Imperiled

By Helmut W. Horchler

Shad Cooper is not the man he appears to be. Fifty years after the fact, his orderly, comfortable existence is suddenly threatened when a retired detective imperils his future with the determination to reveal his criminal past and fraudulent identity. As Shad fights to prevent exposure and to keep both his freedom and his fiance, Ruth, he faces harrowing obstacles.
Concurrently, his and Ruths best friend, Suzanne, has to battle her own demons while focusing on rescuing her adult sons from impending disasters.
Love, adversity, multiple twists and surprises, plus an international flavor, enhance this enthrallingly told story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493154920

Helmut W. Horchler

Born in Germany, the author grew up bi-lingually. Before retiring as an executive of the pharmaceutical industry, he spent 18 years working and traveling throughout Asia and the Far East. He has been devoting himself to his passion of writing full time and has published four previous books. His visits to more than seventy countries give him unique insights and understanding of different cultures and environments, as this novel clearly reflects. He is an enthusiastic collector of Native American art. Much as the whole boomer generation now entering retirement age, he has struggled with the dilemma of possibly moving into a retirement community. He has seen first hand how friends and relatives have coped with this difficult choice and he has given voice to how one man, a recent widower, deals with his inner turmoil and eventual awakening as he comes to grips with his dark past. The author resides with his wife in Fort Worth, TX. and La Jolla, CA.

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Copyright © 2014 by Helmut W. Horchler.

Library of Congress Control Number:              2013922811

ISBN:               Hardcover                                    978-1-4931-5491-3

                         Softcover                                      978-1-4931-5490-6

                         eBook                                            978-1-4931-5492-0

All rights reserved. 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 copyright owner.

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

Rev. date: 01/17/2014

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1

T he early autumn day in La Jolla bore no indication of the disastrous news about to be delivered to Shad Cooper. On the contrary: it was an exceptionally gorgeous one in an environment in which resplendent days were the rule rather than the exception. But the peace and quiet enveloping him would turn out to be an illusion.

He was standing rooted in front of his windows, idly ruminating. He was dimly aware of Ruth, his live-in partner, having come home for lunch, bustling around the kitchen preparing their meal. He was concentrating on keeping his thoughts from returning to his secret past, although he knew he had to open up to Ruth eventually. And yet, how could he do so now, after years of silence?

It was at this moment that the unexpected, determined knocking on the front door of their home in the sedate Muirlands neighborhood infringed on his introspections. An unannounced visitor was as rare as a door-to-door salesman peddling the latest edition of Encyclopaedia Britannica. Friends and neighbors always called ahead to make sure someone was at home. Shad frowned at the unwelcome intrusion of a stranger.

I’ll get it, Ruth shouted before he could react.

Moments later, she stood by his side. There is a Burt Draper here to see you, Shad.

Who is that? Did he say what he wants?

No, only that he would like to speak with you. I have no idea who he is.

Shad shrugged with annoyance. He was not expecting any visitors, resented the unwanted interlude. He had been happy Ruth had come home on her lunch break and had been looking forward to indulging in a tasteful—if light—meal, free of disruptions.

He reluctantly turned away from the windows and shuffled to the door, admiring Ruth in passing as she walked back to the kitchen. The stylish gray suit and red blouse she was wearing suited her admirably. The red high-heeled shoes looked sexy on her. Her legs excited him. It required a conscious effort to shift his gaze from her to his visitor.

The man waiting patiently for him looked to be close to his own age, around seventy. He was tall and dark complexioned, had a gray buzz cut, was wearing a blazer and chino pants and brightly shined shoes, and wore a neutral, inscrutable expression on his weather-beaten face.

Yes? Shad queried.

Mr. Cooper? Mr. Shad Cooper?

Yes. What can I do for you? His voice reflected the irritation he felt. The man was a complete stranger, exuded a palpable level of authority that put Shad on edge.

My name is Burt Draper. I am a retired lieutenant from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. I wonder if I could impose on you for a few minutes.

Shad’s apprehension flared instantaneously. Gone was the tranquility he had savored while staring out at the ocean. No way did he want to talk to a cop, retired or not. It could only be bad news. But refusing entry to the man, he surmised, could well be misconstrued and might lead to problems he was determined to avoid. Better to confront whatever unwelcome news this visitor might bring than to subsequently be caught by surprise. That a cop called on him, unannounced, could obviously not be good.

Come on in, he said gruffly and preceded the man into the living room. Have a chair. What brings you here?

If you don’t mind, I would like to ask you a couple of questions. Strictly unofficial, of course, since I have no standing with the Sheriff’s Department anymore and am also far outside its jurisdiction.

OK, go ahead. Shad concentrated on hiding his escalating nervousness, gripped the armrests of his chair to conceal the trembling of his hands as he sat down. He hoped he was returning Draper’s flat stare unflinchingly.

I have an old friend in Pasadena. He gave me a call the other day to tell me a rather strange story. It seems he stumbled on a recent article while surfing the net about you having made a sizable donation to a hospital expansion in Pasadena. I assume you have seen it.

Shad found himself nodding, not knowing where this was going, but certainly not liking it.

Then you know it includes a photo of yourself at the ribbon-cutting ceremony and makes mention of you graduating from high school in Pasadena, back in 1958. Now, what caught my friend’s attention was your somewhat unusual name—not the Cooper, but Shad—and your current age, which was given as being seventy-one. Draper paused, encouraging Shad with his sudden silence to say something, but Shad forced himself to remain quiet.

You see, Draper continued when Shad failed to comment, my friend too attended Pasadena High during the year mentioned, and he not only recalls a fellow student by the name of Shad Cooper, but he also distinctly remembers the tragic car accident that took both Shad’s and his parents’ lives almost immediately following Shad’s graduation. Again he stopped talking, waiting for Shad to respond.

Well, that certainly sounds like an unusual coincidence, Shad finally offered, the silence having become unbearable, but I don’t understand what you are trying to say.

That should be rather obvious, I would think. I went to the trouble of checking the old high school records, and it appears there was only one Shad Cooper ever enrolled. So my question is this: Was the article with regard to your high school affiliation incorrect? Maybe the wrong school or year? But from everything I could determine, there was no second Shad Cooper residing in Pasadena who graduated from any high school there in 1958, nor during the immediate years before or after, which I also researched, just to be on the safe side. And as I said, the Shad Cooper my friend remembers definitely died shortly after he graduated.

Shad shrugged dismissively, tried to look bored and said, I am sorry to hear that, but what does that have to do with me? As you can see, I am very much alive.

Yes, but it makes me wonder who you really are.

It was more than difficult for Shad to meet Draper’s probing eyes. He let the silence hang in the air, figuring the less he said, the safer he would be. You can wonder all you want, he eventually said, but the fact remains I am Shad Cooper.

Draper nodded thoughtfully. Yes, of course. I did not expect you to say anything else. I had a former colleague at the department take a look into your background. With you having no criminal record whatsoever—not even a speeding ticket—my friend was unable to glean anything from law enforcement databases, so he was limited to researching your past through the Internet. There he learned that you distinguished yourself in the army as a young soldier serving in Korea and Vietnam, and apparently did some clandestine work for the CIA in Iran. What exactly the latter entailed could not be determined because when my cop friend requested access to your military record, it turned out to be sealed, your relevant activities in Vietnam and Iran classified. Shad Cooper would have had to submit his birth certificate and other documentation at the time of enlistment in the army. This identity and age evidence must have been thoroughly vetted, one has to assume, especially by the CIA.

You bet, Shad concurred. How fortuitous, he thought, that his onerous work for the CIA now served to protect him.

Well, following the Internet trail as best he could, my friend discovered that you subsequently—after your discharge from the army—went on to pursue a highly successful career in the pharmaceutical industry, primarily as an executive in Asia.

So what?

Draper sat up straighter, his eyes boring into Shad. Then he said, Look, Mr. Cooper, I am not trying to give you a hard time or accuse you of having done something illegal. My Pasadena friend was struck by the strange coincidence of identical names when only one Shad Cooper was known to have existed in Pasadena. He began to wonder whether his former schoolmate had indeed really been killed. But I checked into that fatal accident through the appropriate newspaper archives and county records, and there can be no doubt it occurred. The death certificates of the family members are unambiguous. So I guess this perceived mystery will remain unsolved, unless you want to open up with me and tell me how you came to your identity and explain who you really are or were, because my gut is shouting something here doesn’t make sense.

Shad felt cold perspiration running down his back while he pretended to be unperturbed. No way was he going to succumb to this invitation to incriminate himself.

There is nothing to tell, he said. I have ample, unequivocal proof of who I am. As you correctly pointed out yourself, even the CIA was satisfied with the authenticity of the documentation proving my identity that I submitted.

Shad did not like the hard cop smile Draper was giving him. It failed to reach his unblinking eyes. I guess that’s it, then, Draper conceded with obvious reluctance. But now I am truly fascinated by this conundrum and will dig a little deeper. I am going to love trying to resolve this puzzle. Then I will come back to see you again, if that’s OK with you.

With that, Draper stood up to leave without waiting for an answer. Shad accompanied him to the door, trying to project impassivity.

As he was about to exit, Draper turned back and said, You know, with me being retired and a widower, I have a lot of time on my hands. Looking more extensively into your background and attempting to figure out what you are hiding is something I can wrap my mind around. My instinct has rarely failed me, and it tells me you are not the Shad Cooper who graduated from Pasadena High in 1958. To unravel this inconsistency is the kind of challenge on which I thrive, keeps my brain from atrophying and prevents encroaching boredom. I am sure you can understand that.

Shad shrugged almost imperceptibly.

I should mention something else that appears potentially significant to me, Draper went on. "In looking into this Shad Cooper history in the newspaper archives, by chance I came across an article from 1958 about a juvenile prisoner named Roger Stevens who escaped while being transferred from a juvie facility to state prison. This young man was never found, or heard of again. It struck me as odd that this occurred shortly after the time Shad Cooper passed away, but I suppose there is no connection. Just a coincidence, I am sure, but I have to tell you that after forty years on the force, the word coincidence is not part of my vocabulary. After all, it would not be the first time someone assumed the identity of a deceased person, especially back in those days when all records were kept manually. It was much easier in 1958 than it is today, where everything is computerized."

I wouldn’t know, Shad managed to utter despite the sudden racing of his heart.

I didn’t think so. Well, it was interesting meeting you, Mr. Cooper. I am sure we will see each other again.

A threat? Shad thought. Or a promise? Either way, he fervently hoped never to see the man again. He literally radiated trouble just when Shad had convinced himself he was safe from exposure at last. He watched Draper walking to his car. He was wracked by nervous anxiety and leaned against the doorframe for support as Draper’s car disappeared down the street. Only when he had closed the door and collapsed on the couch in mental exhaustion was he able to begin decompressing.

2

F or long minutes after Draper’s departure, Shad was unable to move. When he finally could, he stood up shakily and stared out his panorama windows, gazing at the distant ocean below his hillside home shimmering seductively in the bright sunshine. Its water was a vibrant blue, and from a distance, it looked as flat as the desert he had known in Iran. Barely a ripple marred its smooth surface. Modest waves broke silently onto the shore. The horizon was as straight and sharply defined as if drawn with a ruler. No hint of the frequent early-morning coastal fog or marine layer distorted its clarity.

Before Draper had shown up, he had been immensely grateful for the good life fate had bestowed on him and had essentially stopped worrying about the police catching him. He had not thought that his sense of security could be so easily imperiled.

The fact that he had been convicted of involuntary manslaughter for killing his grossly abusive stepfather more than fifty years ago and, following his escape, had assumed the identity of a young man killed in a tragic car accident had been relegated—foolishly—to the farthest recesses of his mind. He had once consulted his lawyer just to be on the safe side. After exhaustively brainstorming, they had concluded there was, realistically, no way anyone could connect the escapee, Roger Stevens, after such a long period of time, to the model senior citizen Shad Cooper had become. While the theoretical possibility of the police accidentally stumbling upon Roger Stevens’s juvenile prison file could not be completely excluded, there seemed virtually no chance that even the most comprehensive investigation could then lead them to Shad Cooper. Nothing connected the two individuals, Shad had felt certain, and he had deemed himself to be securely shrouded in his assumed identity after decades of involuntarily cringing every time he saw a law enforcement officer.

Yes, pangs of guilt had assailed his conscience unpredictably, but he had remained convinced taking his stepfather’s life had been the only solution to creating a worthwhile existence for his mother and himself. He had sought to bury his subsequent guilty conscience deeply, and yet infrequent reminders of the sin he had committed surfaced periodically. The price he had had to pay—imprisonment, the decades of fearing exposure, the inability to share his life with his mother, the unrelenting necessity of living fraudulently, not being able to attend his mother’s funeral when she passed away—had been inordinately, unexpectedly high; but he still felt he had had no viable alternatives.

The older he had gotten, and with his retirement giving him so much time to let his thoughts wander, the less his memories of that fateful evening when he had stabbed his tormentor to death had haunted him.

He still, but thankfully rarely, found himself torn out of a restless sleep, screaming uncontrollably into the darkness, scaring Ruth lying next to him, as he had imagined feeling the bite of his stepfather’s belt buckle slashing the skin on his back. Then he needed reassurance that blood was no longer flowing off him.

Ruth, startled awake, would try soothing him, asking him what was wrong. Much as she had probed, he had never been able to bring himself to share with her the true source of his recurring nightmares. Instead he had deflected her inquisitiveness by blaming his horrific military experience of fighting with the Montagnards in Vietnam and the Kurds in Iran, and this she tended to accept, if reluctantly, without pushing the issue. She consoled him instead until his heart stopped pounding.

At moments like those, with calmness resettling over him, he reminded himself that he had not had realistic alternatives. He had thoroughly considered different solutions, had thought of going to the police or running away from home. But neither option would have protected his mother from the beatings her second husband was fond of bestowing upon her, and Shad could not have abandoned her to her violence-prone fate.

Had his decision to abscond with a butcher knife from the kitchen and hiding it in his room been an indication of deliberate premeditation, or had it simply been an impulsive, precautionary act? A safeguard in preparing himself for the worst? A potential weapon to have as a last resort? Or had he subconsciously known all along that a critical point would be reached? A point at which he would be willing to go to the ultimate extreme, to kill to obtain his and his mother’s freedom? How much had he regretted his fatal action then at age seventeen, and how much subsequently? Would he undo the deed today if he could? He was never quite sure.

Violence had not remained a part of his life, other than the unavoidable one during his military service. He was by nature so pacifistic he had to force himself to step on a spider. So what, he now wondered once again, had overcome him that fateful evening when something had finally snapped in him—an uncontrollable, irrational rage consuming him, not allowing rational reasoning or consideration of the consequences—and he had instinctively reached for the hidden knife and stabbed his tormentor, blinded by fury?

It was after these nightmares that he always asked himself whether or not he should confess his criminal background to Ruth, unburden himself. And if yes, when and how? Based on his age, he had to assume he was running out of time; and taking his secret with him to his grave somehow felt wrong. He had no family other than Ruth, and she deserved to know the truth even though they were not married.

Despite his originally articulated resolve of never marrying again, after living with Ruth Marceda harmoniously and contentedly for three years, he often found himself considering asking her to marry him. He loved and needed her. He knew he owed it to her. She deserved the security marriage would provide. She had given him so much, loved him unconditionally.

And yet he had always thought it would not be fair to her, given their twenty-five-year age difference, his encroaching senility, and abhorrent past. He had to anticipate a decline in his well-being. It could not be many more years before he would need care. Ruth was too young, he felt, to devote her life to looking after a deteriorating old man.

Conversely, he had asked himself if it was not equally unfair to her not to legalize their relationship. Maintaining the status quo would leave her in a legal limbo if he were to become incapacitated or pass away. Married or not, she would care for him, he was sure; but she deserved more.

When they became lovers and she moved in with him, he was unambiguous about not getting married again, following one divorce and the loss of his second wife to colon cancer. Ruth had accepted this without reservations and never raised the subject again. It was only when their idea of establishing a spa had been successfully implemented—with the capital he had provided—that he had been repeatedly assailed by second thoughts, no longer sure of what would be best for both of them.

Shad emerged out of his pensive mood slowly, wanted to escape from his troubling uncertainties and turbulent memories. The magnificent weather and the view discouraged introspection laden with worries. La Jolla was bright and sunny. He focused on the happiness his previous carefree circumstances had provided. His convoluted recollections served no useful purpose. Where he found himself today, until minutes ago, living with the love of his life, Ruth, and not having to worry about material issues—or much of anything else, apart from his criminal past—only gratitude seemed appropriate. He felt it enveloping him like a comfortable cloak.

But then, as he continued looking out the open windows of his house and admired the soothing coastal scenery below him, with its tall, slender palms bowing gently in the prevailing western winds, he had to accept that the serenity that had been the hallmark of his existence, had disappeared, irretrievably lost. Life as he had recently known it was gone, as much a part of his history as his crimes.

3

W hat was that all about? Ruth asked when Shad dragged himself into the kitchen, obviously drained. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow, and he was deathly pale, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

Is everything all right, Shad? she continued. You look like you just saw a ghost.

I might as well have, he admitted, his voice unsteady. He thought of how unfortunate it was that his long-overdue confession to Ruth had to be prompted by Draper knocking on their door. His past haunted him, for which he had no one to blame but himself, but he was furious at Draper for shattering his illusion of safety so ruthlessly and with apparent relish.

You want to tell me about it? Ruth asked, gently, not demanding.

Not really. He sighed. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. He no longer had a choice. A more propitious opportunity of unburdening himself would not come. Ruth deserved to know the truth, he concluded. It was long overdue.

I have carried a terrible secret around with me for nearly my whole life, he said, staring at the floor, unable to meet her eyes. Who knows how much time I have left on this earth? I was determined to take it with me into the grave, but with Draper’s appearance, it has become clear to me it’s high time to come clean with you.

Ruth sat up straight. He had her undivided attention. That sounds rather melodramatic, she noted. Time left? Thinking of dying? What is it I don’t know? Is it your health? Who was that guy? I thought there were no secrets between us.

The flood of questions washed over him, threatening to drown him. It took an effort to respond calmly.

That’s the impression I cultivated carefully throughout our years together, but there is one I kept from you, I’m sorry to say. Maybe two, depending on how you look at it. And no, I am not ill or anything. Our visitor is a retired lieutenant from the LA county sheriff’s department.

Don’t tell me you are in trouble with the law, she said, disbelief in her voice.

I don’t know. I hope not. In fact, I don’t believe so. At least not right now. This cop, as I said, is retired and has no jurisdiction here in San Diego, but he is poking his nose into something that happened more than fifty years ago. He paused, thinking of how best to continue, how to avoid completely shocking and perhaps losing her.

There was no way. I am not who you think I am, Ruth, he admitted reluctantly, his voice on the verge of breaking, still unsure of how far he should go, unable to look her in the eyes, and feeling vulnerable, exposed, terrified of how she would react. You see, I used to be a guy named Roger Stevens. I only assumed my Shad Cooper identity when I was eighteen.

What? I don’t understand, she interrupted, incomprehension and puzzlement etched on her face.

You couldn’t. You see…

He could not go on for what seemed like minutes, but then the words poured out of him, like water being released through a sluice gate, unstoppable and wild and less than cohesive, inundating her. He explained the years of pervasive, violent physical abuse he had endured at the hands of his stepfather. How the scars she had seen on his back the first time she had massaged him were the indelible result of whippings with a heavy, buckled belt. That his mother had been equally victimized through severe physical abuse. How he had thought of running away from home but had not been able to bring himself to leave his mother behind, defenseless and suffering for his intransigence. He described the fateful evening he had snapped and, in a fit of uncontrollable rebellion, stabbed his stepfather to death; been sentenced under a plea bargain agreement to three years’ prison, and then managed to escape while being transferred to state prison as soon as he turned eighteen. How he had then painstakingly assumed the identity of the recently deceased Shad Cooper by obtaining duplicate copies of the latter’s birth certificate, social security card, draft card, and high school diploma. Had gotten his driver’s license under the new name and enlisted in the army and worked for the CIA.

Ruth listened with admirable, disciplined patience, Shad noted, concentrating on not interrupting his long narrative, her mouth literally hanging open, her eyebrows raised, incredulity written all over her face. The longer he spoke, the more she cringed, curling herself together in her chair, trying to ward off the devastation overwhelming her from his confession.

You have got to be shitting me, she muttered uncharacteristically, her use of a profanity a rarity. She was shaking her head when at last he came to a stop. It seemed to Shad she refused to believe his sordid story.

I wish, he said. I have been carrying this guilt since 1958, always afraid the police would catch up with me, constantly discreetly watching over my shoulder while I’m trying to forget and talking myself into believing I would never be exposed. That I was truly Shad Cooper, with nothing to fear and no criminal background. A fine, upstanding citizen, a pillar of the community, with impeccable credentials.

He met her eyes at last, silently pleading for understanding.

Did you ever consider turning yourself in? Throwing yourself at the mercy of the courts? Or at least seeking legal advice as to what options you might have?

Yes, to all of your questions. The official legal advice I was given was to surrender myself and confess, but I was also told a court proceeding would then become inevitable, with an unpredictable outcome. Unofficially, the lawyer recommended I keep my fingers crossed and hope my past would never be uncovered. After all, there is absolutely no way in which the identities of Roger Stevens and Shad Cooper can possibly be connected. My risk has been, and is, limited, according to my lawyer, to accidentally being exposed as the imposter I am.

I just can’t believe I heard right, Ruth consternated. Your whole story sounds so wildly ridiculous, so incredibly unbelievable, disgusting, and outrageous.

"I know. Unfortunately, and to my deepest regret, it’s all true. Anyway, with exposure, nightmares would loom. For example, the documents the army and the CIA perused before enlisting my talents were obtained under false pretenses. I perjured myself to federal officers—a federal crime—when I professed to be Shad Cooper. I have served on both county and federal juries as Shad Cooper, another offense. I have been collecting social security benefits as Shad Cooper, an individual who died long ago. Whether it was legal or illegal to accept those payments is hard to say, since the same Shad Cooper benefitted who remitted his mandatory contributions to social security. I married—twice, as you know—under a false name. Does this mean my marriages were not legal? Or that my long-ago divorce is invalid? Then I was hired and employed by three different companies as Shad Cooper. Could this mean my retirement benefits are at risk if my true identity was to be revealed? Or what about our house, bought under my assumed name? What of my investment portfolio? Could I access—keep—these funds if I no longer carried the Shad Cooper name?

You see what an incredible mess I would create if I ever had to go to court and Shad Cooper would be exposed as Roger Stevens? he went on. "The perils involved? The possibility of destitution? Renewed imprisonment? It’s why I never told anyone, not even my wives or you, that my true name is Roger Stevens."

His eyes begged for understanding. For forgiveness. Or at least for compassion. But none of these emotions were visible when he looked at Ruth. She was utterly dumbfounded, confused, unable to assimilate what she had heard.

She admitted, I don’t know what to say. She was subdued, sad. Looked beaten down, her eyes roving, staring beseechingly at the ceiling, then the floor, and finally at Shad. He could not interpret the range of emotions washing over her face.

I have been living with a fraud for three years? She sighed. Fell in love with one? Her devastation predominated. He couldn’t blame her. He felt small enough to fit between a stamp and the envelope on which it was glued.

Please don’t hold it against me, Ruth, he pleaded, hating how inadequate, how childish he sounded even to his own ears. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I love you, and I ask that you remember you fell in love with a person—me—and not with a name. I haven’t changed. I am still the individual you met and got to know. My name has nothing to do with all that binds the two of us or how we feel about each other.

She was shaking her head again, trying to wrap her mind around what he had related. She didn’t know what to think. She felt betrayed. Lost. Cast adrift. Intellectually, she realized he was right in that she had fallen in love with a man, rather than a name; and yet emotionally, she felt totally deceived.

I need time to digest this, Shad. I don’t know how to react, don’t know where this leaves me and what it means for us. You have given me an earful. I’m not sure what upsets me more right now: what you did, or the fact you did not see fit to trust me enough to have told me earlier. She hesitated before adding, But I do appreciate you finally confessing. What I really don’t understand is why you did not tell me years ago. It has to make me wonder what else you have not shared with me.

He accepted her recrimination. He had no other secrets. I should have told you a long time ago, he agreed readily. And I apologize sincerely for not having done so. I have no excuses. I was afraid of losing you. I have no other secrets, I can assure you. I was on the verge of revealing the truth to you three years ago, the evening you first came to my house and we made love, but I just couldn’t. I was petrified you would not want to have anything more to do with me if you knew. I had fallen in love with you and was desperate to keep you. You know how I had struggled with trying to decide whether or not to move into the Tranquil Towers retirement center, and how I hated the very thought of doing so. Meeting you was my salvation. I simply could not risk alienating you by talking about my past. The consequences, I thought, would have been catastrophic. It was selfish of me, I know. Shortsighted. I have always been afraid of losing you, still am afraid today. That’s the only reason I was never willing to tell you.

And rightfully so, she warned. I wish I knew what to do.

Shad did not know either. He saw her eyes glistening with tears.

She got up abruptly, leaving him dangling, giving no indication of whether or not she would remain or what she would do. He watched her pacing back and forth, her shoulders drooping, intermittently shaking her head.

He followed her into the living room with leaden legs some minutes later. When he caught up with her, he saw that tears were running freely down her cheeks. Her shoulders were heaving with heart-rending sobs. He tried gathering her in his arms, but she resisted. He did not fight her rejection, instead waited for her rigidity to erode while she stood there, arms by her side as if lifeless. He could not find adequate words with which to make things right again.

After a while, when he again attempted to draw her to him and hold her, she did not resist. He caressed her back tenderly. He cradled her head with his hand and pulled her tighter to him. He could feel the rigidity of her body slackening. He murmured how much he loved her and begged for forgiveness.

It seemed like hours before her crying ceased and he could guide her to a chair and gently force her to sit down. But she was too restless to remain seated. She arose to bring in the casual lunch she had previously prepared. They consumed it wordlessly. Upon finishing, and still silent, she cleared the dishes and then, with an impatient glance at her watch, announced she had to go back to work.

Shad was about to ask her not to divulge his secret to anyone, but caught himself in time. She would surely perceive such an admonition as further insult and additional proof of his distrusting her discretion.

He knew his confession had come as a profound shock. If she were to get over it at all, it would take time. This he was determined to give her. He could not begin to imagine what turbulence was roiling in her mind or her heart. She had not given any indication of what his secret past meant to her or what consequences might result. He was equally torn by conflicting emotions.

On one hand, he castigated himself for having let Draper’s visit prompt him to divulge his secret, thereby jeopardizing his harmonious and gratifying relationship with Ruth.

Conversely, he felt tremendously relieved. He was no longer alone with a crushing burden on his shoulders, no longer had to fear she would learn of his dark past inadvertently. But was their love for each other strong enough to bridge the schism he had created between them?

Watching Ruth depart, he thought she looked more beautiful than ever despite being so upset. The minute makeup she was wearing hid her anxiety well. She had quickly brushed through her lustrous long black hair and glossed her lips. He hoped by the time she arrived at her spa, the redness in her eyes would be gone.

He longed for her as he saw her car receding in the distance and was deathly afraid of losing her, worried he should have done a much better job of explaining and, most importantly, should not have waited three years to do so.

The enchanting scenery he had admired, that had instilled peace and serenity in him just a short while ago seemed suddenly bleak, lifeless and incapable of shaking him out of his despondency. How could his life, his future have deteriorated so precipitously, so completely in the span of a few short hours? And what could he do to regain his equilibrium and restore his former harmonious relationship with Ruth? How could he ensure she would continue to love him unconditionally? How could he make her forgive him?

He was not sure what to fear more: losing Ruth or being exposed as Roger Stevens and the consequences this could have for him. The latter was largely beyond his control. He did not know what, if anything, he could do to keep Draper at bay; but Ruth’s feelings were a different matter. For those, he was determined to fight—to restore her placidity and to prove to her he was still the same man with whom she had fallen in love.

4

R uth’s long-cherished dream of establishing a full-fledged spa had become a reality when Shad had provided the necessary funding. For him, this had been a fairly simple—if risky—business decision. For her, the realization of a lifelong aspiration. His money and her dedication had made the venture a resounding success. With hard work and the knowledgeable, devoted personnel she and her three partners from their original massage institute had been fortunate enough to recruit, the EUROPEAN HEALTH AND BEAUTY INSTITUTE had quickly flourished in La Jolla. Within three years, it had become a reputable institution, the go-to spa destination. At the urging of their customers, they had even recently subleased a room to a hairstylist, who complemented the wide range of beauty and health-enhancing services the facility provided. Ruth’s objective of establishing her enterprise as the ultimate spa—offering a complete package of treatment options—for both women and men had been attained.

Unlike her competitors, an unusually large number of their customers were men, a result of having retained them as clients from their prior massage business. Ruth’s idea of offering partner packages enjoyed unexpected popularity.

She was extremely proud of what she and her three minority shareholder colleagues—Marilyn Cole, Andrea Penny, and Narissa Doost—had accomplished. Ruth had placed each one of them in charge of one key treatment section while she had assumed general management responsibilities.

On this particular afternoon, however, having returned from her disastrous lunch break, she found it impossible to concentrate on the business at hand or to relish her success. The small but futuristically elegant office she called home during her working hours failed to inspire her or to improve her dreadful mood. The avant-garde furnishings she had selected in keeping with the ultramodern décor of the spa projected only frigidity instead of its customary comforting familiarity.

She saw herself reflected in the thick glass of the tabletop serving as her desk and was shocked at the bewildered, distraught, and haggard look on her face. She felt sucker-punched by Shad’s revelations and could not stand to see herself mirrored in the glass. Furious over his betrayal and what she had learned, she shifted her laptop computer from its usual spot on her credenza to her desk, blotting out her image.

Seeking distraction, she listlessly scrolled through her appointment calendar. Nothing important. Nothing to distract her thoughts from Shad and the dilemma he had created.

She could not get her mind off his confession and what it might mean for her future. The full extent of what his revelations meant appalled her. She was beside herself over having to confront she had fallen in love and been living with a convicted killer. An escaped felon and a fraud. A man who had kept this vital information from her, who had not trusted her enough to have told her during three long years of intimacy. It was inconceivable. She thought she knew Shad and had been certain all their secrets had been discussed unhesitatingly. The man she thought she knew was kind and gentle, always considerate, steadily going out of his way to spoil her and be good to her. She knew he adored her. How could this perception she had of him be reconciled with what she now knew? That he had been living under an assumed identity? Had not trusted her?

At some subconscious level, she should have realized that violence had to have been a part of his background. He had alluded to this when he talked, rarely, about his service in Vietnam and Iran. This latent aspect of his character was buried in his past, however, and had never intruded on how he was today or how she felt about him. Not the slightest hint of violence had ever marred their relationship, not even during their most vociferous arguments, seldom as these had been.

She had accepted he had come with a history longer than her own. She knew he had to have had a life of his own before meeting her, and this he had shared openly with her. Still, she had had no illusions. No matter how much of his past he revealed to her, gaps would be inevitable. Not because he was deliberately holding back, she thought, but simply because the sixty-eight years before he had met her had been so tumultuous. It was unrealistic to expect to have complete insight into such an eventful life as he had described. He would have neglected to tell her of events he considered insignificant. Just like she herself had only related those highlights of her past she thought worth sharing.

But nothing he had ever told her came even remotely close in importance to what he had told her today. For him to have kept this vital information from her was a breach of trust she did not know how to live with, or if it could ever be forgiven. The presumably predictable, comfortable life with Shad she had taken for granted was clearly jeopardized. She was painfully aware of what dire consequences might arise if they could not come to an acceptable understanding regarding their future.

It occurred to her the situation with Shad was not just an emotional issue but also would likely be a business one. The institute was hers, she felt, but both her and her partners’ ownership shares had been funded through the loans Shad had provided. What if she left him and he wanted these repaid? Neither she nor her colleagues would be able to raise enough cash to settle their debts. They stood to lose their livelihood.

She did not dare pursue this depressing thought lest her colleagues learn of the peril through osmosis, or that her own decision regarding her future would be too strongly influenced by financial considerations.

She was unsure of whether she could ever accept Shad at face value again. She was extremely worried. Worried about what this breach of trust meant for her, and worried about Shad and what he was facing through the sudden appearance of Draper and his questions and suspicions. Worrying about him, she realized, was ironic. Did it mean that despite everything she still loved him? Could forgive him?

To the extent she had been concerned about him at all up to now, it had been his visible aging, his physical well-being and for how long he would remain healthy. Their age difference had not seemed like an insurmountable obstacle when she had agreed to move in with him; but with every year that passed, it appeared he was aging more rapidly than she had anticipated. She did not have to encourage him to exercise regularly or to watch his weight, but found she had to repeat herself all too frequently because he had not understood her. The day could not be far off when he would need a hearing aid.

His gray hair had thinned noticeably. The pattern of age spots on his hands, arms, and head had increased dramatically. His posture was as erect as ever, and he had retained his original six-feet-two-inch height, but his energy level had definitely declined. It had become more difficult to get him out of the house and do things with her. He enjoyed himself when they did go out, but anything other than dinner required major persuasion. And his sex drive was seemingly diminished and threatened to become an issue.

But these were facts she could deal with. They did not diminish how much she loved him. What she now knew about him, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. A profound, fundamental, and, for her, complicated aspect of—and indubitably change in—their relationship. This she could not rationalize away or simply ignore. He had periodically—philosophically and inconclusively—raised the subject of getting married, despite his initial determination to never again enter into a formal union. She had not pushed, knowing how he felt, but had never given up hope. She had certainly wanted to marry him and had kept dreaming he would propose. But now? Whom would she marry if he should ask? Shad? Roger? Would such a marriage be legal, recognized, if his fraudulent identity were to come to light subsequently?

What a disconcerting, unmitigated disaster, she concluded, unable to answer her questions. She felt herself drowning in a deluge of conflicting emotions.

She stared dispiritedly out the window of her office. Admittedly not a great view. What she saw was depressingly normal. Moderate traffic moving down the street. Pedestrians strolling past with quick glances toward her window. How could these people be unaware of her struggles? Did they not realize the world had changed on this day? That it was unlikely life could ever be the same again?

She was still lost in these thoughts, feeling inordinately sorry for herself and for what Shad had done, when her partner Narissa called. Ruth tossed her head, trying to shake off the cobwebs immobilizing her brain.

Ruth? Have you got a moment? Narissa asked. We have a very unhappy customer out here who insists on seeing you.

Something in Narissa’s carefully modulated voice raised the hackles on Ruth’s neck. Trouble loomed, she sensed instantly, and yet she perversely welcomed having to deal with a business problem. It would be a desirable antidote for her troubling thoughts.

She arose, attempting to banish Shad and their problems from her mind as she walked into the reception area. She glanced at Narissa standing in the pristine lobby next to a visibly agitated woman, elegantly made up, expensively dressed, and with well-coiffed abundant blond hair. She could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, Ruth thought; a surgeon’s scalpel had obviously done expert, extensive work on her.

Ruth, Narissa said, this is Ms. Naomi Foster. She would like to speak with you.

Hi, Ms. Foster, she greeted the customer. Ruth Marceda. How may I help you?

She looked at Ms. Foster closely to see if she recognized her as a regular customer, but she was sure she had not seen her before. She waited for the woman’s response. She did not have to wait long.

I assume you are the manager here? The question was gruff, the voice literally vibrating with barely suppressed anger.

That’s right. Why don’t we go into my office, Ms. Foster, before you tell me what has you so upset?

Narissa made a quick escape as Ruth led the woman into her office and invited her to sit down on the small couch of the seating group in the corner of her office.

Ruth pulled over a high-backed easy chair, across from the little coffee table separating the two of them.

Naomi Foster launched into her attack before Ruth had properly taken her place. Her eyes were blazing as she spat out, I insist you fire that impertinent so-called massage therapist Vern Spencer immediately! I have been coming to your spa for years and have always been treated respectfully. But what happened today is beyond comprehension. I am furious. Livid. I am on the verge of suing your spa, your employee, and you personally for sexual misconduct, lack of proper supervision, and shockingly inappropriate behavior. Or as my lawyer and my husband will doubtlessly see it, sexual assault.

Ruth mentally saw red warning flags pop up all over her office. She groaned inwardly while keeping a concerned expression on her face. I am very sorry to hear that, Ms. Foster, she said. "I can assure you Mr. Spencer has worked for us for more than three years already, and we have never had a complaint about him. Please tell me what happened. It’s so hard for me to believe Vern would do something