The Distance Between Fenceposts: Lemons on a Plate, #2

By Pat Black

"I should have gouged his eyes out, made them bleed, and let him die with empty, dry sockets. Just setting the place on fire while he slept may not have been enough to satisfy my craving to kill him."

The landscape of emotional and explosive events from the first volume of Lemons on a Plate (an alter-ego speaks) changes dramatically as the seeds of revenge grow.

THE DISTANCE BETWEEN FENCEPOSTS (the second volume in the Lemons on a Plate series) continues the story of the poverty-stricken vagabond and renowned writer and professor Barron Desulfer and the ex military officer Ken.

Engrossed by vengeance and unexplained powerlessness, an old book is added to the storyline and a dramatic shift occurs. This volume will bring the unanswered concerns of the first one into light and continue challenging the reader with emotional and thrilling suspense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pat Black Productions
• Release date: Sep 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386780137

Book preview

-a LEMONS ON A PLATE series novel

The Distance between Fenceposts

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2018 Pat Black

V1.0

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Pat Black Productions

ISBN: 

Cover and Interior Design © 2018 Pat Black Productions.

All rights reserved – used with permission.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

THE

DISTANCE 

BETWEEN

FENCEPOSTS

VOLUME 2

A LEMONS ON A PLATE SERIES NOVEL BY

PAT BLACK

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Designed by Pat Black Productions

ISBN ________________________

To my loving wife.

The Distance Between Fenceposts

This is the second volume in the Lemons on a Plate series.

Part 1.

Chapter One.

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I should have gouged his eyes out, made them bleed, and let him die with empty, dry sockets. Just setting the place on fire while he slept may not have been enough to satisfy my craving to kill him.

"Oh, Colonel, marvelous Colonel, you will be a delightful stepping stone that will turn up possibility after possibility..."

What a twisted and diabolical moron, that Professor Barron Desulfer! But no longer.

Our first meeting, though strangely delightful for him, was odd and uncharacteristic to me. Something from my past had plotted a course to the future. I desperately needed someone to pen the autobiography for me; I couldn’t do it myself. And I couldn’t think of anyone else to do it for me with the miniscule budget I had. The debts were enormous and work possibilities had dried up. I was stuck working in a consulting firm with the Brits, and cared nothing to be in London; it was a rat hole and the rats where running everywhere! They taxed the hell out of me as an expat and gave me the shitty projects no one else wanted. Traffic was horrible and the place always smelled like molded bread.

But it was time, low and behold, to write the autobiography-to get it done. My health was not what it was years earlier when I toted the eighty-pound backpack and thirty-pound M-60 through the hot, dry sands of the Middle East.

I stayed put, with a mortgage, car, and second-hand yacht, in Davis, the small, one-horse town that I grew up in; and though the extensive travel over decades always took me away, the financial responsibilities always brought me right back. I saw no use in buying another home elsewhere; this one was close to being paid off. Then the bad luck came-along with it, a refinance.

Davis had a large University, too. It was where Professor Desulfer worked for many years and it was where I first laid eyes on him, but enough of the small talk for now.

Chapter Two.

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I pulled the advertisement off of the board in the grocery store and stared at it. It was one of two places in the area to get food from and eight miles from my home. The other store, a more exclusive and cleaner place (and solidly more expensive) was about the same distance, in the other direction.

I knew that it had to be an employee from the store that put the advertisement up. I felt there was a certain psychology that was used in the writing of the short, but well thought-of ad that described a man seeking his next writing project.

As I put groceries in the basket and wheeled it around slowly, my eyes penetrated deeply at each employee working the evening shift. The person I sought, I felt in all of my suspicions, would work nights; it was his nature.

I put the bag of spinach and carrot juice in the basket, and as I rearranged the other items, I saw him. Clearly, it was him. He mopped the floor slowly and precisely, as though he were shining shoes for boot camp. He paid little attention to anything other than his task at hand as he chewed whatever it was in his mouth. I walked slowly past him and he gave me no attention. The nametag read Barron.

Two days later, after the first meeting in my place, I followed him home. At this point, I was unprepared so I could not get a glimpse of exactly where his home was; when he stepped out of the taxi, he disappeared into the dark, thick woods by way of a small, unseen trail that only he knew. It was only some time later, after we made the agreement, that I had prepared myself with my binoculars and spotting scope. I walked through those woods silently and finally had a chance to see where he lived.

The conditions were horrid! I was completely taken off-guard by the adverse and grungy surroundings in which he lived. And I almost felt sorry for the old bastard. But my inability to forgive lingered, remaining with me for decades.

I would have offered him more money to write the autobiography, had I not seen the atrocious living standards he bought upon himself. I took full advantage of him; just as he did me many years earlier, and was attempting to do to me again before I killed him. But the scarce stipend I gave him to do so much work-so much dedication on his part-was just enough to bait him and reel him in slowly, like a bottom-feeder fish.

––––––––

I followed him home that evening; it would be my last journey to the tick-laden, spider-infested shack. He had just left my place, completing his interview with me for the autobiography. We held a simple conversation and he told me of his plans for the evening; they really were no plans of any significance, just the routine of sitting back on the couch with a drink and writing. Little did I know that heavy drugs were part of his plan, too.

I slipped the sleeping pills into his Johnnie Walker and stirred it until-finally-the white went away. It did take some time, and I got nervous. But, finally, the pills dissolved. They had been in the closet for a long time and afterwards I questioned my own decision about using them-about their efficacy. But as our conversation moved into its final few words, I watched, as his oft-meticulous handwriting became a slur. He noticed it, too, I observed, and the moment he began to pay attention to it he knew it was time to say goodnight.

I watched through the spotter scope from my upstairs bedroom as he crept down the road to get into the waiting taxi. There remained much embarrassment in the seemingly begrudging man to take a taxi in front of me. I’ve no earthly idea why he never asked the taxi driver to simply pull up in front of my home. To me, it made little sense.

The motorcycle was running and waiting for me the minute he walked out of the house. I quickly jumped on it and

––––––––

caught up with the taxi. My lights were off and neither he nor the driver had any idea that I followed. The bag was filled with the tools I felt necessary to do what I felt necessary. I stared through the large binoculars, only from thirty feet away, as he lit a candle and placed it on the small round table he used for writing. He rubbed his eyes continuously and fought to stay awake and to write whatever was being scripted on the pages. I stood still behind the tree, waiting, and thought for some time. I had no plan-odd for me-but the idea of whacking some old, defenseless man really required no plan. I had a Bowie knife that could easily reach his liver; he would bleed to death. There was twelve feet of parachute cord that could strangle or hang him, too.

The flame flickered from the candle; discernably, it provided a direct response to my thought-simple, accurate, and undetectable.

How much time or effort would a Police Department put into an investigation of a vagabond in his shack? I asked myself without moving my lips.

Too much thinking.  I concluded.

An hour had passed and the old professor was now sound asleep on the large filthy couch that took up most of the space of the room. I tapped on the door, about as loud as a raccoon or opossum would, to see if I could grab his attention. I made different, even louder sounds to attempt to wake him. The sleeping pills did what they were supposed to do, despite their age.

While inside, I was able to truly understand what a pigsty the place was. There were spider webs everywhere, lingering dust on the walls, ceilings, and floors, paper strewn everywhere, and three rotted lemons on a plate in the window-unpeeled and still with color. I picked up the new book that Barron had recently started writing. I knew it was the one-the new book- and the fact the he just started writing it two months ago; I knew this only because I reviewed the tapes that filmed him at my dining table where he wrote when I was away. This was what I was particularly interested in.

What was he up to? I whispered as I stared at him briefly.

It didn’t take long to comprehend what this disingenuous imbecile was doing behind my back; the narrative in the first fourteen pages told the whole story. He was taking the words from my personal diary-the one in which he stole and copied for himself-and the statements and interviews I gave for the sole purposes of the autobiography, and he was creating an entirely different book to profit from. Perhaps, in my own wicked judgment of the man, he intended to blackmail me.

It had all become clear now. All of the evidence set in front of me-his own diary clearly highlighting his plans, my diary of many years, the autobiography and its notes, and the new book he would fulfill his perversions with! I was fuming. A sudden vision of the knife sliding into his side came into my mind; it was clear and concise.

I sat on the dirty chair and read his work for three hours. I became genuinely angrier and angrier. He lay there and snored loudly; I stared deeply at him until I could no longer stand to. The wind blew through the open window and the candle flickered faster. The spider webs shook ever so slightly, and dust-in bits and pieces-fell onto the table, the chair, and the floor. Through my blurredness, I could not tell what was what. I looked on the side of the couch and saw an old coal oil lamp, filled with oil and unused. I picked it up and set it on the table. I spread the papers around-all around-even laying some on top of him