Deviant

By M. W. Moore

At first glance it appears Francel Cooper, a top executive, is on another escapade to “rescue” a man, until she meets her match -- the handsome, daring and bold yacht broker Garrett Solomon.

Francel’s closest friends and co-workers, Britney Murphy and Ymando Hicks, are also on a road well-traveled. They attempt to pull themselves out of self-doubt and decide to open their hearts once again at a chance to discover love amidst the unpredictable. Even Ymando’s childhood buddy, Kindle Fisher, a medical intern, finds himself entangled in a web of deceit and family lies. But when unthinkable events arise simultaneously within their circle and come crashing down full-force around all five individuals, only the strong-minded will be left standing. Relationships will be tested and severed. Who will be brave enough to step out on faith, complete a divine calling and carry out a daring appointed mission in order to expose the deviant behavior of a loved one?

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. W. Moore
• Release date: Oct 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9780977611638

M. W. Moore

Novelist M.W. Moore is a former four-time NCAA All-American track and field champion, who competed against or shared the spotlight with some of the greatest in the sport, such as the legendary Carl Lewis, Edwin Moses and Florence Griffith-Joyner. Moore, a native and current resident of Houston, Texas, attended Mississippi State University studying Industrial Technology. He is the third of five children. For What I Hate I Do is the first in a trilogy, with the blockbuster installment -- Internal Chaos -- also currently available. The IC sequel focuses on the protagonist's first year in prison, including the loneliness and the loss of dignity and respect. It also exposes the warring nature of offenders, their gang and religious affiliations, social cliques and street-wise manipulation. The final installment, An About-Face, is being prepared for an upcoming release.

Book preview

Prologue

He jumped into his car from within his garage and pulled out onto the wet streets, racing down the boulevard, not caring that it was pouring down rain. His anger burned deep like the hate he had embraced toward his previous adversaries, Lena and Vincent. His mission had to go as smoothly as possible this time around. Life would not be taken again if circumstances were ideal. But he knew in most cases, circumstances were never ideal, so he would just play it by ear and whatever happened would happen. Besides, there was no way that he was going to allow another woman ever again to outsmart him or swindle his family out of money without suffering the consequences of her actions, even to death.

*****

Ed Baker’s voice that evening plagued Francel even through the loud thunder and rainstorm, while she anticipated Garrett’s arrival within the hour.

Ed’s voice taunted Francel without fail. No, Miss Cooper, this is a vital breakthrough that has come to a close. His voice was loud and clear as if he was right there in the same bubbled-filled tub.

Francel exerted to wash that day’s troubles away but her nerves were on edge.

Kitty lay at the foot of the Roman tub, loudly purring yet staring directly into Francel’s eyes. They both were in a relaxed state at the moment, listening to soft jazz that played throughout the house.

Francel could still hear Kitty’s soft purrs over the jazz and an occasional clap of thunder seemed to increase as the night eroded minute by minute.

Unannounced, a heavy clap of thunder and flash of lightning roared throughout the house.

Frightened, Kitty scattered from her relaxed position into the long hallway leading to the living area.

Francel laughed out loud at Kitty’s fright, and reasoned perhaps the cat had run into her plastic kennel in the kitchen to hide from the thunder and lightning storm.

Moments later, Francel exited the tub, grabbed a white cotton towel and proceeded to dry her water-drenched soft skin. Not long after the drying of her skin, she entered the hallway naked on her way to her bedroom. Once there, Francel proceeded to apply a small amount of perfume to her body in strategic places. Afterwards, she slipped on a satin eggshell white shoulder strapped gown that resembled a thin slip. The satin gown exposed all the right parts of her body

and then some. She admired her image from the stand-up mirror. She also knew mirrors didn’t tell lies, at least not the ones in her house, she often joked to herself.

Before she could gather her stilettos from the closet, Kitty let out an excruciating squeal from the kitchen area. But there was no thunder or lightning present, only the sound of soft jazz playing throughout the house.

Kitty! What’s wrong girl? Francel exited her bedroom into the soft lithe hallway. Seconds later, she observed Kitty commit a scratch and run across her path into the living room area. Scared, Kitty hid under the sofa.

Kitty, what’s wrong? Francel’s voice was full of anxiety when she entered the living room. She looked about and found no signs of her feline friend. She then exited the living room and headed toward the kitchen area, wondering whether Garrett had arrived through the back door and had frightened Kitty the cat.

Francel arrived in the kitchen area and stopped near the entry door, and called out, Garrett? Is that you playing games, because if it is I’m going to ban you from dessert tonight? Francel joked and rested her fist to her small waist. She recalled at that moment giving Garrett a key to the house to watch over it and feed Kitty while she was in Negril.

Garrett? She called out again.

Suddenly the house phone rang.

Francel entered the kitchen to answer the nearby phone and noticed that the French doors were slightly ajar, but there was no sign of Garrett. She slowly approached the phone.

Garrett! Francel called out once more over the ringing phone before she could pick it up.

Boom! Without warning, loud thunder clapped.

Francel was startled by the loud clap of thunder. Suddenly, as she reached for the phone, her body was shaken by a manly grip that caught her off guard. The grip was violent, not gentle. A strong gloved hand and white cloth suddenly covered her mouth and nose.

Francel immediately recognized the smell. Before she could register what had occurred, her knees began to buckle. Due to instinct, Francel quickly recovered and began to control her breathing to cease the chloroform agent knockout powers. Her next action came in the form of an elbow into the left ribs of the intruder. It was a Taekwondo maneuver she had learned long ago. Unfortunately, the moved did not faze the intruder, but only caused the masked violator to become more aggressive and assertive.

Their bodies struggled to take control of the other, but both were determined and came crashing violently into the nearby island counter, causing a mighty ruckus from the spice jars, metal pans, and knives falling and scattering onto the kitchen floor. Ironically, the twelve-inch firewall that separated the condo units acted as a noise reduction system, so Francel’s neighbors were oblivious to what was happening.

Francel wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold her breath and fight off the intruder and the powerful chloroform. She scratched and clawed to break free, yet wondered through the struggle, was the caller Garrett, and if so, how far was he from her rescue? Would he be in danger too from the masked intruder?

Oh my God, she thought while struggling to break free, hoping the episode was not going to be one of those O. J. Simpson incidents, where the lover walks unaware into a volatile situation and becomes a murder victim.

Meanwhile, Francel and the masked intruder crashed into another counter as he held the chloroform cloth tighter to her mouth and nose. She was almost out of breath and felt his hot breath creep down her neck like a vicious tiger intent on devouring its prey.

Suddenly both went crashing down to the wet kitchen floor.

Rain had entered the area from the open French doors, creating the slippery condition.

The phone continued to ring, adding to the sense of panic.

Thunder, lightning, and rain continued during their struggle on the kitchen floor.

Francel seemed to have lost the battle as she huffed and puffed to remain conscious on the kitchen floor. Her legs and arms became limp, her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

The intruder was too strong for her to handle any longer. With only a moment of breath left in her body, Francel saw a knife on the floor within her reach. She retrieved it with her right hand and raised it for the stab. With all her strength, gripping the knife, she plunged the weapon downward. Suddenly, her efforts were foiled when the strong right hand of the intruder stopped her actions. He pressed the cloth even tighter than before to her mouth and nose.

Defeated, Francel fell limp into a galaxy of helplessness and then into an involuntary unconsciousness.

The phone had ceased ringing.

The thunderstorm had ceased too, its clapping thunder sounding less and less frequently.

Reluctantly, the masked intruder released Francel’s limp body onto the wet kitchen floor. He pushed her aside and stood over her, panting heavily with anger, yet intrigued. He wasn’t able to control himself when kneeling over Francel and began tracing his gloved fingertips across her moist lips.

He uttered, Conniving bitch!

******

Deviant:

Characterizing actions or social behaviors that violate cultural norms including formally enacted rules as well as informal social norms (e.g., governing crime and sex)

Chapter One

Five Years Prior:

On the UCLA campus, spring break was at its peak. A light brown skinned special investigating agent named Cummings stands inside a campus dormroom and thinks about several students who are implicated in his investigation. What a waste of talent, he thinks to himself in dismay. His eyes comb the dorm room once again for more incriminating evidence.

Suddenly he breaks his silence and faces his partner with a question. So, how many were involved this time, you suppose? He continues to look around the room, then into the eyes of agent Spivey who is across the room doing what she does best — forensic science.

Agent Spivey was a full-figured and very attractive African American woman who knew her profession like the back of her hand.

Spivey finally replied, There were five in all. Two white males who seem to be the ring leaders, a biracial female, and a male Nigerian exchange student. Agent Spivey confirmed, Oh yeah, there was just one other, an African American female who swears she wasn’t involved. Just an errand girl, so she says.

*****

Late into the evening, several FBI agents continued their search at the UCLA campus. It was North Hall where they continued to confiscate evidence, such as computers and sensitive electronic data that had been stored on numerous computer discs.

Lead agents Cummings and Spivey supervised the whole operation. There in the dorm room, separated from the hallway by the barrier of yellow crime scene tape, Spivey stood in awe as she studied the technical apparatus used by college hackers, paid handsomely to assault the mainframes of rival companies in order to collect sums of sensitive and confidential financial data.

There was even a hit list of companies scheduled for upcoming hack assaults, stored in a safe hidden under a bundle of dirty laundry in a closet belonging to one of the male students.

Spivey could no longer hold her peace. Can you believe the arrogance of these guys? They’ve ruined their careers for the most part, hacking passwords for companies who couldn’t care less about them. Agent Spivey observed in her right hand a long list of companies that were next in line to be electronically assaulted.

Even Open Hack dot-com who often challenged inspired hackers to crack their codes was on the list of potential victims.

Standing right of Spivey was Agent Cummings who anticipated the booting up of a nearby computer at the hands of another agent. He could not help but comment again on the seriousness of the situation. You know, hacking is a big business in sunny California, agent. These guys don’t mind risking their future for tens of thousand of dollars dished out to them for this sensitive info. It’s all about the now. It’s a chance they take, living on the edge, I suppose, and to make matters worse, they don’t even fear being caught, Cummings explained.

Suddenly a voice alerted them. It’s booted, the blond haired male agent said. He stood up from the desk and stepped aside.

At that moment, both lead agents approached the cluttered desk wearing latex gloves. They leaned towards the computer monitor and studied the incriminating data.

Spivey reached out and made a few key strokes. Let’s see what we have here. She was a government-trained technician with ample experience in search engine programming, downloading encrypted data, and was an expert in electronic interrogation of most databases. She moved the mouse across the pad, and then clicked on the desired icon. Ah, huh, I got something here, agent. Her face came aglow.

Cummings continued to lean over her right shoulder and view the data. They knew we were coming, he said, as he viewed the evidence before him.

It seems that way, huh? Yet, they left spaces on the hard drive. When that occurs, a flag goes up and alerts the system that space is available for new data. See. She proved her point.

So what you are saying is that the deleted files are still in cyberspace somewhere? Cummings asked.

That’s correct, until new data is written on it. That’s why I’m running a utility to find those hidden files, Spivey confirmed.

Moments passed, then bingo!

I gotcha now! Spivey shouted out at no one in particular.

What is it? Cummings asked.

Look for yourself. Spivey pointed Cummings in the direction of the printer across the desk.

Cummings approached the desktop printer and removed the printed paper. Well, well, cut my legs off and call me Shorty, he joked. Look who’s involved in corporate espionage. Cummings approached Spivey dumbfounded. Both stood next to each other and viewed the document listing a variety of firms that had paid handsomely to have rival companies hacked for access to their data intelligence.

MLS Technologies paid fifty grand for passwords?

Spivey was wowed by the amount of money dished out.

As I said earlier, hacking is big business in sunny California. Still, how could these guys be so careless as to not delete this information? Cummings asked.

Maybe it wasn’t carelessness after all. Perhaps they didn’t want to be the ones left holding the bag, Spivey speculated, and walked back toward the monitor.

I guess that would be logical in this case. Cummings confirmed.

Oh my goodness! Spivey shouted out loud.

What is it Spivey? Cummings asked, concerned.

It’s the computer science lab, she thumped her head with her left hand as if she were feeble minded.

What about it? Cummings clenched the document against his right thigh.

There appears to be a virus planted in the lab according to this info. This could upset the whole UCLA infrastructure. Let’s get a team over there pronto. Spivey moved toward the dorm room door and gave instructions to everyone involved.

At the door, Spivey stooped under the yellow tape and Cummings followed her lead. Spivey began to give instructions. I want every inch of that lab seized. Call the University President and inform him that we are taking full control of the Computer Science building. They proceeded a bit rushed down the hallway. Spivey continued, Let’s clear this sector of the dorm. I don’t want any occupants in this area. No students, only our personnel. Okay!

Cummings grinned through the brisk walk. It’s your party, Spivey. He loved every bit of his partner’s dogmatism. I’m still baffled about something, Spivey.

What? she asked just as they exited outside. They then descended down a short flight of concrete stairs.

Who are the two females involved in this scheme? Cummings asked and noticed the evening sun fading faster than normal.

Spivey confirmed. Two grad students who I think I can make a plea deal with. I have a strong feeling they were just secondaries in this whole hacker intrusion scheme.

What makes you so sure of that? Cummings asked enjoying the brisk plod through the campus grounds.

It’s women’s intuition, my dear Watson. It’s just a woman’s intuition, Spivey said.

*****

Spring; 1980:

Listening to heavy rain splatter against black-tinted window panes fifty-five stories above the city sprawl, Neiman Peko, Senior sits in his company’s board meeting and thinks of himself as being a pretty good human. Not just some Do Gooder, but a good human being with values and principles that surpass most of his colleagues. Heck, at sixty–five, acting President and founder of Peko Petroleum, Neiman delighted in his self-image, with the attendant pandemonium he viewed as justifiable.

Outsiders who witnessed Neiman’s frequent involvement with charitable events praised him. Neiman’s acts of charity usually quieted the rumors that surrounded his wreak-havoc reputation as a harsh and shrewd businessman.

Neiman’s favorite charity was the Special Olympics held each year, in which he volunteered as a Time Keeper in Track and Field. He actually enjoyed bringing laughs to the faces of individuals with special needs. His acts were not a ploy or an effort to repair his image, but a personal delight that over-shadowed all the forceful takeovers and harmful business activities he had performed throughout the years. Buried deep inside, Neiman knew all his good intentions were futile justifications, an effort to make himself feel good before his own eyes. All the gala’s, benefit dinners, and volunteering could not heal his depraved soul, no matter how hard he tried to soothe his fragile ego. He was shrewd, risky and even smart. Every oil tycoon in Houston, Texas who dealt with him knew that fact. Even some outsiders who had never dealt directly with Neiman sensed the same notion as all the others. Nonetheless without remorse, Neiman would still involve his corporate officers in questionable deals that were so risky,even he wondered at times how Peko Petroleum survived it all and often escaped lawsuits and pending litigations. Neiman loved to take risks that often put him out of sync with Peko Petroleum’s traditional functions. He sensed that his CEOs loved taking those same risks too, as they often followed his lead without dispute.

That spring, a population boom had occurred in the Houston metro area, due to all the oil industry related activity. As always, Peko Petroleum was one of the major industry players that assisted the city in developing and attracting domestic and international attention for business. It was difficult for Neiman to separate the company’s day-to-day activities, due to various opportunities outside the oil and gas industry that had often surfaced.

With an ambitious President and equally aggressive and greedy CEO, Peko Petroleum was not about to miss out on a chance in striking it big in the real estate market. The company had plenty of undeveloped land throughout the city and no matter how risky the market might have appeared, Houston’s commercial, industrial and real estate market was in a boom time and in a league all its own.

During that rain-soaked afternoon, behind private doors, just a few floors above its industry rival Kemah Petroleum and Refinery, Neiman’s meeting was in full stride. In the past, he had encouraged his investors to venture into industries outside the ranks of oil-producing companies.

Among other priorities outside of real estate, were hidden intentions designed to break up values and profits of competitors’ stock and ultimately force the weakest link among companies to consolidate assets with a rival company. A malcolored redhead, Neiman Peko, Sr. sat head-end at the elaborate walnut boardroom table and held back comments. He was surrounded by eleven other CEOs and investors, most of whom were eager and ready to expand their already enormous financial portfolios. Some would assume after viewing these men’s financial portfolios and profits that it would take a monetary affairs scientist to figure out all their financial recordings.

The moment came when Neiman could no longer hold his tongue. His language was strong and offensive.

His executive secretary recorded and cringed at his foul comments. She even wished that she had not witnessed such language, which was directed at a particular ethnic group.

Neiman blurted out with a fiery look in his eyes. No one gives a crap about them damn nigger bastards anyway! So what’s the point trying to protect them?

A seated investor protested, I don’t like it, Neiman. I don’t approve of that behavior at all. His voice was uneasy, his jaws tight with tension.

Another investor intervened. Well, gentlemen, he paused in speech, looked at the secretary whose fingers continued to move over her stenograph. There’s not much we can correct at this stage in the game. What’s done is done. Deal with it! He insisted.

From across the table, another curious investor asked, How far are we into this mess? His eyes full of fear.

The company’s production manager began to explain. Construction has already begun on the projects, but I assure you all that the existing sludge below the surface is buried deep enough not to cause any serious harm or illnesses.

What evidence do you have to substantiate that claim? And what makes you so damn sure? the first investor asked.

Mr. Faulkner, we have hired the best there is. A team of Sedi-mentologists, geologists and mineralogists who have ample experience in dealing with volatile materials, inorganic crystalloids and the ever-changing earth’s surface and its internal features. For God’s sake man, we are an OPEC oriented company! This is what we do best. Identify problem areas that can come back and bite us in the ass if we’re not careful. The production manager made his point.

Neiman leaned forward with a smug smile, then rested his elbows on top of the table and spoke. Our team of scientists has everything under control gentleman. These filler homes are being constructed with the best of architectural materials available on the market. Besides, that land cannot go to waste, just because of a minute amount of crude sludge buried there. Hell, there’s no real chance of regeneration or strong potential for any sort of vaporous activity occurring there any time in the near future.

Damn, Neiman! What do you mean, anytime in the near future? The second investor cried out, I have a lot of money riding on this project and I’ll be damned if I allow this deviant behavior to come back and haunt me like some form of bad athlete’s foot.

Suddenly the red-headed Neiman Peko stood and smiled. His stature was strong for his age, his face perplexed. Neiman assumed that most of his colleagues feared him; that was the advantage he had so often used in his favor to win arguments like this very one.

Gentlemen, Neiman used a strong but calm voice that grabbed everyone’s attention. With hands planted firmly in his pants pockets, he began to plod the room in a circle. We all know that this thick liquid we are dealing with can be easily burned or melted if exposed to extreme heat or chemicals. It becomes volatile then. That land is the safest storage for this type of used petroleum. So that makes the risk very minimal. Those homes are not in any danger of becoming exposed to the buried sludge. Twenty-something feet is a safe depth.

An objection occurred. What if moisture settles throughout the years from plates shifting below the earth’s surface, and the sludge drums become exposed to the atmosphere and begin to rust and erupt? Then what? I see this situation causing us more headaches than it’s worth, Neiman. Contamination is inevitable if that happens. Those homes in King Heights are sitting near bayous. Those damn things shift, you know, and widen over time due to rain. Not to mention that area is a flood zone, too. Those people are human beings, Neiman! Humans! The second investor protested again.

Neiman was stopped cold in his tracks. He turned and slammed his fist to the tabletop. If that is the case, so be it! Have you all forgotten about Peko’s law? Deceive until the end! By the time those niggers find out about that damned sludge, they’ll be dead and gone or too damn old to do anything about it. So, are you guys still with me on this or what? Neiman Peko stood on his position. He listened again to the heavy rain splatter against the pane windows. He turned away, walked over toward the rain-soaked windows and stared southbound. His point of view faced the direction of his wrongdoings. He turned once more and looked around the silent room and knew once again that he had won his argument. He smiled and then murmured. Damn coward bastards.

Chapter Two

Current Day:

Y’mando Hicks’s normal working days were typical like clockwork. The Senior Tech Coordinator for Digi-Technologies seemed to be in a perplexed state of mind that a.m. hour while performing his morning duties.

Digi-Technologies Corporation, a software manufacturing and distribution firm, located in the heart of Uptown Houston is a thriving firm and Houston proud.

Y’mando loved his job and was quite satisfied with his work ethics and performance there. That being as it was, minutes earlier, he had confirmed that day’s production activity summary, performed a series of electronic test calls and run a problematic activity report from RAC (Retroactive Computer) which showed some unusual interfacial discrepancies from earlier abstemious concentrations.

The discrepancies stemmed from a series of terminals located in customer service. The report showed some odd electromagnetic pulse transmissions that could threaten data such as client account information, access codes, incoming/outgoing calls and most of the company email/password accounts.

Not second-guessing the report, Y’mando reran the reports just to be sure there was not a malfunction in the mainframe or servers. His well manicured right index finger slowly scanned the report. He found no interface interruptions from the second report. What a relief, he hought. He laughed to himself, showcasing a wide handsome white smile in his boyishly athletic face. At six feet three, Y’mando stood exuberantly tall. Suddenly he leaped from his chair and stretched the athletic physique he was well proud of. He wasn’t superficial or egotistical like some men he knew. He didn’t possess one of those magazine type six-packs either, but was proud of his hairless and flat stomach and his 32 inch waist. Y’mando had lost the six-pack years ago after his college football career at Georgia Tech had ended. Most black men with his skin tone did not have alluring hazel eyes which highlighted his dark skin tone and at times seemed to be more of a curse than a blessing, considering all the unwanted attention that came upon him.

It was nearly lunch hour and he was famished. He’d missed breakfast earlier. But before he could meet his body’s request, there was some unfinished business to attend to. As Y’mando stood within the secured RAC department, he craned his head to see over a work desk. He stared at a mass of headsets stored in red plastic containers, marked defective. It was a job for his assistant Poval, an Asian American male to perform. Poval was on assignment, upgrading data equipment for the Manager of Operations, Xavier Williams.

Y’mando glanced at his watch out of habit. It was 10:45. He anticipated Poval to walk through the secured door any minute. But before he could clear his thoughts, the coded entry door swung open. The high-pitched alert system buzzed once, indicating an entry into the control room. Y’mando could hear the quick-paced sound of footsteps echoing as they approached from behind the long wall that separated the control room from the hallway within the RAC quarters.

It was Poval. I’m sorry I’m late, Poval began to apologetically explain as he wore a look of distress. I had booting issues with Mr. Williams’s computer. Poval settled into his work area with a laptop and his tool tote in hand.

Hey man, don’t sweat it, Y’mando said, understanding Poval’s reason for being a bit tardy.

Earlier, Y’mando had experienced another unwanted situation that had happened without warning. There were unusual electromagnetic pulse transmissions creating inaccurate readings in the mainframe. That problem also produced a headache for Y’mando.

Poval began to explain again. At first I thought the terminal was trying to crash. So I installed my receiver to make an attempt to detect any foreign signals or transmissions.

Were there any? Y’mando asked as he stood with hands planted firmly in his pants pockets. He wondered about weak areas in Digi-Tech’s network and its anti-virus protection software that appeared to be obsolete.

Everything appeared normal. That was the mystery about it all, Poval explained.

Well, let’s keep a close watch on everything from here on out, because I was having my share of technical issues, too, this morning. RAC indicated several electrical disputes, so let’s continue to monitor the servers, the communication arrays and the temperature control unit for this area. It’s a must that the temp reading stay between 68 and 71 degrees Fahrenheit. I don’t want anything to fry in here. Y’mando explained. Oh, and by the way, re-enter your login account into RAC. It expires at 12:00 midnight tonight, Y’mando explained. I’m going to lunch and will be taking an extra hour today since it’s Friday, not to mention I have an important engagement with a close friend. Y’mando adjusted his starched white shirt and trousers. Hit me up on my cell if you have any problems, okay? Y’mando stepped forward and plodded for an exit.

I will, sir, Poval said and then continued his duties.

Just as Y’mando exited the control room and entered the long hidden hallway area, his cell rang. He reached the door and stopped in motion to answer it. Y’mando speaking, he greeted the caller. He displayed a wide smile, exited into the main hallway as if he had been waiting for that moment to occur.

Chapter Three

Kindle Fisher, a third-year medical intern had wakened hours ago. Sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in blue scrubs, sandals and a form-fitting v-neck white tee, Kindle mentally prepared himself for another strenuous day at Houston’s Hermann Memorial Hospital, located in the world’s largest, the Texas Medical Center. He had moved back to Houston a few months ago after he had finalized his transfer from Boston Med. At twenty-seven, bright and handsome, esembling the Louisiana-born Don Lemon from CNN, Kindle sported smooth beige tone skin and a pair of deep brown eyes that complemented his athletic built. His first order of business for the morning was to have a healthy breakfast at home instead of fast food at the hospital cafeteria. He loathed the food there.

It was after 10:00 a.m., and Kindle’s shift started at 12:00 noon. He was disappointed his shift had changed because he’d had to rework the pick-up basketball games he usually played in the late evening after work with some of his fellow male interns. Now that breakfast was complete, Kindle stood and approached the sink, scraped the scraps in the disposal and placed the plate into the dishwasher. He thought about the many personal issues he’d conquered, and some more he longed to eradicate. It was hard enough being a minister’s son, and when he was younger he was often taunted by his teenage peers for being just that — a minister’s son. Not to mention that during that era in life, he was also considered a bookworm and a momma’s boy by those same childhood bullies who had never let him forget it. Even girls who pursued him often accused him of being wimpy and too soft for not hanging out with their crew. Kindle quickly banished those thoughts. When he stood straight to ready himself for an exit from the kitchen, he was stopped cold in his actions.

What is that odor? Kindle whispered. At first he concluded the scent was from the hard-boiled eggs he had eaten earlier. Not convinced that was the case, he began to sniff around the room to identify the sulfur-like smell. At six feet, his stature was near the peak of the ten foot ceiling where the odor appeared to be at its strongest.

Suddenly a frantic male voice rang out within the house. Kindle! What’s that smell, Son?

Kindle continued his investigation and moved forward into the living room area. He sniffed like a hound dog in pursuit of the suspicious. It smells like sulfuric acid, Pops. Kindle re-entered the kitchen once more with his father not far behind. They headed toward the sink area from which the suspicious smell seemed to be emanating.

Reverend Dexter Fisher, still dressed in his morning robe, was Senior Pastor of Faith Tabernacle Church in southeast Houston, and acting Civic Club President within the subdivision. He was the perfect shade of mild light brown and equal in height and appearance to Kindle. At fifty-plus years of age, he still possessed that boy-like look. Ironically, some of his deacons often warned him not to appear so youthful in attire, because it could create distraction among his congregation, in particular among the younger women, who more than likely would find him tempting and alluring. Of course that would mean trouble for a married man like himself. Nonetheless, he was used to women in his church, young and old, who often threw their things at him like hats, handkerchiefs and even their hips in some uncommon way.

Suddenly Kindle asked. Have the City Sewer and Water department been out this morning working on water mains or something? He leaned face first into the double stainless steel sink and sniffed hard. Nothing was there, he concluded. Without haste, he reached out and turned the sink faucet on.

Matter of fact I did see a utility crew working in a manhole a block away when I went for my morning walk, the Reverend explained.

Wow, Pops. Check this out. Kindles eyes bugged at what had spewed out of the kitchen faucet.

What is that, rust or mud? The Reverend held his right hand over his mouth. Goodness, that stinks. His eyes bulged at what seeped from the sink faucet.

This is not good, Pops, Kindle said, and turned the