The Flame

By John L. DeBoer

When twelve-year-old Craig Fletcher is first attracted to his classmate, Laura Forsythe, he has no idea that his unrequited puppy love will develop over the next twenty years into an addiction to the seductive woman Laura becomes, a siren whose call he can't resist. The Flame is the story of Craig's obsession for a femme fatale, threatening to destroy his reputation, his career, and jeopardizing his very survival. Finally, at the brink of disaster, he looks into the abyss and wonders if it is not too late to, if not save himself, then at least obtain some measure of redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Nov 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781611606393

John L. DeBoer

After graduating from the University of Vermont College of Medicine, John L. DeBoer, M.D., F.A.C.S. completed his surgical training in the U.S. Army and then spent three years in the Medical Corps as a general surgeon. Thirty years of private practice later, he retired to begin a new career as a writer. When not creating new plot lines for his novels, Dr. DeBoer pursues his interests in cooking, the cinema, and the amazing cosmos. He’s an avid tennis player, and his yet-to-be-fulfilled goal is to achieve a level of mediocrity in the frustrating game of golf. The father of two grown sons, he lives with his wife in North Carolina.

Book preview

THE FLAME

by

JOHN L. DEBOER

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2013 by John L. DeBoer

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-639-3

Cover Artist: Gemini Judson

Editor: Cherie Singer

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To David C. DeBoer, who was taken from us much too soon.

Acknowledgements

I want to thank my fellow writers who critiqued this novel. Their input and support made the story a much better product than it otherwise would have been: Dagny, Ann Everett, Amy Metz, Karen McDaniel, Dennis Hart, Archie Hooton, Jim Knight, C.E. Jones, Madison Ready, Nathan B. Childs, Carolyn Kuczek, Allen Freketic, Caroline Kellems, Eric Krajcik, Irene Hamilton, Mike Jackson.

I also owe a big thank you to my editor, Cherie Singer, whose thorough evaluation polished the manuscript for publication.

The importance of a book cover’s appearance cannot be overestimated. Gemini Judson, the cover artist for my last novel, succeeded again in capturing the theme of the story so well.

In the end, despite the above consultants, the responsibility for the final product rests with me, and any errors are mine alone.

Chapter 1

Surgeon Craig Fletcher finished sewing the chest tube in place as blood trickled through it into the waiting Pleur-evac container.

Still doing okay, Steve? he asked the anesthesiologist.

Pressure’s fine. Urine output is picking up.

Craig nodded and took 4x4 sponges from one of the two CSTs assisting him. He placed them around the chest tube and on the incision, now stapled closed. He then secured them with occlusive tape. Ready to turn him back now?

Any time.

Craig removed the sterile chest drape. Deflate the beanbag, please.

The circulating nurse clicked the release valve of the device holding the middle-aged man up on his right side. The beanbag became soft again.

While the surgeon removed the securing tape from across the patient’s hip and then the pillow from between the man’s knees, the anesthesiologist removed the protective roll from the patient’s right armpit. Then, together, they maneuvered the trauma victim to the supine position.

Craig now applied bandages to the stapled abdominal incision, nodded to the orthopedic surgeon, who had come into the OR a few minutes earlier. He’s all yours, Frank.

Frank Osborne and his Physician Assistant, both gowned and gloved, stepped closer to the operating table. You can start prepping, Penny, Osborne said.

The nurse removed the bandage that had covered a wound in a deformed right thigh, changed gloves, and began to scrub the leg with Betadine solution.

You’re not going to rod him tonight, are you, Frank? Craig took off his surgical gown and gloves.

Osborne looked at the clock on the wall and laughed. You mean this morning, don’t you? No, we’re just going to reduce the fracture and clean out the wound. When he’s stable and the swelling’s down in a few days, we’ll bring him back.

ICU, I assume? the anesthesiologist asked.

Damned straight. I’ve got the chart. Craig picked up the medical record from the counter, and left the OR for the Surgical Intensive Care Unit.

While dictating the operative note and writing the post-op orders, Craig’s only thoughts concerned the recovery of his patient, a complete stranger some four hours earlier.

At that moment, he couldn’t possibly know of the connection between this trauma case and something that began years earlier in his childhood.

* * * *

Twenty years earlier:

The third baseman dove to his left as the ball sped across the infield grass toward the base path. He snagged the ball in his outstretched glove, rolled once, and tossed the ball to Billy at second base before the runner could reach it.

The game was over. Twelve-year-old Craig Fletcher had just made the final out in the game that decided the 1987 Cherry Hill Township Little league championship. Raising his hands in the air, he joined his teammates at the pitcher’s mound, where they jumped up and down and on each other in celebration.

Craig looked to the bleachers and saw his folks in a crowd of other proud parents. His dad had his thumb raised in appreciation, and his mother waved at him. Craig waved back as he continued to search the stands, looking for his girlfriend.

The team’s coach, after participating in the victory exuberance, organized his charges into the customary show of good sportsmanship. A line of happy Phillies shuffled past an oncoming file of the losing Yankees. The opponents slapped hands and uttered good game to each other as they passed.

Nice play, Jerry Binns, whose ball Craig had caught, said when he came abreast of his friend. Unlike the rest of the Yankees, he was smiling.

Thanks, Craig replied and moved to the end of the line, still scanning the bleachers, emptier now, for Laura. Maybe she’s waiting for me at the bike rack.

At that moment, though, even Laura’s absence could not dampen his good mood. Next week he, Jerry, and the rest of the Cherry Hill All-Stars would begin practice for the district tournament. Making it through the New Jersey contests, and then the regionals to Williamsport was not likely, he knew, but it sure would be fun to try.

Tall for his age, with a thick crop of blond hair, Craig had learned via the gossip channels that his female peers considered him cute. Until Laura Forsythe, he’d never really had a girlfriend.

Through elementary and middle school, the frequent alphabetical seating system usually put him near Laura, and they often ended up in the same group when students were divided for class projects. He always considered her pretty, and he got along with her okay, but a girlfriend? That never occurred to him.

That all changed a month earlier when Lois Branson gave a party for some friends at her house. Craig assumed he and his seventh-grade classmates would have a pleasant Saturday evening of games, music, Cokes and snacks in Lois’ basement rec room.

But he discovered that Lois, known to be sweet on Jerry Binns, had something additional in mind for her party.

* * * *

The spacious, wood-paneled room contained a bar at one end. A pool table at the other end and a dartboard that hung from one of the walls provided the middle-schoolers with alternatives to engaging in self-conscious banter with members of the opposite sex. Michael Jackson’s Bad CD supplied the background music. The girls wore shorts and cotton tops or sundresses, while the boys favored jeans and sport shirts.

Although Lois had announced dancing would be included in the festivities, no one had yet shown any interest in it. Apparently having decided it was her party, and thus her responsibility, she got the ball rolling. Jerry. The pixie-like brunette shook her ponytail to the beat. I love this song. Come on, let’s dance. She pulled Binns away from his dart game and began to gyrate to "The Way You Make Me Feel."

Jerry rolled his eyes, said Okay, like it was a chore, and started to dance with her. The ice broken, other couples joined in. Not wanting to be thought of as a drag, Craig, who stood next to the girl he knew best, invited Laura to participate in the action. She quickly agreed.

Another fast-beat song followed, and then the much slower "I Just Can’t Stop Loving You" began. At this point, couples parted for refreshments, but Jerry grabbed Lois around the waist and the two swayed slowly to the tempo. Jerry caught Craig’s eye and threw him a wink.

Interesting, Craig thought, knowing full well the razzing Jerry would get later from the guys. He turned to go, but Laura took his left hand in her right one and gave him a smile, eyebrows raised in a silent question. What the heck? If Jerry can do it, I can, too. He put his right hand on Laura’s waist and drew her to him, frantically trying to remember the moves he learned in the dancing class his mother made him attend. He soon found the lessons unnecessary, as Laura made it easy for him to slow-step her around in a tight circle.

By the time the song ended, the two were cheek-to-cheek, Laura’s strawberry-blonde hair brushing softly on his skin. Craig enjoyed the feel and scent of the girl in his arms, immersed as he was in an unfamiliar zone of pleasure.

Hey, Fletch, Jerry called out. The song is over, dude.

Craig looked up to see everyone staring at them, including Lois and Jerry, both grinning broadly. He felt his ears turn red. Thanks for the dance, he muttered to his partner and went over to the tub of Cokes on ice at the bar.

Fortunately for Craig, one of the other girls changed the subject. Lois, she called out, I’ve got an empty bottle. With an impish expression, she held it up. I think it would have a good spin to it. What do you think?

Craig, confused at first by the remark, suddenly got it. He saw his hostess looking around the room, nodding her head slowly.

Lois smiled at her friend. I think we can do better than that, girl. How about Post Office?

Craig eyed his buddies to gauge their reaction. He’d heard about this game from his older sister.

Jerry grinned. I’m in.

Billy Ewing, the second baseman on Craig’s baseball team, looked confused. Post Office? What’s that?

Well, it’s like this, Lois explained. We take turns going into that closet over there. She pointed. Then the rest of us decide who will deliver the mail to you. Then we see how long it takes you to read it. Get it? she asked with a smirk.

He scanned the faces around the room. His friends stared back at him, smiling in anticipation. Mail?

Oh, come on, Billy, Abby said. It’s a kissing game.

The boy’s eyes widened, then he laughed. He made eye contact with his dance partner of a few minutes earlier. It’s okay with me.

* * * *

Craig waited anxiously in the dark closet, hoping Laura would be his postman. Someone knocked on the bi-fold door and then opened it. And there she was, a big smile on her face. She stepped in and closed the door behind her.

Do you want to? Craig whispered. With light coming through the crack in the door, he could barely make out her form. The perfume that entranced him during the dance filled the small space.

Oh, shut up. Laura grabbed his head with both hands, and brought it down to hers. Their lips came together for a kiss.

Craig’s arms went around her waist. He chuckled softly. That’s a good start. How about another?

They kissed again, longer this time.

This is so cool, Laura said.

Yeah. Didn’t know what I was missing. He bent down to kiss her again.

They can’t see what we’re doing, she whispered, so don’t tell anybody.

But they’ll know.

No they won’t. Not really. It’ll be our secret. She gave his buttocks a squeeze and kissed him a fourth time. Now we better go.

Craig didn’t want this to end. He kept his arms around her. I like you, Laura.

I know. I like you, too. So take me to the movies next Saturday. She reached behind her, grabbed his hand and put it on her breast. I’ll wear something special for you.

Before Craig had time to analyze this sudden move, let alone enjoy the feel of the soft flesh beneath his hand, Laura gently removed herself from his embrace. Remember, Craig, it’s our secret. She opened the door.

* * * *

Craig found his parents waiting for him when he arrived at the bike rack. Trial lawyers in their own firm, they’d had a late conference with an important client and couldn’t get to the game before it started.

Great game, Craig, his father said, holding out his hand.

The Little Leaguer shook it. Thanks, Dad, he said as he looked around at the departing throng of parents and ballplayers. Still no Laura.

The district tournament is next? Mrs. Fletcher asked, smiling.

Yeah. We have a pretty good team. But Haddonfield will be tough.

I can put your bike in the trunk and give you a ride home, his father offered. You must be tired.

That’s okay, Dad. It’s not far. And I have to see Eddie about something on the way back, anyway, he lied.

Okay, son. See you later.

Congratulations, sweetie, his mother added.

The elder Fletchers walked to the parking lot while Craig unlocked his mountain bike and climbed on.

He pedaled toward Knollwood Drive, with no particular plan in mind. Laura said she’d be at the game, and he wondered what had gone wrong. He might see her if he rode by her house.

Craig slowly approached the two-story house that stood in the middle of the block, his baseball glove dangling from a handlebar. He saw no car in Laura’s driveway. Maybe she had to go somewhere with her mom or dad.

He’d almost come even with the house when he saw the front door open. As he stopped the bike, hoping to see Laura, Josh Wyatt came out the door. A year older, and headed for ninth grade in September, he was the star of the middle school’s intramural basketball program. Laura had no siblings, so Josh’s presence at her house puzzled him.

Wyatt, who lived just two blocks away, started to cut across the lawn away from Craig, who now saw Laura standing in the doorway, looking after her visitor. Neither one had apparently noticed Craig’s presence at the curb. Laura said something to the boy, causing him to return. He then leaned over and, to Craig’s astonishment, kissed her!

What’s with that? Craig suddenly did not want to be spotted. He pulled his baseball cap down over his face, turned his bike around, and pedaled away from there.

He rode home, trying to come to grips with the surprising development. He felt an ache deep in his chest, symptomatic of the emotions swirling around in his head—shock, sadness, anger. He’d just experienced the devastation of lost love for the first time.

* * * *

Laura, supposedly in her room engaged in homework, sat on the stairs, listening to her parents talking. On a late Christmas Eve long ago, she’d used this vantage point in the hope of catching a glimpse of Santa Claus. Instead, she discovered the noises coming from the living room were not made by that jolly old man, but by her parents as they placed presents around the tree.

During dinner, Mom had mentioned something about a job opportunity for Dad in Vermont, something she found in one of his magazines. Her father had acted surprised when the subject came up, and, with a Let’s talk about this later, the matter ended.

Now, the conversation concerning it continued, while Laura eavesdropped.

"I didn’t know you read Museum, Dad said, especially the classified section of all things."

"What, you think I only read Vogue and Good Housekeeping?"

No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that it’s a professional journal, kind of dry.

Her mother laughed. I have to admit, most of that stuff doesn’t interest me, but I do leaf through it occasionally, including today.

"Oprah had a rerun on?" Dad said with a chuckle.

Bill...

I’m sorry, Meg. Just kidding.

Did you know about this?

Let me see it.

Laura didn’t hear anything for a few moments. Then, Yeah, her father said. This is what Matt told me about the other day.

So?

Honey, I’ve got a good job now. The Franklin Institute is one of the finest places in the country.

But look at that salary.

You’re serious about this.

Why not? You’re certainly qualified. And more money?

You’d be willing to leave New Jersey, your friends, a comfortable life—for an unknown situation?

Bill, you’re in your prime now, perfect time for a move. And how secure is that job of yours? I’ve heard museums are cutting back. You’re not the boss at the Institute. If you get laid off, where would we be then?

Honey...

I’m really excited about this. Sally and Carl rent a place in Shelburne, right on Lake Champlain, every summer. They love the area.

A vacation isn’t the same as living there permanently.

Look, it wouldn’t hurt to call these people, would it? Get more details? What do we have to lose?

I don’t know, Meg. It would be a huge step to take.

Sweetheart, why don’t we take our wine up to the bedroom? I’m so in the mood. We can talk about this business stuff later.

Dad laughed. This has really got your juices flowing, huh?

Kiss me, you fool.

Laura heard the sofa creak and then some murmuring. She scampered up the stairs to her room. She lay on the bed, thinking about what she’d heard. Mom wants to move, and if she wants it, she’ll get it.

Instead of wondering how her life would be disrupted by a move, Laura thought about the family dynamic in play. She smiled, amused at how Mom always got her way, her influence over Dad. Her own experience told her the reason why. Boys would do anything to please her. It looks like things don’t change much when they grow up.

* * * *

Craig did not see Laura again that summer. He’d heard she moved away to some place in New England. He didn’t know Wyatt well enough to ask him what the deal had been with Laura. The mystery of her betrayal nagged at him for a few weeks, but then he put it behind him—or so he thought.

Chapter 2

Laura sat alone in the back seat of the car. Heart played on her Walkman as she looked out at the passing Vermont countryside. At least there’s finally something to see. The hours she and her parents spent driving through New Jersey, then north on the interstate past Albany, bored her almost to tears. She did have Josh Wyatt to occupy her mind during the first part of the trip, though. She smiled as she once more visualized that look on his face when she gave him the news.

They had been walking home after she watched Josh’s pickup basketball game at the park, when she delivered the bombshell.

Vermont? Josh stopped in his tracks and placed the basketball he’d been dribbling on the sidewalk under his arm. Jeez, Laura, how did that come about?

Laura, now a few steps ahead, turned and went back to him, a smile on her face.

Dad got a new job.

And you’re okay with this?

Hey, Josh, what choice do I have? But it sounds like it’ll be fun.

Fun? What about us?

Laura saw his look of confusion. He had to be wondering why she would be happy about the move, about leaving him. This was, indeed, fun already. She decided to play with it for a bit. What do you mean?

You know, you and me. We won’t be able to see each other anymore.

Laura nodded. True, and that’s a bummer. But we can write, and Dad might bring us back for a visit. She held eye contact with him, fascinated by her ability to manipulate his emotions.

Josh sighed. So when are you leaving?

Next Wednesday.

Oh, man. He shook his head in amazement. Why didn’t you tell me?

Just found out about it this morning, she lied. Dad said he didn’t want me having too much time to complain about it and cause trouble.

Five days! I can’t believe this, Laura. He stared at her. I’m going to miss you like crazy, you know.

I’ll miss you, too, Josh, but it’s not the end of the world. You’ll find somebody else. She smiled sweetly at him, knowing this would make him feel worse. Time for her exit. I’ve got to get going—have to help Mom with the packing. She grabbed his free arm with her left hand and stood on tiptoes, lips pursed.

Josh leaned over, obviously expecting a mutual kiss, but Laura’s lips brushed his cheek, instead, a final touch to the assault on his psyche.

She walked off quickly, then turned to wave, and saw Josh looking at her as he stood, unmoving, his basketball still under his arm.

She’d keep that memory for a while.

How much longer, Dad? Laura asked.

There’s Lake Champlain. Dad pointed to his left. Should be there in less than half an hour.

Great. She took off the Walkman headphones and gazed out the window at the massive lake and the Adirondack Mountains beyond, wondering what life would have in store for her in this new place.

Laura had not lied to Josh about her enthusiasm for the Vermont move. She’d grown tired of him and Cherry Hill and really did look forward to this next adventure with excitement. A fresh crop of boys would discover her. She could hardly wait.

* * * *

Shelburne, Vermont

July, 1987

You think you’re the only one with that problem? Susan Kemp said to her fourteen-year-old brother.

Having graduated from high school one month earlier, the tall, attractive young woman would enroll at Boston University in the fall. The two siblings sat at an umbrella table on the patio of the family back yard, sipping iced tea on a sunny and warm afternoon.

It seems like it, Robert replied.

Well, you’re not alone. This anxiety about not fitting in, wanting to be accepted by your peers—most everybody goes through that. Being a teenager isn’t easy. Believe me, I know.

Easy for you to say now. Yeah, okay, I’ve read all that Ann Landers crap. But it doesn’t help me today to know it’s common, something I’ll grow out of eventually, like you. Besides, I look around and don’t see other kids with the problem.

Really? I guess you know everyone at school personally, and they confide in you.

"Come on, Sue, you