Geoff

By Quentin Candela

Geoff is book smart. Ask him to name a river in Zimbabwe, he would ask if you had the Zambezi or the Limpopo in mind. What's his take on the theory of dark matter? The universe is filled with it, he'll reply, just like the confusion in people's minds. What does he know about women? Everything there is to know, particularly how their darker nature works. Can you recover from failure, Geoff? Unlikely, since you'll never forget that failure; and since that failure is always with you, you will always be a failure.
Being borderline genius, however, does not translate to success. Geoff is a practiced underachiever, and by choice a failure at marriage and his social life. His newfound career is a joke. The position at the NSA that should have been his was given to a woman to fill the gender quota. Not only has he been unfavorably profiled because he is a man, but also because he is smarter than most everyone around him. He feels cheated, and he carries a multitude of grievances with a grudge. He must balance the scales, otherwise, life has no meaning.
One night, on a snowy highway in western Oregon, he comes to the proverbial fork on the road. Maybe the planets were aligned to serve as a bridge to a new realm. Maybe it was the other part of him demanding to be set free. The confusion generated by a massive snowstorm has keyed his detestation of civilized humanity. He decides then that there is more dignity getting lost in the unknown than to continue to flounder in the meaningless familiar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781493107117

Book preview

GEOFF

Quentin Candela

Copyright © 2015 by Quentin Candela.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013917874

ISBN:   Hardcover    978-1-4931-0710-0

             Softcover      978-1-4931-0709-4

             eBook          978-1-4931-0711-7

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/05/2015

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CONTENTS

PART I

The Coming Of Winter

Road To The Future

Coffee Creek

Correctional Facility

The Long Winter

Into The Winter Woods

On The Western RiseOf Mt. Hood

The Desert Lynx

PART II

Tying The Knot

Into The Summer

We have a mission napoleon solo

Disillusioned

Sarita

The Fall

Revelation

Brenda Leigh Stark

Annie, You’re My Angel

PART III

Las Mirlas South America

In The Ripening Vine Field

Toward The Crescent

The Long Trek To Las Mirlas

A Big Bite Of The Apple

Porfirio Gomez

Rendezvous With Alecto

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

To Joseph Francis Dessert, my editor who I once accused of being addicted to the use of commas. No, he replied. My only addiction is to good grammar.

The man sang an old folk tune, urging his horse up to higher ground. The sun was sinking fast behind the high hills of Las Pelonas, and he wanted to reach the high tops before dusk. With that in mind, he encouraged his horse, Rosinante, praising him and extolling his virtues. They had traveled thousands of miles together. Rosinante was strong. His coat held a rich roan color. He was a loyal companion, and by far the noblest steed in all the land east of the Andes.

The sun’s rays began to cast longer shadows. Daylight quickly faded. Dusk followed faster than the rider figured. He knew where he was headed, though. He managed, even in the darkening trail, to find the exact location he was after.

He dismounted slowly, laboriously. Once on the ground, he drew a sigh. He placed his hands on the small of his back and stretched. His body hurt, especially his left knee. In the past, he had relayed on whiskey to ease the pain, but the elixir of las brujas was better. The potion eased the pain, but it never went away.

In appearance he looked older than his age, but his beard showed little gray and his blue-gray eyes showed liveliness.

He hobbled over to the brow of the hill and looked back toward the distant plain he had traveled. A brassy tint there formed a thin arch across the western horizon. Sure enough, the day was done.

He mused about the past, the distant past. Did Francisco Pizarro, on the way to his fateful meeting with Atahuallpa travel this way? Did the great conquistador stand on this same spot? Did Francisco, centuries before, marveled at the sunset from El Monte de Lagrimas like he was now doing?

This is the place, he declared, speaking to his horse once again. He rubbed his knee, trying to ease the lurking pain. "This is the exact spot where I’ll settle for the night.

I will sleep under a canopy of southern stars. The light of the moon and the chill of the night will be my companions. The wild denizens of Las Pelonas will bear witness. He grinned. How do you like that magnificent verse my hefty dobbin?"

Rosinante answered by nuzzling him, a reminder that he was hungry.

Moonlight bathed the field, and in between the long shadows of the Las Pelonas skyline, the silver light revealed the floor of the dell. It was autumn, and the rain had brought back the lush vegetation, if for a little while. But no matter the season, this was a haven for ruminants and hundreds of other critters that inhabited not only the foot of Las Pelonas, but also the llano beyond.

After the pain in his knee eased some, he relieved Rosinante of his saddle. He tied him to a peg, using a bowline knot that Manolin had taught him. He was not overly concerned. He knew his trusty roan would not run off. Yet there was a healthy puma population in these hills, and of course, there were coyotes everywhere. At night, the nasty varmints vocalized evil sounds that spooked even him. That’s not to say Rosinante couldn’t handle himself against the vermin; after all, he had been restored to his full vigor by the clover and alfalfa of Las Mirlas. He was a match for any puma or even for a pack of brazen ’yotes. His noble steed was stronger than Tonka, faster than Fury, and smarter than Zorro’s Toronado. Rosinante, however, was not much of a talker, but that was part of his charming personality.

So be it. He would pass the night in the silence of his thoughts, with the chirping of crickets and the whisper of the gentle wind overhead.

He drew another sigh, a heavier one this time. His thoughts were many. The prominent one was the coming rendezvous. In the past he would have run–high tailed it. Not today, not now because he was a different man from the man before.

Ah, but Rosinante needed dinner, and he wanted this night to be special for his favorite dobbin. He would treat him à la carte—two carrots dipped in molasses, a very large apple, and a good portion of his favorite staple to hold him through the cold night. The proverbial saying eat like a horse was indeed true.

Against the chill, he had built a large fire or fogata as the gauchos called it. Dry tinder still abounded, despite the few days of rain. The fire would be a fitting tribute to his last night here. Like the Colossus of Rhodes, this high peak of Las Pelonas would light the night sky like a beacon.

He went to his horse and ran a soothing hand down his back. There’s nothing like a good story to pass the time while in camp, Rosinante. I used to tell my Boy Scouts stories. Would you like to hear one?

Rosinante replied with a nickering, a horse’s way of saying, I know there’s more oats in that bag you put away. Then his ears perked, keying on the far-off purr of a prowling cougar.

You hear him too, eh? That puma is probably hungry. But don’t worry. By now he’s heard that Don Pepe packs a vintage nineteen eleven forty-five pistol on his hip, and a thirty ought-six Springfield. That cat won’t dare come within a hundred yards of this camp.

Having reassured Rosinante, he uncorked the bottle of wine. He had brought two wine bottles along. This country, need not be said, produced some of the finest wines in the world. When the wonderful Malbec rolls under one’s tongue, it is like nectar—smooth and with the slight sweet touch of Marion berry to its finish. Once I kill this bottle, Rosinante, I’ll eat the pot-au-feu Nora made. That’s a fancy French term for meat stew. If after that I’m of a mind, I’ll uncork the second bottle.

He knew he would not. He had to be in top shape at dawn. As he thought about that, he adjusted the vest las brujas had made for him. He wore it over his bare skin. It was snug and warm, and it felt comfortable. Finally he drew the alpaca wool poncho over his shoulders and began to relax.

One of my problems, Rosinante, is that I remember most everything since the age of two. I’m talking about even the first time I walked to our living room and took a dump by the woodstove. I had swallowed a marble two days before, and there it was again. It went from my mouth and out my ass. Now it adorned the top of a steaming pile. It was a marvelous thing to see. I could even tell you that marble’s colors and its patterns, that is, if you want to know. Heck, I can remember every single question in all the exams I took in school, including college. My master’s dissertation, I can quote word for word. Remembering everything can be a curse.

PART I

THE COMING OF WINTER

Another glimpse outside provoked another groan from Geoff. The parking lot was inaccessible, that is, except for the area designated for the disabled. The county plows had immediately swept them clean, and now the blue-splashed stalls lay vacant, as usual. An evildoer would never think of using a disabled man’s pass to park his car and pull a heist or blow up a building. He supposed that was why the county made cleaning them a priority.

Disabled … A smirk gradually formed on Geoff’s face. When did the word cripple slip off the American lexicon? Fact is, cripples are now valued more than the able-bodied, productive citizens. But exactly how many cripples signed up for combat duty after the Twin Towers were destroyed?

Then you didn’t sign up either, did you?

Ah, he heard the other guy. You’re stoking his anger, my good man. He can come out when that happens. Remember what Dr. Abrams warned you about. You don’t want to wake up the other guy.

He took several deep breaths, eased back and tried to refocus. The Sunset Highway, that busy stretch of road to Portland, awaited him. By now it would be a parking lot, gridlock at its finest. It would be late before he reached home. Heck, he might not even get home at all.

To his consternation, he caught sight of several members of management, those pale-faced men and women dressed in gray and navy blue off-the-rack rags. They drifted in and out of cubicles, oblivious to the nightmare building outside.

His laptop was not allowed entry into this data temple else he would know what had been happening—weather-wise, that is. He was certain that as far south as Salem, up the Willamette Valley, north to Vancouver, Washington, and into British Columbia, an ice age was descending. It could last a few days or ten thousand years. Either way, the zombies who wore smiles as cold as the snow outside seemed indifferent. If earth spun out of orbit, they would continue to key in the data. And speaking of a hard freeze, never had he worked in a place where computers took precedence over humans. The ambient temperature was below sixty degrees. The cold kept the computers operating at optimum efficiency and also keep the ghouls that ran the place from de-animating and rotting. No matter, his shift was done, over twenty minutes ago, in fact.

He donned his jacket, and almost immediately, one of the top suits was by his side.

I hope you are going out to patrol the parking lot. I’ve not seen you step outside all day, Mr. Sinclair. It’s part of your job duties, you know.

Yeah, I was heading to the car just now, Geoff replied. I always bring a pair of snowshoes to work, Bernie.

My name is Mr. Constazo Lathrop, the man pointed out.

I swear, you’re a dead ringer for that joker with the Ponzi scheme. I bet you hear that all the time.

The look on Constazo’s face was dour. I am not amused.

Well, I’m not laughing either. But you’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Lapwrap. I think my replacement just drove in. I have to brief him–you know, number of security rounds, patrolling this dangerous parking lot of yours, and of course, when to resort to deadly force.

They both watched in silence as the beat-up Ford Escort slewed up the parking and came to an abrupt stop but only because the Restricted Parking sign got in the way.

On the driver’s side door of the Ford, the name Karrington Security was stenciled. The door flung open and from it emerged a large man of indeterminate age. He sloshed up to the front door and peered in. His small head was shoved inside his blue Karrington emblazoned hat. Not even his ears showed. It’s a son of a bitch out there, he growled, kicking the wet snow from his rubber boots.

Constanzo gave him an up-and-down look. He turned to Geoff. Do you know this man?

Let me handle this, Cassavo.

Constanzo!

Sorry, I’ve always had a problem with Spanish.

The man clenched his teeth. I am English Italian.

Oh, in that case, congratulations. Now, do you want me to show my replacement here the security layout or not?

I will be speaking to your supervisor tomorrow, Mr. Sinclair. Saying that, Constanzo turned and went his way.

The new man looked at him and then shifted back to Geoff.

What’s the hair up his butt?

Inferiority complex.

No kidding.

Yeah, he’s a Wop. Geoff studied his replacement for a moment, read the nametag—Bjorkin. The man wore glasses with a thick black frame. The lenses were fogged over so it was difficult to distinguish the look or the color of his eyes. Was there a trace of intelligence behind there? There was always an off chance of that. Hey, but don’t mind Mr. Labrat there, Bjorkin. I think he’s being investigated by the Securities and Exchange Commission.

No kidding?

It happens, said Geoff. My fifth-grade teacher was arrested for embezzlement of school funds. Hell, she was my favorite teacher too. I remember her being escorted into a patrol car in handcuffs.

That’s got to be tough on a kid. Having said that, Bjorkin finally introduced himself by saying, Call me Stan. He gave a concise summary of his background, and then went straight on to tell Geoff that given the size of the building, they should have a minimum of three security guards. If you ask me, this data center is just a front for the NSA, he added. Ever since they got caught spying on the American public, the NSA contracts out the dirty work to civilian peepers.

It didn’t take Geoff long to realize Stan was par for the course of Karrington Security. This man represented the cream of Karrington’s lower echelon. That apparatus was composed mostly of company rejects. Stan would never be promoted to corporate warrior for reasons that were obvious.

As he familiarized Stan with the facility, the man confided that atop of the Willis Tower in Chicago, formerly known as Sears Tower, a battery of nuclear-tipped missiles were deployed.

I did a stint in security there after 9/11, Stan added. And I can testify that at the very zenith of that lofty skyscraper– Here he paused, removed his glasses and his eyes bore down to reinforce his next statement. Nukes are deployed right smack on top. Yep, right in the center of our third largest city. I shit you not. The cobalt cone of the first missile I saw was shinier than a dick’s head.

Clever tie-in, Geoff thought. But he continued to listen attentively as Stan went on.

I stumbled unto that by chance, see. A tech sergeant jumbled the security key cards. He accidentally gave me access to a high-security area.

Jupiter’s balls! Geoff finally exclaimed, engaging Stan in the manner consistent to the rank and file of Karrington’s men. He had heard crazy stuff like this before. Like the ten divisions of United Nation troops, for example, waiting for their marching orders. They were hiding in salt mines in Michigan, or was it Louisiana? These troops were waiting, getting ready to take over the US of A.

As to which foreign power would plan a takeover of a country with the most powerful military in the world, and with millions of weapons in the hands of the civil population, was never identified.

But he was in a mood to humor Stan. In fact, he found he liked the man. Funny thing about first impressions; they’re generally right. Stan was a man of conviction, unlike most everyone else he ran into. And that was why he would never rise above the rank of simple security guard, not at Karrington.

What say you about the black helicopter scare back in the nineties? Was there some validity to those reports, Stan?

I never bought that crap, Stan let him know straight away. He jabbed his glasses with an index finger back into the bridge of his nose. His dark squinting eyes roved in their orbits, looking about suspiciously.

Those weren’t black helicopters, they’re special crafts. A few years back, this whole area, from Beaverton to Hillsboro and clear to Banks, was pockmarked with crop circles. I heard there was radiation everywhere. The authorities kept it secret, of course.

Stan paused again, looking around once more to ascertain that no one was listening. Ever heard about Roswell? Do you ever hear now about the Dark Project, or Majestic? Not anymore you don’t. Why? It was a con job. Do you know that all those crop circles back then, every single one of them, was identical? Freaking identical, I tell you. What’s weird is that the wheat inside the ‘event’ was as dry as the sands in Death Valley. Their stalk had burnt brown while the wheat just a centimeter outside the circle remained moist. How’d you explain the fact of no heat gradation?

Geoff searched the man’s face for a moment longer. Of course, he had heard about all that cryptic stuff and much more. He was well versed in UFOLOGY, Roswell, Dark Projects, Majestic and the whole shebang. It was all tripe, chucked out there to hide something different. What Stan-the-security-man suggested was true. There was a larger conspiracy out there.

*     *     *

Driving eastbound on the Sunset Highway was as frustrating as Geoff had imagined. Driving was not what he was doing, or for that matter, the rest of his fellow commuters. He had been sitting inside his Dodge for two hours now, and he had moved no farther than ten yards.

The distance from Hillsboro to Aloha was two miles, to Beaverton another six. He was no nearer to Portland than when he started because of a gridlock.

People began leaving their vehicles, correction, not people, but women. Women were abandoning their cars. Their bladders could not hold out.

He grinned. A man can piss inside a cup or beer bottle, but not little Missy. Ms. Emily Bronte’s heroines would never squat to piddle, so to speak, not inside a carriage. They left idling cars in the middle of this nightmarish mess, creating a worse mess for everyone just so they could sit on a toilet.

Figuring there was nothing left to do but wait some more, he decided to make a call. He scrolled through the favorite directory on his cell phone and tapped the name.

What’s up?

He heard Sam’s voice distinctly. He had heard that the West Hills were notorious for drop calls although he had never experienced one himself. He heard Sam as though the man was in the backseat of the car.

Mr. Trudeaux, I am now witnessing the dawning of a new age. It’s the beginning of the end for mankind. The Pacific Northwest will be entombed in ice like Greenland.

Sam chuckled. It’ll seem exactly like that when you start heading east. Good luck getting home. The Banfield is shut down, and the arterials are a nightmare. If I were you, Geoff, I’d exit off the next ramp and find a motel.

Sounds from the noise I hear that you’re in traffic yourself. Where are you headed?

Home, of course, but unlike you, I only have a couple of miles to go.

Geoff’s eyes narrowed with interest. Not going to Brenda’s tonight?

I thought about it, but then I decided it best to stay close to home. We might be getting up to twenty inches at the one-thousand-foot level. This reminds me of my days in Edmonton.

Should have stayed there, Sam and become a fully fledged Johnny Canuck. Hey, I’ll check you later. Looks we’re starting to move a few more inches.

Geoff grinned to himself. Brenda, Sam’s paramour would sleep alone— wonderfully beautiful Brenda, the goddess Circe all by her lonesome.

Brenda Leigh Stark was her full name. She was the most desirable woman he had laid eyes on—dark auburn hair, emerald eyes with a hint of blue and she had, of course, the body of Aphrodite.

Because of his line of work, he knew her background better than Sam. Brenda was born in Conyers, Georgia, which explains her name, Brenda Leigh. Her parents settled in Bend, Oregon, when she was six years old. She still lapsed into a Southern drawl, especially when she got mad, which was often. The Georgia peach had a temper.

The short bio reads like this. Randy little Miss Brenda Stark was knocked up when she was sixteen by a yahoo named Justin James Larsen, whom she never married and soon forgot. The result of the brief liaison was Jerrod James Stark, a viking of a lad whose seventeenth birthday was a few days away.

Her parents now lived in Indonesia, doing quasi-diplomatic work there.

Brenda’s heart was Sam’s. Sam Trudeaux was born in Buffalo, New York. His father is French Canadian, and his mother is of Puerto Rican descent.

Sam had two sisters, Emilia and Callisto Rae. Callisto Rae—what a great name that was. Callisto, for those unfamiliar with Greek and Roman mythology, was a nymph and a hunter, also a companion to the goddess Artemis. The fabled Callisto was raped by Zeus and ultimately was turned into a bear by Hera, Zeus’s jealous wife. In the end, she was fixed to the firmament as Ursa Major. Wow, and ditto that expression, Callisto was a looker.

Sam had a younger brother by the name of Mateo Philip. He was in his last year at OSU. The Mariners up in Seattle considered him a class A prospect. He was a lefty, and his fastball was shot from a cannon.

His two sisters were both professionals. Emilia was an orthopedic doctor, and Callisto Rae, the younger of the two, was a model, meaning she’s a slut. The nymph rubbed shoulders and other parts of her marvelous body with the fashionistas.

When Jennifer Lopez heard she was part of her Taino tribe, she immediately recruited her.

Callisto had returned to her Hispanic roots, like Sam had. In Spanish revistas– those are magazines–she was called Cali. Her verbal skills in English, French and Spanish were superb. He had watched her videos and interviews with keen interest. His mouth always salivated when she crossed her legs. The nymph earned more money than a brain surgeon.

Daddy Etienne was a psychologist. He was a liberal wreck close to retirement age, but he chugged on, teaching in college. Carmela Castillo, the mom, was a special education teacher. What that means is that she tries to teach retards survival instincts and civil behavior. King Sisyphus scored better results.

Samuel Trudeaux preferred to be called Sam. Samuel, by the way, was his middle name. He deemed his first name, Carlos, too chi-chi. His birth certificate also bore his mother’s last name, Castillo. That was a given because in Spanish culture, a mother’s last name is never lost. Sam had seen service in both Afghanistan and Iraq. He had been wounded while in service to the nation. He was also decorated. Now, though, he worked as a paramedic in Clackamas County. Sam was the product of a successful amalgam. Unlike him, his friend had cultural roots and a claim to the past. He envied his friend.

The rear deck of the house had an overhang and although it faced south, there was more than an inch of snow on top. Sam could see the hallow trending into the woodlands. The snow was already weighing heavily on the cedar boughs surrounding the east incline.

The wind was screaming from the west, and it was heavy with moisture. Normally the warm Chinook wind would push away the cold front, shower the valley with warm rain, but not today.

How much snow would fall here was anyone’s guess. His house sat in the middle of a dell, in an area that most times ran countercurrent to the prevailing weather from the east. Its temperature was usually several degrees warmer than that of the city located at a higher elevation just three miles away.

Cherryville road hooked east, toward Mount Hood. It was shut down to traffic to westbound traffic. The snow was falling faster than the plows could clear. Highway 26 east of Shorty’s Corner looked like the Donner Pass, and it would take less than an hour before its western end toward the Gresham-Portland area would become impassable.

Sam’s eyes drifted to the western pasture. The bare branches of maples there were laden with snow. His shop stood in the clearing like a corrugated metal giant. He knew that its roof could hold the weight of snow, that is, unless one of the big cedars on its north side toppled over. It had happened before.

A stone’s throw across the county road sat the Old Angus Ranch. The steers were huddling underneath a stand of box elders, trying to find shelter under the leafless canopy. Yet, a hundred yards to the north from the fence, two huge barns provided feed and shelter. Cattle could be as dumb as cattlemen alleged.

The alder draw trended down toward the creek. The runoff stream was part of Sandy River tributary. Today it had become a haunted place. The tangled branches of old trees cast shadows into the depth. Green velvety moss covered the brown bark of maples. Downed timber hemmed the way, but deer had forged a trail to find forage. Great swaths of green fern thrived under the shadows of trees. Everything was still and eerily silent. The wooded acres were dark, gloomy and seemingly impenetrable.

In the end, he decided there was nothing else to do but wait out the storm. He quit the deck and descended to the basement to feed the woodstove.

The lower level of his home was his sanctum. It was his place of study and meditation. It also served as wine cellar.

His cell rang with a distinct tone. As a paramedic, he was always on call; in a day like this, it would only be a matter of time before some hayseed, having no business driving at a time like this, ended up in a ditch. But the distinct tone belonged to Brenda.

Monsieur Trudeaux here, he answered with a flourish.

I’m in distress, monsieur, the woman’ sultry voice breathed. It had a faint Southern drawl to it.

Oh?

Assuming a French accent, he made a suggestion. My dear mademoiselle, perhaps you should lower the temperature in your room.

No, it’s not that at all, I can assure the monsieur. I really do have a problem, a throbbing ache, you see. Can you send your best emergency medical technician to determine the cause of my affliction?

Throbbing ache, eh? Well, let’s see. Hmm. . . In my expert opinion, mademoiselle, that’s a perfectly natural occurrence for a young woman. You have no need to worry.

"Au contraire. I am beside myself, Mssr. Trudeaux."

Rest easy, he added.

Rest? What is this? How can I?

Allow me to explain, Sam replied, adding great deliverance to his tone. For an ache such as the one the mademoiselle describes, eh, I suggest bed rest.

All by myself? I should think the monsieur might deem it prudent to come in persona, examine me, determine the reason of my ongoing distress.

Her Southern drawl was heavier now, he noted. Brenda was good, very clever with words. Instead of a nurse, she should have been an actress. You’ve been drinking and it’s only forty-five minutes past five.

I’ve had two shots of tequila. I’m serious here, Sam, I need your company. I haven’t seen you in two days. A tone of suspicion suddenly entered her voice. Are you by yourself up there?

Solito, he replied, using the diminutive Spanish term for alone.

I want you over here, she said, sounding petulant but also steadfast. Start on your way before the weather gets any worse.

He laughed. Before the weather gets any worse, you say? Hey, stay put. I’ll just mosey to the barn and hitch my Orlov trotting steeds, Rasputin, Nikita, and Gorbachev to the troika. There’s nothing more delightful than an open sleigh ride in the middle of a Siberian winter."

ROAD TO THE FUTURE

Even the longest journey must begin with a first step—Lao Tzu

Geoff gripped the steering wheel tightly and ground his teeth. It was worse than he had imagined. There were cars facing in every which direction, not only on the eastbound lanes wherein he traveled, but also on those westbound. The Sunset Highway had become one vast graveyard, a static behemoth of metal covered by sleet and snow. He saw several hunched figures trudging between cars. God only knew where the idiots thought they were going. Vacant fields stretch for miles as far as he could see.

A spate of hate for people assailed him. He had to take another pull from the flask to steady the rising anger. He hoped those idiots wandering off to nowhere would drop dead in their tracks from hypothermia.

Oh-ho, but what was this? He saw the car in front pull out of the way. Here was his opportunity. He passed it, turned, spinning his tires toward the exit ramp. Actually, he was surprised his car hadn’t spun out but had in fact made it up all the way up the steep ramp.

His exuberance was cut short when he saw through slapping windshield wipers that he had exited in Aloha, three miles from where he had set off two hours before.

Aloha, he muttered, his voice still poisoned by inexplicable hate. How can anyone, hell, how can any sober person living in this part of the state where the sun is seen only three months out of the year, whose dominant wildlife is the slug and whose flora teems with moss and fungus, name one of its cities Aloha?

Of course, he was now trapped here for eternity, and he wasn’t quite sure which of the two exit ramps he had crawled up from or what road he was on. His windshield wiper could not keep up with the blinding flurry of snow.

He sneered at Sam’s suggestion that he should book a room. He had four wrinkled one-dollar bills in his wallet and a checking account that was on the verge of overdraft.

This was November and technically not winter, yet the entire western corridor running north and south through the Willamette Valley in Oregon resembled Alaska’s North Slope.

Ten inches of snow might not seem a big deal for someone from Minnesota or Wyoming, but here in the valley, it was a catastrophe. Once the roads turned icy, which it quickly did in weather like this, they became commuting nightmares. A motorist could only inch his way up or down sloping surfaces filled with perils, which among other things included bad driving decisions by the morons on the road.

For every one hundred meters of level surface in the Willamette Valley, there were a thousand hills. When it snowed here, people freaked out—and rightly so—because a driver knew well that once his car started downhill, there was no friction or counterforce to stop its momentum other than a level stretch or road, a guardrail or another car.

He looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Even under the sparse light, he saw how quickly his pink forehead was expanding, encroaching on the forest of sandy colored hair. His blue-gray eyes looked puffy as well. What a wreck you are, Geoff, he told himself.

The chiliburger he had consumed a few hours before was giving him gas pain. Again his choice of lunch had been poor, but he couldn’t afford better food. He didn’t shop at a fancy organic food store like Sam and Brenda did. He couldn’t afford organic food of any sort, not even a rutabaga. Money wise he was stuck in the shallow end of the pond, eating what catfish ate.

He examined his whiskey flask. It was all but empty. What else can go wrong in this night of sorrows?

The stretch of road ahead resembled a tunnel. There was near-zero visibility to the left or right, and just a glimmer of blinking lights up ahead. Heavy fog was settling in too, yet snow kept falling. He had not seen a thing like this before, at least not here.

Somehow he managed to find his way back to the highway. It was by then eight fifty-three by the digital clock on his aging 1992 Dodge. That was three hours and thirty-eight minutes from the time he had left Hillsboro. Now the Sunset was deserted. All that remained was the detritus the commuters had left behind. He had to proceed slowly here since the only lane available was right smack down the median strip. With luck, he might make it back home in time to catch his favorite program.

To his right and left, cars were strewn, abandoned by their owners. A sudden anger welled from deep inside. The sight of so many new cars abandoned by smug self-assured affluent women, enraged him. It was happening again, the rage surfacing, enveloping him. He gulped the whiskey and when its last drop was gone, so too was his last vestige of reason.

He pulled behind a new Volvo. Its rear end was blocking the left lane. The driver was, of course, missing. It appeared from the tire treads on the snow that the car had skidded from the right lane all the way to the median, and now one of its front tires was wedged between the rut of frozen ice there, while the other one hung over the low ditch forming the median strip. The personalized license plate read, PAT-TY. There was also a rainbow-colored sticker on the bumper.

This car belonged to a sexual deviant … It seemed that Patty had been in a hurry. Now because of Patty’s poor judgment and the delinquency of the owner of the car stalled next to hers—on that one a handwritten message read, out of gas, will be back—well, because of these two, he was afforded only a space of six or seven feet maximum to get through and onto his next challenge.

He gauged the width of the gap between the cars again. He could make it, he supposed. He swiveled his head around. Past the stalled car on the right and beyond the access ramp, pale light shone from a power post. On closer inspection, he saw that it was from a gas station with a convenience mart. The fresh foot tracks on the snow were no doubt that of Patty’s. She must be there, having an espresso. The hood of the Volvo was cold so she had been gone for a while.

From the trunk of his car he drew a tire iron. He skulked toward the Volvo. The harpy had left it unlocked, so he opened the passenger side door and emptied his full bladder onto its leather interior. Then he smashed the car’s rear windshield and its taillights. This was calculated damage, under the deductible so that Patty would pay out of pocket. He wanted to cause the dyke clone financial angst.

The rage had full possession of him. He felt its quickening tempo, the induced surge of adrenaline, the strength it rendered. His other nature, which had lain dormant up till then, was animated. It was like prodding some deadly beast in slumber, awakening it, setting it loose to tear, destroy and to cause mayhem!

He went on a rampage, stopping and smashing windshields, tail lights, denting doors, tearing off side-view mirrors with his terrible tire iron.

Many of those tail lenses, particularly the ones on newer models, were expensive to replace, and so it was that he channeled all his bitterness, hostility, and hatred upon them. He was gripped by the fever of vandalism, reveling in the lawlessness, loving the shivering pieces of amber and red shards that burst and spilled upon fresh snow.

The violence was intoxicating and the more he gave into it, the stronger it became, and the more of it he craved. It had the effect of a potent, very addictive drug. It furnished him with the strength of a colossus, imbued him with the courage of a lion, and the steadfastness of an avenging angel. But alas, there were no more cars to smash, alas, no more property to vent his rage on. No wait. His eyes espied another target less than fifty yards away.

He ripped off his glasses á la Clark Kent. In his state he had no need of them. His vision, like his mind, became sharper. He shoved his eyeglasses into his jacket. Ah, but it was cold outside and even this archangel felt its sting. He drove his cap into his head, pulled up on his gloves and snapped their fasteners. He girded for battle.

He coasted on neutral and stopped three cars lengths behind his new target. It was an Audi. He sneered hatefully. His second wife had owned an Audi. She had bought it with his money. His face became a deeply etched mask of rage as he thought about her, about what she had put him through.

He descended on the car, no longer furtively but with bold, resolute strides. The tire iron in his hand was held high. His jaw clamped down tightly, and his mouth set in dreadful grimace.

No personalized license plates, no putative feminine paraphernalia adorned the car’s interior. It had no bumper stickers with witty remarks. No matter. The awful tire iron descended, wielded in his hand like a battle-ax. Crash! The side-view mirror went flying into the snow.

"Stai! Criminale!" someone yelled. The car door flew open, and from inside sprang an angry young woman.

What the fuck! Surprised, the tire iron slipped from Geoff’s hand. His next action was equally reflexive. His fist cocked back, and then he hurled it. Driven by the force of his shoulder and the pivot of his hips, his fist slammed on the side of the woman’s head. Her fury not withstanding, she went down.

Freaky Ned, I just cold cocked the bitch! His surprise was total, but incongruously he exulted over the fact that he had assaulted a person, no, not a person but a woman. That was a worse crime, yet he felt excited at having committed his first felony assault.

He shone his flashlight over her body. A woolen scarf covered her face. He had no idea what she looked like. But his attention was drawn to a different part of her anatomy. When she had landed, her legs had sprawled. What’s this now? She’s wearing thigh highs in weather like this? Oh-ho, there was fashionable beauty underneath the pleated skirt too. A lacy pair of purple panties limned the silky haired triangle. How wonderfully beautiful. It occurred to him that she was dressed like a cheerleader. Was this then an outfit of sorts, clothes for a specific purpose?

Why not have a taste? He heard the other guy inside his head say.

Geoff tottered on the edge. What’s the point of committing a crime like this and not enjoy it to the fullest?

Take her!

No, no, and no, he said to the other guy. You could punch someone and get a slap on the wrist, touch a woman there and you might end up doing time. He knew that if he did time, he would murder someone, his cellmate possibly or very likely a prison guard.

Oh, what the hell, in for a penny in for a pound. His hand went to the panties and yanked them from her. He tucked them into his back pocket. She should be put back in the car, he decided. He hauled her up and onto the front seat. She was not too heavy. And, her scent was wonderful.

There, he said to her. Sleep for the rest of the night. He hesitated, but then driven by the other guy, his head went between her thighs and he tasted her.

Next to the gearshift laid her handbag. He snatched it. Part of him didn’t know why. He wasn’t a thief. Her cell phone was plugged to the power outlet. He took that also. His eyes roved further, anything else here to plunder?

*     *     *

It took him twenty-five minutes to reach the outskirts of Portland’s West Hills. The icy storm had lashed everywhere. No main highway or back road was navigable. He was not going to make it home tonight.

So what now? Find a place to park and sleep the night in the back of his car, stuck like a sardine in the clutter that—Wait one cotton picking second. I’ve got a purse.

He opened the purse and when he saw its contents, he gasped. There was a pistol, more specific a Ruger LCP .380 pocket pistol. He examined it. Freaky Ned, there was a round in its chamber. It magazine was full too. He also found a pocketknife, oh, but not an ordinary pocket knife you whittle wood with. This was a Benchmade nitrous assist knife. It would open in a flash. You could gut a man with it. Most importantly, there was a wad of bills the size of a pomegranate. How apt–it was bound by a red garter too. His fingers riffed through cash, twenty, fifty, and hundred-dollar bills. He figured three G’s plus some change in ten- dollar bills.

Plush with cash in his pockets, Geoff trudged to the front door of the Embassy Suite, singing in his head: The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful. As long as we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Inside one of the best rooms the Embassy Suite had to offer, he felt like a Turkish Pasha. There he was, abiding in opulence, paid with someone else money.

He collected his wits. It had been an exciting day. Now it was time to tally the takings of the night’s raid. Her driver’s license said she was Olga Moldovan, twenty-four years old, five feet eight inches tall. Her hair was dark blond and her eyes were supposedly gray but the photo was blurred by digital overlay. It was all but useless. He couldn’t make out her face.

Stai, criminale!

Her voice, its tone was distinct though. He would recognize it anywhere.

Moldovan … He whispered her name several times–Eastern European maybe? Yeah, and it sounded Romanian. The name Olga belonged to any number of people of Latin origin, but it was also a Russian name. Did dear Olga belong to the Russian mob? If so, he could be in serious trouble here. However, he found no small book with names and phones numbers, drop locations and such. But then why in this age of smart phones, iPods and Tablets, should she have one?

Her cell phone, a Nokia Lumina, should shed more intelligence on her. He decided to examine it more closely. He thumbed it, tried powering only to find that it’s battery had tanked. It was completely drained. The power cord was USB, no problem there. He opened the side panel and removed the memory chip. He could manually sync its libraries to his computer, but that would be a pain. He decided to use a different application. He would lift everything from its memory, contacts, calendar entries, videos and music–every last bit of data. He would then transfer it all to his own telephone. It would be easier to download it into his Mac that way.

Doing this took some time, but less time than he had figured. When the transfer was complete, he knew he had struck pay dirt. On the screen of his computer, he saw the names. A slew of them were foreign but most were not.

He settled back, chomped on the meatloaf and the mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans. He washed it all down with a pint of complimentary IPA. It wasn’t long before the data of Olga’s phone were clear to him. Most of the names on the directory were followed by asterisks, three asterisks for the premium individuals, two asterisks for the next level of desirability, and so forth. The ones with no designations at all were either new contacts or clients, or very possibly scumbags she probably only kept to pass along to others, shall we say, less worthy members of her profession? He was amused by that observation. His first assumption of the lady from Dacia had been correct.

Once more he reviewed the events of the night. Yes, he knew he had committed multiple crimes but he felt no guilt. He acknowledged that he had changed, something had happened inside. Something—again he could not define what—had caused this chrysalis. What he felt was that his streak of bad luck had come to a close.

With his lacy trophy draping his face he slept soundly. During the night, while in tumescence, he drew in deep breaths, hoping to catch a trace Olga’s scent once more.

*     *     *

The ambulance team wheeled in yet another patient. The emergency room was jammed, but nothing new there, thought Brenda.

As usual she was in charge of the hospital ER operation during another spike. She took it in strides. She had been working in this hospital for two years and it went this way—no matter what day of the week, the month or year, people got sick or they got hurt. Some of those streaming in were strung out on drugs. More than not, they freaked out in the waiting area before being seen. They ended up in Hooper Detox.

She had decided to transfer from the clean ward of OB-GYN to the truly challenging arena, ER in a high crime area. If she was going to be head nurse of a ward and eventually become an RN practitioner, she needed to wade into the swamp.

She turned her eyes to the recent arrival, doing a first hand visual assessment of the situation. This was a large woman, very large, too large.

Took four of us to lift her off the ground, said the team’s paramedic. Jake and I couldn’t do it by ourselves. A couple of big guys from the local bar volunteered to help.

The woman on the stretcher howled with pain the moment that Jake, the emergency medical technician, engaged the wheel brake on the gurney.

Once the patient’s name was put into the computer, Doc Pavel pulled up the report on screen.

A fall, it says here, about forty minutes ago. He sent a questioning glance at the medic. Hip fracture?

Jake and I think so, she replied. Then shrugging her slim shoulders, the ambulance med tech added that there might be more than just a fall.

"She hurts all over, so I couldn’t probe into her any more. I’m certain her right leg is injured also.

Her name, by the way, is Trisha Johnson. Her Medicaid, patient number is on the sheet. She’s been admitted multiple times so you should have her med profile.

Brenda noticed that the ambulance tech was a petite Asian, five foot one or two maybe. The contrast between her and the immensely fat woman on the gurney was startling. God made them in every size, shape, and color, and they are all humans, her mother used to say.

Pavel, or Doc as everyone in the ER called him, was born in Grozny. He had been a field sawbones in Chechnya. He was a good man to have around. Quickly he provided to Brenda what she needed to know.

Trisha is a diabetic—brittle bone. She has been admitted to ER three times this year.

Brenda turned her attention to her new patient. There was no suitable bed in the holding bay for a person her size. When someone that big falls, the result is always on the downside. Part of her mind wondered what a woman this large was doing outdoors in a day like this.

Do we put her on queue? This came from Eunice, the nurse aide.

We’ve got ten other walk-ins sitting in reception, plus an incoming CI and an alleged gangbanger with a gunshot wound.

Brenda shook her head. No, this patient needs to be treated stat. She could have a fractured femur for all we know. Give me a sec, Eunice.

She went to the phone and pressed 3C on the dial pad. No answer. She looked at the wall clock; staff up there would be doing midnight rounds at this time.

Have her wheeled to bariatric, she said to Eunice, deciding on the logical course of action. And I’d like you to go up with them, find someone and give them a heads-up. I’ll follow up before I leave, and—eh, wait. She came from around the station and pulled the stat sheet. She had Eunice make a copy then placed it in