Not the most romantic first meeting, but when Brandon spoke of Celine, it was clear that he loved her very much. He said she was magnetic, powerful… one of the strongest women he had ever known.

  When Ginny asked if they had any children, Brandon said that he was incapable—sterility due to hormonal problems. The two of them were together for fourteen years, until Celine got lost in the woods and was caught by a forest fire and burned alive, a thought that still made Ginny shudder.

  He had been surprisingly honest to her about all of this, only becoming cagey when Ginny asked him about specific dates. He would answer “a long time ago” or “years ago,” or change the subject. She also felt that there was something else he was holding back, some kind of secret… It wasn’t really something she could put her finger on, more like a sensation, a feeling of something unspoken, lingering in the silence between words.

  After the time they had spent throughout the afternoon, what became undeniable was the attraction she felt. It had existed since the first time she saw him, and through their conversations it only deepened—this despite the gut feeling that Brandon was withholding something important. Or, perhaps, partially because of it. She had to admit it leant him an air of mystery that only added to his allure.

  The only reason he’s showing an interest in you is because his girl
friend just died. He’s lonely and vulnerable and desperate.

  “So what?” she asked her reflection. Maybe he was desperate, and maybe she was taking advantage, but all she was doing was talking to the guy, for Christ’s sake. Besides, who knew if an opportunity like this—like him—would ever present itself again?

  ***

  Vera was running down a list of all the things she and Sal intended to do in Skagway, Juneau and Ketchikan. They were both dressed to the nines. Brandon didn’t own any formal clothes. He did, however, change his shirt—to a powder blue denim. And he had shaved for the second time that day. What a day it had been. He hadn’t enjoyed the company of another person, especially a woman, that much since… Celine. Ginny was the opposite of Celine in so many ways: funny, engaging, easy-going, where Celine had been stoic, guarded and quick to anger. Despite their differences there was a comfort Brandon felt with both. With Celine that familiarity had taken time; with Ginny it was immediate. What both of the women had in common, a quality Brandon admired in all human beings, was genuineness. Both didn’t pretend to be something they weren’t, whether they were happy with who they were or not.

  Brandon had been as genuine with Ginny as he believed he could be. He had lied about certain things, saying he thought his father would seek him out (which of course he would never have done) rather than telling her that he had avoided the draft, which would certainly bring up issues of time, and age. He had told her he changed his name to avoid his Dad rather than confiding that he assumed an alternate identity as a result of the biggest secret of all: the secret of exactly what he was.

  There was an undeniable urge within him to share that information as well.

  It was strange, but Brandon felt as if he and Ginny had known each other before. He didn’t believe in past lives, but if he did, he would subscribe to the idea that they’d been friends or lovers in some previous incarnation. That seeming spiritual connection made Brandon want to not only divulge his secrets to her, but know about the things that reached deeper into who she was—what were her likes and dislikes, personal tastes, values, dreams? He found himself desperately wanting to know more, and he realized now that throughout the afternoon he had almost exclusively talked about himself. He was cursing his selfishness when he heard Ginny’s voice: