THE PEACEFUL NIGHT
by
Harry F. Smith
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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The Peaceful Night
Copyright © 2010 by Harry F. Smith
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.
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THE PEACEFUL NIGHT
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THE CALM
CHAPTER ONE
Orlando, Florida - Wednesday Evening
JAKE HELD THE PLASTIC garbage bag at arm’s length as he moved quickly down the hallway, his slippers making a muted flip-flop noise on the floor. Judging from the acrid smell of chicken bones left over from a dinner enjoyed three nights prior, he knew quite well that the small drops of whatever the hell was leaking from the bag was going to stain the newly installed carpet. Just like the theory that running in the rain gets you less wet than walking, he fervently hoped that his haste would diminish any harm done to the rug.
Opening the door to the large three-car garage, Jake could feel the difference in the temperature even though the space was well insulated. In an effort to keep the cool air inside the house, he quickly closed the door behind him, gratefully leaving behind the irritating thump thump noise his son called music. Even now, the vibrations were emanating from behind a closed bedroom door, the loud bass tones shaking the walls. Throwing the bag into an already full garbage can, he leaned heavily on the lid, letting his weight compact the trash as the plastic lid shut closed with a snap.
He had yelled at Paul to take out the garbage two days ago and then once again this morning, but being the average American teenager, his son’s attention span was severely diminished by an alien disease that made his brain cells unable to communicate with each other properly whenever there was input from a parental figure. The huge amounts of marijuana that he smoked before, during and after his community college classes didn’t help either. At this point in his young life, the only things his neurons could process correctly were the most primitive of basic teen skills such as memorizing the lyrics to every rap song ever produced. Judging from the way that Paul wore his pants sagging over his skinny ass and spoke in the latest gangster ghetto slang, he was one bong hit away from being classified as a drooling idiot.
Jake braced himself as he reached over to the garage door opener. One of the gear teeth in the drive chain had broken off and under the right conditions, the electric motor got stuck, producing a grotesque noise that sounded like two large dinosaurs having sex without the aid of a good lubricant. Since the repairman was booked solid and could not possibly squeeze him in before Labor Day, Jake had learned to stand by the door, ready to assist with a push less his neighbors suffer through another episode of the earsplitting sound indicating that the transport was suffering its mechanical rendition of a stroke. Fortunately for Jake, the door decided to cooperate tonight. It opened slowly, creaking noisily on bearings that hadn’t been greased in months.
He felt the dampness of the outside air rushing in to greet him as the door reached its full height on the track. Even though it was eight thirty in the evening and the summer sun was just beginning to set, the heat hadn’t yielded its chokehold on the day. The air was so steamy that Jake imagined that he could extend his arms forward and wring the humidity out of the atmosphere like a wet sponge, the water drops hitting the hot concrete garage floor with a loud sizzle. Since he had spent his formative years growing up on a farm in northern Michigan, Jake quickly discovered that he had little tolerance for humid weather. For some strange reason, he thought back to all of the glossy literature he read before making the fateful decision to move to Florida in the summer time. To the best of his recollection, none of the colorful travel brochures mentioned anything about year-round, swamp-like weather conditions.
As he wheeled the garbage can down the driveway to the curb, Jake spotted his neighbor in the distance. Tall and thin, Leo Morgenstern was jumping rope on the grass in his front yard.
Leo stared straight ahead in his own little world as if in a trance, the sweat pouring off his body in buckets. His red and yellow United States Marine Corps tee shirt and matching shorts were thoroughly soaked and hugged his skinny body in an almost obscene manner. Strangely, he didn’t jump like a boxer in training for a title fight would, using the balls of both feet to launch his body just high enough for the rope to pass under. Instead, he skipped school girl-style, one knee comically lifting much higher than necessary, the other leg following suit right after in precise, military precision. He had once explained to Jake, in more detail than Jake cared to know, that he got a better aerobic workout this way. Jake thought that Leo looked like a gangly dork.
Just watching his neighbor exercise in the summer heat made Jake sweat even more. He felt his clothes beginning to cling in places he did not want fabric to stick to as he parked the trash canister by the curb. With task in hand completed, Jake hoped he could turn around and get back inside the house to the sweet cool relief of the air conditioner without having to engage his neighbor in any empty-headed conversation. Unsure if Leo was even aware of him, Jake gave him the obligatory ‘Good evening’ suburban head nod. Firm, short and to the point, the crisp motion seemed to suffice as Leo kept up his perfect, girlie-like cadence. Feeling victory in his grasp, Jake was confident that in a few moments he would be sitting in his recliner, finishing the first of a few beers before bedtime while watching the Minnesota Twins lose to the Yankees once again.
“Jake! Got a minute?”
He flinched as he heard his name being called out. Leo had stopped jumping and was now looking directly at him. He waved his hand, still holding the plastic jump rope handles.
Jake forced what he hoped would be a convincing smile on his face as he walked over to the thick hibiscus bush that divided their properties. Attesting to the different gardening styles of the two men, the shrubbery on Leo’s side was perfectly shaped and manicured, while Jake’s side was scraggly and looked more like the entrance to an impenetrable forest. Unlike Jake, Leo was fanatical about his lawn to the extent that he would inspect closely behind the work of the Puerto Rican groundskeepers that he hired, pointing out stray tufts of grass that they had missed. Privately, the workers laughed and called him a pendejo behind his back.
"Hi, Leo. Getting your exercise in? It’s awful hot to be skipping rope." He managed to suppress the ending phrase, ‘Like a girlie man.’
“Yes, I’ve been putting in a bit of overtime on a project at work, so I either have to sneak in my PT now or at 0500,” he said in a husky voice. Leo liked to use military terminology in all his daily conversations to remind people that he was once, and always would be, a Marine. “You know what I always say, Jake. Sound mind, sound body.”
“Sure thing,” Jake managed to mumble as he wiped at a drop of sweat forming on his upper lip. “What's on your mind?”
“Well, I hate to be a nag, but it’s about your son again.” Leo could hear the deliberate emphasis on ‘your son.’
“Oh? What’s he done this time?” he answered back, his own strong inflection on ‘this time.’
“The same as when we last spoke. I thought you were going to talk to him about that music.”
Being an ex-Marine, Leo demanded complete control of his environment, so it was no small wonder that he got royally pissed when Paul came home late at night, rocking out the neighborhood with his car’s stereo turned up to a volume that could shatter concrete.
“I did speak to him Leo, and I’m sorry that he disturbed you again, but you know teenagers and their music.”
“Actually Jake, I wouldn’t know about that. My daughter manages to come home late at night from her Bible study class twice a week without waking up the whole neighborhood.” He took a step closer to his side of the bush. “You know, there’s a reason why this subdivision is named La Noche Pacífica.”
La Noche Pacífica, The Peaceful Night, was the most exclusive gated community located in one of the more desirable areas in Central Florida. Just south of Orlando, it was far enough out of the big city limits and away from the tourist attractions so that it could be considered country living. The entire section was isolated from the outside world by numerous lakes and conservation areas, which really was a fancy name for swampland that the greedy community developers had not bothered to drain. The native wildlife that lived in the surrounding wetlands only added to the rustic charm of the community, but the prudent homeowner was always on guard for wayward snakes that ventured out of their assigned habitat in search of food. At least once a year, the newspapers picked up a story about an aggressive male alligator making its way into someone’s backyard during the early mating season in search of the elusive reptilian quickie. The end result was usually a frantic call to the animal control department, followed by a prompt capture of the horny creature and an even faster transformation into a pair of shoes and matching handbag.
The only safe way in or out of La Noche Pacífica was through the main gate, which was serviced by a twenty-four hour security patrol. Standing ever vigilant, the friendly guards would check each vehicle and only admit those with a valid reason. If you were a close friend of a resident, you could be added to the privileged Master List, which granted you admission without the hassles of the guard calling the tenant to confirm your entry authorization. Residents, however, need not worry about all those mundane details. A small decal with a bar code located on the front bumper was read by a laser as they entered via a separate lane. This activated the mechanism that opened wide the wrought iron gates and let them in, bypassing the usually long lines of pizza delivery vehicles, realtors and La Noche Pacífica wanabees.
The median family income necessary to live in a golf course community like La Noche Pacífica was well in the six-figure range. The ninety-six homes inside varied from a mere $550K starter house to the more luxurious $2.5 million mini-mansion. Included in the buy-in price was such amenities as a championship golf course, a private park, running paths, basketball and volleyball courts, a soccer field for the budding youngsters of the privileged and a fitness center complete with swimming pool, cabana and indoor game room.
Jake and his son moved in two months ago after the software company he worked for offered him both a promotion and a chance to head up a new and exciting military computer simulation project. Moving down to Florida from Hartford, Connecticut, they were cramped in adjoining hotel rooms for a week and a half until the real estate agent the company kept on retainer informed them about a house that suddenly appeared on the market. The asking price was at the absolute limit of what Jake could afford since he was still making payments on a truck, a house full of expensive furniture and an even more expensive ex-wife, but the main attraction of the property was that it was located close to work and a community college that would admit Paul with his crappy grades. Secretly, he hoped that the change in locale would help boost his son’s attitude about school, but by the way Paul constantly told him “Don’t be buggin’ me, Pops”, there was very little chance of that happening.
Since La Noche Pacífica was considered the in-place to live among the local yuppies, home values increased by a healthy percentage every year, contrary to the current housing slump. For Jake, that fact helped balance out the endless rules and snobby people who inhabited the neighborhood. He quickly learned that life was good in La Noche Pacífica if you toed the line and followed the regulations. All residents were governed by a homeowner’s association, which used strict covenants to protect the clean look and orderly feel of the community. Tenants were expected to keep their lawns mowed and were not allowed to park boats or RVs in the driveway. The outside appearance of the house had to be kept up within prescribed bounds with everything from exterior paint colors to approved lawn furniture spelled out in a huge two hundred-page manual issued to all new Noche Pacíficans. Any deviation of the rules was immediately reported to the proper association committee. The offending household was first issued a friendly warning in the mail, followed by a sterner letter of non-compliance shortly thereafter. Heavy fines could be issued, but the problem was usually resolved way before any legal action occurred.
Anal-retentive people like Leo thrived in La Noche Pacífica. One of the original move-in tenants, he volunteered to serve on various committees and was currently the head of the association’s board of directors. Since his neighbor wielded such extreme executive power, Jake was forced to listen to his complaints about Paul’s rap music with a grain of salt.
“Yes, Leo, I’m aware of the meaning of La Noche Pacífica,” he answered back. “But I’ll speak to him once again.” He tried his best to convey a look of parental helplessness on his face.
“Well, I appreciate that Jake,” he said with a smug attitude. “And I’m sure that the rest of the block does too.”
Having properly dressed down his neighbor, Leo spun around with military precision, took a few steps back and resumed his exercising.
Jake just stood there, unsure of what to do next. As a glob of sweat slowly rolled down his back towards his butt crack, he decided to break away just as quickly as Leo had done. Not having any military training, Jake tried to mimic his rapid turn but ended up stumbling over his own two feet.
“And your grass is getting a little long in the tooth, neighbor,” Leo added without missing a beat.
Pendejo! Jake thought as he hurried back inside the house to the comfort of the air conditioner.
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CHAPTER TWO
Monterey, California - Wednesday Evening
FROM HIGH ON TOP of her raised command center, Lieutenant Junior Grade Samantha Knudson leaned over the front of a wide computer console, her clenched fists resting hard on the polished wood edging. Dressed in a crisply starched khaki uniform, her head remained steady as she watched the normal flow of the night’s activities. Like an eagle looking out over the plains of her native South Dakota, her dark blue eyes slowly scanned the immense sterile looking room.
Although only twenty-five years old, Samantha took her job seriously and wielded supreme executive power over her domain. Tonight she had the privilege of being the duty officer in charge at the Fleet Numerical Meteorology and Oceanography Center, the Navy's premier supercomputing center. Known simply as Fleet Numerical, the small complex occupied approximately ten acres of prime real estate in Monterey, California. Partnered with the National Weather Service, the center was tasked with providing all of the weather prediction and satellite imagery products for the United States military and coalition forces around the globe. From deep inside the plain looking brick building, massive amounts of data collected from satellites, weather buoys and aircraft were churned into highly complex meteorological and oceanographic models by a world-class suite of high performance supercomputers. With a combined peak processing power of thirty trillion floating-point operations per second, Fleet Numerical was ranked in the top five percent of supercomputer sites worldwide in terms of overall computing power.
During the midnight watch, she rode herd over approximately two hundred military and civilian personnel, some who were more than twice her age. Currently, the busy sailors under her command were performing their duties as normal, typing at keyboards or studying rows of glowing monitors recessed into long display cabinets. Instinctively, she tuned into the numerous subdued conversations, easily differentiating them from the incessant hum of background noise, searching for anything unusual. Satisfied for the moment that all was well, Samantha took yet another swig of strong coffee from her large stone mug.
The normally busy computer room was buzzing with extra activity tonight. In an effort to upgrade the center’s already massive computing power, sixty-four brand new Cray X1E supercomputers had been shipped cross country from the company’s development center at Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin and Samantha had been assigned the additional task of overseeing the installation. Each of the enormous, two ton cabinets had been carefully unpacked weeks ago by the company’s technicians in record time with almost no disruption of Fleet Numerical’s operational routine. Samantha could not have asked for a smoother transition.
But tonight, however, a crew of government public utility workers had invaded the complex to finish hooking up the electric power and liquid coolant piping to the last bank of newly installed supercomputer monoliths. This part of the work was way behind schedule and by previous experience with this particular group of morons, Samantha knew that they would require intense supervision. Last week, a main electric conduit was accidentally cut by one of the chuckleheads, knocking out power to the center’s network right before the morning’s weather reports had finished. Unlike personal desktop computers that you could reboot in just a minute or two, these monsters required hundreds of man-hours to get back on line. Since Fleet Numerical supported virtually every combat platform and weapons system operated by the U.S. Navy, the ass chewing had started from several pay grades higher than hers, straight down to the recently terminated GS level-5 butthead.
That, Samantha swore to herself, would not happen on her watch.
From her high vantage point, Samantha watched the workers discreetly. She had been on duty for only an hour and a half, yet she forced herself to check her temper for what seemed like the umpteenth time that evening. A sizable portion of the white floor panels had been removed to allow the men access to the underside of the computer cabinets. She shook her head as she noticed the top half of a beefy technician trying to feed a thick black cable through a plastic conduit that was obviously the wrong size. Her frustration turned to utter exasperation as she watched him jam a screwdriver into the neoprene coating of the thick zero gauge cable.
“Hey Joe!” he called out towards his unseen partner. “Pull harder, will ya?”
Even though the temperature in the center was maintained at a constant sixty-eight degrees, Samantha felt her face getting warm.
“Petty officer Parker!” she yelled over her shoulder. An enlisted man wearing a denim shirt and matching pants was at her side in an instant. She pointed in the general direction of the work site.
“Tell that moron over there that if he pokes a hole in the insulation of that power cable, I’ll have the cost of a replacement taken out of his pay check!”
As the young sailor moved to relay the message, Samantha did a fast calculation to compute just how much money the inept man had stolen from the government during the last hour just by showing up for work this evening. She never could figure out why some people didn’t enjoy their work as she did, but then again, this was her dream job.
Samantha grew up on a small family-owned dairy farm just outside the quaint little town of Centerville, South Dakota. Of Danish descent, she could trace her roots all the way back to one of the original families that settled the area in the late 1880’s. Whether it was part of her Nordic heritage or just the simple fact that her parents had assigned her chores at an early age, everyone knew her to be a levelheaded and most trustworthy girl. People admired her for her fast wit and pleasant personality.
She had other gifts as well. Besides her wholesome good looks, Samantha had a lot on the ball. It soon became obvious to all concerned that the small child with an eager smile was smarter than most of her siblings.
Her father loved to tell the story about her abilities at all family meetings. As the family huddled around a corn burning stove on a sub zero winter night, the three year old had climbed up into her great grandfather’s lap. Since his eyesight had started fading at the tender age of ninety, Samantha surprised them all by reading the local newspaper to him. Tracing her finger along the newspaper print, she read aloud to him, not missing a word. Nobody else in her extended family exhibited any sort of scholarly traits, but Samantha quickly outgrew the simple children’s books that her father brought home for her. Moreover, as if being an early reader was not enough, she had been blessed with a natural knack for mathematics and the sciences.
When it was time for her to go to school, she attended kindergarten through high school in the same building that her parents and their parents before them did. With a small student-teacher ratio and an excellent curriculum, Samantha’s talents were recognized early on and fostered by her teachers. She quickly devoured every book in the school’s library. Later on, she helped the town’s librarian set up a computer network and became the ‘go to girl’ whenever there was a problem, be it with the software or the computers themselves.
Some people complained about growing up in a community where everybody knew everybody else, but farm life for Samantha was predictable and measured. Lest she be thought of as a geek, she enjoyed and eagerly pursued all the activities of small town life. Whether it was cheerleading at a Friday night football game, scoring the winning run on the girl’s softball team or working as a member of Future Farmers of America, she found time for her farm chores while working on quadratic equations in her head.
Blossoming into young adulthood, Samantha had grown tall and strong. Pleasantly proportional in stature, she had the broad shoulders, blonde hair and chiseled good looks that went along with her ancestry. Her brothers had kidded her more than once about how she had ‘child bearing’ hips, but all that nonsense quickly ended when she grabbed the oldest in a headlock and forced him to cry uncle.
It was only natural that after graduating from high school with honors, Samantha received an academic scholarship to the University of South Dakota at Vermillion, a small college town located twenty-five miles away from her home. Here she majored in mathematics, but decided at the last minute to declare a meteorology minor since she could apply her studies of differential equations to fluid dynamics. With the blessing of her guidance counselors, she snuck in oceanography courses along with the required meteorology classes.
Being sociable and easy going, she made many friends in college. Early in her freshman year, she was persuaded by a classmate to attend a sorority welcoming function. Turned off by the bubble-headed girls’ attitude towards hard sciences, she declined an invitation to pledge the group. She could not understand how someone could bother studying dull subjects like business or philosophy when the wonders of mathematics were right there in front of them. All throughout college, Samantha excelled in her studies and never failed to make the Dean’s list all four years.
During her last semester, with the dour prospect of looking for a job in a slow economy looming before her, she attended a university-sponsored job fair. Samantha walked up and down the aisles of the auditorium, collecting enough shiny pamphlets, information packets, pens and tee shirts to fill a small shopping bag. She passed around copies of her résumé along with her grades to businesses both big and small.
Samantha listened politely as representatives from the larger defense corporations recited their spiel about why she should come work for them. They were on the hunt for science and engineering majors and were quite impressed by her credentials, but if truth be told, they had arrived with a certain quota of minorities, women and veterans to recruit. Difficult as this was, the hiring company received a handsome bonus for each qualified person they could find that fit the criteria since they gained valuable points when bidding on federal projects. Being an excellent judge of character, she could sense the insincerity in their voices hidden behind wide, phony smiles.
It was just then that she saw the Navy recruiter tucked away in a small corner of the building. Being a small town girl, she was mesmerized by his starchy white uniform and his crisp, military manner. It didn’t hurt that he was a tall, handsome man either. With the wide-eyed naiveté of a young country girl, she listened carefully as he talked to her about Officer Candidate School and a career as a naval officer. He filled her head with the promise of thirty paid vacation days a year, coupled with plenty of travel to far away, exotic places. The farthest that Samantha had ever been from home in her life was the Iowa state fair in Des Moines where she had seen a two headed snake and a potato that looked like Richard Nixon. But the kicker was when he mentioned all of the Navy’s various programs for repayment of student loans. The scholarship she had received did not pay for everything during her four years at the University of South Dakota, so like the majority of college students, she was saddled with a sizable amount of student loans. Even though they carried a low interest rate, the total principal was comparable to a mini-mortgage. Samantha eagerly snatched up the shiny brochure and took his business card.
Telling her dad that she was going into the military was difficult. Like everyone else in town, he watched the news as both the war in the Middle East and the body count dragged on. Reluctantly caving in under his favorite daughter’s relentless pressure, he finally gave his blessing for her to join the Navy.
After graduating college with honors, the swearing-in ceremony was held on the Knudson farm and conducted by a representative of the South Dakota state senate with a considerable portion of the extended family in attendance. At the large party afterwards, she received congratulations from many family members in-between bites of lutefisk.
One of the most horrifyingly atrocious foods known to mankind, lutefisk is a dried cod fish soaked in a lye solution before boiling, giving it a gelatinous consistency resembling either clear Jell-O, or as some said, human snot. Having enjoyed the delicacy all of her life, Samantha snarfed up a sizable portion before her hungry brothers could get at it, even though it gave her a wicked case of the runs.
A week later, she was off to Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island for twelve weeks of indoctrination in history, shipboard management and other fundamentals that the budding young naval officer would need to know. This was the first time she had ever flown and cried openly as she waved goodbye to her family through the small Plexiglas window. She recovered her composure before landing and was soon mesmerized by the campus like atmosphere at OCS.
Being a farm girl, she readily handled the rigorous physical fitness training with ease. As with everything else she set her mind to, she breezed through the rugged curriculum. Samantha became the OCS class leader and helped mentor some of the other students after hours. Decked out in her white dress uniform at the graduation ceremony three months later, nobody was prouder then her dad who flew out to watch her receive her commission as an Ensign in the United States Navy.
Meteorology officers receive specialized training prior to their first duty station, so after a week of leave back home in South Dakota, she attended Basic Oceanography Accession Training in Gulfport, Mississippi. This was her first trip down south of the Mason-Dixon Line and she did not like it at all. Hot and humid with bugs the size of toaster ovens, she could set her watch by the arrival of the afternoon thunderstorms. Here she went through advanced training that included methods of analyzing weather conditions, identification of common weather patterns and techniques of forecasting. Luck smiled on Samantha once again as her supervisors recognized that she was a top talent in her field and recommended that she be assigned to the Fleet Numerical Meteorology and Oceanography Center.
Samantha immediately fell in love with the place. What else could a girl want in life, she thought to herself. The bay leading out to the Pacific Ocean was only a few blocks from the base and she could smell the salt air from her small but expensive apartment. When she wasn’t busy with work, weekends were usually reserved with tourist type activities or cookouts on the beach with friends. And after all, the Navy gave her three square meals a day, more money and benefits then she had ever earned in her life and they let her play with great big computers.
And now, from high on top her vantage point, Samantha watched out of the corner of her eye as the petty officer stood over the inept public utility worker, delivering the message about the cable. With growing dissatisfaction, she could see the two men arguing. Finally, the sailor walked away, gesturing in her general direction. As the worker readied himself to get out of the recessed flooring, a flash of anger from Samantha froze him in his tracks. Sheepishly, he put his screwdriver back into a toolbox and disappeared back down into the hole.
This is a hell of a lot better than milking cows, Samantha thought as she turned her attention elsewhere.
* * * * *
CHAPTER THREE
West of Orlando, Florida - Wednesday Evening
FROM THE WAY JENNY drove her late model Acura along Route 50 at fifteen miles over the posted limit, it was quite apparent that she was a woman on a mission. Here on the west side of Orlando, the road was three lanes wide and she used each and every one to her advantage. Weaving her way through slower traffic like she was driving at the Daytona Speedway, she expertly cut off blue hair retirees and businessman alike, ignoring the occasional middle finger salute thrown her way. She adjusted the air conditioning vent with one hand as she narrowly missed a repair crew that was tearing up gravel behind an orange striped barricade.
Unconcerned about the carnage she had almost caused, Jenny pressed down on the gas pedal a bit harder. If she hurried, she would have just enough time to make her purchase and then hit the market to pick up stuff for a late dinner, fighting cross-town traffic all the way. Her husband Bob was a professor at the University of Central Florida and Wednesday was the night that he taught an evening class. He would be hungry when he came home and expected dinner to be ready for him on the table.
She slowed down enough to make the turn into the mall parking lot without screeching the tires too loudly. Even though it was almost sunset, there were plenty of spaces in front of the large department store that had anchored the mall for years. Picking out the closest spot, she slid the Acura in between the painted lines. Luckily, there would be no need for her to trek across the hot, black asphalt.
With the motor still running, she reached up and twisted the rear view mirror. The car’s powerful air conditioner had blown a few strands of her long blonde hair out of place. On a normal day, this would have been unacceptable to Jenny since she was fastidious about her looks, but today of all days, it just absolutely would not do. She opened her pocketbook and took out a hairbrush. Carefully, she brushed the errant strands back into place. A fast check of her makeup made her sigh. It was the best that she could do with her dwindling supply, but that was what she was here for, wasn’t it? Let’s get this over with so I can get the hell out of here, Jenny thought to herself. She set her jaw for the difficult task at hand as she shut off the car and stepped out into the dimming light of the evening sun.
Jenny walked quickly across the lot and into the cool air of the department store without pausing for the automatic doors. Normally she would have taken her time and browsed the aisles for the ever-present bargains the stores always seem to have, but a fast glance at her watch told her she was running late. She almost hesitated as she passed her weakness, a pile of neatly folded blouses underneath a large sign proclaiming 35 percent off the retail price. With a determined stride, she hurried towards her objective.
Up ahead, she could not help but spot the makeup counter. The bright artificial lights reflected harshly off the long, highly polished glass counter. Glossy commercial posters of flawlessly skinned models adorned every conceivable surface. As she got closer, Jenny could smell a sweet mixture of the many different perfumes and lotions that saturated the air.
She sat down on a stainless steel swivel chair directly in front of an attractive blonde-haired woman who didn’t appear busy. Putting on her best happy face, Jenny said, “Hi. I’m looking for a good concealer. Can you recommend one?”
The store clerk, a shapely thirty-something woman named Nora, studied Jenny with a professional eye. An excellent judge of character, she had seen her type many times before. The matching khaki cargo shorts, dark blue short-sleeved Polo shirt and very expensive running shoes practically screamed, ‘I’m a bored suburban housewife left alone with my husband’s credit cards and they’re burning a hole through my panties.’
“Here are some of our more popular foundation bases,” she said, smiling back sweetly. Reaching under the glass counter, Nora pulled out a tray of tiny jars as she calculated the hefty commission she was about to wring out of this suburbanite. She opened one and dabbed at it with a camel hairbrush. “Why don’t we see how this one works?”
“Well, I was hoping to just get it and go. I’m kind of in a hurry.”
This sentence struck Nora as extremely odd. Almost all of the snooty rich women that came in here usually demanded absolute perfection in their ornamental requirements. Sometimes she would work on a single fat face for hours at a time, matching and blending every imaginable color in the quest for eternal cosmetic Nirvana. For Nora, that was a long time to feign interest and she usually got bored after the second or third re-incarnation.
“You mean you don’t want to try it on?” Nora asked incredulously. “You have a very light skin tone. It might be difficult to match properly.”
Using her most imaginative lie, Jenny said, “Actually, the makeup is for my daughter. She’s on her school softball team and took a fast ball to the face last week.”
“Oh no! That’s terrible! She wasn’t hurt, was she?” Nora asked, actually concerned for the imaginary girl.
“There was no permanent damage, thank goodness, but it left her with a decent-sized knot on her noggin and a black eye. To top it off, she has a date this weekend.” Jenny smiled convincingly as she shrugged her shoulders. “You know how teenagers can be so vain about their looks.”
“Yes I do.” Nora agreed with a chuckle. “But aren’t we all?”
Jenny saw her opening. “Why don’t we go with a small jar of this kind?” She pointed to a neutral looking shade in the glass case.
“Ah! A very good choice. That one’s from the Pretty Woman line of cosmetics.”
Jenny’s selection, Pretty Woman’s Miss Glamorous #2 concealer, was an excellent choice indeed. Made from a vitamin-enriched formula and rated SPF 35 for maximum protection from the harsh Florida sun, it was touted as the best cosmetic around for almost any difficult skin problem including blemishes, scars and under eye circles. Deeply moisturized to enable layering and mixing with other facial products, it was also the most expensive brand that the store carried.
Something just did not feel right with Nora as she reached under the counter and pulled out a sample jar of the makeup. From years of working the cosmetic department at Orlando’s swankiest mall, she knew that Pretty Woman’s Miss Glamorous #2 concealer had another dark claim to fame. Since it was well known that its greatest strength was its ability to provide total camouflage for bruises, it was also the de facto makeup of choice for battered women.
Nora examined Jenny as carefully as she dared. Could this obviously rich lady sitting in front of her be one of those kinds of women? Was she a doormat for an abusive husband who got his jollies smacking the weaker sex around? Even though Nora stood a chance of blowing her fat commission, curiosity got the better of her. She just had to find out.
“You know, I bet your daughter’s complexion is just like yours. I’d feel more comfortable if we did a fast skin tone test,” Nora said.
Moving quickly over Jenny’s objection, she drew the loaded brush across her cheek, giving her the opportunity to closely scrutinize the woman’s face. Jenny’s makeup had been expertly applied and on first glance appeared normal. Suddenly, Nora noticed something unusual under her right eye, high on the cheekbone. It might have been the humidity or the way her hair rubbed against her cheek, but some of the makeup had begun to wear thin. That’s when Nora clearly saw the slightly purplish, bruised skin. It had initially been hidden by her blonde hair, but was now exposed for the entire world to see.
“This will do fine,” Jenny said in a slightly anxious tone. She opened her purse and pulled out her special credit card. Attached to an account secretly opened years ago and paid for with diverted household money, the billing statement went directly to her friend’s apartment in town. If it were ever delivered to her house in La Noche Pacífica, her abusive husband Bob would blow a gasket. As if I needed another reason for that asshole to hit me, Jenny thought sullenly.
Nora read the card as she picked it up. “Hmm… Genevieve. That’s a very pretty first name, Mrs. Reid.”
“Thanks,” she answered back, glad that things were moving along and the noisy makeup girl was no longer examining her face. “My dad read ‘The Adventures of Robin Hood’ when he was young and he became infatuated with the name. But please, call me Jenny.”
“You know, it’s kind of funny,” Nora said, still holding the card tightly between two well-manicured fingers. “We don’t get much call for this brand of concealer. Nope. Not at all.”
She gazed directly at Jenny, her laser-like stare communicating all that needed to be said. “It takes a particular kind of woman to wear this makeup. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to purchase a larger amount, Jenny? You know, for any other emergencies that your daughter might have?”
Nora somehow magically retrieved a humongous sixty-four ounce container of Pretty Woman’s Miss Glamorous #2 concealer and plopped it on the counter with a bang that threatened to shatter the glass top. The price tag on this large jar was so expensive, there were some third world countries that couldn’t afford it.
Jenny felt her face grow warm with shame as she realized that her secret had been exposed. Lowering her gaze, all she could do was shake her head yes.
Nora quickly swiped the credit card through for authorization. In a second, she handed it back along with the receipt for Jenny’s signature. After the purchase was complete, she placed the jar into a trendy miniature shopping bag that proudly displayed the store’s name and colorful logo. With a smile, she handed over the magic concealer to Genevieve.
Wordlessly, Jenny turned and hurried out of the store, her face as hot and red as the setting sun, all the while making a mental note to never use this store’s cosmetic section again.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FOUR
Monterey, California - Wednesday Evening
ALL WAS WELL AT Fleet Numerical. The huge amount of the day’s data collected from instruments around the world had been chewed up by the center’s massive computers and stored safely away on huge RAID disc drives for further analysis and distribution. An acronym for Redundant Array of Independent Disks, the technical term was used to describe a complex computer storage scheme that increased data reliability by dividing and replicating the information among multiple hard disk drives. A large part of the Center’s total computer network, this precautionary measure was necessary to protect the terabytes of data that Fleet Numerical processed daily.
A hurricane that was churning away in the Gulf of Mexico for the past few days deserved special attention and was being watched carefully by a dedicated team of scientists and technicians. Various weather prediction models were being applied to the carefully collected storm data in order to further refine its path.
More importantly for Samantha and her fledgling career, a successful run and distribution of the next day’s weather reports had been done without incident and on schedule. The public utilities workers had left for the night, but not before Samantha had to admonish them once again for leaving tools scattered about and not properly replacing a floor panel in a main aisle way. Idiots could have caused somebody to fall through and get seriously hurt, she thought. And all because they were lazy and in a damn hurry to leave!
Samantha was leaning over the shoulder of a civilian worker. He had called her over to point out a small anomaly with one of the gauges monitoring a computer’s core temperature. After a half an hour’s inspection, the pair determined that it was a problem with one of the hardware sensors and not a show-stopping event.
With an order to keep an eye on the gauge in case the condition worsened, Samantha went back to her desk. Opening up a large green cloth-covered logbook, she entered the time and a description of the trouble. As a matter of procedure, the highly trained technician who first noticed the problem would enter an on-line report with a complete description of the event but the Navy dictated that the officer in charge keep a written log of all abnormalities during the long night watch. There’s nothing like being in charge of a highly technical computer center, Samantha thought once again as she finished dashing off a depiction of the issue.
Her concentration was broken by a subtle beep. Samantha turned to face the wide bank of monitors at her side. Swiveling in her chair, she focused on the left most screen where a spot on the graphic display was blinking, demanding her attention. Good old Betsy, she thought. Right on time.
Betsy was a Cray-1 supercomputer and Samantha’s favorite of all the machines. Outmoded and considered an antique by today’s standards, the computer had been relegated to the basement a year ago, unused and slated to be removed to the scrap heap until she learned about it by accident.
Once again, she marveled at the Cray-1's architecture. The original designers had used revolutionary ideas to bridge difficult technical hurdles. Since electricity flows through copper wires at the relatively slow rate of three-tenths the speed of light, no wire in the machine was more than four feet long. The core of the huge machine formed a unique C shape, which enabled the computer’s integrated circuits to be located closer together in order to increase efficiency. An innovative refrigeration system using Freon handled the intense heat generated by the computer. Now widely banned since it causes ozone depletion, it was this cooling method that led to Betsy’s early retirement.
Samantha thought that this was a shameful death for such a groundbreaking machine, so calling in some favors, she had the computer resurrected. Betsy took a lot of work to rejuvenate but for Samantha, it was well worth it. Instead of having to queue up for computer time with the rest of the Center’s scientists, she now had her own personal supercomputer to play with. When it came time to give the machine a designation so that it could be recognized by the network, she decided to name it after one of her cows back home on the farm. Like her favorite bovine back in South Dakota, Betsy was old but not yet ready to be put out to pasture.
Scooting her chair across the hard tile floor, she typed at the keyboard in front of Betsy’s terminal. A weather simulation she had started a few hours ago had just finished running. This was the latest in a series that Samantha was working on and the results were not corresponding to the predicted outcome. She let out a sigh as she gave a cursory examination of the data displayed in three huge columns. With a push of a button, she copied the machine’s work to an unused part of her allocated space on the center’s network, safely tucking it away for further analysis tomorrow.
Quickly scanning the huge computer center once again, Samantha noticed that the activity of the room was winding down. With a change of watch coming up, she took the liberty to check her email. On top of the long list, she saw a message that she had been expecting. Clicking on the link, she read the short email.
14) P-QR3 Take that, Sammy!
Samantha groaned out loud. Quite adept at multitasking, she played chess via email to help pass the long hours of watch. Tonight she was playing with a friend who was a ranked Class A player and she was losing badly. With this last move, her fragile position on the board had been weakened severely. Playing with him was always a good experience since she went away learning a new chess position or strategy, but her friend was an immature little weasel who liked to gloat incessantly. She could envision the torrent of email he would heap upon her if she lost to him once again. Samantha was fiercely competitive and hated to lose at anything.
Let’s see if Betsy can suggest something, she thought to herself.
When Samantha had resurrected Betsy from the bowels of computer purgatory, one of her first tasks was to test it for proper operation. To accomplish this, she had adapted an open source chess program to run on the machine. Working on complicated chess positions was an acceptable benchmark to judge the machine’s health. Each successive tweak of the computer’s many parameters helped fine tune Betsy back into fighting shape.
As usual, Samantha had been recording the current game’s moves for further study. Feeling sneaky and just a bit naughty, she fed the data to Betsy with a touch of a button. Now up to date with the game’s position, Samantha let Betsy loose on the problem.
She did not have to wait very long for an answer. The screen’s display flickered as it took Betsy all of six one-thousandths of a second to figure out the next best chess move. In the time it took Samantha to read the suggestion, Betsy had forged ahead and computed a dozen variations to her friend’s possible answer along with the corresponding counter moves. Thirteen lines down the list, the game ended in a draw. Analyzing Betsy’s suggestion, Samantha grinned as she relayed the reply back to her friend.
“Take that, asshole,” she said to no one in particular as she typed the email, grinning from ear to ear.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FIVE
Orlando, Florida - Thursday Morning
THE SUN WAS UP and in full force at seven-thirty in the morning as Vito opened the front door of his house. Following years of habit, the old grey-haired man lit up the first of his many daily cigars as he slowly surveyed his surroundings, checking for anything strange. A sly glance up and down the block showed nothing out of the ordinary. In the distance, he watched one of his neighbors driving away to work in a shiny black Mercedes. After a fifteen second pause in the doorway to further scrutinize the empty street, he was satisfied that it was safe to venture out into the morning heat.
Wearing a baggy tee shirt and a pair of extremely ugly plaid shorts, he slowly walked out of his house to fetch the morning paper. Not seeing it on the lawn, he swore under his breath in Italian. Despite having being warned, the paperboy had once again tossed the newspaper deep into the bushes. As quickly as his sixty-five year old body would allow him, Vito reached deep into the shrubbery and retrieved the paper, but not before he scratched his forearm on the sharp pointy leaves. This brought out another round of curses, this time in both English and Italian.
As he wiped at the thin red line on his arm, Vito had a sudden feeling that something was amiss. All of his senses instantly snapped to high alert. He had learned long ago that trusting his animal instincts could mean the difference between life and death. The adrenaline that was now flowing through his system made every muscle in his powerful body tighten. Quickly, he noticed what was wrong with his environment. The trash receptacle at the curbside had been tipped over and the garbage bags had popped out. Why didn’t I see that before I left the house? he asked himself. All of this easy living must be dulling my thinking.
Vito went over to the mess in front of his house, his eyes darting back and forth. Carefully poking at a white plastic bag with his foot, he observed that none of them had been ripped open. He remembered that the weekly information bulletin that the association threw on his front steps had said that there was a family of raccoons spotted in the area, with traps and poison set to rid the community of the problem. Surely, a hungry raccoon would have torn right through the garbage, the old man thought to himself. Using the same logic that served him well his long life, he quickly ruled out animals as the cause of the trouble.
A muted thud from up the block gave him his answer. Off from school for summer vacation, some of the neighborhood kids were riding their bikes up and down the street in the relative coolness of the morning. One kid, tired of jumping curbs, was showing off for his friends by wheeling his BMX style bicycle close to the sidewalk and at the last moment, lashed out with his foot to kick over a trashcan to the loud applause of the other brats. Looking down at his own black plastic container, Vito saw the dirty imprint of a child’s size seven sneaker.
He felt the heat rise up within him as he chomped down hard on his cigar. Slowly, Vito counted to ten in Italian. From past experiences, he learned that this delaying tactic prevented a few things from occurring. Since he continued to eat salty meats like prosciutto and salami against his doctor’s orders, it stopped his blood pressure from rising too high and possibly bursting a vessel in his head. More importantly, it gave the distinguished-looking man time to reconsider the idea of walking into the garage, fetching a baseball bat from the corner and smashing the youngster’s brains out.
Vito Capputo learned at an early age to take personal insults seriously. Born in a fifth floor tenement slum in New York City, his illiterate Sicilian parents, not great believers in a formal education, thrust him out on the mean streets of Brooklyn as a child to help obtain much needed income for his poor family. Finding companions in likewise cast aside youngsters, he quickly worked his way up from swiping fruit from a horse drawn cart to running an illegal numbers racket at the corner grocery store. Before long, he caught the eye of the local gangsters who were always on the lookout for fresh talent.
Now elevated to street thug level, Vito was allowed to participate in other criminal pastimes like collecting owed gambling debts from deadbeats. This opportunity brought bigger paydays and being a good son, he never forgot to send home a portion of his ill-gotten money to his parents.
Vito ascended through the ranks in record time. He accomplished this remarkable feat by utilizing his native intelligence for business and a burning desire to excel. His success was also attributed to his sheer ruthlessness. Lacking early parental affection and guidance, he was completely devoid of anything that resembled human compassion. In time, he married a sweet, dark haired neighborhood girl by the name of Angelina and proceeded to start a family.
Short in stature but possessing a muscular build, Vito was soon proficient in maiming and killing people the traditional way with knife and gun, but if truth be known, he preferred a baseball bat as the weapon of choice. This was a bit unusual since Vito did not really care for baseball or sports in general, if you didn’t consider taking a bet on a game or two, but he possessed a natural swing that Joe DiMaggio would have been proud of. With both of his strong hands gripping the wooden handle, the thick barrel of the Louisville Slugger made a sharp crack sound as it contacted the skull of his many victims. He briefly experimented with an aluminum bat that the college leagues were now mandated to use, but being a traditionalist, he soon returned to the denser northern white ash. There was just something about the dull ping sound of a metal bat that did not sit well with him.
Word quickly spread through the underground about his love for the national pastime. When the books were opened and it came time for Vito to be initiated to the inner ring of La Cosa Nostra, he needed to receive a nickname as all good Sicilian Mafioso did. A low-level wise guy from a competing gang by the name of Two-Fingered Tony jokingly suggested ‘Bats.’ This moniker never really did take hold since Vito thought it made him sound crazy, as in the phrase ‘Bats in the Belfry.’ Another reason why it never stuck was that Two-Fingered Tony was found dead later on the next day, stuffed into a large dumpster with the left side of his head caved in. A postmortem examination showed wood splinters imbedded deep in the wound. The fact that the trash container was in the parking lot of Yankee Stadium only added to the irony.
Vito carefully maintained his reputation as a good earner for his bosses. After a few more years of faithful employment, he was made a captain, complete with his own crew of criminal underlings. Always observant, Vito noticed with some dissatisfaction that true power rested at the upper echelons of the organization. Paradoxically, any stagnation in advancement through the ranks was looked upon as a weakness and therefore, certain death from any one of his many associates.
In time, he rose further up in his chosen occupation to the rank of under boss. He was now second in command to a man named Nicolas Abandado, known affectionately to his friends as Nicky the Scumbag. Though Vito and Nicolas had grown up together on the streets as children, their relationship as adults was one of carefully guarded and mutual distrust. In a group that respected violence and money, all tributes from ill-gotten gains moved up the chain of command, not down. Vito now had to kick up tributes only one level to his boss but being greedy, he thought that this was one level too much and decided early on that his longtime friend had to be eliminated at the first convenient opportunity.
One night, Nicky the Scumbag decided to attend his daughter’s college graduation. As his Cadillac Seville pulled into the school lot, he and his bodyguard were greeted with gunfire from six different shooters, all dressed as parking lot attendants. Since the hit men were all expert shots, Nicky died instantly in a bloody mess that stunned even the normally stoic New York press. Although no one was ever charged with the crime, everyone who was anyone knew that Vito had masterminded the coup d'état.
Now assuming the defacto role of capo de tutti capo, Vito grew even more cautious. Well aware that there was always someone looking to take over his hard earned position as he himself had done, Vito made sure that his hand-picked and highly paid bodyguards were always at his side. Keeping an eye out for the ambitious young underling, he quickly and ruthlessly dispatched his enemies.
Great rewards came with the dangers of his chosen profession. Vito now controlled both the cargo that crossed the Brooklyn docks and the prostitutes that uncrossed their legs in the fancy brothels on the upper eastside of Manhattan. Every bolt of cloth that rolled down Seventh Avenue added to his wealth and as his riches grew, his influence increased. Judges, assembly members and all pundits of the political machine lined up to receive his considerable favors. His range of illegal enterprises was all embracing.
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