Welcome to Death on the Beach. Thank you for reading my fist fiction blog. I hope you will enjoy. Just follow the chapter table to the right to keep up.

Chapter 20 - The End

We let Diego keep the tape off of his mouth, Stephan remained bound. Junior and his partner entered the condo following the recent call I had made and explained the situation. There was a smile on his face, "I knew you were innocent," he said as he extended his hand.

I took it and shook it hard, emphasizing my respect and thanks for his in return. "No hard feelings, Mr. Scott?" he asked.

"No worries," I responded. "It has been a really long day. Can you take these unwanted guests to your place? You can ask me everything you need tomorrow. Right now I need a Bud and some time to unwind."

The senior partner of the police tag team said "That's fine. Normally this condo would be a crime scene, but the homicides took place on the beach and at the station, that's where we will get the evidence. We won't mess with your place, you have put up with enough for one day," he said as he went to Stephan to replace the taped hands with cuffs. "We'll take these guys off your hands now. Please stop by the station in the morning to give your statement."

"Will do," I said as I followed them to the door.

"You throw a mean party," said Jake. "I'm gonna take off if you don't mind."

Andrea spoke up, "thanks Jake." She hugged him and held on for what seemed like five minutes, but was more like fifteen seconds. After the embrace he reached out and shook my hand.

"Thanks man, you literally saved our lives," I said. He broke the shake nodded that 'no problem' gesture, then parted company through the door.

Andy and I walked in silence to the sofa and sat in un-choreographed unison. The silence was deafening as we both looked out on the moonlit surf.

"You okay?” I finally asked breaking the standoff.
“Yeah, I guess,” she replied. “The past few hours were a whirlwind.”
“I know what you mean.” I looked up at the clock – it was 9:15. “The last fifteen hours have seemed like a decade. I’m just happy to be at home, not in jail, or dead.” I looked at my fingers, I was happy to have those as well, but didn’t want to bring up the threat from Stephan. “You want a Bud?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

I got up and walked to the fridge, opened the door and grabbed two longnecks, which I set on the counter, twisted the tops off and tossed in the trash. Then grabbed the two by the necks and returned to Andrea. I offered her one, we clanged bottles, “cheers,” I said.
“Cheers,” she replied. I sat back down beside her and chugged about a third of the bottle. As it went down, an uncontrollable burp came up. Andrea laughed. I turned a bit red, and then joined in laughter. We couldn’t stop. I never thought I would laugh again. It was like we were stoned on weed, we were laughing at nothing, but it felt good to laugh. It was a sign that all was good. We would survive this day to remember forever. Another shared event between Andy and myself.

If I had to think about it hard, she was my best friend. True, she is my boss, but my best friend as well. The timing could not be better – or worse for that matter for what came next.

“Do you find me attractive?” she asked.

I looked at her – deep into her eyes. I saw something that was not there before. There was strength; there always was strength in Andy’s eyes. But this time there was vulnerability too. I had never seen that in her eyes before. Was she vulnerable in anticipation of my answer, or was it from the terrifying events of the day? I was not certain. What I was sure of is that the answer was ‘yes’. I did find her attractive in a way I had not seen before. She was always my boss, a ‘Plain Jane’ executive. A woman trying to be a man in a man’s world. Of coarse she lacked the typical feminine attractiveness of the women I dated. Was that a bad thing I wondered?

“Yes,” I answered after considerable thought.
“That took you a long time,” she replied sounding hurt.
“Andrea. Today you are a different person to me. We have experienced life and death situations. Sure we have faced monetary issues before. Stockholder dissatisfaction. SEC compliance. Sarbanes Oxley. But never death. This changes everything. I thought that the looks of a woman like Rachel, was what I desired. Now it is repulsive to me. That type of woman in my life, died on the beach. I no longer seek the polished, made up, surgically enhanced Barbie Doll. What I want is something real. A strong woman, who is my equal, superior even. A woman like you. Do I find you attractive? Absolutely.”

This time she looked into my eyes. I could see that she was touched by what I had said, and was looking to ensure I was sincere. Eyes don’t lie. People lie, but eyes are pure. Then she broke the gaze and lifted the neck of the Bud to her lips, tilted up and downed half the beer. Up came a burp that rivaled mine. The laughter resumed.

The End.

Chapter 19 - The Interrogation

We watched as Stephan and Diego wriggled about trying in vane to free themselves. That was fine since it wore them down further. The loss of blood from the bullet holes in their knees would hasten the fatigue. I did not appreciate the blood on my carpet, but it was much more tolerable since it was theirs and not Andy's or mine.

Jake stood there about six-two, 230 pounds of solid rock. Jake's smooth, bald head added to the menacing presence of this experienced black soldier. His arms were folded and prepared to inflict more pain if required. The police issue 38 had been returned to his holster, which was part of his uniform.

I approached Diego, and with one motion removed the tape from his mouth, taking as much outer skin and nubs as the adhesive would tear. He yelled something in Spanish. As a kid I never saw the point in learning Spanish at school and opted for French, the language of love. In the new millennium, I regretted that decision as the United States rapidly became a bi-lingual nation. I knew that his words held no interest for me right now, and I would get the answers needed in English.

I left the tape on Stephan's face. He would be of no use, He could have been killed for all I cared, but I would not have wanted to be the one ordering the death. He was the brains, and Diego the brawn. The big dumb ones are much easier to get to slip up than the cunning types. "Did Carlos send you here?" I asked.

Diego looked surprised that I knew Carlos' name, and it was a guess, albeit educated. The one thing Pete the Dwarf knew was that Carlos, the Dade County councilman was the man Rachel was married to. These thugs were definitely from an international community, and Miami was the closest. "Carlos Encinosa," I clarified.

Diego looked towards Stephan whose eyes could have thrown daggers back at his partner, the weaker mental link of this duo. I looked to Jake "turn him away," I said, indicating Stephan with my eyes. He complied.

Andrea had found a dining chair and moved it to the far back of great room. She sat and watched. Her back was to the wall to ensure no surprises from behind. She was obviously uncomfortable with observing. I thought about offering her the opportunity for a shower, but that would probably make her feel more vulnerable, and she would not want to be alone. She had abdicated her fate to being present for the interrogation.

"I'm waiting for your answer," I said to Diego.
"I don't know who you are talking about," he said unconvincingly.
"Rachel's husband. The councilman. I am sure you have heard of him," I said.
"Sure, sure, I know who he is, and I have seen her on T.V. with him, but I don't know him," he tried to deceive.
"Then who sent you?" I asked.
"Um, ah. I don't know."

Jake stepped over and kicked his left knee, which was already soaked in crimson ooze, which turned purple from the blend with blue jeans.

"Oh Fuck!" Diego screamed.
"Do you remember now!" I asked.
"Fuck you!"

Jake kicked the right knee, to which Diego ranted and screamed in Spanish. Not knowing a word, I had now idea if he was cursing or begging for mercy.

"We can do this all night, and you will certainly be paralyzed when we are finished," I said, having now idea if he would or not.

"Okay, okay, I tell you," he acquiesced.

At this news, Stephan began wriggling around, making the dining chair dance from leg to leg. Jake always knew what to do in these situations. He casually sauntered to Stephan while removing his pistol and introduced the butt of the firearm to Stephan's cranium, instantly rendering him unconscious.

"He won't hear you now. Talk," I demanded.
"Carlos sent us here."
"Why?"
"That bitch invested money from his last campaign in your company and lost half. She was supposed to build it back up before the new campaign which starts in a few weeks, but that never happened. We followed her up here when she left after a fight with Carlos and saw what happened to her on the beach. Stephan got your tag number and the boss hatched the plan this morning."

"That's it?" I asked.
Diego looked sincere, flexed his lips, raised his brow and said,"Yep."
"You saw that she had the gun on me?"
"Uh Huh."
"You saw her shoot herself?"
"We were in the dunes man, we heard everything," Diego confessed. "You calling the cops?" he asked.
"I have no choice. Will you tell them what you just told me?" I asked, hoping that there was some glimmer of compassion and the ability for this apparent life criminal to do the right thing.
"If I can make a plea, and they toast that German bastard. You got some balls for a suit. I like that."
"Thanks," I said to the backhanded compliment.

"My knees is fuckin' killing me man. You think you can call an ambulance now. Your phone's in that case over there." Diego pointed with his eyes over to the Tumi brief case next to the chair facing the television.
"Yeah," I said halfway to the phone, my beloved Berry, my lifeline.

Chapter 18 - Jake Arrives

I felt the vibration of the Blackberry between my thighs and removed it to read the message.

Jake wrote:

Boss,

I am in the parking lot. See you soon.

Jake

"Was that Jake?" asked Andrea.
"Yeah. He's in the parking lot." My heart began to race as I informed her. It was showtime and we would either be in a much better position or a much worse one in about ten minutes. I looked towards the great room and heard no discussion. The soccer game must have been over by now. I looked up at the clock. 6:47. I didn't hear the Hispanic voice of Diego or Nordic accent of Stephan. What I heard was the pentamic voice of a newscaster. The network news was on its last fifteen minutes. I could tell there was no accent, yet the muffling effect of the glass doors made the words incoherent.

I wondered if the events in Flagler Beach were on the local, or even national network news. I had made the local news when we went public, but were to small to make national syndication. Would today's tragedy trump my previous localized fame with national infamy. "Death on the Beach - CFO kills motorist on the beach after raping her." Not exactly the type of headline one cuts out for a scrapbook.

Andrea was looking to me with a concerned expression. She was catatonic. Neither of us spoke as we waited for Jake, we were petrified like wood frozen in time and fossilized. I felt her staring at me as I stared past her through the glass doors to see what would come next and be prepared. If she did not see as well, we would both be at a disadvantage. "Come around and pretend to read what I have written," I said.

Andrea came around to my side of the desk, and under the guise of reading the press release, her eyes darted above the monitor periodically. All was still and silent save for the muffled newscast.

"Do you think Jake is on the roof?" asked Andrea.

I looked up at the clock. 6:56. Nine minutes had passed. "Could be?"

"How long will it take him to break through the skylight?" she asked.

I pondered this question. I didn't give Jake any specific directions since he was the professional at this stuff. I like to delegate and hoped he would devise a way to do it quietly to keep the element of surprise.

The vibration between my legs came again. I raised the Berry hiding it behind the monitor of the VAIO. Anxiety and tension rose for both of us as I pressed the button to read the newest message from Jake.

on the roof. skylight removed. lay on the floor to avoid stray bullets.

Andy looked at me, and I her. Without a sound we both slid under the desk and laid facing the glass doors. "I know you want to see as much as I do, but we would probably be safer against the east wall."

We both slithered east, Andy rested against the wall, and I spooned her, trying to block any stray projectiles that might come our way. The closet was directly above the study but I never heard Jake's entrance into the condo. Although pals for years, I had never been this close to Andrea or thought of her in a sexual way. I suddenly found myself strangely aroused. Maybe it was the fear, or my need to feel close to someone as I face the reality of dying,or simply the intoxicating combination of her fading fragrance. Then came the muted sound of silenced gunfire.

Clearly Jake must have put a silencer on his firearm since the audibility was far less than an air powered BB gun. I heard four pops in all. Then a great deal of cursing in what sounded like foreign dialect. Jake must have taken them by surprise since we didn't hear any return shots. Then I heard Jake's voice. He was commanding them, but I could not make out the words clearly. Finally all was silent. No cursing. No commands. No screaming. It was eerily silent.

Could Jake have slit their throats I wondered. I asked him to keep them alive. I un-spooned from Andrea and rose to my feet slowly as Jake removed the straight back chair from below the door handles and he entered the study.

"Good afternoon Ma'am." he said as he barged past me and offered Andrea a hand to rise up. "Thanks Jake," she replied.

"Sir," he said as a greeting to me, and extended his hand. I took it to shake, then he started maneuvering his large black calloused hand to embrace thumbs, then break away and finish with a closed fist thump, which I missed as any nerd would. He smiled, as did Andy at my expense for the un-rehearsed, clumsy geek handshake misfire. I felt like I was in high school again. I wanted so much to forget those days of social inadequacy. My revenge the career, the girls, the money. His revenge the ability to still thump the nerd after all these years.

After the embarrassment and release of adrenaline to my stomach, which mixed with the remains of the pizza, I felt overwhelmingly sick. "How are my guests?" I asked, hoping the answer was not "dead."

"Follow me," responded Jake as a proud artist would lead one to his loft of paintings. I followed and Andy reluctantly trailed behind. She had not witnessed the gore that I had on that hot July day and was therefore not indoctrinated to the sight of blood and death. She grabbed my hand from behind and held tight as a mother in a deliver room might hold her partner's, squeezing all the blood from his hand.

There was the fine performance art of Jake the Marine. Either Jake found the duct tape used on Andrea several hours before, or he brought his own. Either way, Stephan and Diego were both bound to dining chairs with the silver tape. Mouths bound as well, thus accounting for the silence despite the pain they must have felt from their knees that were obviously penetrated with bullets. The blood oozing through their jeans barely noticeable as the dark rock-washed jeans just seemed darker at the knees than other parts. Possibly closer to a hue of purple as the red mixed with blue denim.

"Just like you said Boss. Shoot them in the knees and keep them alive. They are all yours," offered Jake.

"Perfect," I replied. Although I did not care for having these thugs still in my house, this arrangement in role reversal was certainly a welcomed turn of events.

Chapter 17 - Early Retirement

I felt mildly sick after three slices of pizza, Andrea choked down two and could do no more. We ate in silence as we both digested the events of the day and deep in thought of the events yet to come. We would occasionally look up from our feast of food and thoughts. Sometimes an uncomfortable smile would break our lips. Not because we were scared to death. It was one of those encouraging smiles that would let the other person know that all would be okay, when in fact you were more worried than they were.

The remaining pizza carnage sat in the box, some remaining crusts, leaked cheese, and greased, which was enhanced by the painstaking ritual that Andy did by letting every drop of grease ooze off the point of her slice. I could look at it no more. I took the last gulp of Coke, then moved the box to the corner of the Pergo floor where it would do no harm and be out of the way. I leaned under the desk to toss my can in the trash and remembered the spare Blackberry between my thighs. I lifted it up, this time more daringly above the desk.

I looked up at the clock 5:19.

"You gonna email Jake?" asked Andrea.
"Yeah," I replied, then typed:

Jake, what's your status?
I set the Berry back between my thighs, I would feel it vibrate when he responded. "Andy, we should start working on the press release. It help abate Stephan when he comes around after dinner. And it will distract us while we wait for Jake."

"Good idea," she responded.

I opened a Word doc on my laptop prepared to start typing in the fashion I had done many times before with Andy and I working the delicate weaving of words to encourage investment in Nextec. Although she is the CEO and hired me long after her business started, I was with her before we went public. That was the reason she hired me. I had apprenticed as a Controller under another CFO that took a local medical supply company public and learned how the process worked. Andrea needed a CFO with this experience, but one who would be young enough to not demand a seven figure starting salary. At the time I was yet to earn six figures and jumped at the chance to break that threshold.

"Okay lady, we need a tag line to work towards. Our stock was trading at $35.25 at the Friday close. I have no idea what it closed at today since we have been locked up here, but imagine it is within a buck. We need it to soar five dollars in fifteen minutes at the bell tomorrow morning, so this must be an earth shattering press release," I said.

"How about 'former Microsoft CFO to replace Randall Scott, who took an unexpected early retirement package.'" joked Andrea.
"Should I be looking for a new job?" I half joked back.
"I dunno," said Andy,"do you think you will be able to show up for work anytime soon?"

I wanted to laugh but couldn't. I actually freaked. I was alive for now, and that was good, but. But what about the deaths of Rachel, Jerry, and Pete. Was I to end up in jail? Flee the country? Regardless, if Nextec was to survive, I had no choice. "I will resign Andy," I said with sorrow and conviction.

"What?" she responded. "I was just kidding," she backpedaled.

"I have no choice Andy, the company cannot survive the news that will be released about the murders surrounding me. Even though I am innocent, the stock price will plummet and I have a fiduciary responsibility to our stockholders. I will need some significant cash for my defence, so please make the severance sweet."

"Randy," she said in her CEO, I am the Boss way. "You cannot resign."
"It's early retirement," I said consigned to the fact that it is the only option.
"Make it noted that I protest this decision,"
"Duly noted Madam CEO."
"Five Million," stated Andy as if at an auction.
"What?" I questioned.
"Your severance. Five Million," she repeated.
"But..."
"There will be no negotiation," she stated.

"Yes Ma'am," I acquiesced, although I suspected I only needed half of that for defense. She knew that after the dust settled, whether found guilty or innocent, I could no longer have the earning capacity that I do now. Any company that I applied to for a job would perform due diligence on my back ground. Especially if a public company with Sarbanes Oxley and all that crap bestowed by the Enron fiasco. This would be added to my nest egg and stock options. Actually with the paid for condo and Porsche, I could retire and write books. This may not be all that bad.

The joke is now reality. "Fortune 100 CFO to replace Randall Scott who has taken early retirement from Nextec."

Chapter 16 - Dinner

I popped a can of Coke for Andrea and it foamed over to the desk. "Shit!" I exclaimed. The thug left no napkins, and I was not about to ask. I mopped it up with the lower half of my shirt, then passed it to Andrea, who quickly took a gulp. She had already torn off a piece of hot pizza, and leaned over the box so that the cheese would not ooze to the floor. Andrea made the usual stupid looking face people do when the slice was too hot to put in one's mouth, and the desperate -- usually unsuccessful attempt to eat it while not burning the roof of one's mouth. I sat back decidedly determined to wait for the pizza to cool and the Coke to de-fizz before opening.

I did not want to engage her in conversation while she tried to finish that dangerously fateful first bite. I looked past he at the clock on the wall over the french doors. It was 4:47, only fifteen minutes had passed since emailing Jake. Jake's entrance and moves were passing through my head as I tried to envision the confrontation. Would he be successful? Would he come through the front door? Would he climb the balconies and come from the beach side? Maybe I could email him a good approach if I could think of one.

"You eating?" asked Andrea, clearly surviving the first bite.
"I'm not hungry anymore."
"You mean you don't want to burn your mouth," she replied.
"Something like that," I said distantly as my thought remained on the point of entry.
"What are you so preoccupied with Randall?"
"Jake's entrance. Maybe we can email a plan to him. He has never been here, and I'm not sure that blasting through the front door is the most productive," I replied.

Andrea deferred the second bite she was about to eat and set the slice back down in the grease laden box. I saw the imaginary smoke from her head as she joined me in strategic thought. "Aren't we on the top floor?" she asked.

"Yes."
"Is there a way into your condo from the roof?" Andrea inquired.

I sat and thought. My eyes shifted around as I thought. I always forget the direction one's eyes drift when creating -- or remembering. I think it is to the left when factual and the right when fabricating or editing. I realized my eyes were going left, then right, which means I was processing facts I knew, and creating things I did not. The creation of something that did not exist could get Jake and us killed. I had to be very deliberate in understanding the proper entrance.

"Randy?"

I hate when she does that, breaking my thought. "What?"

"Is there a way in from above?"
"I am thinking, gimme a minute."

Okay, the roof is flat, I know that. A rubber ply, tar and pebble roof. All of the air conditioner condensers are up there. What else? It seemed impenetrable. I had been up there one time when there was a leak and the roofer showed me where it was. I was so pissed at the time. Think Randall. Think.

Bubble. Plexiglas bubble. A skylight. I thought. Were my eyes darting left or right. Eyes left on the skylight. Eyes right on where it was in my apartment. My closet! Holy crap it is in the closet upstairs. How perfect is that? I never realized that is why there was always light in the closet during the day. I never even thought of it, but it must be. Then again how stupid was that architect? If it leaked, there would go ones wardrobe. I don't care, right then I loved that stupid architect. A small smile came to my face.

"Randy?"

There it was again, Andrea wanting to enter my thoughts. I guess I couldn't blame her. "I have it," I responded.

"Really?" she said with hope.
"There is a skylight to my closet upstairs. There is a service stairwell to the roof on the other end of the building. Jake has to breach that door, then climb to the roof. He could then navigate all the way to the south end and look for the opaque Plexiglas bubble. Smash it, then enter from my closet. He could move down the stairs, gun drawn, then pop a couple knees. I need Stephan and Diego alive to interrogate."

"You're scaring me Randall."
"I'm scaring myself." I pulled out the Berry and started to type the plan to Jake. I finished and pressed send. Then waited. I looked at the clock -- 5:01. We both sat quietly. 5:05. Then it came. "10-4."

I sighed. Andrea did as well. "Let's eat," I said as I popped the top to my Coke. The pizza would clearly be benignly cold by now.

Chapter 15 - Recap for Andrea

"Let me see what you sent," instructed Andrea.

I looked over to see that Stephan was still watching the soccer match then slowly lifted the bulky old Blackberry from between my thighs and passed it over the desk. Andy took it, and with a few clicks was reading the message I sent to Jake. I had not had the time to explain to Andy what happened, and wasn't sure if I would tell her all the gory details, but I knew the conversation had to come sooner or later, so I decided it would be now.

"Andy, I need to tell you what happened today so you will understand what we must do," I said.

She passed the Berry back to me and I returned it to its resting place between my thighs. It was set to vibrate, so I could feel if Jake emailed me without alerting our captures. "I'm listening," Andy replied softly.

"It all started early today, barely over twelve hours ago. I was heading to work along A1A. This car came up from behind and rammed me off the road. When I got out, I was met with a gun and instructed to go to the beach. It was Rachel, a woman from my past, and she performed falacio while holding me at gunpoint." I can't believe I used the word falacio, but I wanted to keep the conversation clinical. Andy's eyes and mine never left each others and I was looking for some sort of sarcasm in them, there was none.

"You were raped?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I am so sorry for you, that must have been horrible," she said genuinely.
"It was," I responded. Andy had a way of being the most empathetic person just when you needed it. I knew that ninety nine percent of people to whom I would tell this story would make a snide remark, but not Andy.

"It gets worse," I continued. "Then she took the gun and turned it on herself and somehow gets my hand on it before she pulls the trigger. She died and I was in shock when the police arrive from the abandoned cars on the highway."

"You weren't by the cars?" she asked.

"No, I had been led down the dune to the beach before she took me. The police thought the events were the other way around, that I raped her then killed my victim. It is all really starting to get fuzzy. I guess my brain is trying to forget the incident. It all seems so strange that I could convince myself the roles reversed."

"Did they?" asked Andy. I sensed she would be there for me if it had been the other way around.
"No." I replied, as I stared my perceived truth into her eyes.
"I believe you,"she said. Her comment was not required, but certainly welcome.
"What happened next?"she asked, knowing there had to have been more that led us to this point.
"I was arrested and used my one call to contact Jerry. He came with a defense layer from Miami."
"Our Jerry?" she asked.
"Yes."
"How did the lawyer from Miami get here?"
"Private jet. He flew into St. Augustine Airport. Anyway, they both came to the Flagler County jail to defend me when our friends here, Stephan and Diego barge in, blow away Jerry and the attorney from Miami, then take me with them. They had me call you from the car. The rest is history."

"Jerry's dead?" she asked. Andy's voice cracked with a bit of shock, but there was no time for tears.
"Yes."
"Pretty fucked up day," quipped Andy. I don't think I have ever heard her use that word before.
"Yes it is, but it gets worse."
"How can it get worse?"
"First of all these guys work for someone who wants me to do something to make our stock price elevate at the bell?
"What?" she said raising her voice with a squeak. I looked to the great room to see if it disturbed Stephan -- it didn't.
"Five bucks a share."
"How do they expect you to do that?" she said lowering her voice back to a whisper and leaning closer.
"I dunno. Can't be done."
"No shit," Andy cursed again, this event has obviously transformed her.
"What happens if the stock doesn't go up?
"We get to see Jerry again."
"Damn," Andy said as she tried to get her mind around this.
"Right now it is all up to Jake. There is no way that we can write a press release, or make calls to analysts that could raise the price more than fifty cents -- at best."
"I know," resigned Andrea.

Just then the doorbell rang. Andy turned around to look. Stephan gave us a glare from the foyer as he passed the study door to open the front door. It was Diego with two Dominos boxes and a six pack of Coke on top, cans sweating from the humidity. Pizza. My stomach growled as if on cue. Andy heard it, looked back at me and broke a small smile. It was the first I had seen from her today. I smiled back. It always amazes me how bodily function sounds could evoke humor in children and adults alike.

Stephan removed the chair from under the door handles and opened the study door. He handed Andy one of the boxes, then broke out two of the cans from the plastic restraint, and piled them on top. She balanced them and turned around to set dinner on the desk. Pizza boxes and coke cans were no strangers to my desk. "You start writing?" asked Stephan grumpily.

"Not yet," I replied.
"Why not?" he asked.
"We're brainstorming. We have to come up with something believable that could raise the price to where you want."
"Eat, then start writing. My boss want to see a first draft by nine."
"Okay," I replied.
"He slammed the door and replaced the chair under the handles."

I watched as he and Diego disappeared to the dining table. I then returned my eyes to Andrea. She had already opened the pizza box.

"Pop the Coke tops. Let's eat," she instructed.

Chapter 14 - The Spare

I saw Nord sit back down in the great room through the glass doors and heard the soccer game doors come back on. Soccer always puts me to sleep, much like golf. I suspect this would not be the case for my uninvited guest.

"How will we get out of here?" Asked Andrea.

I looked at her, actually stared at her blankly. I had no answers. I was trying to think of a way, but was drawing a blank.

"Randy?"
"Yes," I responded, breaking the trans.
"Do you have any ideas?"
"I'm thinking," I replied, somewhat agitated that she was breaking my thought. I should have been more kind, I was about to destroy her company - unintentionally.

I wondered if they looked through my file cabinet that contained spare parts. In that drawer among all the clutter of wires was my old Blackberry 7290. I hoped it still had a charge. I couldn't cancel the phone yet, there were still six months left on the contract. It sits in the drawer with an active sims card. I didn't bother to ask Andrea if she had her Berry on her since she clearly didn't have her purse. That's where she always kept her phone.

"Andy, turn around and watch for Nord."
"Who?" She replied.
"The Swede."
"His name's not Nord. It's Stephan, at least that's what Diego called him," she informed me.
"Watch for him."
"Okay," she complied with a bit of deflation from my demand.

I found the spare and discreetly turned it on, while hiding it in my lap. There was a charge but not much. I slid it between my thighs.

"Andy, you can turn around now." I was once again facing Stephan and he was clearly preoccupied with the soccer game. My boss did as I requested.

"What were you doing Randy?" asked Andrea.
"I found my old Berry. We need to decide who to email that would respond right away and could get help."

Andrea seemed deep in thought. "Jake in security," she replied quickly.
"Yes," I agreed. Jake was an ex-marine who served in Desert Storm. He was in charge of the office security and spent most of his day at his desk since there were rarely any security issues for our company. It was nonetheless a necessary position for a public company of our size. Jake was a one man squad who was very soft spoken. He didn't have to yell because his two hundred, twenty pound body of pure muscle spoke for itself. "What's Jake's last name?"

"Jenkins,"she replied immediately. Andrea seemed to know the first and last name of every employee in the company, all seven hundred of them. I lifted the Berry out from between my thighs but still contained it under the desk. I typed quickly to JJenkins.

"Jake,

Andrea and I are in trouble at my condo. You can find the address and map in your Outlook. There is a six foot, hundred ninety pound Swede, and a six foot four, two hundred fifty pound Hispanic guy that are holding us captive. They have guns and are experienced in precise targeting.

Please come alone and do not call the police. Andrea and I are in the study to the left of the front door.

The Hispanic is out right now, but will be back by the time you get here. The Swede is in the great room on a chair to the right of the foyer. Take your blackberry in case I have to provide more information.

Keep them alive but they need to be incapacitated. Please reply ASAP."

I pushed send.

"You ask him to come?" inquired Andrea.
"Yes. If he can leave right away it should take about two hours at this time of day," I replied.
"Do you think that's soon enough?"
"We have until the morning, but I suspect Stephan will want to see us start to write something, so we will must at least start the press release."
"What are you talking about Randy?"

Just then I got the reply email from Jake. It was simple. "10-4." No names, no signature, just the icon for "received the orders and will carry out." Jake was exactly what we needed.

Chapter 13 - Bottom Turn

As soon as I made it down the open riser wood stairs I saw Andrea sitting on of the contemporary leather and chrome dining chair, hands behind her bound with silver duct tape. Her mouth was bound as well. I was sure that when the tape came off so will a layer of skin.

"Release her," I demanded.
"Not until you write the press release," responded Nord.
"She will be treated with respect," I demanded.

I looked into her hazel eyes, which were red from crying. Her eyes were begging me. Obviously her mouth was taped after the scream that I heard just a few minutes prior.

"Now!" I demanded.
"Mr. Scott, you are in no position to make demands," said Nord. We will not harm her. She will have to stay that way until the bell at nine thirty tomorrow. She lives for now. This collateral is mine until the stock goes up, then she can go with you to Central America or stay here. That will be your decision."

I knew that if and when the stock price rises, Andrea and I were dead. I have no experience in this area of criminal minds, but I had seen enough crime shows to know that we were loose ends who could identify our captures. I doubted that Nord and Diego had plans for us to actually live when all was said and done.

“I can’t think this way and she can help me write the press release. We always work as a team on these matters,” I said hoping to sway him.

Nord seemed to ponder this. If the press release was not compelling enough to drive the stock price up, I suspect Nord will face a similar fate as Andrea and me. I was surprised how easy it was to influence his next move. Without a word, he used the fingernail of his index finger to pry a corner of the silver tape. The strong adhesive gave him challenge as he finally freed enough to grab the tape between his index finger and thumb. He then ripped the tape from her face. I was right, the outer layer of epidermis went with it and Andrea's pale face was now red.

“Her hands too,” I ordered.

Nord seemed to acquiesce quickly. He fished a knife from his pocket and quickly flung the blade opened. I suspect he practiced this menacing maneuver in the mirror as a pre-teen. He was clearly the type of kid I would have stayed clear of at school, the nerd that I was – am. Diego stood by the window, ignoring our debate and watching the teen girls who had skipped school to hang at the beach. He was clearly mesmerized. Andrea showed fear in her eyes as they traced the movement of the glistening steel that Nord purposely moved past her cheek and down to her hands, then in one swift stoke severed the duct tape. She was left to her own devises to remove the remnants, which she balled up and set on the glass and chrome dining room table next to me. My reward for winning my first round of the day. Alas a fragment of success.

“Don’t fuck up, or she will die!” threatened Nord after losing his first battle. “Now you two get in your study and start writing. Don’t think about sending an email or calling anyone, I have removed the phones and disabled the wireless connection on your laptop.”
“How ‘bout some food?” I asked. “I can’t write on an empty stomach.”
“All you have in the fridge is beer and Coke. How do you live on that shit?” Asked Nord.

I’m sure he was hungry as well and it was going to be a long night. “Just get in there and start writing, I'll take care of the food.”

Andrea followed me into the study. She was very familiar with my condo. She had spend many nights after too many drinks while entertaining analysts and institutional investors. I always knew that she wanted more from our friendship but I couldn’t bring myself to have a relationship with the boss, and she really was too plain for me in a tomboy kind of way. Andrea had boyfriends come and go over the years. She hated dating, and unlike Nord’s rude comments I didn't suspect her preference was for girls, especially the way she would look at me on occasion. That was territory that would never be discovered.

We made our way in silence to the study. Nord closed the glass paned double French doors behind us. He then grabbed a chair from the foyer and wedged it under the handles. I watched through the glass as he tested it for security. I walked around the glass table and sat in the Herman Miller ergo meshed chair, facing the French doors, flanked on my left by a large window overlooking the ocean. The minimalist sparseness of the condo helped me to think clearly without clutter. The desk as always was void of everything but my Moleskin journal, Monte Blanc pen, HP financial calculator and Sony Vaio. These were my tools to create financial success. Although of late, that was becoming increasingly challenging. Andrea sat across from me and waited for me to break the deafening silence.

“You okay?” I asked with compassion.“Yes,” she replied softly. “What is going on here Randy? You get into trouble when you went to Vegas last month?” I didn't answer right away. Was I to tell the story of what happened with Rachel? Then what they did to Jerry and Pete? I suppose I really had no choice. I sat in my cockpit. My back to the north and I was facing south. The sea was to my left. Andrea, my Vaio, and the thugs were in front of me. This is how I work best. Everything laid out in front of me. I felt a brief sense of control for the first time since leaving the Boxter on the Coastal Highway.

Could I be making the bottom turn of the swell to ride back up and dominate the wave? I watched as Nord opened and closed the front door behind Diego. The front door faced west and was to the right of the study entrance. “I will tell you later, right now we have to get out of here.”

Chapter 12 - Nord's Plan

I woke with the meanest friggin’ headache on my new Tempurpedic. No matter how comfortable it was my aching head could not be alleviated. Nord was sitting on the brown leather club chair watching soccer on the forty two inch high def plasma and drinking a Coke.

"Don't fuck with me again or I start removing fingers with a cigar cutter, capish?"
He used Italian this time, wanting to avoid my Nazi innuendo.
"Yes Sir,” I said earnestly. I felt comforted being in my home and not in jail, yet uncomfortable with these strangers. Ones I knew were capable of murder in a precise and technical way. I was sure they were equally skilled at torture. Nord flicked off the set with the remote, took a chug of Coke, and then unveiled the plan.

"So Mr. CFO, how are you going to get the stock price up?"
"Where's Diego?" I asked deflecting the question.
"Downstairs," he replied.
"What's your name?"
"You can call me Sir," he said smartly.
"Okay Sir, what are we doing here?"
"Are you deaf, we are here to get your stock price up?" His temper was starting to flare quickly.
"Oh yeah," I replied, "and how do you suppose I do that?"
"You’re the CFO, do it."
"It's not that easy. The price has been falling for six months, and lost thirty percent of its value," I replied. "It’s not like I give it a little blue pill and it rises," I said hoping my sarcasm didn’t get me whacked with the back end of his pistol again.
"You do it with reports and numbers don't you?"
"Yes."
"Then you do a press release or something," he said continuing his dissertation “how to make your stock price grow.”
"Yes."
"So make something up Mr. MBA, CPA, CFO. You have enough credentials, let's go to your study and start writing."
"I can't just make something up," I protested with my ethics on the line. I had spent a whole career trying not to just make stuff up. Certainly I embellished at times, but that was “spinning” the truth, not flat out lying.
"Okay," said Nord. "It's going to be harder to type without your fingers. We can start with your pinkies. You don't use them much to type do you? You strike me more as a three or four finger typist, you don't need ten fingers."

I began to sweat. My integrity was on the line. My career would be over. As soon as the price went up they would certainly kill me after they cashed out. What a mess. I looked at the alarm clock on the light wood Swedish style nightstand. It was three thirty in the afternoon; the market would close in half an hour.

"It's too late for today," I hedged.
"Of course it is.” His German accent became more noticeable as he got agitated. "You are going to work on it all night until my boss is happy with the press release. You will issue it just before the bell tomorrow morning, we will make sure it gets picked up by Squawk Box on CNBC, and the price will soar for ten minutes. We will cash out." Nord concluded the plan.
"And I will check out," I concluded my life.
"Mr. Scott, don't be so pessimistic. If your stock goes up five dollars a share by nine forty, we will set you up with a hacienda in Nicaragua. If it doesn't, you die. If you’re as smart as we think you are, you will be in Central America with all your fingers in twenty four hours."

Just then I heard a blood curdling female scream as if on queue.

"What was that?" I asked.
"I think you finance guys call it collateral," replied Nord. He was smiling and proud of his cunning maneuver early in the game. This was a game to him, and clearly he was winning - but I was not accustomed to losing.
"It was very nice of you to give Ms. CEO a tip. Fortunately she must have thought it a personal issue you were having and didn’t warrant the police. The dumb fraulein came alone, and now my partner is entertaining her. A bit plain though. Does she ever wear makeup?"
"You harm her and the deal is off. You can cut every finger off my hands and kill me if you like, but I won't write that press release if she is injured in any way." The chivalrous side I never knew I had woke from its coma.
"Are you saying you will write the press release?"
"Yes," I acquiesced.
"I like this collateral, works every time. No wonder banks require it," Nord said, clearly proud of himself. "Let's go down to the study and get to work," he continued.
"Andrea needs to be with me the entire time or the deal's off," I demanded.
"Like I said kind of plain but if you go for the dyke frauleins all the best to you."
I followed Nord down the spiral stairs with clear ocean view from the master to the great room.

Chapter 11 - The Joy Ride

I was pensive as Andrea’s phone rang and was desperately trying to come up with a code that Nord would not pick up on. He was clearly the brains and the Latino the sharp shooter brawn of this duo. After the forth ring Andrea grabbed it - one ring shy of her voice mail.

"Randall, where the heck are you?"
"Sorry Andrea I feel like crap. Must have been one too many Fosters or maybe bad oysters."
"You and your oysters, how many times do I need to tell you not to eat those things," she replied in a motherly wife-like way. Andrea continued, "Have you seen the market today?"
"Not yet, I have been puking all morning," I lied wishing I’d been praying to the Kohler God all morning.
"Our stock is tanking, the whole market is this morning. The pundits are calling it Meteor Monday because stock prices are falling like meteors from the sky."

Here came my opportunity to alert Andrea that all was not well in paradise.

"Damn!" I replied. "I will go on the Schwab service to monitor." She knew we didn't have Schwab.
"Schwab?" She replied confused.
"The one we got for private trades," I said hoping she would catch on. She knew we would never trade privately. We agreed to that when we took the company public.
"Something wrong?" She whispered.
"Yes that one." I replied.
"Are you home, it sounds like your in a car, but not enough wind for your Boxter?" She asked. Nord pressed his pistol in my ribs. He was getting impatient.
"I'll be at the condo all day and check in later if I'm still alive," I said for drama, "this hangover is miserable."

I pressed the red button on the Berry Pearl to end the call. Nord put his hand out as if requesting a tip. I knew it was the phone he was after and I obliged.

"She buy it?" He asked.
"I think so," I responded. In all the years and all the hangovers, flu’s, viruses and just plain feeling like shit days, I had never once missed a day of work and Andrea knew it. Granted I may have left before dark rather than the usual nine o'clock after a fourteen hour day, but I was there, always. Nord of coarse did not know this and that call in itself should have alerted Andrea that something was amiss, but the private trade put it over the top.

She knew I was in trouble, probably in a vehicle other than my beloved Porsche, and that if all clues were taken, I would be at my condo. It was the place where many deals with guys from Wall Street had been consummated over drinks and shrimp. Some days it was Bubba Burgers and brews.

Andrea would do something, or call someone. Probably Jerry, but his phone would ring unanswered at the Flagler county jail, in the pocket of his suit pants, too impotent to bring help for Andrea.

The Nord looked at his Apple iPhone, he was clearly not a businessman. "Your stock is tanking today," he said.
"I know, my boss informed me," I responded clearly annoyed.
"Das ist nicht gute," he said in German, the meaning universal.
"No it's not," I agreed.
"Isn't it your job to keep the price up?"
"It is."
"So."
"So what? I am stuck here with you and Carlos."
"Carlos?"
"Your Latin friend," I said as smart ass-like as I could muster.
"That's Diego."
"Not Cuban?" I asked.
"Nicaraguan"
"Ah," I replied as if interested when in actuality I couldn't give a shit. "You know where we’re going?"
"Is this not the right way? Do we look like amateurs?” asked Nord.
"It's the right way, just asking."
"I ask, you answer, verstehen."
"Yavol, mein heir" I replied clicking my heels and raising my right hand as if saluting the Fuhrer. I was kind of hoping he would just kill me then. He didn't, he pistol whipped me and I went out cold.

Chapter 10 - Liberation

Pete and Jerry listened to my story in disbelief. Not in the way they thought I was lying, but the story seemed so unbelievable, how could it be true. How could the chain of events have happened the way I described? People joke that there is no such thing as a man being raped, but it could happen - and it did. What a horrible thing for one human being to do to another. To embezzle something so intimate, personal, and private. It tears at one’s soul.

"So Pete, where do I stand? What comes next?"
"I suspect the Sheriff will enter this room at any moment and interrogate you. They have twenty four hours from the time of arrest to charge you or let you go."
"Do you think I'll get charged?"
"No doubt. The officers heard the shot and saw you standing over her. Your prints are on the gun, and they'll have that shortly. It will take more than twenty four hours to get DNA results, but they won't need that to charge you. Her murder clearly points to you. I'm sorry Mr. Scott."
"Call me Randy. Okay, so I’ll get charged. How about bail?" I had never been involved in anything like this before and didn't understand the mechanics.
"If you can afford it. I suspect this will be at least a million dollar bond, which means you need to come up with one hundred grand."
"No problem," I said. "When can I get out?"
"Slow down Randy, you haven't even been interrogated yet," said Pete. "If all goes well, maybe by tomorrow afternoon, possibly Wednesday."

Just then we heard a loud blast from outside the meeting room. Jerry jumped up and looked out the small ten inch square bullet proof window. Pete obviously was too short to be able to see. I fell in behind Jerry to look over his shoulder, the scent of his Ralph Lauren cologne assaulted my nose. I could see past Jerry, but all I saw was smoke.

"What the fuck is that?" I rhetorically asked.
"What is it?" asked Pete frustrated that he couldn’t see. That must have been a common issue for him.
"Smoke and some movement, but I can't make it out," I replied. Just then the bullet proof glass was penetrated by some sort of bullet that shattered the glass. Fortunately I was looking over the shoulder of Jerry and not standing directly behind him because the bullet entered his forehead and exited the back of his skull. Unlike Rach, the bullet was so precise, it left his skull in place. The projectile cleanly escaped and landed across the room, coming to rest in the block wall with a small spattering of hair and blood. I felt the heat of the bullet when it passed my left temple.

"Shit!" Exclaimed Pete as Jerry fell back against me his blood slowly seeping into the shoulder of my shirt, his body laying heavily against mine. I eased him down to the floor faced up and looked at the crimson assault on my oxford shirt. I had never seen a corpse before in my life, today I saw two.

The door flew opened and a large Latino man entered the room, tossing the index finger of Red to the floor. He obviously needed the bio key to access different parts of the jail including this room. Before Pete had a chance to open his mouth and object as a litigator in a courtroom, a second bullet entered and vacated his head, ultimately resting in the floor, silencing him forever. No doubt there would be quiet private celebration among Florida DA's - the midget was dead.

A second man, this one much more average size - about my height, blond hair and blue eyes quickly put a gas mask over my head stopping the itch from the smoke that quickly filled the room. He then grabbed my upper arm and brandished his firearm, "your coming with us."

I could barely see through the mask as I was led out of the municipal building. I thought I saw Red on the floor, but was not sure. I counted three other bodies but there could have been more. I wondered if they were dead or unconscious from the smoke. I hoped that Junior was out on patrol – he was too young to face extermination.

As soon as we left the building the mask was removed from my head. The Nordic assailant holding my arm pushed me in the back seat of an H3. I was surprised how roomy the compact Hummer was on the inside. He followed me into the back seat and the Latino got in the drivers door, started the military type vehicle and drove off slowly as to not attract any further attention. I never understood the desire to drive these things, but as we drove off it felt indestructible. I guess people who were insecure were buying that invincibility. I suspect the Nord and Latino drove this vehicle for other reasons, and it wasn't for grocery bags gathered at Publix.

"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Home," responded Nord.
"Huh?" I replied puzzled.
"Your condo," he clarified in a German accent.

Just then he produced my Blackberry which he must have taken from the jail before my liberation from the law, and incarceration by these thugs. "Call your boss," he commanded.
"Why?"
"Tell her you don't feel well and won't be in." I wondered how he knew my boss was a female. There were larger things at work here. If I only knew then what I know now.
"She’ll know I went to jail," I argued.
"And how will she know that?"

I thought for a moment. Jerry came to see me early and I doubt he called in sick for me. I guess the only people that knew were the police in Flagler County and two dead attorneys. I wondered if the FBI was on this yet.

"Call and make it short."

I took the Berry and selected Andrea's name from the call list. I called her cell of course, she never answered her desk phone - it was always solicitors that made it past the automated attendant. Andrea Hollister was a homely but brilliant CEO who started her business when she was in her twenties. She was now forty-something and one of the most influential businesswomen in the Southeast. I pressed the send button.

Chapter 9 - Pete the Dwarf

Red returned and opened the door. "Your lawyers are multiplying like rabbits. Let's go," he ordered. I got to my feet and followed him to the second opportunity to repeat the story. My mind had been playing games, and I was hoping the story remained exactly as I told Jerry. I kept my head this time, maybe it was the food and time to reflect, but I felt like a different person than the first time I entered the green room. Too bad it wasn't the green room for the Tonight Show.

When I entered, Pete and Jerry stood; at least I thought Pete was standing. He was clearly height challenged, a little person - oh call him what he was, Pete was a dwarf. I reached down and took his stubby hand first, then Jerry's, who was making the introductions. I hadn't noticed that Red had left and sealed the room.

"Ever meet a dwarf?" asked Pete.
"Can't say that I have," I responded as I was immediately put at ease.

There was almost something magical about Pete, and his ability to diffuse tension was apparent. His uniqueness would catch people off guard, which could go either way. By him saying what the stranger had on their mind showed that he was comfortable with himself and so should his new acquaintance. I felt comfortable quickly. He clearly was non-assuming. Pete wore a JC Penney suit with some well worn lace Bostonians. His fat tie was appeared left over from the seventies, and his balding head lead me to believe he was fifty something.

"Have you said anything to the authorities?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
"Nothing at all?"
"I don't think so. I knew that the circumstance must have looked bad, so I kept my mouth shut. Is that okay?"
"All depends. Sometimes silence indicates guilt, sometimes it indicates wisdom. At this point you just spoke to uniforms, right?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I made some calls and these guys don't know what to do. The Sherriff likes his town peaceful and doesn't want lots of news folks around. He’s thinking about letting the FBI handle the investigation. That's probably why you haven't been interrogated yet."
"Is that a good thing?" I asked.
"Yes and no. It's good that you haven't been questioned until you and I have had a chance to talk. It's bad because the FBI will throw everything at this one."

Jerry was sitting quietly; he was clearly out of his element. I was hoping his clock stopped running when Pete started yapping.

"Why," I asked earnestly.
"You know the girl that you were found with?"
"I did."
"Do you know who she is – was?”
"Yeah, Rachel Johnston."
"You know who she was married to?"
"No."
"Carlos Encinosa from Miami Beach."
"Should that mean something to me?"
"It should now; he’s a councilman in Dade County. That's why the Flagler County Sherriff is keeping his distance. Since Carlos is a politician who is very influential in the Cuban community, the FBI wants in."
"Damn," I said, “this day is going from bad to worse.”
"The good news is the sheriff wants you out of his jail. Tell me what happened so we can try and oblige him."

"The story is bizarre. I was driving to work along the Coastal Highway when a Lexus quickly pulled up behind me....."

Chapter 8 - Lunch

Red led me back to the holding cell and brought me a tuna sandwich on stale white with a Sam's Choice cola and an outdated bag of Golden Flakes – all placed carefully with a napkin in a box. It was actually a corrugated board box from soda cans the vending machine guy left. Flagler County deputies decided to recycle the case bottoms as trays for the inmates so they could take the plastic ones home to be used as TV trays to hold Buds and Dominos Pizza while they watched their favorite college football team, Gators or Seminoles or Bulldogs.

As crappy as lunch was I finished every morsel. Is this to be my future? I wondered if long term prisoners get Prozac. Maybe I would have to act a bit crazy and get in a psych jail to get drugs so that I could try to forget where I was. I was really having a bad time conceiving a defense in my head. I knew what happened but the only other person who knew was dead, and she tried to make sure that all guilt pointed my way. I sat on the hard bench, the steel making a stamped indent in my ass. No books or electronic stimulation. It was just me and my mind. No music from my iPod, not even another conscious prisoner to talk to. I would almost welcome a conversation with Red or Junior at this point, but that would be a mistake, besides not reality. What did I know of reality anymore anyway? Was this morning real? Did Rachel chase me down, or did I chase her. Did I really kill her and my mind was telling me she set me up so I could cope?

Let's assume my mind is tricking me, what would be my motive? Then again what was hers? Why the fuck did she do this? And why did she do this to me? Fuck!

I was having a difficult time with my anger. I knew if I couldn’t contain myself during the interrogation I would be screwed. I tried to calm myself but couldn’t seem to redirect on something serene.

As much as she hurt me, my thoughts focused on Rach and what we had. I met her at the office. She sold high end computer software and our company was growing. We hadn’t quite gone public at the time but were in the process. The Internet “dot-flops” had filtered off the big board and the Enron scandal was at its height. Congress began to investigate and Sarbanes-Oxley started to get some teeth. Clearly the rules of corporate engagement would be different for me. I always held my head high as a CFO, but as I watched my peers go to trial for falsifying financial statements, I realized nerd white collar criminals were no longer exempt. I certainly would have been more concerned to be the fall guy for a CEO and go to jail for something only related to cash. Never would I have dreamed that I would be behind bars for murder.

So there was Rachel, one of the new breed of power female sales superstars. They usually appealed to married overweight balding executives and middle managers who enjoyed the time spent privately in their office with a flirtatious sales woman. It was very safe. Safe for the executive, whose family pictures on the credenza and wall were a reminder that the flirtation can be no more than a fantasy. Safe for the power suit chick, who knew the same, and therefore could flirt endlessly with her eyes and body language, the only sale to be that of equipment – or software – or services, but not the kind that required removal of clothing other than what may have passed through the mind of her opponent across the desk.

If she could flirt enough for him to convert the cleavage and possible nipple bulge if the office was cold enough to a naked visual in his mind, she could use the trance to get him to remove the cap of his Monte Blanc and place the tip of his pen to ink the contract. That was her thrill. The “thrill of the kill,” as salespeople well know. For many it was better than sex. If the contract was large enough the reward more lucrative than a five thousand dollar a day call girl. There was little difference between the two except for one sold her body and the other her soul. She would say anything to get the contract – they were both whores, only one was legal and the other not.

So there was Rachel, at my door – the eight foot mahogany door of a single up and coming power executive’s top floor corner window office. From the moment we met, she cared little about selling me the software her company represented. Our eyes connected and spoke without words – we both knew that by the end of the day, after our libations consumed, Cosmopolitans and Belvedere martinis – we would share intimacy without meaning. The only thrill for the power sales bitch that could top the long drawn out foreplay of software sales that could take six months was a six hour meet to heat engagement, consummated with meaningless sex. Followed by six hours of passion – the kind that only first encounters could produce.

The sex was good and we became friends. Fuck buddies actually. Rachel or I would return from a business trip high on the juices of our sale and need to share conquests and release our libidos building frustrations. She sold software; I sold the merits of our company that was going public. I would return from a meeting in New York with investment bankers, Goldman Sachs, Bear Sterns, Merrill Lynch – all courting me to make a deal. I would return home to the Jacksonville Airport, walk to the parking garage, get in the Boxter, and take out my cell, ready to share the courtship, the flattery with a friend. Not just a buddy to listen over beers at a sports bar, I needed a buddy who would listen to my glorious corporate courtships and conquests while on my elbows, my wilting passion still inside her, my total world complete – and without commitment. That my friend is what a fuck buddy is all about.

I sat in the cell, taken away by the thought – a woody in the making, then broken by the sawmill snore of my cell mate, his wreaking breath careening across the cell as his wide opened mouth shared years of cigarettes and Jack Daniels that had embattled the pink God given tissue of once pure internal organs. Damn this place sucks!

Chapter 7 - Red the Jailer

A new cop came to the holding cell. It wasn’t Junior. The old redneck had the hugest wad of chew in his mouth I had ever seen. He was carrying around a Styrofoam coffee cup that I'll bet was used to capture his residue spit. I pity the guy that confuses his coffee cup with Red's. He had a big gut as well from eating too much barbeque and washing it down with Buds, the beer of choice around these parts, along with Ford F-150's. It was an interesting blend of people in the North Florida beach area, native rednecks, who replaced the Seminoles hundreds of years ago and the Yuppies. I am a member of the later. There was a common disdain between the two groups and being locked up with the Minorcan at the watch was a bit un-nerving.

Minorcans were locals whose history could be traced back to the Spanish settlers. They were a sort of Royalty around these parts. Some were land rich because of the squatted land their families owned. Unfortunately they had to sell off to developers in order to pay the rising real estate taxes. Those properties quickly got developed into either family or retirement communities. Now those communities are overvalued and sales have come to an abrupt halt.

Anyway here I was with Red; Junior must have been back out on patrol, and the Criminal Investigations Unit would have taken over the case. I wanted desperately to call Jerry back, but I just had the one call as far as I was aware. I was surprised that after a weekend, there was only one drunk locked up with me. I couldn't decide whether to pace or sit. There was nothing to read; maybe I would sleep until Jerry got there – not a chance. If he had any compassion, he would bring a Starbucks and Scone; I dare not ask Red for java or breakfast.

"Bubba, your mouthpiece is here," Red informed me. These 'ol boys call everyone Bubba. "He's in the meeting room, let's go"

I remained silent. I stood up and followed through the opened cell door. He didn't put cuffs on me, which was a surprise. I followed down the hall to the meeting room. Red pressed his thumb to the bio reader, opened the door and I saw Jerry sitting at the table. He immediately stood. "Randall!" He exclaimed, "how are you?"

I looked to Red; I was not going to speak with him there. I glanced at the table to see a white legal pad -- no Starbucks. The room was light green painted cinder block; I guess some decorator decided cells are yellow, meeting rooms are green. The table was a Steelcase putty color with laminate wood top, steel chairs to match. I took a seat which was cold and hard and sat silently. Red instructed Jerry to push a button near the door when he was ready to leave.

After Red left, Jerry and I stood and shook hands. He reached over the table to give me a hug in that awkward guy kind of way.

"No breakfast?" I asked.
"They wouldn't have let me give it to you, sorry," he said earnestly. "They treating you okay?"
"I'm hungry,"
"They haven't fed you?"
"No, but no big deal, can you get me out by lunch?"
"Doubtful. You have to get questioned first, and then arraigned. It’ll be late today, if not tomorrow. What happened?" asked Jerry, waiting to hear the story as my attorney and a friend; but mostly out of sheer curiosity in a rubber-necker sort of way. My comment that I was accused of murder and rape certainly would pique one's curiosity, especially for a corporate lawyer who mostly deals with contracts and labor issues.

"You call Pete?"
"Yeah. I was surprised that he was able to come himself; lucky for you he successfully litigated for a client whose trial ended Friday. He's a bit hung-over but on his fractional owned jet on his way to St. Augustine airport. I’ll pick him up at noon."

"The first good thing to happen today, he wasted no time in getting here," I said. My spirits were rising, I could feel the funk leave, but the financial meter was already running, two - five hundred dollars an hour lawyers and a fractional jet, I wondered what cost would hit my bill. No doubt I would have to exercise my undervalued options from the company to pay the legal tab. I had been keeping that cookie jar for a rainy day and it was pouring today.

"Pete wanted to get here as soon as possible, because he says that the first interrogation is the most important. I’ll put off the investigators until after Pete gets here. So what happened?" he asked a second time. His curiosity could wait no longer.

I began to recite a story that would be repeated a hundred times in the coming hours, days, weeks, and months. I hoped it wouldn’t spill over to years, but the story will follow me to the end of days. "Wait," said Jerry as he placed a recorder on the table. "Do you mind?" He asked.

I nodded no, and then began again. Jerry listened and made continual eye contact as I tended to occasionally look away while accessing what I believed to be the facts logged into the gray matter database in my skull, which by the way was pounding once again. He didn’t ask a single question during my recital. I assume he didn’t want to break my train of thought. He would however occasionally break eye contact in order to jot a question on his pad. But he did not interrupt as the Olympus voice capture recorder ran, posting my account to some sort of electronic memory.

"....and that's about it I said when I finished.

Jerry's self imposed silence was broken with the profound comment of "Holy shit!"
"Exactly," I responded. "So where do you think we stand?"
"I think we need to find out what her motives were. That is what I think Pete will say. Did you know her well?"
"About as well as any woman I guess. I try not to get close to the women I sleep with; you know that."
"You aren't exactly the commitment kind of guy."
"Right now I wish I had been and never slept with anyone like Rachel."
"For once I’m not jealous of your lifestyle Randy."
"Me either," I agreed.
"Anything else?" asked Jerry as he gathered his things.
"I’m pretty hungry, can you see if Red can get me some lunch?"
"Who's Red?"
"The cop who brought me in here.”
"His name's Red?"
"I don't know his fuckin' name, that's just what I call him in my head. Sir is what I call him to his face."

I could feel the frustrated anger returning. I did nothing wrong! This day is the most fucked up one in my life. I held no concern for Rachel killing herself and blaming me, she chose that end. But I was pissed about the baggage she left me with. If I didn't change my disposition I would wind up someone’s bitch at Raiford. I was sure of it.

Jerry sensed my frustration. He reached over the table as he stood and touched my shoulder. "It'll be okay. You need to settle down,” he consoled.
"I know."
He walked to the door and pushed the button. "I gotta go get Pete," he said.

I rose and approached Jerry, right hand extended. He took it and as we shook I said," thanks for coming old friend."
He smiled slightly, “it will be okay, I gotta go.”
"Remember lunch," I said as Red opened the door.
My stomach was growling so loud it could have spoken for itself.

Chapter 6 - Jerry my Lawyer

"Jerry?"
"Randall?" replied my corporate attorney.
"Yeah."
"Caller ID says you are calling from Flagler County Sheriff's office.”
"That's right."
"Get a speeding ticket on A1A?"
"Not exactly. This morning has been a nightmare. I wish I was still in bed dreaming, but I'm not. They think I raped and killed someone."
"Did you?" He asked.
"No, I didn't," I replied sternly.
"You know I just do corporate law."
"Of course I know that, but I don't know any criminal lawyers. Can you help me out?"
"Yes, Pete Cavanaugh is the best I know, but he’s in Miami. I don't know if he has room in his schedule. Criminal cases take up large blocks. I can check with him."
"I'd appreciate that," I said, grateful that he took my call. I had called Jerry on his cell, otherwise we would have played phone tag for hours, and I didn't think the Sheriff would take a message. I had no voice mail and I was totally lost without my Blackberry. I knew his cell by heart; it ended in 9999.

"Can you come down here and see what you can do until you reach Pete?"
"I'm ahead of you I am already headed out of my office and about to get on the elevator, see you in an hour and a half, traffic permitting."
"Thanks!" I said.
"You okay?"
"I'm keeping it together, but I'm not sure for how long."
"Your innocent, no worries...."

The line went dead; he must have gotten in the elevator. Jerry was your typical corporate attorney. These guys were even more boring than accountants – myself excluded of course. They were not the litigators, but the ones who reviewed contracts day after day. They could spend hours word smithing an agreement, or stock option plan, or the like. I went nuts trying to read through those types of documents. I couldn’t imagine doing it all day long.

Jerry was married with kids as you can imagine, and lived the American dream – golden retriever included. He is about five foot ten, fit, has sandy blonde hair, and lives on the fifth tee at a moderately priced gated community in Jacksonville. Outside of corporate law, the Lord Jesus (he never let's you forget his devotion), and his family – golf was his passion and he played at least thirty six holes on the weekend. Either he got two full rounds in on one day – or split the mission between two. Jerry was a scratch golfer, but not the kind that would break a club if he missed a shot. He is very methodical, and emotions would break his concentration.

That's how he practiced law – methodically with undivided concentration. Jerry was a lone ranger, no partners, no secretary – just himself in the Modis building overlooking the St. Johns River and the South Bank of Jacksonville. There aren't many public companies in Northeast Florida, and he is the go to guy in town. He grew up in Jacksonville, went to the University of Florida, which made him an obnoxious Gator, and received his law degree from the same.

If I were a betting man I would say Jerry will arrive wearing khaki’s, white button down shirt, blue and orange stripped tie, a Tommy H. navy blue blazer, and his trademark oxblood Bass Weejuns on his feet. I would definitely win that bet – the only variable would be the tie. He was so predictable. Heck, I was so predictable – that is what kept my sanity, always knowing what came next in a series of carefully orchestrated moves. Then came Rachel and fucked it all up – I am having a hard time feeling any remorse for her untimely departure.

Chapter 5 - Jail

We pulled into the parking lot of the new municipal building. Clearly this was not to be an Andy of Mayberry episode. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad one yet.

Junior opened my door and led me up the stairs. Once inside the tan stucco building we passed the dispatch desk. "I'll process him," said Junior to the dispatcher. He had become somewhat possessive of me and led me to the lockdown area. Junior placed his thumb in the bio pad and a solid door slid open - no bars here, this was like maximum security. What crimes did they have here I wondered. Domestic spats, bad checks, bar room brawls. You would think from the lockdown entry Flagler County was filled with hard core felons. Maybe it was just that I had never been to a place like this and was unaware. I felt a million miles from Jacksonville, and even further from my office and life. I feared I would never see the beach or my life again.

Junior led me to a sterile room, unlocked the bracelets and had me empty my pockets into a plastic bucket like the ones used at airport security. Out came my Blackberry, and cell phone. Junior added my wallet that he confiscated at the crime scene. My keys were left back at the car when I hastily left to chew out Rachel. Bad move, I realized. As you go through life you always ponder your worst moment to date. Your biggest mistake. That was it. The pinnacle of fuck ups to date. "Watch too," he instructed. I complied and placed the Rolex in the bin. Junior picked up the electronics and turned them off. It was if the life as I knew it had been turned off.

After the x-ray, Junior walked me to the fingerprint station, where he placed each finger of each hand onto a bio reader, which scanned them and saved them to the local as well as master Homeland Security database. They would be instantly checked by artificial intelligence to see if there were any outstanding warrants. I knew there wouldn’t be.

Then he led me to the camera and took the standard portrait and profile mug shots. I wondered if they would rate with the Mel Gibson shots. Rather than the celebrity websites mine would be found on all financial websites. There would be a shot of a thirty-something medium build man, short brown conservative haircut, with the look of shock in his bloodshot chocolate brown eyes.

Maybe I would rate the Motley Fool. I could be sure our stock price would tank by Friday. As if things weren’t bad enough, our stock was at ten percent of where it traded at IPO. The early investors took a bath if they held more than a year. The market of course was the electronic Vegas for big pocket institutional and small investors alike.

The flash was blinding. Then Junior walked me to the commode. "Pee in this cup," he said as he stood there watching.

"You mind?" I asked.
"Policy," he replied.
"Why?"
"Have to make sure it's your pee."
"Who else’s would it be?" I replied with a hint of hostility.
"Policy," he repeated. He had no more interest in watching than I had being watched. I wanted to be empathetic of his position, but just couldn't get there.

I peed in the cup.

He then led me to the holding cell. He placed his thumb on the bio reader and the cell door opened. There were some stiff metal benches, enough to hold about twenty, but this morning it was just me and a wreaking drunk who was laying down on one of the four benches. The walls were yellow painted cinder block. I stepped in. "Don't I get a call?"

"It's seven fifteen, ya'll have ta' wait till nine."

The door closed. I couldn't believe only two and a half hours ago Rachel was riding my tail on the Coastal Highway.

Chapter 4 - The Arrest

After he merandized me, Junior started to ask questions. Obviously benign ones I would answer in the spirit of cooperation, ones that can indict me would be spun or deferred. My career as a CFO taught me to answer questions from investors, auditors, the SEC, and the IRS without impeaching myself.

“May I see your wallet sir?”
“Front right pocket,” I answered. I use a business card holder as a wallet. Since I only carry plastic it takes up much less room. I was curious how awkward this would be for Junior since he had to touch an area that most men would not venture on another. Since he cuffed me he had no choice. I was surprised when he went for it without hesitation. I was glad my khakis were loose so he didn’t have to fish much.

“Mr. Scott?” asked Junior from reading it off my Florida license.
“Yes.”
"The Porsche yours?"
"Yeah."
"Nice, or at least was, you must have broken the frame."
This was commentary, not a question so I remained silent. I could not see the senior officer, who was attending to Rachel.
"You know your victim?"

He used the term victim. If I answered yes or no, I will admit she was my victim. There was just one answer to that question, "I need to call my lawyer. I respectfully will not answer any questions."

I learned early in my life not to treat people disrespectfully, and this was certainly no time to start. I was sure this would be the kid's first homicide and any kind of incriminating answer from me could end my life as I knew it. It was clear that I would be the number one suspect. As I looked up at the headlights, I realized that it appears that I rammed the Lexus. My finger prints are on the gun, and my DNA in her mouth. Clearly they will have the case solved in twenty four hours. I crashed into her to make her stop. Undoubtedly they will know the gun was hers - registered or not. She took it out to defend herself; I wrestled it away, and led her to the beach. I forced my penis into her mouth, and after I climaxed I replaced my shaft with the gun shaft and blew off the back of her head. Case closed. If they can prove premeditation I would have a choice of lethal injection or the chair they used to fry Bundy. I was fucked.

"You know the girl?"
I remained silent.
“We got a call from someone heading southbound and saw the cars. We were checking them out, when bam! We heard the shot."
I remained silent.
"Not talking?"
"Not without my lawyer."
Just then Senior came up and whispered in Junior's ear. I also saw more blue lights and two more uniforms heading down the dune. The still ocean began to crescendo in both form and audibility. I could see the sky start to lighten although the sun had not pierced the horizon yet. It was the predawn light that I knew well from my morning routine. I would have been close to my office in Jacksonville by now.

The two cops originally on the scene escorted me up to the highway. Two tow trucks were on the scene, and the backup officers stood watch over Rachel. I couldn't help but wonder if Senior closed her lids, covering those beautiful green eyes that would haunt me forever. Nobody will ever know what I knew happened. My pals may believe me out of loyalty, but they will always wonder if I just lost it and let the demons take me over to become another casualty of the dark side of humanity.

Junior opened the back door, put his palm on my head and pushed me down into the back seat, my hands cuffed behind me. I felt the binding pinch as my butt found the slick surface of the vinyl seat.

We headed south, so I suspected it was the Flagler County Sherriff that I would visit with. I didn’t take notice of the logo on the police cruiser. But if it was St. Johns we would head north. Flagler County was the lowest population in Northeast Florida. I had visions of a Mayberry station with the sheriff’s desk next to the sole jail cell, separated only by iron bars. Wild fires were the only newsworthy events here. I'll bet this makes the paper in Jacksonville and Daytona. It will then get picked up by the AP and the Wall Street Journal will run it by Tuesday. I had never made the Journal. The company I took public would only get the modest web based news releases. This wasn’t how I envisioned the prime years in my forties to gain notoriety.

As we cruised in silence, I began to wonder what got Rach motivated to frame me for her suicide. It was clear that she wanted to die. Furthermore she wanted me to be charged with her death, but why. She obviously made the early morning trip an hour south of Jacksonville to chase me. She must have been parked in the condo lot and waited for me. Maybe she partied in Daytona Sunday, never went to bed, did some ecstasy, and just lost it. There were so many questions, and the one that held the answers was gone – her corpse lying on its back at the beach.

Chapter 3 - Junior the Rookie

There she laid. Rachel Johnston if I recall. Apparently she was married now and she may have changed her last name. Maybe she kept her maiden name, maybe not. Her head, the part still attached to her neck was close to the incoming tide. I stood over her watching the peace of the stillness. Her eyes were still opened but now fixed on the heavens not mine. The water seemed to be rising fast, her hair and bloody remains of her inner head mixing with the sand and salt water. I realized that I never pulled up my pants. The gun was still in my hands, I dropped it to the beach, bent down and pulled up my boxers, then my khakis, and completed the act by fastening the belt buckle.

"Put your hands above your head," I heard him yell in a North Florida accent. This part of the state was so close to Georgia, the natives actually sounded more like deep southerners than the mixed international/northern accents of South Florida. I quickly turned to see the blue flashing lights up near the car accident. The lights illuminating against the navy blue uniform.

"Fuck," I whispered inaudible to anyone but myself. I quickly processed what was about to happen. I was living an episode of CSI Miami.

"Get them up NOW!" he ordered. I was getting tired of taking orders this morning, and he was again the one with the gun. He must have been fifty yards away, but I was sure he could hit me from that distance. I acquiesced and my hands reached up towards the early morning sky. A second officer appeared and they both walked down the dune in my direction, their guns drawn and pointed at me in stereo. My heart was pounding. I started to wish Rachel shot me rather than herself. As they neared, they became aware of Rachel's stillness.

The younger officer whipped me around and cuffed me while the seasoned cop bent down to Rachel and placed his index and middle finger to sense a pulse on her neck. He was not yet aware of the missing rear hemisphere of her scull.

Did they hear the shot? They must have, that's why I had been cuffed. I wondered if they saw what happenned. Did they see Rachel with the gun on me as I was raped? Did they see her put the gun in my hand? Or did they just hear the shot. Clearly they were on the scene because of the two abandoned cars, but that would not have been cause to bind my wrists so quickly. I can only assume that at minimum, they heard the shot, saw Rach laying on the beach and me standing over her. At some point I will know what they heard and saw which will set the tone for the breadth of my defense.

I was facing toward the road. The blue police lights were flickering in the dark morning, the sun yet to break the horizon. I could see the Porsche and Lexus lights beaming to nowhere unparticular northbound. How much time had passed I wondered. It seemed like hours, but could not be more than a half hour, maybe fifteen minutes at best. My watch was inaccessible since my left hand was attached to my right, this time restrained by cuffs rather than Rach's firm grip.

"What time is it?" I asked the junior cop.
"What do ya'll care, ya'll ain't goin' ta' work today," he said in a near Georgia drawl.

Work had not even crossed my mind.

"Bit a' road rage Bubba?" He asked, but sounded like more of an observation.
"What?" I replied in an almost angry tone.
"Oh yeah, almost forgot," he said, then continued," you have the right to remain silent, you have....."

Chapter 2 - Rachel the Rapist

As I approached the car I couldn’t detect movement from inside. The front door flung open just as I passed the rear driver side door. In one fluid motion she stepped out of the vehicle with a police issue .38 caliber pointed directly at my face. I knew this woman, but from where. I use the term woman loosely; she was a chick from my past. I was sure of it. One of the dozens I had as a single guy. Many chicks born in the sixties didn't want marriage or a guy to count on for anything, but they wanted a fuck once in a while. She was typical. Bleached blonde, the short mini-skirt her seduction, and the best tits money could buy her weapon in the world of high tech business.

"Rachel?" I guessed luckily.
"Randall," she replied matter of factly.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
"I have no freakin' idea, why don't you tell me?" I replied puzzled. I hadn't seen Rach in four years.
"Shut up," she replied. "I always hated the way you whined. You’re a fuckin' wimp. I should have known better than to have a bean counter as a fuck buddy. Over there!" she commanded, pointing the gun towards the beach.

I walked around her door and in front of the Lexus. I soon felt the barrel in the spine of my back. I always knew Rach was a control freak. She was really into tying me to the bed post with pillow cases. I never cared for that and eventually we stopped screwing around.

She was steering me off the road and down the steep sand dune to the beach. The moon finally broke through the clouds. It illuminated the ocean, which happened to be calm, in fact the air was still and stale on this hot morning in July. When we could no longer see the lights from the abandoned cars above on the highway she said "stop here and turn around."
I faced her and she the sea. She placed the tip of the gun against my forehead and said, “drop your pants Randy."

I unfastened my belt and unzipped the hundred dollar jeans du jour. They fell to the sand, my eyes never leaving hers. This had to be the most outrageous booty call of my life. I wasn't sure whether to be excited or pissed. I took excited; there was plenty of time to be pissed. At one point I felt like I was being raped, but only 15 year old boys get raped, either by a member of the clergy, a teacher, or that weird uncle. Men don't get raped, but this did not feel consensual.

"The boxers too," she demanded. I dropped my boxers aware of the gun pointed at my forehead the entire time. I was not the least bit excited as she dropped to her knees in one well rehearsed motion, the .38 following her down and rested on my abdomen. Her mouth took my limp manhood and she began to work hard at it with the gun ever present, pressed against me.

I wondered if I got aroused at all, would this still be rape. Or does the mere uncontrolled stiffened reaction to her persistent lips constitute consent to the act. So be it, because the reflex took over. I did not enjoy it if that was any consolation. My mind wandered away, wondering if she would shoot me when I was done. Should I delay the release or submit. I tried to resist, but she tried harder, the competitive bitch that she was. My early morning delivery moved directly down her throat before I could stop it. Here it was the climax, would I pay with a bullet to my gut?

She stood, moving the gun up under my chin. She looked into my eyes and stared through my soul. I was not sure how long she would stare before she pulled the trigger to blow off the top of my head. What happened next was totally unexpected. She removed the gun from under my chin, allowing my volatile thought that I was now out of danger to take over. A sense of relief overcame me. I was safe. I was raped and my car damaged -- true. But I realized I would live to tell. Maybe the police, maybe my attorney, or both. But that would come later. Right now my elation of life controlled my mind. I began to smile sheepishly, wondering if this was just a bad joke she thought she was pulling on me.

Rachel’s stare was maintained. I don’t think she blinked. Then came the bomb. She took my hand, placed the gun in it and said "shove it in my mouth like it’s your cock and pull the trigger."
"What?" I yelled.

Before I knew it her left hand cradled mine. Her fingers wrapped around mine which were clenching the gun. My body began to quiver. I noticed a previously missed detail when her hand was raised. She had a rock on her ring finger. Two, maybe three karats. This was getting even more bizarre.

"Pull the fuckin' trigger," she commanded.

My eyes returned to hers, her stare fixed. Her green eyes pools of determined desire. Like no other desire I had seen in anyone's eyes before. They were almost begging me to send her to the next world. This is how she wanted to go? Giving a blow job to a man? One who is not her husband? One who she had not seen in years? Then have him blow her head off with a gun? This was a bad dream. I kept waiting to wake up - but I didn’t.

I felt my right arm in motion, my left stricken with paralysis. My eyes stayed with hers as she pulled my hand with both of hers, the barrel penetrating her lips, and before I could protest, before my left hand could move to stop the insanity, her French manicured thumb slipped between my fingers and squeezed the trigger. Her hands immediately released my hand. My eyes did not leave hers as she took the express lane to whatever meets us after this life.

Her eyes remained opened and changed from desire to void. I had not noticed that the back of her scull flew off to the surf. The gore to be breakfast for the gulls if they got to it before the shallow tide immersed it to become chum for the pompano that were splashing along the shore. The juxtaposition of her beauty falling back against the sand, the remnants of her brain squishing out the sides like a Sloppy Joe from a bun was more than I could bear. "No," I howled, impotent as I felt from not stopping the madness. "Nooooo!"

Chapter 1 - Road Rage

It was the usual Monday morning drive along the Coastal Highway to work. The sun had not yet risen, but that didn't stop my head from pounding from too many beers on the beach the day before. My oceanfront condo was a great investment even with the real estate bust of 2005. I bought the seven figure place for mid six figures in the late nineties before the Florida boom.

I usually had the highway to myself at this hour but I noticed headlights in the rear view mirror of my Boxter. The top was down. The air was humid, but not yet hot. It was sort of a facial moisturizer as I drove daily to work at 4 a.m.


The headlights were getting brighter as the vehicle approached faster. It must have been doing over 100 miles per hour since my needle was pushing 95. I never went over 100. I usually set limits for myself. How far I could push without crossing that invisible line I set for most things I do. For the last five years I have been the CFO of Nextec, and believe me, those ethical limits have been pressed just like 100 mph line on the speedometer of my beloved Porsche.

That bastard put his brights on and I pushed the rear view mirror away to deflect the piercing light from the blue lights approaching. It must be a late model Lexus or Benz, some maniacal executive in a bigger rush than me trying to get to the office before 5:00. I heard the roar of the engine, clearly cranking 4000 rpm and doing 120 mph as it passed. It was a Lexus all right, I stayed at 95 and let him back in, as if I had any say in the matter. This jerk was clearly a control freak. I decided I would let his red tail lights disappear into the distance. They didn't. Just as abruptly as the headlights appeared so did his brake lights.


The black SC squealed to a complete stop not 500 yards away without fishtailing. As soon as my mind processed this surprised course of events in the dark along Flagler Beach, the unobstructed ocean to the right and rows of "c" class condos to the left, my right foot was pressing the brake pedal harder than ever before. With my hands holding the steering wheel tight I swerved to the left into what would be oncoming traffic when the rest of the world was awake, but a void in space at this insane hour of the day. The hour was somewhere between partiers crashing and sane people waking. Here I was with this asshole on the two lane highway. I passed him at about fifty and honked hard to alert him of my displeasure as I passed him.

I hit the accelerator as hard as the brake and felt my tires spin for the very first time. I squealed the tires as I broke my self imposed limit, I reached forward and re-adjusted the rear view mirror then started to alternate my eyes between the rear view and speedometer, and road ahead. The needle handily passed 100
and moved to 120, 130. The machine felt like it was at half the speed I read on the dash. The blue high beams of the Lexus started to grow in my rear view mirror. My headache was replaced with the sensation of adrenaline. The flee response never felt greater in my forty two years. I do not remember if it was fear or anger that overtook me next.

The Lexus finally caught me, not from the lack of agility of the Porsche, but the obvious experience of my competitor, or inexperience on my part. He caught up next to me and we road in unison northbound towards St. Augustine. The Lexus was in the southbound lane, no obstacle from oncoming traffic in sight. As I accelerated, so did the Lexus. 150, 160, then came the burst of speed from the Lexus and he passed me by about 100 yards, then pulled in front of me and slammed on his brakes, the red illumination bound to hide the impending bloodbath from the crash. There was no time to swerve this time and I ploughed dead into him. He must have released the brake and place the transmission into neutral because I pushed him 500 yards – both vehicles airbags deploying as we went. It seemed like an eternity passed before we came to a stop in the middle of the highway.

I realized the incident was over with somewhat of an under climactic finish to the rush that ended without carnage. The damage to the Boxter was the last thing on my mind. Revenge for the anguish was all I thought of as I opened the door and hurried to the car in front, prepared to engage in probably the most aggressive ass chewing I had ever released on another human being.