Odds

By Tambler Wallace

A frantic father, a mysterious container, and a serendipitous encounter with an especially talented soldier of fortune come together for an international reckoning. The circle of life becomes a Mobius strip.

Odds

When a man retires and becomes a multimillionaire, he learns that his money can’t buy miracles, but it can buy a measure of revenge. His struggle to understand and overcome a devastating loss culminates in a glimmer of hope for maintaining connections to the dearly departed.

As he immerses his mind and his money into a search for the soul and the paths it takes through multiple lifetimes, he sees as he gets closer just how far away the answer is: beyond any mortal’s reach. He enlists the help of a warrior with a special power and falls for a deceased DEA agent.

In the desert hills of Mexico, evil and justice meet as past and present lives become intertwined in the search for the immortal soul. Ultimately, through a chance reunion, he learns that success in life and success at living are two very different things, that some broken hearts never heal, and that some hearts never break.

What are the odds of discovering a lost progeny reanimated as a not-so-total stranger?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662459948

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Odds

Tambler Wallace

Copyright © 2022 Tambler Wallace

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-5995-5 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-6624-5994-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

About the Author

About the Author 290

Devolver a Texas, read the inscription.

Sergeant Zapata kicked at the old wooden ammunition box and heard nothing rattle. He bent down to inspect more closely the message handwritten on the lid.

Parece Sharpie, he said to his captain.

Chingale, the captain said, flicking the back of his hand at the object that had appeared overnight at the front door of the office. He turned and walked inside.

Zapata used his pocket knife to pry off the top of the box without much effort and looked inside. At first, he wasn’t sure what he had, but then he recognized it and jerked his head back reflexively.

Ay ching, Capitán?

He turned and realized the boss had gone inside, so he carried the box in with him.

Capitán! He set the vessel on the captain’s desk and lifted the lid.

The captain seemed put out by Zapata’s insistence, but finally rose from his chair and peered inside.

Ay, ching— He looked up at his sergeant. Devuelve esta caja a Texas.

*****

Man, I need to shift, Jacques said, as he lifted himself with his arms and slid his butt to the right just enough to level his hips and straighten his spine.

Well, don’t do it here, asshole, his brother replied, turning his head directly toward him.

"I said shift, not shit, dumbfuck. Back was startin’ to hurt."

Well, now you’re touching me. Move. Nance elbowed his brother gently.

"You move, Nancy." Jacques shoved Nance sideways off the inverted boat hull and right into the muddy water.

God, what an asshole! Nance was now wet and filthy and pissed off. He rolled over so that he could sit up, his hands behind him under the muck up to his wrists. I oughtta kick your ass.

Bring it on up here and bring it on. Jacques was calm and confident no such ass-kicking would ensue.

There it goes, Nance deflected, glancing toward the west.

This time of year was perfect for watching the sun set through the woods beyond the dam. Nance looked down at the thick mud on his left hand and noticed something.

Dude. This boat has a name. He wiped and dug the soggy pond bottom away from the bow beside him to reveal the lower portion of some stenciled text. How long has this thing been here?

Since Mom and Dad bought the place. Well, long before that. I don’t know. Jacques closed one eye and squinted the other and looked through a tight circle of his forefinger. He could see the sharp outline of the sun through the leaves.

Nance kept clearing off the mud and cleaning the side of the boat.

The alternating droughts and monsoons had varied the visibility of the capsized craft over the years since they discovered the flat smooth surface in the draw, through which the pond was filled by way of the arroyo that stretched to the culvert that received the overflow from the Donnels’ stock tank across the road. This day, it was exposed as much as either of them could remember.

Jacques leaned over and read the name as Nance gradually made it legible. "Marie Louise, he announced in a formal tone. Hmm. ’Twas a fine vessel, I’m sure. Until she flipped."

Let’s dig ’er out, Jackie. Nance looked it over from stem to stern and considered its potential for fishing in the deep part of the pond beyond his casting range from the bank. Then he noticed a split in the seam that ran a few inches down one corner.

Nnnnnahhh, she’s good where she is, Jacques opined. No point in turning her world upright now.

Nance straightened up and leaned back on his arms again, with his hands, butt, legs, and bootheels in the mud. The sun had dropped completely below the treetops, but the rays that snuck through the foliage were bright and sharp.

*****

Your boat’s got a name, Dad.

I know, Nance. Bayliner. He noticed his son was a walking mud ball. Damn!

"Not that one. The one in the pond. It says Mary Louise on it."

"Marie Louise, Nance. Not Mary." Jacques grabbed a plate from the sink strainer and approached the stove top.

"Marie Louise? Huh." Francois cocked his head and looked into space for a moment, as if trying to recall.

Nance, for gosh’s sake, get in the bathroom and get cleaned up!

Okay, Mom. That’s where I’m going. Dang!

I’ll dang you if you raise your voice to me again.

You know her? Simone, the oldest, was nothing, if not inquisitive. She had blasted past puberty and was taking on high school as if she already knew it all. Whatever she didn’t know, she felt compelled to learn. Marie Louise?

Francois didn’t answer, just went back to his pecan pie. Voices were still as Jacques served himself up some dinner from the pans, skillet, and turkey carcass on the kitchen stove. Their mother sat back and sipped her iced tea.

Nance entered in his briefs and began his food-gathering ritual.

Mom! Simone, usually blasé about such behavior, found Nance’s apparel sorely lacking. Her stare led Mallory to the vulgar visage.

Nance… Oh, Simone, get over it. Her mother turned away without addressing her concerns.

No, Francois said at length in reply to his daughter’s query, as he slid his dessert plate to the side and picked up his own iced tea glass.

Nance walked back into the dining room from the hallway, wearing gym shorts he had hastily donned, and carried his muddy clothes through to the laundry room. He came back to the kitchen, scooped some food out of each pan onto a plate, and carried it into the living room. He began eating his meal and looking out the window as he suddenly showed interest in their home’s history. Who owned this place when you guys bought it? Who’d you buy it from? I forget.

An actor or something, right, Daddy? Simone stood up from the dinner table and took her dinner plate to the kitchen sink. She turned and leaned on the kitchen counter as she awaited her father’s response.

Stage actor, Francois clarified. Larsen or something. They were weekenders from Houston. Rarely even visited.

Well, they forgot their boat. When they left. Nance turned away from the window, sat on the couch, and focused on his repast.

They forgot a lot of stuff, their mother added. She had come out of a silent, reflective mood suddenly, as if awaking from a tea-sipping trance. "An attic full of stuff. Well, we moved it all into the attic. It was all spread through the house as if they intended to come back here and stay."

His wife ran off with a sailor or some such.

Francois—that’s—you don’t know that to be true. We’re not sure about that, it was just a rumor.

I said ‘or some such.’ Jeez, Mallory. Doesn’t much matter, does it?

Well then, why did you have to mention it?

Just making conversation. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers. Dang. Touchy much?

See, this is why—oh, never mind. She shook her head, as she turned to survey the dinner debris that would need to be cleared.

Or was it him that ran off with a sailor? Francois stirred the pot one last time.

Let’s go throw rocks, Nancy, Jacques suggested, as he mooshed his dressing and gravy around in his mouth.

M-gay, Nance agreed, swallowing a bite of cranberry sauce.

In the dark? How do you know if you hit what you—oh, never mind. Simone shook her head, as she silently exited the kitchen by way of the hall that led to her room.

We just will, Nance answered the sister who had left the room. Ain’t dark yet, anyway.

The boys finished eating their food, dropped their plates and flatware into the sink, and ambled outside through the front door and into the twilight.

Francois got up and poured two glasses of Shiraz and set one on the dining table in front of his wife. He carried his into the living room and settled into his recliner.

The room went quiet except for the white noise whir of the central air conditioner. When that shut off, the silence was absolute.

Francois was savoring his red wine when from behind him he heard Mallory say casually, I’ve filed for divorce.

He took another sip, swallowed it, and exhaled audibly. And Happy Thanksgiving to you.

*****

It can’t be done.

"Shut up, Sis. It can too be done."

I know we can travel to the future. People predict the future all the time, dummy.

"That’s called guessing, not time travel. And it’s only the guesses they got right that are ever talked about. The jillion guesses they get wrong are totally forgotten about. It’s simple. The past is fact, the future is fiction."

Oh, aren’t you the big philosopher. Ronnie’s right, Sis, lots of people can see the future. In the old days, they were called prophets.

"You guys are so young and stupid. Even the prophets got more wrong than they got right. And even they didn’t travel to the future. They just guessed at it."

"Oh, and you’re all of seventeen, and you’re wiser than us sixteen-year-olds. Anyway, remember, the future is now."

That’s right. Ronnie’s right, Sis.

"By definition, now is the present."

All right, fine. Forget the future.

Can’t. Hasn’t happened.

Ronnie grabbed her by her hair with both hands, pulled her face to his, and gave her a forceful, smacky kiss. Now for all of the future forever I can say I kissed you. It will always be true. It can’t be undone. Hah.

Ow! You…you…you pulled my hair! She spoke calmly despite the apparent shock. She held her hand to her mouth but never actually wiped the smooch off.

Wah wah.

Brutal. Savage. You okay, Sis?

Passionate. Ronnie assessed his unsolicited romantic performance while seeming to justify it.

Yeah, I’m fine. Didn’t really hurt. The nightmares may never end.

You can always travel back in time and make sure it didn’t happen.

No no no, you can’t. Ronnie spun and walked backward in front of her as they traversed the main mall corridor. I kissed you, and you can never ever change that.

I wish I could, but you’re right. I can’t. You can’t travel to the past any more than you can to the future.

Anyway, if you did, and you made something happen that’s different, it will change all of history.

So would it just restart from there, or would everything up to now just be different?

How would we know, Ronnie? It could be happening all the time—people going back in time and changing something and instantly history changes and we all know the new history because the changed history never happened. Bam! Just like that.

Let’s go. We’ll talk more about it…never. How about that? She steered the other two toward the mall exit.

They climbed in the Tahoe and pulled out of the parking lot onto the street.

I guess you should take me home. My cousins are going to be there in a little while.

Sure thing, Ronnie. Don’t you dare tell them you kissed me, or you will have absolutely no future.

We’ll see. Here. You girls lean together up there, and I’ll take a selfie with me in the middle.

He leaned forward between the front seats and held his cellular phone out in front of them. The sisters leaned toward each other to frame the perfect group self-portrait as the car swerved all the way over into the oncoming lane. Tires squealed and torsos swung violently to one side then the other.

Aaahhhh. Holy shit! Pay attention, Sis! We were almost killed!

Sis checked the rearview mirror and saw the oncoming driver swerving back into his lane behind them.

Oh my god. I hope he doesn’t call the cops.

Turn here, and go a couple blocks. Let’s lose him. Ronnie was leaning into the front-seat gap and ducking at the same time, as if hiding from bystanders.

There were other witnesses, Ronnie.

Well, let’s lose all of them. He rose up a bit and looked to their right. Go around this way, and pull into that parking lot between all those other cars. If someone follows us, we’ll just get back on the road and lose them.

License plate. They probably got our license plate.

Nah. Nobody had time to write it down. Just park in here, and let’s chill.

Okay. She found a spot between two other SUVs, put the vehicle in park, and shut it off. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. That was so stupid.

Yeah.

Yeah.

The girl at the wheel closed her eyes and laid her head back on the headrest. Her sister and their friend looked at each other as if they had just been to the brink of death. The three breathed deeply for several seconds.

A knock on the driver’s window startled all of them.

Get out!

The three occupants were stunned and frozen in place looking at the man with the hood over his head. The gunshot shattered the window and the driver’s head. The man jerked the door open as Ronnie leaped to his right, grabbed the door handle, pushed the door open, and slithered headfirst out onto the pavement. His friend in the front seat did not move fast enough to avoid the second bullet. She fell bleeding onto the parking lot next to Ronnie.

*****

It’s okay, baby. Simone, really. Don’t be so… You shouldn’t be so disappointed about second place.

I never want a second-place trophy on my shelf. Ever.

Weeellll…floopty-doo. That will save room for your prom picture.

What…that… I’m talking about my trophy shelf, Dad. Not my make-believe princess nonsense shelf—

"Prom’s not nonsense, Simone. When it gets close, you will learn that. Anyway… Honey, listen. This was only a qualifying heat. You won’t get a nasty old second-place trophy just yet. I mean ever."

"I came in second! It’s my first second-place finish ever, qualifying or whatever!"

You’ll win the finals.

I don’t know, Daddy. Four hundred meters might be beyond my ability. I can’t keep my breathing steady after about a hundred— Simone suddenly teared up and began sobbing into her hands.

Oh, baby. This isn’t about swimming, is it? He wrapped her towel tightly around her as she tried to curl into a ball in his lap. "Honey, listen. The divorce is about me. Your mother and me. She’s not mad at you, it had nothing to do with anything you ever did or said. She leaned hard into his chest and continued sobbing. Hey, she’s the one who’s having second thoughts, believe me. Probably. Maybe. If you’re worried about her, don’t. She’ll make it fine. Your brothers will be fine. She’ll get her…life back together—"

I don’t give a shit about her, she responded into his shirt, her wet hair dampening it through to his skin. She raised her face toward his. "I’m worried about you!"

Oh, honey. Darling. Language.

*****

I really need a scene here. A clear departure from the thread I’ve been working on. Something with a new character. New setting. What about a couple on the beach in… Malibu? Nah. Something more remote, less crowded. Guess I’ll need to do a little research. I remember Dad taking us to the beach in California that time. I remember the sand was coarse and black, rough on the soles of my feet. Not a nice gradual rise from the water like in Corpus Christi. Kinda sucked, actually. All rocky and rough and crappy. California-y…

You look like you’re stuck. Why don’t you just give up? Mallory grabbed her purse and keys from the countertop.

Like you did, Mallory? Francois snapped back without looking up from his computer screen. Like you gave up on us?

You’re not a fucking writer, Francois. You’re an oil man who’s outlived his usefulness. I don’t know…you might still be useful for something. Guess you’ll never know, though, sitting there trying to be an ‘author’ or ‘novelist’ or whatever you’re pretending to be. Her expression of disgust bordering on pure hatred continued to go unnoticed.

Well, you know, I’m not trying. I have no reason to try or even pretend to try to impress you. You’re a closed-minded, self-centered lost cause. So mind your own beeswax.

Oh, wow. She placed her hand flat on her chest. And that’s probably how you write. You don’t really have a way with words, so why don’t you just give up and go to Walmart and be a greeter? You probably can’t even find the words to greet people, so good luck with that.

Isolated California shitty beach. The man’s fed up. Puts his hands around her neck. Wait, no, he poisons her wine, and when she passes out, he just drags her into the surf. Oh no, an accidental drowning. Yeah, we can start with that. That’s a new thread. Is she rich? Does she have a big insurance policy? What’s his motive?

My god, you’re just going to keep at it, aren’t you? Mallory stared at him like he had just shat himself. You are totally worthless. I can’t wait for this divorce to be final. I can celebrate losing one giant loser.

…Motive… Yeah, I think I have the motive…

*****

You ever think of just drowning her like a rabid dog?

"Uh, who? You mean your mother? Christ, Simone! How can you say something like that about her? Of course I have. You drown pups, you shoot rabid dogs. But you can’t just do that. I’m not capable of doing something like that to her, the mother of my children—yet. I mean, I’m going to pretend you never said that, Simone. Bad girl! Bad!"

’Kay. Whatevs…

We’ll—we’ll talk later. About that—what you just said. I can’t believe you would ever suggest… I would be more inclined to take her into the country and dump her on a gravel road somewhere, heh-heh. I’m…just kidding…

By the time Francois finished his idle threat, Simone had already retired to her room to study. Mallory had just driven away to her apartment and taken the boys for the night. He was still staring at his computer and trying to pull words out of the air. So I’m no wordsmith, eh? No, I’m a word smythe. Yeah, wordsmythe. I need to write that down. Is that one word or two?

*****

You boys will like Virginia. Lots of history, lots of things to do. Close to the ocean. It’s the old part of America. The first part.

Sure, Mom. You grew up there, right? Why’d you leave? Jacques reached over and tapped Nance on the shoulder with the back of his hand to underline his ironic question.

Jacques, she responded pointedly, detecting the edge in her son’s delivery. Yes, I was born there and lived there until high school and my parents decided to move to Texas. I really didn’t have any say in it.

Hmm. Imagine that. Nance returned the shoulder tap. He was not exactly sure why all this was happening, but when he decided to go with his mother rather than stay with his dad, he secretly reserved the right to go back home if Norfolk wasn’t the perfect place to raise a child, as his mother had convinced him. The scenery is just like everywhere else. And it’s boring.

Take a nap.

Get—get your head out of my lap, you freak!

Mom, Jackie won’t let me—

Move over, Jackie! Give him room to lie down!

There isn’t any more room! He needs to bunch up, or we need a wider car. He’s too big to lay down. Sleep sitting up, turd!

Jackie that’s enough of that language. I hate your father for teaching you words like that. That makes me so mad!

"We learned turd at school, Mom. Nance wasn’t really defending his father; he was merely correcting the record. Dad never used that word. Anyway, it’s not that bad of a word."

We learn everything at school. Isn’t that what school is for?

How am I supposed to take a nap when—

You boys figure it out! I can’t drive with all the commotion! Shit! I’m speeding! Dammit, you guys! Mallory slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder. When she was stopped, she unlocked the doors and said, Jackie! Get up front so your brother can lie down and take a nap!

I’m not sleepy right now, Mom.

I’m getting up front anyway, Nancy. I’m tired of sitting next to you, you stinky turd. Jackie jumped out and slammed the back door before his mother erupted.

Jacques Rene DePardieu, I told you no more of that kind of language! she growled, as Jackie took his seat next to her.

"Sorry, Mom. I forgot. Anyway, I learned turd on South Park."

Why did they name it Virginia?

"I—uuuuunnnhhhh, she continued growling, then took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. I…do not know honestly, Nance. We will look that up." She was doing her best to bring her anger and frustration—and perhaps her guilt—down. Changing the subject to just about anything sounded like the best idea. She started to roll and made her way back onto the pavement.

Ask Siri, Mom, Jacques suggested.

Good idea. But not while I’m driving. Here. She took the cellular phone from the magnetic holder on the dashboard and handed it to Jackie. You ask her.

I don’t really care. He took the phone and tossed it into the back seat, as his mother’s eyes grew wide and round at the sight of her thousand-dollar phone flying through the air. You ask her, Nance.

Nance pretended to snore.

*****

You okay, Daddy?

Oh, honey. Yes and no. Mostly no. No—mostly yes. To be honest, I don’t miss Mallory—the person your mom was the last few years. It was to the point I really dreaded every encounter with her. So angry and dour all the time. It was like I couldn’t do anything right, and she made me want to do everything wrong on purpose. And that makes me very sad.

Is it okay if I hate her?

Oh, no, Simone. Don’t hate her. She wasn’t that way on purpose. I mean, I’m sure she would have rather been happy and nice like she used to be. It’s—not completely her fault, I guess. I don’t know. I admit I lost my love of work, but that happened while I was still getting paid to do stuff that seemed meaningless to me. I was an oil man, I got things done, I ran crews. I never wanted to be a paper pusher, but they gave me no choice. I didn’t quit, anyway. It wasn’t my decision. And I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

He halted his summary of the end of his career and fell silent for a spell. He realized Simone did not need the explanation, anyway. I don’t know what I did wrong to turn her so bitter and resentful, but… I don’t know. Maybe I’ll figure it out someday soon. Maybe I can fix it.

The only way you could have fixed it so that she would love you again would have been for you to get rich. She was always complaining about one thing being old and something else was worn out, and she always wanted newer, nicer stuff. I can’t believe you didn’t notice that whenever we were at someone else’s house. ‘I wish we could get something like this,’ or ‘Why don’t we have a pool?’ or a nice outdoor kitchen or a Mercedes Benz, or blah blah, whine whine. ‘I need, I want.’ It made me sick, Daddy. I don’t miss her one bit. And I don’t feel sorry for her. She has her precious little boys, and believe me, that’s all she wanted. Except more and better stuff.

Well, to be honest, that’s what most people want. It’s how they take stock in their lives. They need stuff to measure up to their own expectations, and—

And to measure up against the neighbors and the people they call ‘friends.’ She’s a greedy b-i-you-know-what.

She’s your mother, Simone. Hell, I bought a boat, and—I guess that’s not really the same, though. I got a decent one, not a yacht or a cigarette. Just wanted to do some bay fishing. Anyway, someday you’ll understand her better, and…maybe not forgive her…completely, anyway, but—

Nope. She’s not my mom, and I’ll never forgive her. Look what she’s done to you. Never.

Never is a long time. Or the opposite of a long time. What I’m trying to say, Simone, is things change. Things can get better.

Things will get worse if I ever see her again.

*****

So, Nance is your twin brother? Not much resemblance. Detective Cortez was interviewing each of the minors who were taken into custody at the party earlier that night.

Yes, sir. We’re not identical. We’re the other kind of twins.

Gotcha. Who invited you to the party?

I—We just heard about it at school. Kids were just talking about it. Telling everyone to show up.

Forrest Middle School, right?

Yessir.

Don’t remember who you heard it from.

No. Not really. For sure.

Here’s a list of all the kids who were there. The ones we were able to apprehend. Put a check mark by all of them that you know.

At the word apprehend, Jacques knew he was in real trouble. He did as Cortez instructed, marking Nance, another boy, and two girls.

So chances are, you heard about the party from one of the people you just checked. Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Jacques.

You can call me Jackie, sir.

Okay, Jackie. You’re going to tell me what drugs you saw at the party and who was passing them out. You’re also going to tell me what drugs you took and what drugs anyone that you recognized at the party took.

"I… I don’t know what the stuff was. I’ve never heard of them. I heard mollie something, windowpane, loods… X… I always just turned away and pretended to not know anything was passed around. I did… I did take a cup of the beer from the keg. I only drank a little bit. Guess I’m not a beer drinker."

Yet. Any other names you heard? Like whose party it was?

Some people kept mentioning Christy. I never did meet her or anything.

Christy. I’ll check with the guys doing the adult interviews. What about your brother? Did he try any of the stuff getting passed around?

No. Not that I saw. I wasn’t with him the whole time. I was trying to meet some new people. I was there a while before I even knew it was a drug party. Nance wouldn’t have tried any of it, though. He knows about that stuff. I mean, he knows what I know—that it’s bad and it will destroy your life and stuff.

Okay. Where did your parents think you were?

At Reilly’s. We told her we were going bowling and that we were spending the night at Reilly’s.

Detective Cortez looked at the list to confirm the name was one he had checked off. Your mom was letting you stay at a girl’s house?

Reilly’s a boy.

"Oh. Sorry. Guess we should have noted that when we took everyone’s name. Anyway, Jackie, you’re going to call your parents and tell them where you are. And why. They will, presumably, come get you. As far as what happens next, that is up to them. And you. We are not charging any of you kids for this. We want the adults, of course. None of this will go into your permanent record, but these notes I’m taking? They will be in my desk drawer