John Dillinger was born on June 22, 1903, in Indianapolis, Indiana, to John Wilson Dillinger Sr. and Elizabeth “Lizzie” Wilson. His early life was marked by tragedy when his mother died in childbirth when he was just four years old. His father remarried, but John’s relationship with his stepmother was strained. He grew up in a grocer’s store where his father worked and was known to be a bit of a troublemaker as a child.
Dillinger’s life of crime began early. At 21, he was arrested for theft and sentenced to 10-20 years in prison. During his time at the Indiana State Prison in Michigan City, he befriended several other notorious criminals, including Homer Van Meter and Harry Pierpont. These relationships would later shape his criminal career.
After serving nine years, Dillinger was paroled in 1933. However, he soon returned to crime, committing a series of bank robberies across the Midwest. His exploits earned him the nickname “Public Enemy No. 1” from the FBI. Dillinger’s notoriety grew, and he became a folk hero of sorts, with many people sympathizing with his actions against banks, which were seen as symbols of the economic hardship of the Great Depression.
One of the most significant figures in Dillinger’s life during this period was Polly Hamilton, a young woman he met while still in prison. She became his girlfriend and visited him regularly during his incarceration. Their relationship continued after his release, and Polly often accompanied Dillinger on his robberies.
Another crucial figure in Dillinger’s life was Anna Sage, also known as “Woman in Red.” Sage, a Romanian-American woman, had her own criminal record and became involved with Dillinger. She played a pivotal role in his eventual demise. Sage, who had been in trouble with the law and was facing deportation, agreed to cooperate with the FBI in exchange for leniency on her own charges. She lured Dillinger to the Biograph Theater in Chicago, where he was watching a movie, promising him a night out.
On July 22, 1934, outside the Biograph Theater, FBI agents ambushed Dillinger as he left the movie. Sage, wearing a red dress that would become infamous, was with him. The FBI agents, led by Melvin Purvis, had been informed of Dillinger’s presence by Sage. As Dillinger attempted to draw his gun, he was shot multiple times. He died shortly after, at the age of 31.
Dillinger’s life of crime and his eventual death captivated the nation. His exploits were widely covered in the media, and his legend grew as a result. Despite his notoriety, Dillinger’s actions were often romanticized, and he became a symbol of rebellion against the system.
Interestingly, Dillinger’s criminal career was marked by several close calls and narrow escapes. He was known for his brazen robberies and his ability to evade capture. However, his relationship with Anna Sage ultimately proved to be his downfall.
The Biograph Theater, where Dillinger met his end, still stands in Chicago and has become a piece of American history. Visitors can see the theater and learn more about the events that transpired there. Dillinger’s legacy continues to fascinate people, and his story remains one of the most infamous in American crime history.
In the years following Dillinger’s death, the FBI’s reputation grew significantly, and Melvin Purvis became a national hero. However, the role of Anna Sage in Dillinger’s death has been the subject of much debate. While some view her as a traitor, others see her as a pragmatic woman who made difficult choices to save herself.
Dillinger’s impact on popular culture is undeniable. He has been the subject of numerous films, books, and documentaries. The 1945 film “Dillinger” and the 1973 film “Dillinger” starring Warren Oates are just a couple of examples. More recently, the 2009 film “Public Enemies” directed by Michael Mann and starring Johnny Depp as Dillinger, brought his story to a new generation.
John Dillinger’s life was a complex mix of tragedy, crime, and notoriety. From his early days in Indianapolis to his eventual death in Chicago, his story is a fascinating and cautionary tale of the allure and consequences of a life of crime. Despite the passage of time, Dillinger’s legend endures, captivating audiences and reminding us of the darker side of the American Dream.
Dillinger’s robberies often involved careful planning and execution. He and his gang would meticulously plan each heist, using stolen cars and guns to carry out their crimes. Dillinger’s brazen nature and charm made him a compelling figure, both to the public and to those who knew him personally.
The FBI’s pursuit of Dillinger was relentless. Led by agents like Melvin Purvis…
I grew up in a small town. In small towns everybody knows everybody and most often they know more about you and your circumstances than even you do.
I was talking to a friend a few weeks back about how I learned I was mixed race. I had thought I was just a white kid like any of the other white kids I hung out with. Of course we didn’t all look white, but you don’t really think about things like that when you’re a kid. There’s too much other stuff that has to be dealt with. This is one of those other things.
This is from the short story book True Two. There is a longer collection of true stories True One. And I have been working intermittently on a novel length collection for a few years now that will cover my time on the streets and more…
THE DAM is Copyright Wendell Sweet and Writerz.net Publishing 2010 – 2024
All rights are reserved by the copyright owner and publisher.
You may not copy, reproduce, print or otherwise distribute this copyrighted material without the copyright owners and publishers permission. Permission is granted to use small portions of the text in critical articles or opinions about the writing. If you wish to share this story with a friend please point them to this blog address.
This is not a work of fiction. The names have been changed for some of the individuals, but not all. I never answer questions about real events or reveal anything about those people when I am asked.
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THE DAM
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THE DAM
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It was summer, the trees full and green, the temperatures in the upper seventies. And you could smell the river from where it ran behind the paper mills and factories crowded around it, just beyond the public square; A dead smell, waste from the paper plants.
I think it was John who said something first. “Fuck it,” or something like that,” I’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” Pete asked?
“Yeah… I think so,” John agreed. His eyes locked on Pete’s, but they didn’t stay. They slipped away and began to wander along the riverbed, the sharp rocks that littered the tops of the cliffs and the distance to the water. I didn’t like it.
Gary just nodded. Gary was the oldest so we pretty much went along with the way he saw things.
“But it’s your Dad,” I said at last. I felt stupid. Defensive. But it really felt to me like he really wasn’t seeing things clearly. I didn’t trust how calm he was, or how he kept looking at the river banks and then down to the water maybe eighty feet are so below.
“I should know,” John said. But his eyes didn’t meet mine at all.
“He should know,” Gary agreed and that was that.
“That’s cool. Let’s go down to the river,” Pete suggested, changing the subject.
“I’m not climbing down there,” I said. I looked down the sheer rock drop off to the water. John was still looking too, and his eyes were glistening, wet, his lips moved slightly as if he was talking to himself. If he was I couldn’t hear. But then he spoke aloud.
“We could make it, I bet,” he said as though it was an afterthought to some other idea. I couldn’t quite see that idea, at least I told myself that later. But I felt some sort of way about it. As if it had feelings of it’s own attached to it.
“No, man,” Gary said. “Pete didn’t mean beginning here… Did you,” he asked?
“No… No, you know, out to Huntingtonville,” Pete said. He leaned forward on his bike, looked at john, followed his eyes down to the river and then back up. John looked at him.
“What!” John asked.
“Nothing, man,” Pete said. “We’ll ride out to Huntingtonville. To the dam. That’d be cool… Wouldn’t it?” You could see the flatness in John’s eye’s. It made Pete nervous. He looked at Gary.
“Yeah,” Gary said. He looked at me.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’d be cool.” I spun one pedal on my stingray, scuffed the dirt with the toe of one Ked and then I looked at John again. His eyes were still too shiny, but he shifted on his banana seat, scuffed the ground with one of his own Keds and then said, “Yeah,” kind of under his breath. Again like it was an afterthought to something else. He lifted his head from his close inspection of the ground, or the river, or the rocky banks, or something in some other world for all I knew, and it seemed more like the last to me, but he met all of our eyes with one sliding loop of his own eyes, and even managed to smile.
~
The bike ride out to Huntingtonville was about four miles. It was a beautiful day and we lazed our way along, avoiding the streets, riding beside the railroad tracks that just happened to run out there. The railroad tracks bisected Watertown. They were like our own private road to anywhere we wanted to go. Summer, fall or winter. It didn’t matter. You could hear the trains coming from a long way off. More than enough time to get out of the way.
We had stripped our shirts off earlier in the morning when we had been crossing the only area of the tracks that we felt were dangerous, a long section of track that was suspended over the Black river on a rail trestle. My heart had beat fast as we had walked tie to tie trying not to look down at the rapids far below. Now we were four skinny, jeans clad boys with our shirts tied around our waists riding our bikes along the sides of those same railroad tracks where they ran through our neighborhood, occasionally bumping over the ties as we went. Gary managed to ride on one of the rails for about 100 feet. No one managed anything better.
Huntingtonville was a small river community just outside of Watertown. It was like the section of town that was so poor it could not simply be across the tracks or on the other side of the river, it had to be removed to the outskirts of the city itself. It was where the poorest of the poor lived, the least desirable races. The blacks. The Indians. Whatever else good, upstanding white Americans felt threatened or insulted by. It was where my father had come from, being both black and Indian.
I didn’t look like my father. I looked like my mother. My mother was Irish and English. About as white as white could be. I guess I was passing. But I was too poor, too much of a dumb kid to even know that back then in 1969.
John’s father was the reason we were all so worried. A few days before we had been playing baseball in the gravel lot of the lumber company across the street from where we lived. The railroad tracks ran behind that lumber company. John was just catching his breath after having hit a home run when his mother called him in side. We all heard later from our own mothers that John’s father had been hurt somehow. Something to do with his head. A stroke. I really didn’t know what a stroke was at that time or understand everything that it meant. I only knew it was bad. It was later in life that I understood how bad. All of us probably. But we did understand that John’s father had nearly died, and would never be his old self again, if he even managed to pull through.
It was a few days after that now. The first time the four of us had gotten back together. We all felt at loose ends. It simply had made no sense for the three of us to try to do much of anything without John. We had tried but all we could think about or talk about was John’s father. Would he be okay? Would they move? That worried me the most. His sister was about the most beautiful girl in the entire world to me. So not only would John move, so would she.
He came back to us today not saying a word about it. And we were worried.
When we reached the dam the water was high. That could mean that either the dam had been running off the excess water, or was about to be. You just had to look at the river and decide.
“We could go to the other side and back,” John suggested.
The dam was about 20 or 30 feet high. Looming over a rock strewn riverbed that had very little water. It was deeper out towards the middle, probably, it looked like it was, but it was all dry river rock along the grassy banks. The top of the Dam stretched about 700 feet across the river.
“I don’t know,” Pete said. “the dam might be about to run. We could get stuck on the other side for awhile.”
No one was concerned about a little wet feet if the dam did suddenly start running as we were crossing it. It didn’t run that fast. And it had caught us before. It was no big deal. Pete’s concern was getting stuck on the little island where the damn ended for an hour or so. Once, john, and myself had been on that island and some kids, older kids, had decided to shoot at us with 22 caliber rifles. Scared us half to death. But that’s not the story I’m trying to tell you today. Maybe I’ll tell you that one some other time. Today I’m trying to tell you about John’s father. And how calm John seemed to be taking it.
John didn’t wait for anyone else to comment. He dumped his bike and started to climb up the side of the concrete abutment to reach the top of the dam and walk across to the island. There was nothing for us to do except fall in behind him. One by one we did.
It all went smoothly. The water began to top the dam, soaking our Keds with its yellow paper mill stink and scummy white foam, just about halfway across. But we all made it to the other side and the island with no trouble. Pete and I climbed down and walked away. To this day I have no idea what words passed between Gary and john, but the next thing I knew they were both climbing back up onto the top of the dam, where the water was flowing faster now. Faster than it had ever flowed when we had attempted to cross the dam. Pete nearly at the top of the concrete wall, Gary several feet behind him.
John didn’t hesitate. He hit the top, stepped into the yellow brown torrent of river water pouring over the falls and began to walk back out to the middle of the river. Gary yelled to him as Pete and I climbed back up to the top of the dam.
I don’t think I was trying to be a hero, but the other thought, the thought he had pulled back from earlier, had just clicked in my head. John was thinking about dying. About killing himself. I could see it on the picture of his face that I held in my head from earlier. I didn’t yell to him, I just stepped into the yellow foam and water, found the top of the dam and began walking.
Behind me and Pete and Gary went ballistic. “Joe, what the fuck are you doing!”
I heard it, but I didn’t hear it. I kept moving. I was scared. Petrified. Water tugged at my feet. There was maybe 6 inches now pouring over the dam and more coming, it seemed a long way down to the river. Sharp, up-tilted slabs of rock seemed to be reaching out for me. Secretly hoping that I would fall and shatter my life upon them.
John stopped in the middle of the dam and turned, looking off toward the rock and the river below. I could see the water swirling fast around his ankles. Rising higher as it went. John looked over at me, but he said nothing.
“John,” I said when I got close enough. He finally spoke.
“No,” was all he said. But tears began to spill from his eyes. Leaking from his cheeks and falling into the foam scummed yellow-brown water that flowed ever faster over his feet.
“Don’t,” I screamed. I knew he meant to do it, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Don’t move,” Gary said from behind me. I nearly went over the falls. I hadn’t known he was that close. I looked up and he was right next to me, working his way around me on the slippery surface of the dam. I looked back and Pete was still on the opposite side of the dam. He had climbed up and now he stood on the flat top. Transfixed. Watching us through his thick glasses. Gary had followed John and me across.
I stood still and Gary stepped around me. I have no idea how he did. I’ve thought about it, believe me. There shouldn’t have been enough room, but that was what he did. He stepped right around me and then walked the remaining 20 feet or so to John and grabbed his arm.
“If you jump you kill me too,” Gary said. I heard him perfectly clear above the roar of the dam. He said it like it was nothing. Like it is everything. But mostly he said it like he meant it.
It seemed like they argued and struggled forever, but it was probably less than a minute, maybe two. The waters were rising fast and the whole thing would soon be decided for us. If we didn’t get off the dam quickly we would be swept over by the force of the water.
They almost did go over. So did I. But the three of us got moving and headed back across to the land side where we had dropped our bikes. We climbed down from a dam and watched the water fill the river up. No one spoke.
Eventually john stopped crying. And the afterthought look, as though there some words or thoughts he couldn’t say passed. The dying time had passed.
We waited almost two hours for the river to stop running and then Pete came across…
We only talked about it one other time that summer, and then we never talked about it again. That day was also a beautiful summer day. Sun high in the sky. We were sitting on our bikes watching the dam run.
“I can’t believe you were gonna do it,” Pete said.
“I wasn’t,” John told him. “I only got scared when the water started flowing and froze on the dam… That’s all it was.”
Nobody spoke for a moment and then Gary said, “That’s how it was.”
“Yeah. That’s how it was,” I agreed…
###
Check out all of the True stories at Amazon:
True: True Stories from a small town
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The True: True stories from a small town are true stories from that place. From my childhood up through my adulthood. Some heartfelt, some heart rending, some the horrible truth of the life I lived at that time… #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
True: True stories from a small town #2
In my younger days I lived my life like there was no tomorrow. I wasn’t thinking about what to do when the check came due, when life changed, when I crossed someone or they crossed me. I wish I had grown up different, but my time on the streets and the lessons that taught me. #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
True: True stories from a small town #3
In AA they say that addictions will take you to hospitals, Mental Institutions and Prisons. It’s true. They will. I have been in all of those places because of my addictions. But addictions are not responsible for the life I lead entirely, and certainly not responsible for the things I did. #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
True: True stories from a small town #4
The True: True stories from a small town are true stories from that place. From my childhood up through my adulthood. Some heartfelt, some heart rending, some the horrible truth of the life I lived at that time… (Based on a true story from my life. Names have been changed, but truthfully almost all of them are dead now so it doesn’t matter.) #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
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ONE
In The Moonlight:
Joe Miller
“Easy… Easy, Boy.” I lowered my hand to the dog’s head and patted affectionately, trying to calm him. He whined low in his throat and looked around at the darkness that closed in on us.
We were in a garage, that much I could tell. Just a nondescript, average run-of-the-mill garage.
The dog lived here. Not the garage specifically. Specifically he lived with, or was owned by, the people that lived on the ground floor of the nearby house. I knew that was true because I lived on the top floor of that same house, even though I had only ever set foot there once or twice, and then only in dreams. I still knew the place. It looked the same. Familiar. The dog, Bear, slept in the garage.
The dog squirmed under my calming hand, whined once again, and then darted out of the garage toward the lower floor of the house. Maybe the first floor. Maybe the basement if he had or could find a way into it. Either way, he was safe now. A kind of exit stage left. Still, I waited a few long minutes to see if he might return, when he didn’t I turned my attention back to the grocery cart I had just pushed for the last few miles to reach the garage.
It wasn’t mine. Well, technically it wasn’t mine, but everything in this world was mine if you came right down to it. I had entered what looked to be an abandoned house and found the cart, already loaded, sitting in an attached garage just off the ground floor apartment. I remember thinking… “So… This is how it begins…
It always begins some way and I suppose that sometimes the ends justify the means, and here was the end… I mean to say that I took the cart, loaded as it was, no more thought involved, pushed it out of the garage at a run and went blindly down the rain-slicked dirt road in front of me.
There was one bad part when I nearly got stuck, but I saw the problem from a long way off, put on a burst of speed and made it through the mud hole and out the other side. It was only a matter of minutes later that I had come in sight of the house and knew what the deal was. I had been contemplating the cart and it’s contents, feeling ears of corn through the side of a large sack, about to check some other stuff, when the dog had appeared.
When the dog came, memories came with him: The house; The people that owned the dog… Returning from work… or? I don’t know. Work or something else. Daily? Was it before things got bad? If so it had to be work: There was nothing else but work before. So work, or something like work… Coming home… The people downstairs… The family upstairs that I knew so intimately, but had never actually seen… Other memories… Leaving to go and get the cart… Knowing it would be there somehow… Getting there… Looping back to here and the present time…
The dog didn’t come back. I stood, the moonlight washing over me: This was critical, all that I had to do was stay there. There meaning upstairs. Stay there. I would be home. I was home. All I had to do was stay. But it never worked out that way. Even as I was thinking about climbing those stairs, checking on the kids, climbing quietly into bed beside my wife, something else was pulling at me, and as I looked around, the big van was parked in the driveway. Almost talking to me. Had it been there a few moments before? A few seconds ago? Surely not. I’d just pushed that cart up that driveway. There had been nothing in it… And that was… Today…? Tonight…? Just a short time ago…? Sure it was.
I let my eyes move around the garage, sweeping over the cart and its load of bundles and packages… Junk too… I hadn’t seen that before… Computer parts? … Maybe… Food and machines. That was ironic. But my mind was not satisfied. The van was there and if the van was there… … I felt in my pockets… … Keys… … And absolutely those keys hadn’t been there a few seconds ago. I could feel their scratchy press against my thigh. Irritating yet comforting… My eyes turned up to the van.
The van was the way out. It could be anyway, if I could simply stay with it… But there was no time to think. Certainly no time to be thinking like that.
More memories came. Memories of always taking the van; always, and… And I couldn’t make the rest of that ghost of a memory come, whatever it was, it was lost to me. … The city… Being lost in the city… Something…. It wouldn’t come, but, well I couldn’t stay here could I?
I glanced towards the house again, expecting the dog to come back… No dog… He had played his part and… And… I looked up at the full, bloated moon. When had I left the garage? I was standing next to the van… Looking in through the drivers window. The keys out of my pocket and into my hand. I could feel their cold, metal weight… Dawn was not far away, if I was going… That was it. The thought just echoed in my head… If I was going I better get going? … If I was going I better get to it? … I better throw away the keys and go in the house? … I better… But I stopped those thoughts. I knew where I better lead to, it lead to, ‘The time is short!’ Once dawn moves in you’ll be stuck! Whatever I had to do in the city with the van had to be done now: Before dawn, or not at all. There was no time to think about it… There never was… I looked down and sucked in a sharp breath.
I let the breath out slowly as my hand fitted the key into the ignition. When had I opened the door? ‘For that matter,’ my mind started, but I shut the door on those thoughts as the van roared to life. I dropped the lever into reverse and for some reason I looked up at the top floor of the house as I did. The lights popped on… A shadow moved behind the curtains of one window… ‘Better go if you’re going,’ my mind whispered. ‘You could stay,’ another voice inside my head countered. ‘Just walk up those stairs…’ the curtain moved in that upstairs window and I quickly turned my eyes aside… I couldn’t see that…. I always turned away: Always…
The van bounced and then lurched out into the street. Gears clashing, transmission whining. The tires chirped as I braked too hard and then slammed the gear shift into drive. The outline of the city glowed in soft yellow light before me. The moonlight bathed the road behind me bright and familiar. After all, how many times had I driven this road? … I sighed, slipped my foot off the brake pedal and let it fall heavily onto the gas. The tires chirped once more as I moved off down the road, snapping the headlights on as an afterthought. Behind me, in the back of the van, the dog whined. I lowered one hand and his head slipped underneath that hand.
“Easy… Easy, Boy,” I said.
In The Moonlight:
Laura Kast
“Easy… Easy, girl, I wont hurt you.” I lowered my hand slowly to let the dog get my scent as I approached the van… Boy, my mind corrected… Boy, Laura…
“Boy,” I said aloud and laughed. But the dog looked like he knew what I had said, cocking his head from one side to the other. His upper lip curled away from his teeth, but he was no longer snarling or growling deep in his chest. “Easy, Boy. Easy, Boy… It’s me, Laura… Easy.” I reached down and he allowed me to rest one hand on his head. I ruffled the thick fur there.
This was new. Did the dog know me? Did I know the dog? I thought about it and realized that at the very least I knew the dog. That didn’t mean the dog knew me. And the dog was definitely not letting anyone near the van. Guarding it. He seemed to consider me on a deeper level, his eyes locked with mine. When had I looked back at him? I couldn’t answer the question. With the dog looking at me like that the question didn’t seen important at all. Wasn’t, important at all, I corrected myself… The dog corrected…?
“You do know me… Don’t you? …Bear?” The dog, who was not a dog, cocked his head to one side and seemed to smile at me. … “Your name is, Bear? … Good, Boy… You’re… Joe’s dog… Bear. Good boy, Bear… Is he here… In the van?” I eased closer as I talked.
Bear watched me, but no longer growled at all. Even the stiff posture he had assumed had changed. His tail dropped and moved slightly. It may have been the beginning of a wag. He whined low in his throat. His eyes reflecting green iridescence in the blue of the moon light. He whined again and then came closer to me, easing his head back under my hand so carefully it seemed as though it had always been there. I rubbed his head once more and then my hand slipped under his jaw, scratching, my head lowered at the same time. Bear whined again and then licked my face.
Laura, you take too many chances, I told myself. Too many. But my hand continued to rub Bear’s head and scratch under his jaw, allowing my racing heart to slow. Catching my breath. Wondering what came next. I was new to this. I had never been this far before. I didn’t know what came next.
“You get in the van,” Joe said from the open window above me.
A small, sharp scream slipped from my throat before I could stop it; sounding like someone was strangling me as I tried to suppress it.
“Jesus… Jesus, Joe… Jesus!”… I managed to get myself back under control after a few seconds. I sucked air back into my lungs. Bear whined and looked up at me. My heart slammed against my rib cage.
“No… Not, Jesus. Thank God it’s not that time,” he said.
I met his eyes, but there was no smile in them. “You scared me,” I said defensively, still breathing hard, chest heaving, heart slamming against my ribs.
“No shit. You think I wasn’t scared too? You’re not supposed to be here … You never have been.” He finished quietly after starting in a loud, strained whisper. His eyes remained on mine. The wind picked up moving the limbs in a huge Elm that stood nearby. Its winter-dead limbs clicking and clacking as they came together. The heavy branches groaning and creaking as the wind momentarily gusted.
The wind continued to build for a few more seconds. Our eyes still locked on one another. Then the wind died down with an audible sigh and I shuddered involuntarily and shifted my eyes away.
“I know… I know,” I started. I moved my eyes back to his, but he just stared at me.
“I do know,” I started again. “I’m not even sure how… How I got here,” I finished quietly.
Bear pushed past me, tail wagging, and jumped up into the van as Joe opened the door.
“That’s how it happens,” he said every bit as quietly as I had started. His eyes that had wandered up to the night darkened sky were back on my own now. Staring at me out of the open door. Bear’s head popped up, looking at me from between the seats.
“Well,” Joe asked?
“What,” I asked? I cocked my head in an unconscious imitation of the way Bear was looking at me.
“Shouldn’t you get in,” he asked? … “Or don’t you want to?”
And that was the question, wasn’t it? Here I was, where I was not supposed to be, where I was not invited to be, where I had never been before and it was time to make the choice.
Bear cocked his head once more as if he were also waiting to hear my answer. The dog that was not a dog at all… a… wolf? Maybe… Maybe more than that too… His green eyes asked the question.
“I get in the Van,” I said quietly.
Joe looked away and then turned quickly back. “Yeah. Yeah. You get in the van and we… We go… It’s nearly dawn… There isn’t much time and we have to get as far as we can before the sun comes up.”
He stretched one hand across the seat, held out to me and I could hear the engine running… When had he started it? … I couldn’t remember. My tongue poked out and licked at my dry lips. Bear seemed to grin. No. Not just a wolf either… One side of his upper lip curled over his teeth.
I found my feet stepping up into the passenger area and I followed…
In The Moonlight:
On The Road With Bear
Joe
I rolled to a stop at the intersection. The city was ahead, the house behind, I had never turned left or right so I had no idea what might be in those directions. Were those two roads, one to the left, one to the right, winding away into the distance, just conceptions? One of those photo realistic things that made you look twice, maybe even more? I looked again.
The roads were night dark, the moon playing hide and seek, gliding in and out of the heavy black clouds. The falling rain distorted both the near road and the distant road. How long had it been raining, I wondered, once the rain finally registered. Big, fat drops formed and rolled off down the slope of the windshield. I reached for the wiper switch but found nothing.
I took my eyes from the windshield and looked, supposing I had put my hand in the wrong place, but I had not. There was simply nothing but a gray, formless mass that slightly resembled the lower half of a dashboard. I blinked and when I opened my eyes once more the wiper switch was there. Exactly where it had not been. Exactly where it should be.
Tired I thought.
Bullshit was my second thought.
I blinked again, but the wiper switch remained. I flicked it on half suspecting that it wouldn’t work. That the wipers, if there were any real wipers, would remain frozen to the glass, refuse to move, but they swept up and pushed the beaded drops of rain from the glass nearly silently. Bear whined and pushed his nose under my hand.
“Alright, Buddy,” I told him. I stroked his head and then looked back out at the road. Left, right, straight, I asked myself.
There was a mystery to the city. Sometimes it went bad for me and sometimes it simply frustrated me.
… Running down the clock… One thing was sure, I had never come back out of the city in the many times that I had driven down into it.
… Left, right, straight, I asked myself again.
I pulled a small wire bound notebook and a pen from my shirt pocket and thumbed it open. Pages and pages of notes on the many times I had gone, but none of them amounted to anything except four entries:
The first entry, page twenty-Six, an address, 52715 Randolph Circle. I had never found Randolph Circle in all of my trips, let alone 52715. I had no memory of ever being there. Of any trip to the city when I may have gone there. I did not remember marking the address into the book. Nothing. A total blank.
The second entry, page twenty-five, read; Be careful of Locust street. Big bold letters. And I remembered being there. I had barely got away with my life.
The third entry, page twenty-seven said; ‘West End Docks.’
I knew that place. I remembered being there, the first time and several other times. But the details weren’t there. I couldn’t see them. Why had I been there? I couldn’t see it. Put my finger on it. There was a long, low building that fronted the docks. A house across the street. An old run down neighborhood. A low, curving concrete wall where I had sat and watched people come and go several times. And more. The feeling that I had been there other times that I could not yet remember. I say yet because I had the feeling that I would remember it. But page twenty-six? Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a ghost of a memory.
A map would be useful, but there were no maps. It had taken a dozen times or more before I could count on the wire bound note book being in my pocket. Bigger things, like the van, had taken even longer. Before that I had had to walk or steal a car and that was always risky. But there was hope for a map. Someday, just not this day. At least I didn’t think so.
A quick check of the glove box and the engine cover storage area proved that to be true. Nothing useful. And why was it so much useless stuff was there? A spare pen cap… A broken transistor radio, the van had a radio of its own… Sometimes anyway, but there were no stations on the dial, or at least not yet there weren’t. That was another maybe, but it was there, so what good was a broken transistor radio?
Two paperclips. An insurance card, made out to me… For what? A fuzzy life saver, it looked like lime, my least favorite flavor. A flashlight with no batteries, and a dog biscuit. That was new. There had never been a dog biscuit before. Bear whined and gave a little woof in his throat.
I laughed, “It’s yours, Buddy.” He took it gently from my hand. The dry scrape of the Windshield wipers dragged my attention to the windshield. No rain. No rain on the road either. I reached down and flicked off the wipers. At least the switch was still there.
Straight, my mind finally decided. Better the evil that you know. Left and right could wait for another night. I eased off the brake as Bear jumped up onto the passenger seat, rested his paws on the dashboard and watched the countryside pass us by as we made our way into the city.
The fourth entry was on page fifty-eight. A series of numbers. 2757326901. All strung together, followed by a name Laura K. Whole first name, initial only for the last: Like I knew her maybe? I didn’t though. I must have at the time I wrote the number down, but I didn’t now. Who was Laura? Were the numbers a telephone number? Code talk? It bothered me that I had written the entry and yet had no recollection of doing it. Same as Page twenty-six.
I passed the City Limits sign as I wondered. Regular street lights. No traffic. Sometimes there was traffic, sometimes there wasn’t.
The rain began to fall all at once. One second no rain, the next everything was drenched as though it had rained forever: Always; would never stop. I fumbled for the windshield wiper switch once more, but by the time I turned it back on the windshield was clear. No more rain. The road looked as though it had never seen rain, as if it had never been there at all.
I glanced at the speedometer and then lowered my speed. I didn’t need to attract attention. There were cops here and they had no problem putting me in jail. It didn’t seem to matter to them that I was no more real to them than they were to me, off to jail they took me. And before that was all said and done I spent ten days in that jail. Eating Bologna sandwiches, smelling that moldy-pissy jail smell and trying to convince my court appointed lawyer that neither of us were really there. Jail was no good. I had no intention of going back there. I looked once more at the speedometer, backed off a little more, and then passed the sign announcing the city limits.
The city was early morning dead. It wasn’t dawn. If it were I would not have been there, but dawn was close. There was a glow above the city skyline. Faint… Pink… Growing as I sat idling at the intersection waiting for the light to change.
I noticed the rain was falling once more and I had either never turned on the wipers the last time it had rained, or I had turned them off after it had rained. I reached down to flip the switch on and that was when I heard the sound of a heavy engine screaming. Gears clashing. Bear voiced a warning just as my eyes cleared the dashboard and tried to make sense of the scene before them.
There wasn’t much time to absorb it. A garbage truck just feet away from the driver’s door and closing fast. Sirens screaming. Red and blue lights pulsing. Chasing the garbage truck, I wondered? That was nearly the only thought I had time for.
Bear barked again. My eyes focused on the truck only inches away from me, and slowly rose to the driver. A woman… Laura? … Her eyes focused on my own for the split second before the Garbage truck hit the van’s driver door full blast.
Pain exploded inside of me. Faintly, far away, I heard Bear howl in either anger or pain. Then that sound, all sound, was quickly cut off, replaced with a low snapping sound that quickly turned into a heavy crackling sound. The smell of Ozone filled my nose, but something else quickly began to replace that smell. Gasoline. Gasoline and something else… Diesel? And then, with a low wham, the heat came. I struggled to free myself, but it was no use. I had time for one more quick thought … Laura … Laura … Why …? And then the explosion came and the pain flared, then ended almost as fast as it had come and I found myself flying through the blackness of the void… Flying…. Falling… Panic building… Lungs trying to pull a breath… Voice trying to scream… Nothing coming out… Then sight returning in a rush… The street racing up to meet me… The remains of the Van and the Garbage truck burning far below me…. Red and blue lights pulsing… Cars parked aslant in the street where they had skidded to a stop… Cops behind open doors… Crouched to fire… Their guns pointing… Rain falling… The pavement coming closer… So close I could see the individual pebbles of the surface embedded in the asphalt mix…
The impact came with no pain. The remaining air crushed from my lungs… I tried once more to scream, but it was no use… I hit hard, bounced, came down once more and my eyes flew open wide as I impacted the second time…
Gray half-light… The buzzing of the alarm clock… My own sheets tangled around me… Damp with sweat. The red numerals on the clock read 6:47 A.M. I sucked air greedily, like I had never been among the living at all. Never known how to breath. Just returned from the dead. I released my breath in a long, shaky shudder, found myself half sitting up in the bed and fell back to the mattress urging my racing heart to slow… Calming myself… Morning had come.
I reached over, shut off the alarm clock and silence descended on the room. I could hear my heart beating in that silence. Rapidly slamming against the inside of my ribs. Hard. Heavy. Loose and wet. Hear my labored breathing. I lay still for a few minutes watching more color seep into the sky, then got up and made my way to the shower…
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Dreamer’s Worlds: The Dreamer’s Worlds
Laura and Joe are dreamers. When they close their eyes they dream travel through space and time, to other worlds with little more than a thought… #Mythology #Fantasy #Readers #DreamTravel #Kindle
Dreamer’s Worlds: Sparrow Spirit
Book 2 of 2: Dreamer’s Worlds: As Joe and Laura fall deeper into the Dreamer’s Worlds they search to learn more about the legend of Sparrow Spirit… #Mythology #Fantasy #Readers #DreamTravel #Kindle
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Dedication
For Joan, my wife, the only dame who ever truly understood the shadows I walked in. This ain’t a love story, not in the conventional sense. There weren’t any moonlit strolls or whispered promises. Hell, most nights, I barely saw you, tucked away in that cramped apartment, the city’s symphony of sirens and shouts a lullaby to our uneasy peace. Our marriage was a deal, a contract hammered out between two bruised souls in a world that chewed up and spat out the soft and sentimental. You knew the game, the rules, the price. You saw the grime under my fingernails, the hollowness behind my eyes, the weight of every case clinging to me like a cheap suit. And still, you stuck around. You knew I wasn’t the knight in shining armor, more like a rusted tin can rattling down a back alley. But you saw something in the wreckage, something worth salvaging, even if it was just the stubborn ember of a flickering heart. This one’s for you, Joan. For the quiet strength you showed, for the unspoken understanding that passed between us in the dead of night, for enduring the man I am, not the man I wish I could be. For enduring the long silences, the averted gazes, the crumpled pay stubs that spoke volumes more than any words could ever say. For holding onto hope when I’d buried mine under layers of cynicism and cheap bourbon. This is a story of shadows, yes, but it’s also a story of the quiet loyalty that can bloom even in the darkest corners. A testament to the enduring power of a bond forged not in romance, but in the shared understanding of a life lived on the edge, where the lines between right and wrong blurred, and the only certainty was the next case, the next drink, the next uncertain dawn. It’s a small offering, this book, a poor substitute for the quiet life you deserved, a life free from the stench of smoke and the stain of violence. But it’s all I have to give, for you, the one woman who ever gave a damn about the crumpled, cynical, hard-boiled egg that is Jack Rourke. This one’s for you. And for the quiet strength you showed, the unspoken understanding, the enduring loyalty, even when there was nothing left to salvage but the embers of a flickering heart.
Chapter 1: The Stakeout Begins
The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout.
Another hour ticked by, the sun inching its way across the sky, dragging the day along like a lead weight. This wasn’t the kind of case that got the adrenaline pumping. No shadowy figures, no whispered secrets in smoky bars, just a comfortable suburban home and a husband who seemed, at least from my vantage point, annoyingly ordinary. Melinda, the wife’s friend who’d hired me, had hinted at something more, something darker lurking beneath the surface of Paul’s apparently mundane life. But so far, all I had to show for five hundred bucks was a sore ass and the lingering taste of cheap coffee.
My gaze drifted to the house. Paul Fields, a man I’d pegged as a mid-level accountant based on the muted grey suit and the slightly receding hairline, was pacing the living room, a nervous energy vibrating off him like a faulty appliance. He kept checking the locks on the doors and windows, a ritualistic act that made my cynicism prickle. It wasn’t paranoia, not exactly; it was more like a compulsive twitch, a nervous habit amplified by whatever was eating at him. Was it guilt? Fear? Or simply the product of a mind overwhelmed by the mundane pressures of suburban existence? My years in this business had taught me that the most ordinary people often held the most extraordinary secrets.
I pulled out my notebook, the cheap paper rustling like dry leaves. I scribbled down a few notes, mostly observations about his movements – the way he nervously adjusted his tie, the slight tremor in his hand as he lit a cigarette, the way he kept glancing at the neighbor’s house as if expecting something, or someone. These weren’t the clues that made headlines, the kind that sold newspapers or landed you on TV. These were the tiny cracks in the façade, the almost imperceptible shifts in behavior that whispered of something amiss. But to the untrained eye, they were just… nothing. In my business, nothing was everything.
My thoughts drifted to Joan, my wife. Marriage, I’d decided long ago, was a complicated equation with too many variables. It was a series of compromises, small betrayals, and occasional moments of fragile intimacy that were often overshadowed by the petty squabbles and simmering resentments. It was a lot like this stakeout, actually: long stretches of tedious waiting, punctuated by brief bursts of activity, and the nagging feeling that it was all ultimately pointless. The money helped, of course. It paid the bills, kept a roof over our heads, even allowed for the occasional bottle of decent scotch. But the money couldn’t buy back the lost time, the quiet evenings that had been sacrificed at the altar of my cynical profession.
The hourly rate gnawed at me. Melinda had paid a hefty retainer upfront, but I was acutely aware of the ticking clock. Every hour spent here was an hour I could have been pursuing a more lucrative case. The guilt was a familiar companion, a shadow that followed me from one job to the next. It was a strange paradox of my profession: the quicker the case, the more guilty I felt, the more I worried about shortchanging my client, and the less I earned. It was a vicious cycle of doubt and self-recrimination, a never-ending loop playing on repeat in the back of my mind.
A memory flickered – Melinda’s face, pale and drawn, her eyes shadowed with worry. She’d met me in the dimly lit back room of a bar downtown, a place that smelled of stale beer and desperation. She’d spoken in hushed tones, her words carefully chosen, veiled in euphemisms. She’d never explicitly accused Paul of infidelity, but the suspicion hung heavy in the air, thick and cloying like the cigarette smoke that drifted around us. She’d spoken of unexplained absences, late nights, and a sudden shift in Paul’s behaviour, an unsettling change in a marriage that had previously been, at least on the surface, stable.
Hours bled into one another, the monotony punctuated only by the occasional car driving past, the rhythmic chirp of crickets from the nearby park, and the rhythmic tapping of my fingers against the steering wheel. Then, a break in the routine. A yellow taxi pulled up to the house next door, a nondescript dwelling with peeling paint and overgrown ivy. A woman emerged, her face obscured by the shadows, but her figure undeniably elegant in a way that contrasted sharply with the slightly shabby surroundings. She walked with purpose, a confident stride that betrayed no hint of hesitation, directly towards Paul Fields’ home.
My gut tightened. This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t part of the expected narrative. This was a twist, a deviation from the predictable trajectory of a simple infidelity case. The woman disappeared inside Paul’s house, and the image of her silhouette against the lit window pane burned into my retinas. This wasn’t just about a straying husband anymore; this was something else entirely. Something more complicated, more dangerous. The feeling of dread wasn’t the familiar pang of anxiety associated with a looming deadline, but the sharper, colder fear of venturing into unknown territory. This stakeout, it seemed, was about to get a lot more interesting. And a lot more expensive for Melinda. And potentially, for me. The night was young, and the city held its breath.
The afternoon sun beat down on the Falcon’s dashboard, turning the interior into a small, sweltering oven. The smell of stale coffee had been joined by a new, unwelcome aroma: the faint, metallic tang of sweat. My shirt clung to my back, damp and uncomfortable. Paul Fields remained inside, his movements a blur behind the drawn curtains, but the overall impression was one of restless energy, a caged animal pacing its confines. He’d gone through the lock-checking ritual at least five times in the last hour, each repetition more frantic than the last. It wasn’t a subtle thing, this anxiety; it was practically radiating from the house, a palpable energy that even I, hardened veteran of countless stakeouts, couldn’t ignore.
I reached for my thermos, the lukewarm coffee a bitter disappointment. It did little to soothe the growing unease that was beginning to coil in my stomach, a knot of apprehension tightening with every passing minute. This wasn’t just a case of a possibly cheating husband; it had taken on a darker, more sinister edge. The obsessive checking of locks and windows wasn’t the behavior of a man hiding an affair; it was the behavior of a man hiding something far more significant. Something he was desperately, almost desperately afraid of losing.
My notebook lay open on my lap, filled with meticulous observations: the brand of cigarettes he smoked (Chesterfield, king size), the precise time he lit each one, the way he ground the butt into the ashtray with an almost aggressive force. These weren’t the glamorous details that made for a sensational story; they were the mundane breadcrumbs, the almost imperceptible clues that only someone with my experience could decipher, could weave into a narrative that held any real significance. But for now, they remained just that: breadcrumbs.
The hours stretched, each one a slow, agonizing crawl. The cityscape around me began to blur, the incessant drone of traffic merging into a single, hypnotic hum. My attention wavered, drifting from the house to my own life, the internal dialogue a familiar companion. Joan would be at home now, probably working on her latest watercolor painting, the gentle strokes of her brush a stark contrast to the harsh reality of my existence. I often wondered if she felt the same sense of unease, that same gnawing feeling of something being wrong, even when things seemed perfectly normal on the surface. Maybe she did; maybe that’s what kept us together, that shared unease, that unspoken awareness that beneath the surface of our seemingly stable marriage lay a chasm of unspoken words and quiet resentments.
I caught myself staring at the neighbor’s house again – the one the woman had emerged from. It was unremarkable, a typical suburban dwelling, slightly run-down and unkempt. Yet, it held a certain morbid fascination. It felt…significant. Like a piece of a puzzle I hadn’t yet found, a missing fragment in a picture I was slowly, painfully putting together. The woman had been striking, elegant in her simplicity, with a certain air of determination about her. She had entered Paul’s house without a second glance, her movements purposeful, even resolute. There was an understanding between them, a silent agreement that I couldn’t quite grasp. What was the nature of this interaction? Was she an accomplice, a confidante, or something more sinister?
The sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the street. The air cooled, the oppressive heat of the afternoon giving way to a cooler, more ominous evening chill. Paul Fields was less agitated now, but a subtle tension remained, a nervous stillness that was almost more unsettling than his earlier frenetic energy. He sat by the window, a drink in his hand, staring out into the gathering dusk. What was he looking for? Who was he expecting?
I checked my watch. The retainer was almost exhausted. Melinda’s initial payment, generous as it was, was quickly dwindling. The guilt gnawed at me again, the familiar pang of professional anxiety. I was spending more time on this case than I’d initially anticipated, and the hourly rate was a constant reminder of the dwindling financial returns. Was I overstepping my professional boundaries, letting my curiosity, my personal fascination with the case, cloud my judgment? I’d always prided myself on my objectivity, my detachment; but this case…this case was different.
A sudden noise broke through my thoughts – a low, rhythmic tapping against the glass of the window. I jerked my head up, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was coming from Paul Fields’ house, a slow, deliberate tapping, repetitive and insistent. My hand instinctively went to my pistol, a familiar weight offering a semblance of comfort, a grim reassurance in the growing darkness.
The tapping ceased. Paul Fields had disappeared from the window. Silence descended, heavy and oppressive, thick with an unspoken tension. The only sound was the distant hum of city traffic, and the faint, incessant chirping of crickets. The seemingly insignificant details I’d meticulously recorded in my notebook – the nervous tie adjustment, the tremor in his hand, the aggressive way he extinguished his cigarettes – these seemingly inconsequential observations took on a new, more profound significance. They were no longer just details; they were pieces of a puzzle, fragments of a story slowly, painfully unfolding before me, a story that promised to be far more complex, far more dangerous, than I’d initially imagined.
The night was settling in, and with it, a sense of foreboding that ran deeper than any simple case of infidelity. This was about secrets, lies, and a fear so profound it permeated every corner of Paul Fields’ carefully constructed suburban existence. The stakeout was far from over. In fact, I had a feeling it was just beginning. The truth, I suspected, lay buried deep, waiting to be unearthed, and my gut told me the cost of discovering it would be far greater than I’d ever anticipated. The woman’s visit had shifted everything, changing the stakes of the game. My job had moved beyond the simple pursuit of a cheating spouse; it had transformed into something far more complex, something that touched on the very fabric of human deception and its potentially lethal consequences.
The rhythmic tick-tock of the Falcon’s clock mocked the stillness of the evening. Each second felt stretched, an eternity of waiting. My mind, however, was far from the stakeout, adrift in the turbulent waters of my own marriage. Joan. The name itself felt like a worn coin, smooth from years of handling, its initial shine dulled by the relentless friction of daily life. We’d been together for fifteen years, a lifetime in some ways, a blink in others. The honeymoon phase had long since faded, replaced by a comfortable, if somewhat predictable, routine. We shared a life, a house, a bank account, but did we really share a soul? Was there still a spark, or was the flame reduced to a flickering ember, barely clinging to life?
The question gnawed at me, a persistent ache mirroring the dull throbbing in my temples. Marriage, I’d come to realize, was a constant negotiation, a delicate balancing act between individual desires and shared responsibilities. It was a dance of compromises, of unspoken expectations and carefully constructed compromises. Sometimes it felt more like a business deal than a partnership forged in love and passion. The paperwork – the joint accounts, the insurance policies, the mortgage payments – felt strangely analogous to the meticulous notes I kept on Paul Fields, each entry a careful accounting of actions, reactions, a meticulous record of a decaying trust.
Melinda, Paul’s wife’s friend, had paid handsomely upfront; a generous retainer, enough to keep me comfortably occupied for a week, even two. But the thought of the hourly rate – that constant, nagging reminder of the money I was burning – prickled my conscience. There was an insidious guilt that always followed a swiftly resolved case; a feeling of having cheated the system, of not earning my keep. This wasn’t a lavish life, detective work. It was more about steady income, keeping the wolves from the door, enough to keep Joan and I afloat. Yet, that constant pressure to justify my expenditure, to always be productive, mirrored the pressure in my marriage, where every moment seemed judged and accounted for.
Were we, Joan and I, simply two people going through the motions, enacting the rituals of marriage without the substance of genuine connection? Did the quiet silences between us represent a void, or simply the comfortable silence of two people who’d learned to live in harmony, even without passion? It was a question I’d avoided for too long, burying it beneath the layers of routine and responsibility. The work had become a convenient distraction, a shield against the introspective exploration of my own life.
The thought of Paul Fields’ situation – a man seemingly trapped in a web of his own making – stirred a painful resonance. Was his desperate need to secure his house an external manifestation of the same anxieties that gnawed at me? A fear of losing something precious, something irreplaceable? Or was it something darker? Something far more sinister than a simple midlife crisis or a clandestine affair? The more I observed him, the less certain I became of the original briefing. Infidelity seemed almost too simplistic, an inadequate explanation for the level of paranoia and anxiety I had witnessed.
The darkness deepened, swallowing the last vestiges of the day. The city lights twinkled, a distant, cold constellation in the vast expanse of night. My eyes remained fixed on Paul Fields’ house. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of traffic. Yet, the stillness was deceptive. Beneath the surface, a current of tension flowed, a palpable sense of unease that tightened its grip with every passing moment.
I considered Joan again. Her world was a study in contrasts to mine. The vibrant colors of her paintings, the meticulous detail of her brushstrokes, the quiet satisfaction she derived from creating something beautiful; these represented a life that was completely separate from my gritty world of shadows and suspicion. We were two ships passing in the night, each sailing on a different sea. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, we’d found ourselves docked together, sharing a harbor, a home. But was it enough? Was this fleeting contentment what our lives were to become, or did a future of potential storms still await us?
My thoughts returned to Melinda’s initial payment, the generous upfront sum. It was enough to sustain us for several weeks, but the nagging feeling of not truly
earning it persisted. The hourly rate, a constant, insidious reminder of my own professional limitations. The case, initially expected to be straightforward, had become something else entirely, something that stretched the boundaries of my professional competence. The initial impression of a typical marital discord had morphed into something far more complex and unsettling, a mystery that wrapped around me, pulling me in like a relentless tide.
Was this my problem, the one I felt increasingly drawn to resolve? I often felt more satisfaction in the conclusion of a case, and not necessarily its financial rewards. The financial rewards were only relevant to the continuation of this lifestyle I was beginning to question. I knew, deep down, that there was something more to this than the potential for monetary gain. The thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of unraveling the complexities of human behavior, the dangerous dance between truth and deception; these were the aspects that truly captivated me. They were the reasons why I chose this path, why I continued to walk this lonely road, amidst the darkness and the shadows.
But the darkness was getting to me. It was creeping in, threatening to engulf me entirely, to swallow me whole. The night pressed down, heavy and suffocating. My initial feelings of guilt over a quickly resolved case had given way to a different kind of guilt, the gnawing sense of responsibility that came from recognizing the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just about infidelity; this was about something far more profound, something that touched upon the very essence of human nature, the secrets we keep, the lies we tell, and the terrifying consequences of our actions.
The tension remained palpable, hanging heavy in the air like a shroud. The silence stretched, agonizing, unbroken. I watched, waiting, for the next clue, the next piece of the puzzle. The cost of the stakeout was going up exponentially, not just financially, but emotionally. What started as a simple, even mundane, job had evolved into something far more complex, a mystery that promised to be both exhilarating and potentially dangerous, a game with high stakes. And the game, it seemed, was just beginning. The shadows deepened, and with them, the unsettling feeling that I was venturing into territory that was far beyond my initial expectations. The line between professional curiosity and personal obsession was becoming increasingly blurred, and I had no idea where that would ultimately lead.
The memory flickered, a hazy snapshot in the stark contrast between the sterile brightness of my office and the shadowy suburban street where I now sat. Melinda. Her face, etched with a mixture of apprehension and determination, swam back to me. She’d arrived late that afternoon, a figure shrouded in a heavy winter coat, her breath misting in the cold air of my waiting room. The dim lighting of my office seemed to amplify her nervousness, highlighting the tremor in her hands as she clutched a worn leather purse. She’d been introduced through a mutual acquaintance, a lawyer I’d worked with on a few prior cases. Her initial reluctance to divulge details, the carefully chosen words, the veiled allusions – they’d hinted at something far more complicated than a simple case of marital infidelity.
“It’s… it’s about Paul,” she’d begun, her voice barely a whisper, as if afraid the very air might carry her secret. “My best friend’s husband. Sarah… she suspects something. Something’s not right. She’s too afraid to… to confront him herself.”
There was a hesitant pause, a brief silence broken only by the rhythmic tick of the clock on my desk. It was a sound oddly familiar to the one I was now listening to, the rhythmic ticking that filled the night here on my stakeout. The similarities between the two settings were unsettling, the echoes of that initial consultation creating a weird sense of déja vu.
“It’s not just… you know… another affair,” she continued, her voice gaining a slight measure of resolve. “It’s… different. More… dangerous.”
The word “dangerous” hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. She refused to elaborate further, merely offering a series of vague pronouncements; unusual late-night meetings, strange phone calls, and a pervasive sense of unease that permeated their otherwise seemingly stable life. She hadn’t spoken of specifics, only impressions, vague feelings, hinting at a darkness that lay just beneath the surface of their comfortable suburban existence. The fear in her eyes, however, had been palpable. It was a fear that transcended mere infidelity, a fear that spoke of something far more sinister, something that went beyond the usual marital squabbles and clandestine encounters.
She’d paid handsomely, a significant advance that far exceeded the typical retainer for a simple infidelity investigation. The money had felt… heavy, as if burdened with the weight of her anxieties, her unspoken fears. The generous payment had raised my suspicions, fueling my intuition that this was no ordinary case. It suggested there was more at stake than just catching Paul with another woman, that the truth was buried far deeper, far more elusive than a quick snapshot of infidelity.
I’d tried to draw her out, to coax more information from her, but she’d remained tightly wound, her lips sealed as if bound by an invisible oath. She spoke in coded messages, her words carefully chosen to conceal more than they revealed, her eyes constantly darting around the room as if expecting to be overheard. The overall impression was one of extreme urgency, a sense of impending doom that she couldn’t quite articulate, but that resonated powerfully with me.
The contrast between that dimly lit office, heavy with unspoken anxieties and the hushed quiet of the night outside Paul Fields’ house was stark, yet somehow fitting. Here, in the darkness, surrounded by the slumbering suburbia, I felt a similar weight of anticipation. The silence, which I’d initially found tedious, now held a different, more compelling meaning. It was a silence pregnant with secrets, a silence that vibrated with the unspoken tensions of the lives I was observing.
My eyes remained fixed on Paul’s house. The rhythmic ticking of my watch—a different watch, but the rhythm was the same, a constant companion—accompanied the sound of the crickets chirping in the nearby woods. Paul remained inside, a shadowy figure hidden behind the drawn curtains. His movements, even those few I could see, were restless, anxious. He kept pacing, checking the locks on the doors, peering out the windows as if expecting an intruder. It all fit with Melinda’s description, a feeling of being watched, of being under siege, not necessarily by a person, but by an unseen force. An unseen force that, in my growing suspicion, might be far more powerful and dangerous than just the threat of a love affair gone wrong. Perhaps Melinda herself was in danger. Perhaps Paul was, too. The initial case—infidelity—was losing its significance, becoming secondary to something else entirely. Something more complex, and infinitely more disturbing…
Check out the series below:
Private Investigations: The John Rourke Private Detective series
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book one:
The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford Falcon was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume, a constant, bitter reminder of the long hours ahead. Across the street, Paul Fields’ two-story colonial loomed, a picture of suburban perfection, a stark contrast to the cramped discomfort of my temporary office. The relentless hum of traffic on Hemlock Drive was a dull, throbbing ache in my skull, a soundtrack to this tedious ballet of surveillance. My gut churned, not from the coffee, but from the gnawing feeling that I was hemorrhaging money, bleeding my retainer dry on this seemingly pointless stakeout…
Private Investigations 2: A John Rourke detective Story (Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories) Kindle Edition Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Storiesby W. W. Watson(Author)Format: Kindle Edition J Book 2 of 3: Private Investigations: John Rourke Private Detective Stories John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book two:
My apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, became a temporary forensic lab. The dining table transformed into a command center, littered with maps, photographs, financial records, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of cheap takeout containers. Days bled into nights as I painstakingly organized the evidence, meticulously documenting every detail, creating a comprehensive narrative that would stand up to the scrutiny of the legal system… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
John Rourke is a private detective with contacts and a license to practice from New York to Arizona. He has the resources he needs across the country to find the information he needs to crack the toughest cases. Ex-cops, ex-Cons, snitches, stoolies, drug addicts, criminals, drug dealers and any kind of scum of the earth you can imagine or care to name. He knows the seedy side of life and to some people that makes him indispensable…
Book three:
The silence was broken by the distant screech of a hawk, its cry sharp and piercing against the vast silence of the desert. It was a lonely sound, a perfect metaphor for the state of my own soul. I was tired, bone-deep tired. Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford, nightmares a constant companion. The faces of the victims, the ones I’d found along Rieser’s trail, haunted my dreams. Each one a testament to the brutal efficiency of a man who knew how to erase his tracks… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
“We need to get out of sight,” Candace said, her voice low and urgent. “Now.” They ducked behind a row of overturned buses, the metal cool against their skin. Candace peered through a shattered window, her heart thudding against her ribs. The group consisted of about six individuals, all clad in dark, functional clothing, their faces obscured by masks and goggles. They moved with a predatory grace, their weapons held at the ready. They weren’t simply passing through; they were patrolling, searching. “They’re looking for something,” Candace observed, her mind racing. “Or someone.” The encounter in the alleyway had clearly been no isolated incident. The symbols on the buses, the presence of this armed patrol – it all pointed to a more organized, more deliberate presence in this area. This wasn’t just a random patch of ruined city; it was territory that was being actively claimed and defended. As the patrol drew closer, Candace noticed something peculiar about their gear. While functional, it also bore subtle markings, similar in design to the symbols on the buses, but rendered in a metallic thread that seemed to catch the scant light. It suggested a degree of uniformity, of affiliation, that was unsettling…
Chronicles from the Wastelands 02 Before Candace could speculate, a low, guttural growl echoed from the far end of the depot, followed by the distinct sound of heavy boots crunching on gravel. It was a sound of human origin, but there was an aggression to it, a territoriality that sent a prickle of alarm through Candace. “Someone else,” Elara whispered, her hand tightening on her pipe. Candace nodded, her gaze fixed on the source of the sound. “And they don’t sound friendly.” She could see them now – a group of figures emerging from the gloom, their silhouettes indistinct against the muted light. They were armed, their weapons glinting dully. Their movements were coordinated, purposeful, suggesting a trained unit rather than a disorganized band of scavengers. #Dystopian #Apocalyptic #Epic #Survival #Amazon #Kindle #KU #Horror https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0G8T68GQFhttps://youtu.be/eWor0A3iAY8
I thought about entitling this what the Hell is wrong with me but I don’t like to get too dramatic. Even so, there is something wrong with me. I just don’t seem to see things the same way as other people do. For instance, just before I sat down to write this I turned the channel to a movie channel to listen to movies while I work. Pathetic, I know, but I do it every night. The T.V. Is behind me so I have to turn to see it. So, I don’t. I just listen. But, sometimes it’s so good that I do turn to watch for a second and I’m usually disappointed. Well, tonight I turned the channel and there was a sports show just ending, and one of the commentators turned to the screen and Said “We want to thank you for tuning in.”
“Really,” I asked?
He didn’t say anything. I guess we would all be surprised if he did. But, I continued… “I didn’t tune in. I hate your show! I wouldn’t watch it if you paid me.” He did seem to flinch a little at that but the T.V. Went to commercial with no further incident… Not that there could have been one. I’m just saying…
Anyway, my point is, I do not like sports the way other men do. Several times in my life other men have stopped and looked at me like…. “Whoaaa, what’s up with this dude.” or “Did you play with dolls when you were a kid?” I learned early in my life that it is unmanly to say you do not like sports, or hint it, or not know the answer to a sports question. It’s just not allowed. Since I was young I had to go along with it, even so I couldn’t always keep up the facade. Occasionally someone would trip me up…
“So, what did you think of Babe Ruth?”
“Oh… Babe Ruth… It’s a damn good candy bar,” I answered.
He looked at me funny and I knew I screwed something up, but, eventually he laughed, I went home and asked my little Brother who Babe Ruth was, a hockey player? (My brother is a Hockey fanatic) “Sure… Sure… A hockey player,” my little brother tells me. That was payback for all the mean things I had done to him.
As I got older I’d pick a little and ask guys why they didn’t just give both teams a ball and send them home, I mean, wasn’t the point to get the ball? And didn’t they seem to take an awful long time to get it? And wouldn’t it be easier to just give them a frigging ball of their own? Wouldn’t it. That didn’t win me any points, and then, in ninth grade, I decided to not major in smoking behind the school that year and I took Home Economics instead.
My life as a social outcast was short lived though. I got kicked out of Home economics and went back to majoring in smoking behind the school. Then, voila, it hit me. Maybe not liking sports was… was… I couldn’t make the connection though. I had probably burned out too many brain cells smoking joints behind the school instead of cigarettes. Too bad, if I could have only made the connection I may have been able to see that real men need sports in their lives as much as they need to fart and burp… (Some men, not all men.). And sports lends a well rounded social adaptation you just can’t get any other way. I remember so many times at work some guy would say… “So, what do you think about those Dodgers?” And I would say, “Oh… Well they ought to go to jail…(Then, because it’s manly to swear and cuss), Frigging A! They ought to, those bastards!” Another potential social connection missed. Another opportunity to be a success in society missed.
At an early age I did decide to make a concession. I decided that I would watch Stock Car Racing. That was a sport. That would be my sport! It would solve everything. But no. Footballers, Baseballers, All those other ballers (It’s all games where you play with balls, right? … I’m just saying…) they don’t all believe that stock car racing is a real sport… What? So, I had managed to like the one sport that wasn’t really a sport. What was wrong with me? I just didn’t know.
As I grew up and went to prison I realized that I had to be honest with myself about my shortcomings when it came to sports if I ever hoped to break the cycle and stop going back to prison. My whole life was in ruin. Virtual ruin. So I sat down and examined it and realized that I was uncomfortable with the games. I paid attention, I took notes, and I realized that I had some prejudices and hangups concerning the way the game was played. And, I plain didn’t understand the rules. So I took a closer look at them. And wrote down the ones that really confused me:
#1. Did you pat the other guy on the Ass after he made a basket/home run/touchdown or before?
#2. Did you grab your junk whenever you wanted to or only when people were watching?
#3. Did you cry only in a strong emotional circumstance like your coach retiring, or could you cry if you just had a bad day, or the dog crapped on your new carpet?
#4. If you patted a guy on the Ass more than once did it mean you had to buy him dinner?
I learned these are not questions you ask other men in prison.
After I got out of the infirmary, I tried to figure these questions out on my own after watching my sport for awhile, but I only became more confused.
In NASCAR, nobody pats anyone on the Ass. At least not in public (Tony Stewart excepted but he’s nuts anyway). I’ve seen dozens of finishes and never once have I seen the other drivers run up and pat the winner on the Ass. Not Once. There are no balls to play with. None. The drivers never grab their junk in front of the cameras, and if anyone cries, why one of the other drivers will just beat him up! Even the women drivers don’t cry, and, I’m pretty sure they don’t play with dolls either.
After much thought I decided these things:
#1. I’m not patting any guy on the Ass whether it’s a game or not, and if one pats me on the Ass there’s going to be trouble.
#2. I will only grab my junk when no one’s watching.
#3. If I feel an urge to cry I will remind myself that it could be worse. I could be a footballer and some sweaty, three hundred pound guy could be patting me on the Ass all of the time…
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Okay. That’s it for this week. Check out my book series. I’ll be back next week…
Earth’s Survivors Apocalypse follows survivors of a worldwide catastrophe. A meteorite that was supposed to miss the earth completely, hits and becomes the cap to a series of events that destroy the world as we know it. Police, fire, politicians, military, governments: All gone. Hopes, dreams, tomorrows: All buried in a desperate struggle to survive.
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