Contaminated

By Peter Zimmermann

It took 92,000+ words to tell this story. Three adult brothers, one adult sister, deceased parents. Conflict is the name of the game, or should I call it insanity? One brother has an all-consuming need to satisfy desires and get rich; and he doesn't care if his schemes are legal. His personal cess-pool waits for those who are close to him; some jump in without hesitation, some resist. He is a powerful influence on both friends and family, and will stop at nothing to reach his goals. Contaminated follows its cast of characters to places few will ever experience. An original, spine-tingling ride that'll keep you on the edge of your seat, Contaminated unfolds across a number of years, many thousands of miles, and will keep you guessing right to the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Zimmermann
• Release date: Feb 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465946911

Peter Zimmermann

High school class - English Composition. First assignment - write a short story. My grade - A+ with praise. Since then I've wanted to write a novel. A career and family obligations got in the way, but the desire to write that book hung on. I wrote magazine and tech-related articles. That was satisfying, to a degree, but could not satisfy like a novel. Finally, during a period spent recuperating from a medical issue, time was available. I wrote until a tall, neat, stack of paper sat on my desk. I titled those pages "Contaminated."

Book preview

Chapter I

Craig Adams considered himself a lucky guy. Luck, usually a combination of education, experience and preparation, can still be completely blind. Like the tide, luck is an ebb and flow thing. A lucky guy can’t look forward to a lottery win every week; an unlucky guy doesn’t get out of bed in the morning and expect to get run over by a bus before lunch. There was a time not long ago that Craig thought he was unlucky, but for now that’s been forgotten.

Craig stood ten feet from the front wing of one of the most fantastic racing cars ever built, and watched Jonathon Graves slip down into the cockpit of his Formula 1 car. Jon had asked Craig to be there, and Craig traveled from Los Angeles to Europe to watch his friend perform. While driving Indianapolis 500 racing cars Jon got the offer he had hoped for, a chance to drive for a competitive team in the top bracket of his sport, where every race is a Super Bowl, a World Series, a Stanley Cup or Wimbledon.

Jonathon sat in his racer alongside 19 others. Each of the 20 cars was occupied by one of the best drivers in the world. Craig watched as Jon’s crew fussed over him, they checked and rechecked his safety harness, the radio wire connection at the side of his helmet, and other elements inside the car to be sure he was secure. As secure as one could be in a car that would be traveling close to 140 miles per hour from a dead stop in the short distance to turn one.

Quickly it was time to move. The beautiful women that hold a marker for each car’s position were asked to leave the grid, along with the host of VIP’s and team members still with their cars. Craig wss escorted toward Jon’s garage, where the privileged few are allowed to partake in what the ultimate form of motor racing has to offer. As Craig moved past the wall that separated the pits from the track the engines behind him came to life. His blood ran cold and a chill gripped his spine as he listened to the engines rev.

Jonathon’s heart rate, only 42 beats per minute at rest, was 160. Jon had prepared hard for the moment, and was ready for his first Formula 1 race. Skill, far more than luck, was why he sat strapped into his earthborn rocket.

Craig watched the clock tick down to zero and focused on the cars as they moved away to do one low speed lap. Jonathon started smoothly; a cloud of tire smoke hung over his third place position. Experts say no one short of an experienced race driver can get a Formula 1 machine moving from rest, let alone drive it. 180 beats-per-minute. Not even the great, multiple world champion Michael Schumacher started as far up on the grid in his first attempt. Three minutes passed before the cars returned to their designated starting slots, each marked by painted lines.

All attention turned to a row of five red lights suspended over the track, which illuminate one at a time and then go dark simultaneously. Approximately 18,000 horsepower will be unleashed as the cars rocket toward turn one with a fury unknown in any other sport on earth. 200 beats-per-minute. Jonathon gives his safety belts a final tug, engages first gear and closes his helmet visor.

Luck. Sometimes it has absolutely nothing to do with anything. It just happens. Twenty-five years earlier, Jim, one of Craig’s two older brothers, stood on a sidewalk in Santa Monica, California. Jim, with his friends Mark and Tom, were told that a nearby apartment building was a whorehouse, and if one hung around untold pleasures might be theirs. The then 17 year old took a long pull from a can of Coors hidden in a brown paper bag, swallowed with satisfaction, and watched a car pull to the curb not far away.

The car’s door opened and a pair of long, shapely legs appeared. A sexy young woman gracefully stood, adjusted her almost illegal-length mini-skirt and walked toward the three boys.

As she passed by on her way to the building’s front gate Mark said, Hey, baby. How much do you charge?

The young woman turned and said, Excuse me?

Mark said, You work here, don’t you? How much for a little action?

You want action? How about if I call the cops? How about if I run down the sidewalk yelling rape?

Ah, shit. Calm down, bitch.

Fuck you, the woman replied, slamming the wrought iron gate behind her.

Put in his place, Mark continued to curse her as she walked into the building, finally gave up, and the boys made their way back to the car. They spent another half an hour watching darkened windows, finished their beers, threw the empties out the window and headed across town. When they reached the west end of Wilshire Boulevard Jim turned right onto Ocean Avenue, made a left at the California Incline and drove down to the Pacific Coast Highway. Several miles later they stopped at a small bar on the beach in Malibu.

As they walked in they noticed the one and only pool table had drawn a crowd; a row of challenger’s quarters lined its rail. They moved to the bar and bellowed a hello to Sammy, who worked the place with a waitress named Sherry. Sammy, always good for a beer unless law enforcement was in the building, would wave Jim and his buddies to the back door and Sherry would bring them their brews. The coast was clear.

Jim led the way outside and down a rickety staircase; the boys kicked off their shoes and walked barefoot to one of a few small tables scattered on the beach. Sherry, dressed in a white blouse tucked into tight denim shorts, walked toward them and put their beer on the table. As she bent forward her shirt, unbuttoned far lower than most women of the day dared, fell open nicely, and the boys stared at her exposed breasts. She drew more appreciative glances from the three teenagers as she walked away; the soft sand accentuated the sway of her hips.

A few minutes later a boy named Kurt walked up the beach from the surfboard shop he worked at and shouted a noisy greeting.

Hey guys, thanks a lot. Where’s mine? he said, pointing at the three beers on the weathered table.

Get your own, said Mark.

You know he won’t serve me.

Too bad, pal, said Mark, laughing. What are you doing workin’ so late?

I’m making myself a new board, and man, I’m going to blow everybody away the next time the surf’s up.

As this exchange took place Jim sat quietly. He sported his usual smug look, and although his mind was far away his eyes burned bright with intelligence. It was anyone’s guess what thoughts they hid.

Kurt switched subjects, and boasted how fast his car was with the new carburetor on it.

Jim said, Let’s go up to County Line; I’ll race you for fifty bucks.

Kurt accepted the challenge and the boys raced south to Trancas Canyon, with the understanding if the cops stopped them the bet was off. Scrub pines and Bots Dots flew past; a long picket fence became a blur as they covered the six miles at speeds close to a hundred miles an hour. They hurtled past their finish line and pulled into a parking lot at Zuma Beach. The two teens climbed from their cars and while they talked about the race the right front tire on Jim’s car blew out. They stood staring at it. Less than five minutes earlier Jim had passed Tommy on Tommy’s left. It was clear to them if it had blown then the game might have been all over. Luck.

Lady Luck was Jim’s friend. At the tender age of ten he and Rochelle, his twin sister, found a way to get under a boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey. They had grown restless on the fourth day of their annual family outing to the seashore, had finished a round of miniature golf and wondered where the balls went after they rolled into the cup on the eighteenth green. They found a large bucket, filled with brightly colored balls, nestled in the sand below the last hole. As they watched, a green ball dropped into the galvanized pail from above.

Jim and Rochelle exchanged wicked smiles, scooped up as many balls as they could carry and, one by one threw them into the ocean. As they attempted to outdo each other a trap door opened in the pier’s floor and the game’s manager dropped to the damp sand to collect his golf balls.

He saw the two kids and yelled, You little bastards!

The twins ran as fast as they could, and the man behind them followed until he tired. As he fell back he screamed, I’ll kill you little fuckers if I see you here again!

When Jim and Rochelle reached safety they collapsed on the warm, white sand and laughed until their stomachs hurt.

Three years passed, to a warm summer evening in 1971. Jim and Rochelle squatted next to a hedge that bordered a quiet city sidewalk. Jim had just climbed down from a huge tree whose branches reached far out over the asphalt of the street; he held a six-inch long wood dowel in his hands. On the rod was a ball of string not unlike that used for kite flying. The string played out and disappeared up into the darkness of the tree, and when Jim released a few feet of the twine a thick, foot long piece of branch fell from the tree’s lowest boughs, directly above a traffic lane. Jim pulled on the string and hoisted the chunk of wood until it once again blended with the tree.

Rochelle said, Now what?

Elle, Jim said, using the name he had started calling his sister, just watch.

You’re not going to hit a car with that, are you?

Sure. Why not?

You can’t do that!

Sis, I can. You know why?

Why?

Because I’ve got these, said Jim as he cupped his genitals with his free hand.

Oh brother, said Rochelle as a car turned onto the street.

From their hiding place behind the hedge they watched a Corvair approach. Jim waited, and then released the string. The heavy branch missed the little car’s roof and trunk, its driver unaware.

The next guy wasn’t so lucky. Jim got his timing right, and the piece of wood hit a big Buick’s windshield dead center. At approximately forty miles an hour the man behind the wheel slammed on his brakes, swerved violently, sideswiped a parked vehicle, and littered the road with a trail of broken glass and car parts.

Behind the foliage Jim pulled the branch up into the tree, tied the string to the dowel and stuffed it into the dense hedge. Laughing, he said, Let’s get out of here!

The two thirteen year olds ran a couple of blocks, walked calmly into a malt shop and ordered sundaes. After Jim’s adrenaline rush subsided Rochelle looked at him and said, Jimmy boy, you’re fuckin’ nuts.

Jim’s luck held. A few years after the speed contest with Kurt Jim invited Craig and some others to a party at the house his childhood sweetheart rented with two roommates. It was late afternoon on a beautiful June day. The barbecue awaited burgers and dogs, and Craig finished a conversation in the kitchen. As he moved into the living room he watched Jim walk out through the sliding glass door, the closed sliding glass door.

Shards of glass, large and small, burst outward, producing an odd cacophony of noise from loud crashes to the faintest of tinkles. Momentary flashes of brilliant color burst from the falling pieces before they landed on the concrete at Jim’s feet. He made it from inside to outside and stood motionless until the noise stopped. Everyone gathered around as closely as the glass on the patio would allow. Not a single spot of red could be seen from any angle, from Jim’s almost black hair to his white Vans sneakers. Carefully, he stepped away from the house as brooms and dustpans appeared and the cleanup job was accomplished.

Jim removed his shoes, checked for glass, put them back on, and stood up. His girlfriend walked around him about five times; not one single cut, not even a scratch.

Chapter 2

The present. A huge, white cruise ship slid silently through the clear, dark Caribbean water. Soft music from a ballroom drifted peacefully from windows and doors open to the warm, night air. Lights from the ship's many decks reflected in the water’s mirror-like surface, disturbed only by the low, gentle wake from the vessel’s bow. The ship’s staff always enjoyed the third night of this particular cruise. The ship had been underway for a number of hours and after most of its guests were peacefully tucked into their beds the crew would drop anchor at just the right place, to create a spectacular setting for the next morning. The scene that awaited the passengers at sunrise was a vista that included a ring of islands with stunning white beaches and blue water so clear fish could be seen swimming lazily thirty feet below the surface. Shuttle boats would pick up the passengers who wanted to explore the closest of the islands, sample their food, and return with native treasures to take home.

After the evening meal and scheduled entertainment happy travelers made their way slowly to their staterooms. Two men stood by the railing of the fourth deck, toward the front of the vessel, observing.

The men had boarded the ship at the outset of the cruise and watched as other vacationers disembarked from limousines, shuttle-vans, taxis and private vehicles. According to the information they were given they knew there would be three single females, unaccompanied by males, on the trip.

They watched the one listed as traveling alone, a nice looking redhead, come by taxi, check her bags and walk up the boarding ramp. The two observers checked their notes, assumed she was Melanie Walker, and wandered along behind her until she reached her room. They noted her cabin’s number and immediately returned to the arrival area and resumed their watch.

About an hour before the ship’s scheduled departure two scantily clad females in their early twenties emerged from a limousine as their driver retrieved their bags from the trunk. The ladies watched him carry their luggage to a check-in counter, had their tickets stamped and walked, hips swaying, up the boarding ramp carrying small overnight cases.

A bet was made on whether the women wanted to spend time together, or if they intended to ruin a couple of marriages during the cruise. The men followed them as they strolled slowly along the decks until they reached their cabin. Once again, the room number was jotted down.

The men tracked the occupants of both rooms for the first two days and nights. Both nights they saw the redhead walk as far forward as she could, on the deck her room was on, to enjoy a last cigarette before bed. Tonight they waited for her. They knew that people were predictable, and the young woman didn't let them down. Shortly before midnight they saw a splash of light appear on the deck outside her door. Almost as quickly the light disappeared as Walker pulled the door shut behind her.

Show time, whispered one of the men.

They leaned on the railing, talking quietly, as the sound of Melanie’s flip-flop sandals approached. As she walked behind them the taller man quickly pulled his hand from his pocket, reached around behind her, and clamped a chloroform-soaked cloth over her nose and mouth. As her body went limp the second man opened the door to a nearby restroom, and the woman was pulled inside. They laid her on the floor; one man retrieved a professionally printed OUT OF ORDER sign, which they hid earlier in the day, and hung it on the outside of the door. The second man felt the pockets of her shorts and found her room key. He went outside, walked to her room and entered. He quickly packed her belongings, did a wipe-down of the room, placed a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outer doorknob, and carried her luggage outside. He allowed the door to swing closed and lock behind him, threw her keys over the side and went back to the bathroom where his partner waited.

Just over an hour later the cruise ship reached its destination, and as the anchor was being lowered, a small, electric-powered craft made its way silently toward the white ship’s port side. Its pilot saw the flashlight signal he was looking for and maneuvered his boat directly below it. Less than a minute later he could see his cargo being lowered at the end of a rope.

As the redhead’s unconscious body got within reach he supported her and laid her on a bench seat. He untied the bags attached to the line, gave a firm double-tug on the rope, and watched its end disappear into the darkness above him.

Looking down at his new passenger, he smiled and thought, You’re going to bring more than the average, baby. He threw a dark-colored blanket over Walker’s limp body and pulled away from the side of the cruise ship as quietly as he had approached only minutes earlier.

The small boat followed a course that allowed it to pass directly between the two nearest islands, after which its pilot turned north. He pulled alongside a beautiful Bayliner pleasure craft and tossed a line to a man who was waiting for him. After securing the two boats together, another man appeared on the Bayliner’s deck, and together they transferred the redhead and carried her to a below deck cabin. They hurriedly disconnected the line and the larger boat sped northwest.

The small craft turned, circled the nearest island, pulled into a small west-facing harbor and tied up at an empty dock. Its operator walked along the pier, climbed on a waiting motorbike and rode along a narrow access road that followed the shoreline until he reached his tiny house. Secure in the knowledge that a messenger would deliver a sealed package to him the next day, he fell asleep knowing he just earned three months pay in one night, and best of all, it was tax-free.

Chapter 3

1976. Jim and Rochelle became the apples of their parent’s eyes when they both gained admittance to the University of California at Los Angeles. Jumping straight from high school to a major university suited them well. Rochelle worked hard to achieve success while Jim hardly worked. Jim excelled in math classes that other students dropped. Rochelle became fascinated with a pre-med program while Jim stretched his mind finding easy entrance to fellow classmate’s wallets. Rochelle studied until three in the morning, rose at six a.m., walked three miles and went to class. Jim played poker and blackjack until three a.m.; perfected his ability to memorize cards he had seen face up and continually calculated his odds of winning. He got so good he would fold winning hands to avoid walking away from a game with too much money.

As a 21 year-old junior Jim traveled to Las Vegas for a poker tournament, and won the first prize of $50,000 for his efforts. During his stay he met a couple of characters that, between them, had about twenty hookers that worked in the city. They knew the girl’s activities were illegal and they bragged to Jim how they managed to stay just out of reach of the law.

Intrigued by this new information Jim returned to school and placed an ad for girls who wanted to make some easy cash. To his surprise his phone rang off the hook for three days. He arranged interviews and dismissed all but three of the young women, the three who were eager to disrobe for him in his dorm room.

Two weeks later Jim turned his girls loose on a Friday night in Westwood, near the campus. The next morning, after the girls delivered almost $3,000 to him, a fire began to burn inside Jim. He wanted money, lots of it, and he began to see how to get it. His fertile mind began to calculate a different set of odds, how to remain insulated from the cops. Jim never kept notes or jotted down thoughts. Jim never forgot anything.

Rochelle knocked on Jim’s door one morning early in the twin’s senior year. Jim opened it and said, Hi, Elle.

Hi Jimmy. She stretched to kiss him on the cheek, not because Jim was big, but because she was small.

What’s cookin’?

Jim, I want to go to med school.

Can you get accepted?

Oh hell yeah. My obstacle is the money.

How are you planning on paying me back?

Twins don’t usually have sex, so that’s out.

Damn. I’ve been keeping myself pure all these years, and now you tell me you won’t do it with me.

Jimmy, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, you’re fuckin’ nuts.

Since we left mom’s womb I’ve wanted to kiss your tits. I’m really shattered.

Oh come on! You’re starting to worry me. What’s the matter, doesn’t Rebecca put out?

Sure she does. Seriously, what’s it cost?

What, for me to have sex with you?

Stop that already. Med school…

A lot.

I’ve got a lot; go ahead and apply but do some of it with student loans.

Rochelle jumped up from her chair, leaned over and hugged Jim tightly. No one, anywhere, has a twin sweeter than you! Thanks Jimmy!

Now will you have sex with me?

Sorry. No time. I’ve got papers to fill out! She blew him a kiss and was gone.

Chapter 4

1982. Craig Adams drove slowly along a quiet neighborhood street near where his parents lived. He heard an engine, a loud engine, come to life nearby. Looking down a driveway the noise was coming from he saw a racecar moving slowly toward a trailer that was parked facing a backyard garage. A young boy stood next to the trailer guiding the car up the trailer’s ramps.

Craig had always been drawn to racecars, so he parked his car at the curb and walked back to get a closer look. Jon Graves glanced over his shoulder. Somehow he sensed Craig behind him even with the racket and distraction the racecar created.

Jon smiled and said, Hi.

Hi. Craig waited until the car was in position on the trailer and shut off. I’m Craig. I heard the car…

I’m Jon, the boy immediately said.

And I’m Jon’s dad, Avery, said the man climbing out through the door window of the racecar.

Hi. Where do you race?

Willow Springs.

That’s out past Lancaster, in the high desert, right?

Yes, you been out there?

A while ago. I love racing, but don’t know anyone who does it.

You do now. Do you live around here?

Across the gully, on Dunes Road.

Do you want to come with us this weekend?

Sure! I’ll check with my parents, but I’m sure it’ll be okay.

If you don’t want to drive your car, there’s plenty of room in our truck if you want to ride with us.

Great. Noticing the SCCA club decal on the side of the car, Craig asked, How long have you raced with Sports Car Club of America?

This is my sixth year. Pointing at Jon, he added, He’s already got three years under his belt as my pit crew.

Craig said to Jon, Are you going to want to drive someday?

Oh, yeah. I’ve done a little karting already, but I haven’t driven anything fast yet. He looked at his dad and said, Now that we’re on this subject, how about a faster kart, dad?

Avery laughed and said, Give me five wins and we’ll step up. You know I want you completely comfortable at the level you’re at.

Jon turned back to Craig and said, I can already slide the kart in a corner and I know my lines. I could win if dad got me new tires instead of buying used ones.

I’m sure your dad does everything for a reason. Be patient and good things will happen. Craig could see that Avery appreciated that remark. Continuing, Craig said, How old are you, Jon?

Seven.

Amazed by his composure and awareness, Craig said to Avery, I don’t know what to bring with me.

He said, Jeans, work gloves if you have them, T-shirts, a couple of sweatshirts, and sneakers. Bring a couple of changes because I might have to put you to work.

Great. When do we leave?

About eight this evening. Do you mind leaving your car in front of our house?

Nope. I’ll be back then. Thank you, sir. See ‘ya later, Jon.

That weekend began the finest of friendships. Craig went to many races with Avery and Jon. He was with them when Jon won his first kart race, and his second, and his third, all on used tires. Avery was teaching the kid car control, teaching him to stay within the limits of what he had both in ability and the car’s ability. It was apparent that Jon was good, maybe even special.

He finally got his new tires and ran away from the entire field, cruising to an easy win almost a minute ahead of the second place finisher. Craig kept a lap chart that race and noticed when it was over that, even with a huge lead, Jon’s lap times never varied by much. Jon stayed focused, made no mistakes, and went as quickly as he could. While watching him during those wonderful race weekends, Avery taught Craig and Jon about racing, teamwork, and a little bit about life. The three knew that a rare bond of friendship had formed.

Chapter 5

1984. Jim promised Craig, Rochelle and their older brother Quentin a year of excitement and financial good fortune. Jim, Craig and Quentin bought their first expensive real estate. Jim was in charge of that venture, and Craig, twenty years young and impressionable, did almost anything his brothers asked of him. Quentin recently sold his first business and Jim managed to convince him that legally avoiding paying tax was good. Quentin showed absolute faith in Jim, and wrote him a six-figure check. The Adam’s investment portfolio grew to a pretty impressive amount almost overnight.

Quentin’s business was electronics, and when a business like that is sold the transaction can be done in a myriad of ways. In Quentin’s case there was a substantial cash payment plus stock options. Quentin was confident the company buying his firm was solid, therefore stock options would be good. It might even make him rich someday. He turned over the cash to Jim, who bought a 110-unit apartment complex in San Diego, with both the windfall from Quentin along with the sale proceeds from a first venture, a six-unit building in El Cajon. The small building was bought two years earlier with personal funds that Jim, Rochelle and Craig managed to scrape together. At least, that’s what Craig thought. His money certainly went into