Adventures in Bonding #2: Past Tense

By William P. Lazarus

Lisa Chandler gave no thought to a pick-up truck’s hide-and-seek game until the driver produced a shotgun. The harassment continues, and she realizes she’s involved in something more complicated than a mere road rage incident — especially when the slick gentleman, referring to himself as “Bond,” appears at her home with information and his own arsenal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Jun 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463997703

William P. Lazarus

Around the age of seven, Bill Lazarus decided to become a writer. He has never deviated from that career choice. He worked on junior high and high school newspapers before majoring in journalism at Kent State (OH) University. As an undergraduate, Bill served as editor of his college newspaper as well as college correspondent for the New York Times. After obtaining his Master’s Degree in journalism from Kent State, he began a career that included writing for daily Connecticut and Florida newspapers.He branched out to other media, writing race programs for NASCAR, producing radio scripts and serving as editor of a regional magazine. Along the way, he won numerous writing awards, including two international prizes for programs and was named Florida Feature Writer of the Year. In addition, Bill is a religious historian. He has spoken on the topic before numerous civic groups and religious organizations, and appeared on radio and television. He has written 14 books on religious history, including Comparative Religion for Dummies and published multiple novels and nonfiction books. A native of Portland, ME, Bill now teaches writing at Daytona State (FL) College and lives in Daytona Beach with his wife, Kathleen.

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Past Tense

Adventures in Bonding #2

William P. Lazarus

Bold Venture Press

Copyright © 2019 William P. Lazarus. All rights reserved.

Published by Bold Venture Press. Available in print softcover.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual places and events is coincidental.

Chapter 1

The plastic trashcan placed next to Lemuel and Eva Duggan’s driveway in Ponte Raton, Florida didn’t stand a chance, at least not when their daughter, Lisa, started to back up in her blue Civic. She noticed the bin when arriving that morning at her parents’ house but had completely forgotten about it by the time she set off on her errand to the Volusia Mall. Then, while edging down the steep driveway, she heard her car bump into something, knocking a small bag with a pair of shoes next to her on the front seat onto the floor.

Startled, she had no idea what the car hit until getting out and seeing the can on its side and the lid rolling down Raymond Street. She chased it down and restored the can to its rightful place. In just the minute or so that took, she was already drenched in sweat as the late morning Florida sun heated up the Ponte Raton landscape. The temperature must have hit 85 already, she decided. Her parents, being in their 70s, might appreciate the heat on their arthritis. In contrast, Chandler preferred the cool of her motel’s swimming pool or the nippy Atlantic Ocean less than a quarter of a mile away.

Back in the car, she checked both ways before resuming. Her parents always warned her about drivers trying to beat the traffic on AIA by cutting down Raymond to get to Peninsula. Now, Raymond was empty. Chandler could see the usual one-story homes, all with neat lawns and shimmering in the heat. No one else was about.

She headed west and then turned right onto Peninsula to go to the light at Dunlawton, the major artery between the mainland and the communities on the peninsula. including Ponte Raton. The small community sits between Wilbur-by-the-Sea to the south and Daytona Beach Shores to the north. The Atlantic Ocean marked the east boundary and Port Orange the west. The Dunlawton Bridge was the last route south from the peninsula to the mainland, which made it very busy since everyone living in Ponte Raton, Wilbur and Ponce Inlet had to use it to get across the Halifax River to the mainland. Folks heading south through Daytona Beach Shores also crossed that bridge. As a result, the traffic light at Peninsula and Dunlawton was a long one since far more cars went over the bridge than traveled on Peninsula, which was only a two-lane road anyway.

Drivers turning right off Dunlawton at A1A seemed in a tremendous hurry to get either to the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse or the beach on the tip of the peninsula. Those turning left, if not going to the high school, were aiming for the tattoo parlors of Daytona Beach Shores or beyond to the kitsch souvenir shops, boardwalk and rudimentary nightclubs of Daytona Beach about three miles north. Their unwary haste kept traffic officers busy writing tickets and fueled Ponte Raton’s economy.

Chandler quietly waited at the light, thinking about the shoes her mother wanted her to exchange, before noticing the grey pickup truck behind her. In the rearview mirror, she could see that the driver was wearing sunglasses and seemed young with a mop of dark hair and a thin mustache. His bare left arm, marked by several obvious tattoos, extended out the open driver’s window in defiance to the morning heat. Chandler didn’t stare. Macho types didn’t impress her, even when they drove in Florida without air conditioning.

Still, she did glance at him, one disadvantage of being a single woman in a community built around senior citizens. Young men didn’t stick around much. As a result, now in her 30s, Chandler didn’t have a lot to choose from. Her ex-husband had turned out to be a real loser, a flaming bigot who initially hid his prejudices behind a friendly demeanor. The driver of the pickup didn’t appear to be much of an improvement after Chandler spotted a decal of a Confederate flag on the passenger side of the truck’s windshield. She always found that ironic. Self-proclaimed patriotic Americans somehow wanted to honor a country that attacked the U.S. It really proclaimed racism. The sticker told her a lot about the driver without needing much research.

Chandler turned back to watch the light. This was not her idea of a pleasant way to spend a Saturday morning in May. However, her parents really shouldn’t be out in this heat. In fact, she wanted them to move inland, perhaps to a retirement home in DeLand, about 18 miles west and the county seat. They would have company there and, just maybe, not depend on her to do everything. DeLand didn’t have sea breezes, but still was often cooler than the shoreline.

She noticed something on the sleeve of her blouse. Cat hair, Chandler muttered. There were more on her shorts. Her mother’s pet, Katze, shed everywhere in the house. Disgusted, Chandler began to pick off the hairs and drop them out the window while waiting for the light to change. She didn’t want to go into the Volusia Mall looking like a ragamuffin.

Then, the pickup truck moved into the open northbound lane next to her Civic. Chandler didn’t care, although any car headed south on Peninsula through the traffic signal would find no room to drive once the light changed. She thought the driver had decided to not to turn and didn’t have the patience to wait behind her car. A few cars invariably continued straight here: Peninsula paralleled the river and led to bridges further north. She glanced at the truck driver again. Blocking the road was inconsiderate and thoughtless, she thought, but his presence did not affect her. She could only give the driver a bewildered glance, but he was staring straight ahead.

The light finally turned green, flashing an arrow for a left turn. Chandler eased forward. She heard a roar and watched in amazement as the pickup truck zoomed by her, turned sharply left to cut her off and raced up the bridge on the inside lane. He hadn’t even taken the outside lane and given her room. Chandler almost came to a stop. The pickup climbed the high-rise bridge at great speed and rapidly neared the crest.

Hey! Chandler yelled, startled and upset. That wasn’t nice, she muttered to herself.

The pickup was beyond the range of her voice. Aware other cars may be stuck behind her, Chandler resumed driving. She was shaking. The trucker was probably just trying to show off. Nevertheless, that maneuver was startling and scary. She almost floored the Civic to catch up with the truck and bawl out the driver. She didn’t. She realized it was far better for her to stay as far away as possible from a reckless driver like that. Besides, she never expected to see him again although the truck did strike her as mildly familiar.

Taking a deep breath, Chandler tried to relax as she steered up the bridge, carefully following the 45-mph speed limit. Her approach was an anomaly in the Sunshine State where speed limits are typically perceived as minimums, not maximum, even in Ponte Raton, which was well-known as a speed trap for unwary motorists. The city boundary stopped at the eastern end of the bridge; Port Orange continued west from there and offered police who were far more lenient about driving laws.

Several other cars passed her, but Chandler put her car on cruise control and ignored them. She couldn’t help thinking about the grey pickup truck. Why would someone drive like that? He had immediately started when the light changed, apparently already having decided to bypass her. However, the bridge had two westbound lanes. The truck could have safely gone around her onto the bridge, but deliberately chose not to.

Besides, there was a huge intersection at the base of the bridge at U.S. 1 in Port Orange. Odds are the light there would not be green. As a result, speed wasn’t an asset on this bridge. Of course, the driver might not know that. Still, Chandler couldn’t shake the vague recollection of seeing the grey pickup truck before.

She cleared the top of the bridge and kicked off cruise control so the Civic would coast down the other side. Looking ahead, she couldn’t see the pickup. Wouldn’t it be funny, she thought, if the truck was waiting at the light when she got there?

There it was. From the traffic flow, Chandler could tell the light must have turned red just as the truck arrived. There was always a long wait at this intersection with multiple turn lanes on all four sides. Besides, the signal light for U.S. 1 seemingly remained green far longer than normal, even if there was no traffic. Chandler’s father once called Port Orange city hall to ask that the light be checked, but as far as they could tell, nothing had been done about it.

The grey truck was sitting by itself. Cars that passed Chandler on the bridge had moved into the left and right turn lanes. Being deliberately sarcastic, Chandler nudged the Civic into the lane next to the pickup. In some instances, she might smile smugly at the speeding driver. Despite ignoring traffic signs, he really hadn’t gotten any farther ahead. With this driver, though, she just studied the light. From her peripheral vision, however, she could see the truck driver was also looking forward.

For a few moments, she stewed about his behavior. Drivers that dangerous shouldn’t get away with a maneuver like that. She began to feel more agitated. Finally, Chandler decided to release some of her feelings. She turned and glared at the truck driver. He didn’t feel her intense stare.

How often, she thought, did she have a chance to tell an errant driver about her feelings? She often felt like doing it but failed to locate her target again. She weighed any action. From his expression, he just didn’t care. That really upset her. His attitude, and that Confederate flag, finally compelled her to say something. Impulsively, she lowered her window. Hey, she called.

The truck driver glanced over and, Chandler was sure, smirked. He knew he cut her off; Chandler was positive of that. He must have done it deliberately, she decided. Her inner fury increased. He then went back to watching the light. Chandler felt a cold chill but managed to control herself. Her skin tingled. Finally, she couldn’t hold it back.

Hey, you, Chandler called again, increasing her volume.

The truck driver turned to look at her. His dark eyes surveyed her. He didn’t do anything for a moment and then sneered. Even his thin mustache seemed to curl. He looked to his right and reached down for something.

That wasn’t nice what you did back there, Chandler said coldly. You could see... Then, she gasped.

The man had lain a large rifle on his left arm. The barrel extended a few inches past the open window. He lowered his head as if aiming. Bang, bang, he said very clearly.

Oh, Chandler cried. She hastily closed the window. Her father had warned her about Florida drivers who might be armed. Badly frightened, she glanced in the mirror. A small sports car with a closed convertible top was behind her. She couldn’t move. Cars were on her left, too, slowly shuffling through the turn to head south on U.S. 1. Chandler felt panic rising. She tried to think of a way out of the impasse. There wasn’t one. The truck driver now had a broad grin. He did not lower the gun, which had a long barrel. He kept it far enough inside the car that only someone nearby could see it.

The light changed. The truck spurted ahead.

Chandler watched him anxiously, forcing herself to inch through the intersections. Her leg seemed separate from her body. Cars that had been behind her quickly passed except the small sports car immediately to the Civic’s rear bumper. Chandler continued to drive slowly, her pulse racing much faster than the 45-mph speed limit.

She could barely feel the wheel. There was no way she was going to continue to the mall, which was at least 10 miles away. While the grey pickup truck was now far gone, Chandler didn’t know if the driver was planning to make a U-turn and come back around. She kept looking back, obsessively checking her rearview mirror in case the truck had managed to slip behind her. Just the small sports car remained behind her Civic. Driving even slower, Chandler hoped the car would pass her. Instead, the driver stayed in line while other cars continually hurried by to their right.

The day already had enough difficulties. Chandler was going to the mall because the sole had come off one of her mother’s water shoes, which had been bought at the mall just a week ago. Her mother also wanted to wade in the motel pool later this afternoon and had fretted on the phone about her inability to go there without the shoes. Chandler then promised to get replacements. She had stopped at the house to pick up the old ones and the receipt. Her parents scrupulously kept every scrap of paper.

She had envisioned relaxing until having to work that evening as a bookkeeper/concierge at the Seaside Resort, a fancy name for a small motel along the beach. The episode with the truck driver’s gun only added to her angst. Now, there was a sports car apparently tailing her. Thank goodness her mother hadn’t come along, Chandler thought. Mom would have needed a week to recover from the confrontation with the armed truck driver alone.

Chandler turned left at the first light and then left again to return to U.S. 1. To her consternation, the sports car followed. What was he doing? Was he a partner of the driver of the grey pickup? Chandler wondered. Her pulse rate still soaring, she kept both hands on the wheel. Upon arriving at U.S. 1, she found an immediate gap in the traffic and turned right. She then pulled into the left turn lane to make a U-turn to return to Dunlawton.

The sports car followed. Chandler tried to focus. She half-expected the driver to move around her as the truck had. Instead, the little car stayed right behind. Sweat dripped down Chandler’s forehead as panic invaded her thoughts. The outside air hadn’t bothered her, but the presence of the sports car did. Her breath came in short gasps.

What was he doing? Who was driving? This was worse than the brief episode with the pickup. She couldn’t see the driver’s face, and the driver-side window was closed. She couldn’t spot any kind of decal on the car, just a tinted windshield, a common-enough accessory in Florida. She didn’t even recognize the make. It was distinctive: a silver, low-slung two-seater with a broad front. A convertible with the top up, it looked fast and handled well. The driver had to hurry to avoid traffic to keep up with the Civic, and had no problem zooming across U.S. 1 and then turning quickly into the entrance to the bridge.

Still driving slowly, Chandler headed up the Dunlawton Bridge. The sports car faithfully kept pace. At the bottom of the bridge, she turned right at Peninsula and then left onto Raymond. The little car remained behind her just a few car lengths back.

Barely able to think clearly, Chandler considered what in her car might serve as a weapon. A flashlight? She kept one in the glove department in case some wild animal showed up in the Resort parking lot when she returned to her car late at night. Over the years, she used it to spotlight frogs, anoles and a few snakes, none of which posed any danger. Chandler supposed there was a jack in the trunk, but that was not handy. She couldn’t see anything else in the front seat that might help. Civics were great family cars, she decided, but not much use in a fight.

Forcing herself to breathe, she pulled into her parents’ driveway, avoiding the trash can. The driver of the sports car stopped by the curb in front of the house. Chandler turned off the ignition. In her side mirror, she watched as a tall man stepped out of the little car, seemingly uncoiling. To her relief, the man was not holding anything. He was well dressed, in a navy-blue suit, an odd outfit in an area where only doctors and lawyers dress up and only when trying to portray formality.

She didn’t know what to do. The man was walking toward her car. She finally got out, keeping the Civic between her and the man, holding onto the door to have something solid in her hands.

Excuse me, the man said with a distinctive English accent.

Chandler felt disarmed. That was not what she expected. She studied the man’s face. He didn’t appear threatening, but who could tell? Her ex-husband had a similar expression that quickly transformed into hate.

The man was behind the Civic now. To Chandler’s surprise, he seemed pleasant, despite closed, hard lips. His taut, tan face was enhanced by a small scar high on his right cheek. Nevertheless, she shied away. She didn’t say anything, but stared at him, hands on the door, trying to appear prepared for anything.

Good morning, the man said. He held out his right hand in greeting. The name is Bond, James Bond. He acted as if expecting a reaction. Instead, Chandler looked at him blankly. She did not shake his