Love Me Now; Kill Me Later

By J. Fran Baird

Danny Shepard isnt a typical sailor. Smart, skilled, scheming, the femme-fatale entices men and collects mementos. Love Me Now; Kill Me Later depicts the evolution of a serial killer, a thirty-year voyage that takes an unlikely mariner from fertile wheat fields of Washington States Palouse to seaports on every continent, from deckhand to captainperfect venues for fortuitous encounters and untraceable murders.

When Danny returns to Spokane to claim an unexpected inheritancehalf-a-million dollars and a remarkable house her father built fifty years earlierthe sailor-sans-conscience is forced to confront her past. A collection of diaries, the earliest entry made at the age of eight, and mementos stored in a cigar box disguised as a book, are resurrected; friends, lovers, murders revisited; harrowing nightmares relived. They provide insight into the mind of a woman who is both victim and villain.

Looking back at an irrefutable record of dirty deeds, Danny feels no remorseyet cannot imagine a future. In her fathers house on South Hill, she plots an end to the Danielle Shepard story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491796788

J. Fran Baird

A Brooklyn, New York native, Ms. Baird’s exposure to a diverse, multi-cultural community, and a career path that led to oft-changing venues, provide fodder for her stories. Author of Annie’s Portion and The Last Vagabond, she lives on the Gold Coast of Florida with an assortment of critters.

Book preview

One

C ramped behind the wheel of an economy rental, Danny had been driving in concentric circles for an hour, destination the crest of Spokane’s South Hill. But twenty years had wrought changes on the once-middleclass community. Dimly lit by antiquated street lights, close-cropped lawns fronting expansive homes bore no resemblance to those remembered. For a third time the car was brought to a stop, overhead light turned on, street map scanned, memory jogged.

Was it only a week since Maersk Rhode Island docked at its home port in Norfolk? Danny’d spent four grueling months on the tanker and had been anxious to get home to Seabrook, a small community south of Houston. It had taken a couple of days to sort through the mail—mostly ads, magazines, bills and notices from the Seaman’s Union. Of special interest, a legal-size envelope bore the postmark Spokane, Washington and an impressive return address: Law Offices of Waltham, Hanks & Kroenig. The enclosed letter, signed by Lawrence Kroenig, Esq., informed of the demise of one Aniston Shepard and requested contact be made with their office for further details of the deceased party’s last will and testament.

We had great difficulty finding you, Kroenig had admonished stiffly at their meeting in Spokane. Took two years to probate the will. A statement added to justify the hefty fee. There were papers to sign, new ones to be drafted. The meeting lasted longer than expected.

Northwest days were short in late autumn, by four-thirty there was barely time for Danny to make a perfunctory visit to South Pines Cemetery. Well-maintained plots, blue-green in the fading light, wistfully reminiscent of warm southern oceans, nurtured a desire to be back there. After twenty years choosing the right path, locating the site would be difficult. But the search became easier when faux gas lamps came on, flickered orange and yellow, their beams reflecting off diverse tombstones. In a place of prominence, the large gray marble gravestone held dominion over its less extravagant neighbors. Depicting an open book, it had been designed to identify two interred beneath. There’d been no engravings on the stone at the time of Lucca’s burial. Danny remembered thinking there should have been angels.

Luciana Shepard, 1917 — 1987 Aniston Shepard, 1907 — 2004

Twenty years, had it really been that long? Plenty of time to mark her grave, enough time to mark his. Now middle-aged, their offspring sat on a low stone bench recalling the day Lucca, nee Luciana Bianci went into the ground, shuddered with the memory, wrapped arms around body trying to ward off the chill. And you, father, Danny spat the word. You lived too long. You were the Devil’s pet ... he should have netted you sooner.

Pete Bianci, Lucca’s nephew, and his wife Julie had come from Seattle for the funeral, their first reunion in more than ten years. Julie ... more beautiful than ever, motherhood agreed with her. Pete still handsome but sporting some gray hair and the beginnings of a paunch. Ever-faithful, Brad Rycke the only other person in attendance. Well, Danny had said. Here we are, together again. No feast today, no specially prepared Lucca dinner. Poor mother, a comment rather than sentiment. Even in death ... for all eternity, she’s cemented to Aniston.

The sole surviving member of the Shepard clan Danny, the outlander, had become heir to Aniston’s estate—a half-million dollars and a house—the house that was the object of the search, 5 5 0 Eagle Terrace.

Gone were towering trees that had formed a canopy across a narrow lane. Gone native plants that grew helter-skelter about the few modest houses built in the fifties. A sign prominently displayed on the green carpet fronting a modern residence read, Featured on the cover of Home and Garden Magazine.

I’ll give it one more try, Danny muttered.

But the house Danny sought had been screened from the street by years of plantings, and contributions made by resident birds: ponderosa pine and Douglas fir, some now thirty feet high, mature cedar, maples dressed in their autumn best, mountain ash adorned for the upcoming holiday season with red berries. Juniper, verbena and salal competed with vinca and ground ivy for limited space between tall trees. It would take several passes before Danny experienced an ah-ha moment. Of course, the Shepard’s garden would be different from the artificial displays of newer more opulent domiciles, as different as mother and father had been.

Headlights illuminated a narrow driveway. Concealed by premeditated chaos, only the numbers 5 5 0 visible on the lintel of the façade—symbolic of the Shepard’s false front. Keys weighed heavily in a jacket pocket. Propelled by release of a long-suppressed sigh of mourning, Danny climbed the porch steps, and with trembling hand unlocked the door.

The same hand instinctively reached for a light switch to the right of the entry. A hanging antique brass lantern electrified years earlier emitted a pale amber beam, glanced off a gilt-framed mirror hanging in the entryway, illuminated little but the halo of its shadow on a teak floor.

Quiet as a tomb, yet unlike a tomb, the house seemed alive with scents preserved for fifty years: cedar, fir, and remains of a long-extinguished fire in the woodstove. Danny stepped out of the circle of light, felt the plush of Persian carpet while crossing the great room toward bookshelves separating parlor from formal dining room. A thin coating of dust veiled hundreds of books catalogued alphabetically on crowded tiers. One pull on the chain of a wall sconce illuminated the last section, T - Z. Danny bent down, ran a hand along the Vs. It was still there, a nine-by-seven cigar box, cloaked in gold flecked paper, title neatly inscribed on its spine, Vindicta. No need to look at it; Danny knew its contents, would add to them.

Facing the bookcase, a single glass-paned door and wall of windows revealed an unconstrained firmament. The door resisted a first attempt to breach it.

This one always did stick, a muttered comment induced by memories of a mother’s admonition to use none but the kitchen exit. Lucca Shepard could not abide a trace of dirt in her house though her hands and knees were buried in loam from April till October. Well mother, you’re not here to reprimand me now. The hint of a smile softened the otherwise austere visage of a solitary seaman.

Two solid bumps of a determined hip and the door grudgingly opened, allowing access to an expansive planked deck. Danny brushed some leaves from a rocker, sat down heavily. Tops of ponderosa pine were barely visible in the darkness, aroma of century-old cedars tangible evidence of their presence. Trees just like them supported the house that had stood unmarked by man or nature for half a century.

Screened from glare of the city below, the moonless night provided a black canvas salted with uncountable stars, galaxies millions of light-years away, some perhaps inhabited by beings also searching. Spokane, now a city of some quarter-million advertised its new-found popularity with street lights and neon signs, clustered together as if seeking protection from the wilds of a vast expanse of wheat fields dubbed The Palouse. Recently awarded title of most livable city in America, home of Gonzaga University, Washington State and Eastern Washington University satellites, Spokane had rushed into the Twenty-First Century leaving Danny Shepard behind. Only the house remained, static, unchanging, dependable—the one constant.

The sky had clouded over, stars no longer sharply defined. A light mist foretold approaching rain, but no need to worry about getting wet. The roof of the deck upon which Danny stood had been cantilevered along the window wall, extended eight feet beyond the exterior siding.

Aniston Shepard left nothing to chance.

Two

M ist refused to surrender its grip on tall trees, obscured both earth and sky, the house dark except for the lamp beside the bookcase. Danny had settled into the hollow of her father’s overstuffed recliner, his odor imbedded in the fabric, imprint made by his large form a fitting memorial for the noted architect. She ran her hand along a plush armrest, the feel of it unfamiliar. Gold-flecked paper glittered in the spotlight, drew her attention to the bookcase, to the cryptic title — Vindicta. She shut her eyes, tried to push memories back into the box, but they remained an integral part of her psyche—as did its contents.

Enveloped by inky darkness Danny groped for the main switch panel, shielded her eyes as lights came on in kitchen, family room and hallway. Nothing had changed but for the gilt-framed mirror, now mottled with age spots. The house seemed out-of-date, neglected, abandoned—just as she’d been.

Once known, well-ordered rooms were filled with ghosts, master’s suite as the wayward daughter remembered it—bed and bath that had become Lucca’s cell. The flowered comforter had faded, dust clung to a dressing table decorated with perfume bottles, and makeup her mother never used. A rusted nail and vacant picture frame sulked above a walnut shelf displaying long forgotten faded photos: Aniston in his football uniform, Aniston and Brad Rycke, arm-in-arm, unknowingly hiding a plaque whose only visible letters were "oulee Dam." There was a portrait of the Bianci family—Lucca, her parents and five brothers. Though they lived just three-hundred miles apart, Danny’s Bianci relatives had been out of reach, visible only from Lucca’s stories, stories her daughter knew by rote.

And there she was, a child of seven—faint smile, once-white communion dress now yellowed with age. Photo in hand Danny lay her head on her mother’s pillow, Lucca’s familiar scent barely discernible. But what did she really know about her mother ... her father? Why had Lucca married that horrible man? Danny knew what he was, but who was Aniston Shepard?

How different would her life have been if she’d known the truth about them?

A cuckoo-clock chimed, rousing Danny from a dream she couldn’t recall but one that had left her cheeks salty, her face taut as though she’d been grinding her teeth. She replaced her communion photo, solved the puzzle of the empty frame—Aniston’s University sheepskin lying on the carpet. The house was dark ... cold, always cold. Shielded from sun by prolific evergreens, it had provided cold comfort even in summer. What was needed was a fire. There was plenty of dry wood piled next to the cast iron stove in the great room. It didn’t take long to get a blaze going. Danny tossed the sheepskin into the flames, watched it flare and turn to ashes.

Morning sun made a sad attempt to dispel the gloom at 550 eagle Terrace. Hampered by fog and dust covered windows, the house remained dark, quiet but for the rhythmic breathing of the impenitent daughter of Aniston and Lucca Shepard.

A glass and two empty bottles decorated a table next to the overstuffed recliner where Danny had spent the night. Retrieved from its hiding place, a small binder and some note paper tied with a faded blue ribbon lay in her lap. Her first diary, written at the suggestion of a 3rd grade teacher. The undated entries brought tears to her eyes.

"TUESDAY — A prince will come to save me."

"FRIDAY — My prince will love me and we will live in a palace and have parties."

There were no entries on Saturdays or Sundays. At Aniston’s insistence, those days were taken up by softball or basketball practice, activities Danielle hated, but pursued to please her father. A Monday entry would often reflect her self-loathing.

"MONDAY — I missed the balls again. I’m no good at anything. The team hates me and daddy put me in the closet again."

The ring of a bell abruptly shattered deceptive serenity, jolted Danny from her self-imposed stupor. On the second ring she realized it wasn’t a ship’s bell. With a groan, she uncurled her stiff legs, and went to open the door.

Sorry I’m so early.

Danny ran a hand through long dark tresses, accented with threads of gray, forced a smile.

You’re not early. I slept late, tied one on last night. Celebrating? This a birthday present? The truck driver pointed to the crate he’d delivered. I guess you could say that. Can you bring it inside? Sure can. Just need you to sign for it. He glanced at the signature. Shepard ... knew a guy named Shepard in the army. You married? Good try, cowboy. She handed him a twenty. Thanks, he said, smiled and added, Have a nice day.

She’d been expecting the delivery, had prepared for it with a pry bar and several small cardboard boxes. The wooden crate came apart easily, revealed a pirate’s treasure chest she’d hoarded since her days in the Florida Keys, Marathon days. The trunk had led a sheltered life, yet it too showed its age—oaken wood mellowed, brass nail-heads pitted. It had been two years since the last deposit, lock rusted, whereabouts of a key forgotten. The lid of the brass-bound trunk had to be forced open.

It’s a shame to spoil you, Danny said aloud, her voice sounding hollow in a house long devoid of human presence.

The open trunk reflected the mariner’s penchant for order, and thirty years at sea—items neatly stowed, weight distributed evenly. Sight of a beat-up Navy cap brought a smile to her face. Julie had given it to her for Christmas 1975, soon after they’d left Spokane ... on the trip from Pensacola to Key West .… after she’d deep-sixed Tony, and placed her first memento in the box titled, Vindicta.

The cap had partially covered a pink, flowered diary dated 1968-1970. 1970—the year Danny turned thirteen. Lucca had given her a blue sweater—to protect her from the cold Spokane winters.

Danny pressed the chronicle to her bosom. Dear Lucca. Always trying to protect, entertaining me with family stories but unable to protect me from the monster we both feared. How I loved the way you laughed when you talked about my grandfathers who came to America at about the same time. ‘A twist of fate,’ you said. Dominic Bianci, a farm worker from Italy ended up digging tunnels in Seattle, while Tomas Shepard, a coalminer from Wales came to Palouse to be farmer.

But Lucca had hidden the dirt under the Persian carpet, and sent her daughter away. The answers Danny so desperately sought had not been revealed in their lifetimes, were now buried with Aniston and Luciana Shepard in the fertile soil of South Pines Cemetery.

Three

T he bastard son of a refugee from the coal mines of Wales, Aniston Shepard had kept his tainted history to himself. His father, Tomas, had been less reticent, boasted of how he’d traded one coal mine for another in the U.S., squirreled away enough to buy a hundred-sixty acres of farmland in the Palouse, but never mentioned the woman who bore his son and left as soon as the child was off the nipple. Aniston had been mothered briefly by a tight-lipped native woman borrowed from the Mission of the Sacred Heart, returned when the boy started school. By then the farm had grown to six-hundred acres, hard work for man and schoolboy.

There would be just the two of them, working side-by-side—tilling, planting, reaping wheat Palouse was famous for, sharing a two-room cabin, but little else. Accustomed to the silent darkness of mines, weighed down by years of hard labor on the farm, Tomas’ mind and body had been hardened. He drank a lot, eschewed idle chatter, revealed little of himself to his son. For Aniston school provided relief from farm labor, a chance to feed an acute, inquisitive mind, an opportunity to play football. He’d reached a height of six three, weighed two-hundred-ten pounds when he entered high-school, big enough to ride roughshod over any challenger. Stubborn and ambitious, the fullback star of Colfax High School’s team was determined to get away from the farm—and he did.

The dream became reality for Aniston when he was accepted at the University of Idaho in Moscow. It didn’t hurt that he’d been the star fullback at Colfax High; it proved to be a blessing—full scholarship to one of the best engineering schools in the country, and football to boot.

In June of 1929, he departed Moscow with a penchant for whiskey, commendation for excellence and a degree—his major, hydroelectric engineering.

In the midst of the Great Depression, jobs were hard to come by, but with a sheepskin from a highly respected university he secured a spot building the first hydro-electric dam on the Columbia River at Rock Island. Four years later he was hired by the Bureau of Reclamation as work began on a more ambitious project further upstream—Grand Coulee Dam. The Dam was completed in’42, shortly after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

Aniston spent a week drinking, saying farewell to men he’d worked closely with. It had been one of the most satisfying times of his life. Brad Rycke, one of the few friends he’d made, teased him about going back to the farm; both aware that farmers were exempt from the draft.

Time and the bottle had taken a toll on Tomas, but gruff as ever, he greeted his son with a legally-drawn will, and an envelope bearing the insignia of the U.S. Government addressed to Aniston. The envelope contained a military deferment and requisitioned his immediate presence in Seattle. Boeing needed engineers.

When Aniston crossed the Cascades, he left the wheat fields of The Palouse, and the great Columbia Basin behind him—ahead lay an alien realm.

West of the Cascade Mountain Range, the Bianci family’s experience had been similar to that of the Shepards, but resulted in a much different outcome. Dominic, an Italian farmer who’d come from Podenza, Italy had crossed America laying track for the Northern Pacific Railroad.

In Seattle, Dominic found a job digging tunnels. He met and married a Catholic girl, fathered four sons in eight years. Mama Bianci named them for the apostles John, Matthew, Andrew and Peter. On their tenth anniversary, the Bianci’s were delighted to welcome a daughter, Luciana. Thick, silky black hair framed a heart-shaped face. Blessed with naturally tan, flawless skin, eyes the color of a cloudless Seattle sky, she was beautiful.

Their son James came as a surprise—a change of life baby, the neighbors said. Luciana became his surrogate mother. Closest in age, temperament and looks, she and James formed a special bond. They’d shared a room until he turned eight, shared fears, dreams and confidences as they matured. James nicknamed the diminutive, shy girl Lucca—idolized her. Luciana lamented their separation when he followed his brothers to the University of Washington.

In December of 1941, everything changed. The surprise attack on Pearl Harbor sent shock waves through Seattle. Within a year of the war’s onset, the three older Bianci boys were drafted into the army. Fourth in line, Peter enlisted in the navy, leaving his pregnant wife Gloria, in Mama’s care. Each night Mama, Papa, Gloria, Lucca and James gathered around the radio, anxious for the latest war news. James would soon turn twenty-one, had just entered his junior year at the University. Mama had dissuaded him from enlisting.

Far from the danger and action his brothers were embroiled in, James considered himself a coward. A few beers with a friend might have eased his conscience, but the tavern they chose was crowded and noisy, girls disinterested. James drank too much, got some rotten advice from his buddy, felt a sudden urge to throw up, and dashed into the alley where the alcoholic contents of his stomach were immediately swallowed by the Seattle rain.

By the time he got home the house was dark but for a light under the door of Lucca’s room. He made his way up the stairway, placing each foot on the outside edge of the step so as not to allow a creaking plank to make his presence known. Mama would be on him in a wink. He did not knock but opened the door to Lucca’s room a crack, and stuck his head in. She was awake, smelled the booze, asked where he’d been.

Teary-eyed, James professed his cowardice to a sister who was desperate to keep him home. He began to shake. Lucca reached her arms out to her brother and pressed him to her breast. He did not resist. He’d been fighting back tears which now ran down his face, were quickly absorbed by Lucca’s nightgown. She lifted the quilt and pulled her brother close.

There’d been no premeditation, no predilection; they were young, inexperienced, caught in the throes of fear, love and rampant hormones. There was no uncontrolled passion, just tenderness offered by one, accepted by the other.

When Lucca awoke her brother was gone. She wondered if she’d dreamed the whole thing, but then she saw the stain on the sheet. It had been real. They had committed a mortal sin and it was about to get worse—when Lucca missed her second period and knew she was pregnant.

Situated near the Duwamish River, a stone’s throw from Beacon Hill, Plant 1 of the Boeing Airplane Company had been a Seattle landmark since 1916. An innovator of flying boats and other commercial aircraft, the Company had designed the B-17. In 1942 a newly built plant went into overdrive, building war planes at a furious pace, pushing out three hundred and fifty aircraft a month.

Men were scarce at Boeing. In one of the most successful recruiting campaigns in American history, Rosie the Riveter had become America’s pinup girl. Every female in America wanted to emulate the woman in work clothes flexing her muscles. Lucca leaped at the opportunity to escape the house, escape her mother’s watchful eye.

The big man from Palouse had qualifications and experience that made him a rare and valued commodity at Boeing. He was immediately assigned to head a department of young engineering students from the University of Washington. Though highly respected for his knowhow he remained distant, avoided personal relationships, was especially clumsy where women were concerned. The football-playing, farmer-turned-engineer was in for a rude awakening. Most of his co-workers would be women—not secretaries, nurses or maids, but riveters, welders, machinists.

Women working on airplanes was a concept difficult for Aniston to digest; ladies in coveralls, installing propellers or rolling tires in place were indecent—until he spotted Luciana. She was at the helm of a turret lathe, punching out a series of engine parts.

The next time Aniston saw Lucca, she was wearing a blue jumpsuit, a white-starred, red bandanna covering her long dark hair. She was standing on tippy-toes on the wing of a B-17 helping install the cockpit window.

Suddenly overcome by a rapid increase in pulse and heart rate, Aniston feared he was having a heart attack. He felt blood rush to his face. Though he didn’t realize it then, the brilliant engineer was smitten for the first time in his life.

Lucca hadn’t noticed him at all.

It took several days for Aniston to get wise, when he realized his weird symptoms seemed to occur whenever he saw the pretty Italian girl with the dark hair and striking blue eyes. No Romeo, he awkwardly used his status to reel her in. His request for Lucca to attend him in his office puzzled the messenger, disquieted the summoned party.

Lucca would soon enter her third month . Did he surmise her condition? Was she about to be fired? The puzzle was soon solved. Aniston asked to see her socially. In awe of his stature, she agreed.

Ten years her senior, Aniston wasn’t about to waste time. He courted her in ways he’d only read about, with flowers, candy, small gifts. To him Lucca was a porcelain doll, delicate, breakable. In her presence he played the part of gentle giant. Her older brothers, for whom she would always be a child, bullied and teased her. Here was a man whose eyes lit up whenever he caught sight of her.

Lucca was desperate. Soon her condition would become visible to all. Maybe God had forgiven her, provided her a way out. Out of character, she played the temptress, flirted with Aniston, made it easy for him. When he asked her to marry him, she said yes, never revealing her terrible secret. Lucca enticed him, encouraged him to have sex before marriage. Perhaps she could make him think the baby was his. With little knowledge of women’s bodies, he never questioned the slight bulge in her middle.

But if Aniston had no concept of the female mystique he had even less idea of what dealing with an Italian family would be like. Lucca was the baby; Papa Bianci would not let go easily and Mama didn’t trust the mountain of a man. The Biancis thought their only daughter, their beautiful Luciana could have done better, but resigned to the inevitable they settled on a wedding date.

It was a short courtship, the bride in no condition to wait six months for the wedding her mother planned. Lucca convinced her lover to elope. It was none too soon. She miscarried at the end of her third month.

War ravaged the Bianci clan; Peter killed during a kamikaze attack on his vessel, James reported missing somewhere in France, and Andrew at Walter Reed Hospital learning to use an artificial leg. In ‘45, defeat of Japan signaled a reduction of the work force at Boeing. Aniston and Lucca, out of jobs and out of money, moved in with the Biancis. Andrew’s return to the homestead was the last straw for Aniston. He’d had enough of the Bianci family, was sick of Sunday rituals, smell of garlic, bad wine, grandkids—none of whom were his. He’d begun to show an ugly side, due in part to the reliance on Dominic for their very subsistence. Lucca was reluctant to leave the security of the only home she’d ever known. Her family provided a buffer from her husband’s increasing verbal attacks.

Unable to find work after weeks of searching, Aniston griped about unemployment lines, applications, rejections. He hated the bustle and traffic in Seattle, missed the quiet of Palouse, was determined to return. He’d start a construction business, do the design work, be his own boss. Lucca protested. She did not want to leave her mother who was ill, didn’t want to move to the hinterland. Aniston promised to build a house of their own, suggested that with more quiet time, less stress, Lucca might conceive again. The nasty remark, intended to condemn his wife for the loss of one baby and inability to conceive another struck a blow, dampened Lucca’s resolve.

Aniston would not be deterred, and as his wife would discover, always got his way.

Four

T he year 1951—too old to be drafted for the Korean conflict, Aniston Shepard was struggling to keep his year-old construction business alive. He’d chosen Spokane with high hopes and hunger to reach a life-long goal. There would be opportunities in a city that was rapidly expanding, competitive, progressive. Words of Frank Lloyd Wright had remained with him since college days, " Architecture is life itself, taking form ." Aniston longed for that life, wanted to create buildings; not just any buildings but architectural stand-outs, functional beauties, memorials to his talent. But the goalposts seemed to be moving further away.

There’d been a few city contracts—repairing schools, building a bus barn. Private contracts were only slightly more challenging—renovations or additions. Money from the sale of his father’s farm kept the Shepards solvent for a while, but Aniston yearned for more than money. Marriage had been a disappointment, Lucca mousey and barren. He’d been dealt a lousy hand, forced to play a game he hated. As he’d done in college days when he’d been pressured to major in engineering instead of architecture, he took to the bottle for consolation. But an innocent phone call from an old football buddy, Josh Kraemer was about to change his life.

Got a job for you, if you want it. Won’t make you rich but it’s money in the bank, Kraemer offered. Can always use the change, Aniston said, a touch of bitterness in his voice. What you got? You ever heard of Jonathan Brandt? Sure, hasn’t everyone? Well, I guess we’re just one of the many he screwed. Owes us a fortune. Hope you don’t expect to get it back from me, Aniston quipped. Very funny. Say, listen. Among other things, we gave him the money for that place he was building ... his ‘hunting lodge.’ Don’t know what he expected to hunt out there, but we have to get it down, try to sell the property.

There it was—thrown to Aniston like a lifeline to a drowning man. The break I’ve been praying for. He laughed. Hah! That’s a joke. Me praying. Something funny, Shepard? Inside joke, Josh. How much work has been done? Don’t really know. I haven’t been to the site in quite a while. There wasn’t much more than some framing up last I saw of it.

Aniston had an epiphany. Ever think about salvaging what you can, maybe store it? There may be stuff that can be sold off later, he advised. Maybe recoup some of the loss.

I don’t think there’d be much of value left, but it might not be a bad idea, Josh said. Keep us from having to write it off for a while. What’ll we do with it? Why don’t you let me take care of it for you, Josh? I’ll get it down and inventory everything. We’ll see what’s saleable and I’ll pass the word around to some other contractors.

He took a ride to the site, five acres of timber surrounding half an acre of cleared land. There was a good deal more than a frame sitting in the clearing. Construction had been well under way before the crew was pulled off the job. Additionally, two sealed twenty-foot steel containers, the locks of which Aniston broke with a pike, held a treasure trove of interior materials.

Big son of a bitch. He scratched his head, dislodging several gray hairs. I’m going to need some help. Got to be someone I can trust.

That presented a problem for a man who trusted no one. There was just one man, the closest he’d ever come to calling someone friend, Bradley Rycke. Got his number from information, made the call.

Hey, man. Glad you’re still in Coulee City. That you Shep? You old draft-dodger. How the hell’d ya find me? You’re still the same damn fool, listed in the phone book. Not many named Rycke in Coulee City. Me, I don’t want anyone to know where I am. The army ever get you, or d’ya harness yourself to a plow? I’ll tell you about it some time. What are you doing these days? Water Commissioner. How’d you like some real work?

With great care, the two men dismantled the unfinished building, carefully packed and stored all the pieces and parts intended for a four thousand-square-foot lodge. Aniston performed as instructed, relocated all the neatly packed crates to a warehouse on the outskirts of Spokane. Three years later he offered to buy the remains for ten thousand dollars. Newly installed Chief Operating Officer Josh Kraemer was delighted to accept—storage fees eliminated, loss finally written off; successive new borrowers would cover the bad debt.

Lucca had pleaded with her husband to let her work at the shop; she was at loose ends, terribly depressed after her third miscarriage. When Aniston walked into the office and told Lucca to write a check, she made no bones about her discontent. We’ve been scrimping and saving just to stay in business, and now you’re throwing out good, hard-earned money for a bunch of what—junk? Somebody’s cast-off is what. What are you going to do with all that stuff ... pay the storage bill?

It wasn’t often the hundred-weight woman offered opposition to Aniston’s judgment. At six foot three, he loomed over his wife, not the least bit hesitant to display his penchant for violence or the threat of it to keep her in line.

Don’t you worry yourself, woman. I’ve got a plan.

Never one to share confidences, he secluded himself in his workshop, surrounded by technical tomes he’d amassed and catalogued for years. Isolated for days at a time, Aniston skipped meals, failed to bathe or change clothes, slept on a cot in the workshop and left Lucca wondering if he’d finally gone over the edge.

But when Aniston bought a wooded lot at the top of South Hill, his purpose became clear. A month after the initial purchase he abandoned his lair, was ready to present the plans. Loggers felled three tall cedars on the new property, milled them on sight into structural beams—several twenty feet long. No interior beam would obstruct the central expanse of the lodge, the junk would be transformed, the would-be lodge resurrected a la Mr. Wright.

Bradley Rycke was all and more than Aniston remembered. He learned to read blueprints and helped put a team together quickly. Unlike his boss, Brad had an easy way of dealing with the men, kept things calm under pressure. The crew liked working for him but they were in awe of the gruff giant who could set a beam singlehandedly, inspected every inch of the thirty-five hundred-square-foot house, caught the slightest slip and made sure to lay into the guy who made the mistake.

The finished product, a masterpiece of design and craftsmanship, was completed in four months, Aniston’s genius validated. This will be my legacy, he told Lucca.

Word spread fast around Spokane. Aniston Shepard had performed a miracle, spun straw into gold, resurrected a rubbish heap and built a fiefdom on South Hill. Overnight, Aniston Shepard went from obscurity to fame, his architectural prowess in great demand. He’d achieved all he thought he wanted, but was not content, hated the acclaim, avoided most public contact.

Lucca enjoyed the notoriety. What is it you want? she asked in desperation. Why can’t you be satisfied with your success?

Standing at the rail of the deck, looking down on a city where he had poured out so much of himself, Aniston felt empty. One thing eluded him, a son.

They’re nothing. Only the people in this Podunk town think these buildings are any good. They will all crumble and be replaced in time, and no one will remember Aniston Shepard. No son will take pride in his father’s singular achievement.

Lucca despaired, had seen specialist and priest, tried any number of mystical remedies. She’d given up all hope of ever bearing a child. But Aniston, who hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact he was past fifty, persisted. The bedroom became Lucca’s torture chamber, onset of her menstrual cycle justification for abuse, verbal and physical.

And then, miracle of miracles, Lucca conceived. Aniston hovered over her, cared for every need, real or imagined, insisted she no longer go to the office.

You’ve got to stay at home and rest. You can’t lift things, have to be really careful now. I’ll be fine at work. All I do is sit and write checks. I’ll go mad at home for nine months.

But as always Aniston was the victor, Lucca the vanquished, relegated to the house on the hill. When she entered her seventh month, they celebrated. Maybe, just maybe, Lucca prayed, a child will appease him. Maybe he’ll stop drinking, become a better husband and a good father.

Their full-term baby was born—normal and healthy, Lucca ecstatic. Aniston would have an heir. She should have anticipated his reaction. For him there was no celebration, just a terrible drinking binge that lasted for days. There would be no more children for Lucca, no son to carry on the Shepard name.

Just a daughter named Danielle whose future was already sealed.

Five

A devout Catholic, her mother had insisted Danielle be baptized despite Aniston’s vehement protests and her fear of repercussions. Luciana had suffered Aniston’s brutality for years, felt the sting of his hand, experienced the sting of his vitriolic tongue. He hated her, blamed her for his failures and unmet aspirations. Birth of a daughter intensified his bitterness, the child an easy victim. Lucca was resigned; Aniston’s abuse was punishment deserved, God’s retribution for her terrible sin. She stopped going to church when bruises became too obvious to hide.

The garden, with its tall pine pillars supporting a blue ceiling, became her Cathedral. Part of each day was spent tending seedlings and young native plants she’d bedded in fertile soil. In summer she enjoyed a secular choir: trilling wrens, chirping nuthatches, chattering warblers and the occasional drumbeat of a white-headed woodpecker, her battle scars out of mind during those few hours of tranquility. In winter she potted artificial flowers; some hung in baskets from the deck overhang, others were placed around tree trunks and along walkways.

Forgotten, left to tend to herself, Danielle developed imaginary playmates, acted out scenes she’d become accustomed to. The innocence and enthusiasm of childhood slowly dissolved, replaced by distrust and repressed anger.

By the tender age of three, the prudent child realized she needed to steer clear of her father. Bad things happened from the moment he walked through the door, especially when he smelled funny and bumped into things. A beer bottle or fry pan crushed little fingers; a petite arm or leg extinguished a cigarette.

At times Danielle hid in a pantry filled from floor to ceiling with stocked shelves, and a cupboard that held basics of a less nutritional sort: vodka, scotch, gin, tequila, beer, and wine—rows of red wine, Lucca’s favorite.

It was easy for the child to squeeze into a dark corner behind the bins. If she remained silent, unmoving, maybe Aniston would not notice her absence, her terror. But there was no escaping his loud obscenities, no way to shut out Lucca’s pleading.

Vicious outbursts were followed by days of calm, a gift for Lucca atonement for a black eye she might be sporting. On those occasions Lucca coaxed the tentative child from her lair, encouraged her to talk to Aniston.

Tell your father what you learned in Sunday school today, dear.

In his presence, Danielle trembled uncontrollably, stuttered so badly her response was unintelligible.

What the hell’s wrong with that dummy? Aniston would ask, or he might comment on her appearance. You’re the ugliest girl I ever saw. At least if you were a boy, you could be useful for something.

During the quiet times, one question was sure to be asked. Mama, why does daddy hate me? Is it because I’m not pretty? I can’t help it if I’m not a boy. Your father doesn’t hate you. He’s just disappointed because I can’t have any more children. He was a football hero, got a trophy too. He was hoping to have a son he could play football with. Will he like me better if I had a boy’s name? Can’t you call me Danny? You wait and see how he’ll change when you get a little older ... Danny. You’ll be the prettiest girl in town.

Lucca did her best, but it seemed Danny would never be pretty. Each night she patiently set her daughter’s thin, straight hair with strips of cloth, hoping to give it some curl, but ten minutes after the strips were removed Danny’s hair was flat. She had grown taller but her dresses hung limply on her thin frame, displayed pale gangling legs, Aniston’s response to his daughter’s appearance venomous.

How’d you give birth to that ostrich? he tormented. "Looks like something that belongs