"Revenge should have no bounds." Shakespeare Hamlet iv, 7,128
Author's note.
This story is a response to the challenge by The Wanderer in his story "No Welcome Home: Sandra's Story." Please read his story first, otherwise this one won't make any sense!
I have changed the locale from England to the USA. I gave it a stab to try to keep the flavor UK, but it became too complex. Some things had to change because of this, like Sandra using an airport instead of a train station.
The story is complete in this submission.
This is a substantial rewrite of "No Welcome Home—Before I'll Weep." In addition to significant editing, there is considerable new material. Besides the new parts, I had a ton of questions and suggestions from readers. I hope I have answered most of them.
In my original story, I missed a key point of the story by Denham Forrest (The Wanderer):
Andrew Swingfield, in his digging, found out this: "Somewhat surprisingly, I found that Dave Lawrence seemed to have appeared out of thin air about eight years previous. Whether the guy had spent all his youth abroad or what, I could not find out. As far as I could make out, there seemed to be no record of him living in the UK before he bought the house that he now shared with Sandra. That really should have been a red flag for me, for if anyone tried to research my past they would find the same brick wall."
I never accounted for this at all ... should have caught it.
In this rewrite, there is a new section called, "PART TWO—How did it all begin?" This provides the backstory of how Dave arrived in the Denver area eight years before this story takes place.
Please remember though, this is fiction. I remember the first time I read about infinity: it went something like, if you put a monkey in front of a typewriter and it typed forever, for infinity, it would eventually replicate Shakespeare's writings letter for letter. (I seem to remember that it was "One Two Three ... Infinity" by George Gamow).
So, in one of the infinite alternate realities, this story could have happened exactly as written!
I am not removing "No Welcome Home—Before I'll Weep" from the files. Feel free to go back, compare the two and let me know what you think.
I want to thank the editors: BlackRand, timothybil and Steve. They help keep the punctuation under control, and the story readable. Kudos!
Thanks for reading, Jake Rivers
Note:
To keep things straight
Prelude: Lead-in to Part Two—Dave living with his real name, Sam Carson; takes on an undercover name as Nic Rosso.
Part One: The story ending—Dave lives the good life as Carlos Zingada in Lisbon
Part Two: Backstory on Dave Lawrence—The first time Dave must "die" to continue living; Dave's real name is Alex Samuele (Sam) Carson. His undercover name is Nicolo (Nic) Rosso. After hiding from the Mob in Sevilla for two years, he leaves Spain to live in Denver.
Part Three: The investigation of Sandra and Dave's preparation to disappear
Part Four: Dave changes the plan—The second time Dave must "die" to continue living. He lives in San Sebastian, Spain, for a year, and surfaces in Lisbon as Carlos Zingada.
Epilog: Wraps up loose ends
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PRELUDE
I'd just finished my testimony in the US District Court in Manhattan, about halfway between the NY Police Department and Columbus Park. For a moment, there was a silence... the type of quietly angry silence that portends violence and death. I started to rise as the crowd erupted in the closest thing to a riot that court had ever seen. People were shouting, unintelligible, an ominous roar. As I put my foot on the step down from the witness box, there was the sound of a high caliber pistol exploding and silencing the riotous noise.
At some unconscious level, I realized the shot had missed me, and I instinctively dove for the floor. The pandemonium had quieted from the shock of the loud gunshot in the confined space. The peace lasted for the smallest tick of a clock, then actually became a riot. Some of this I heard about later: people were screaming, frantic to get to the door and escape; fights started, with pushing and shoving injuring many people.
As the protection team grabbed me, I had a glimpse of several people fighting with a cop; his arm with the pistol held high as he was slipping to the floor, weighed down by the sheer number of people. Even as he was falling a couple of additional shots rang out and hit the ceiling. The guard around me, not knowing where the shots were going, jerked me hard, and pulled rapidly back towards the Judge's chamber and the hallway to the back door.
I fought free and stepped close to Jim Phillips, the head of the team from The Special Operations Group (SOG) that was providing both the overall courtroom security and my personal security. He had been with me ever since I had been persuaded to go undercover with the mob in New York and New Jersey.
I yelled in Jim's ear, "Shit, this is a clusterfuck! I'm running up to the roof. Have a helicopter pick me up there in ten minutes. They can take me to Fort Hamilton. A second copter can meet me there and take me on to Andrews. Hopefully, I can get an Air Force plane to Germany or somewhere in Europe.
"Get some guys and clear out the courtroom; have the limo in the back take off like hell. Hopefully, they will think I'm in it."
I got the master key from Jim and ran up the stairs to the roof, locking the door behind me as I went through. I was trying to die as quick as I could, but the plan was shot to hell. It was a lot harder to die than I had ever imagined, or maybe easier and all too real!
PART ONE - This is the good part.
I was dead! In fact, this is the second time I've died.
I know that sounds strange. I guess it's an oxymoron: you must be sentient to know anything and if you are dead you are not sentient. In other words, if I was dead how could I be aware of being dead?
Most people live their entire lives with one name. I'd had so many it was hard to keep them straight. Most people don't have to run two times in their life, to give up family, possessions... even their identity to ensure their heart keeps beating.
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I was having uma bica (an espresso) at Café a Brasileira, the oldest and most famous café in Lisbon, with wooden booths, mirrored walls, and a long oak-paneled bar straight out of the 18th century. It is in Rossio, in the Chiado district of Lisbon.
What was strange is how much I was enjoying looking at the local girls, particularly Maria João O'Brien, who was walking towards me with a question in her eyes. As she approached, I started to ask her if the excitement I felt as I admired her quite charming young body was appropriate for a dead man. I wisely chose not to say anything as she asked, "Do you want outra bica, and are you coming over for dinner tonight?"
I said, "Yes," and, "of course."
I guess I should back up a little. Before I "died" I was known as Dave Lawrence, loving husband of Sandra, living in Colorado when I died. Now, I was Carlos Zinganda, known as Charlie, expatriate Spaniard from San Sebastian... living in a comfortable apartment in Lisbon, in the Barrio Alto, on Rua do Norte.
I had met Maria about six months earlier there at the café. She was 28 at the time. Her Aunt owned the place, and Maria helped sometimes. She was an anomaly for a girl from Portugal. She was tall, a little over 5'10". She wasn't slim; maybe willowy was better. She weighed about 120 pounds, with gentle flowing curves rather than ostentatious ones. Long legs that won't quit. She had (I guessed at the time; I really wasn't an expert at this) 34B breasts that seemed to have an attitude. Her long legs flowed up into the most hauntingly beautiful derrière I had ever seen.
She had kind of dirty blond hair and fair regular features, with an upturned button nose. She was light skinned, with brilliant powder blue eyes and a few freckles around them (later I was to find she had freckles elsewhere). In other words, if you spent some time in Lisbon looking at the local girls and saw her walking toward you, she would stand out!
Maria was born on the island of Terceira, in the Azores. Her father was an American Tech Sergeant in the Weather Office of the 65th Air Base Wing at Lajes field. Her mother was a local girl and worked in the base library. They met, and, well, things happened: marriage and Maria following in short order. Her family moved around the world with her dad's duty assignments until he was killed in a car crash in Fayetteville, North Carolina. At the time, Gary O'Brien was stationed at Pope Air Force Base and Maria was a junior, majoring in Marketing with a minor in Literature at Duke University.
After her dad died, her mom moved to Lisbon to work with her sister at the café while Maria João finished her studies. After graduating she joined her mom in Lisbon, working part time at the café and part time with a friend putting together a small agency for writers of romance novels (Bodice Rippers), working particularly on translations to and from various languages.
A year later, she met and married a football player (right half), who played for Sporting Lisbon. After they had a daughter, Catarina, his contract was purchased by Manchester City. Maria and the baby were to follow once he was settled, but he met a dancer and, (short story) he called her and said, "Don't come!"
Maria was pretty broken up about this, but after a year she realized that her husband was just a happy jock who would still be a kid when he died. The writing agency did better than they expected and had signed up many writers from the US, Spain and Portugal, with a couple from France and Ireland. Some of these were for new books, but many were for books that were popular in their native language, but needed to be translated to another language to increase sales.
That brought me back to being dead and admiring Maria. She stopped by a couple of times that evening to chat, and when she finished I walked her home. As I said, I had known her for about six months. I probably would have not gotten anywhere with her, but once over coffee, she talked about needing writers for English. She needed translators, and was looking for new writers, also. Since I was fluent in Spanish, I started translating romance stories from the US, Australia and England. I did have a working fluency in Portuguese from my youth and my many visits to Portugal, but my accent was somewhat lacking. Hopefully living here full time would quickly correct that.
I told her that I had always wanted to write and thought it might be fun. I showed her the short stories and the one novel on which I had been working. That's how it started. I began with the translations and then threw in a few romance novels (sheesh!) of my own. Through all of this, I started spending more time with Maria João and Catarina.
As we walked the few blocks to her apartment, she put her arm in mine and we chatted and looked in the Bakery windows for dessert. I was starting to feel pretty good until we stopped by her mom's place to pick up Catarina, who was four. As we started climbing the stairs, the door opened and this whirling dervish came flying through the air screaming "Charlie! Charlie!"
I hadn't been intimate with Maria, but it seemed we were getting close. She was lonely, but she was also very protective of her daughter. I fell in love with Catarina the moment I saw her. In my other life (Quiet! Someone will hear you), we never had kids—maybe if we had—anyway I really liked Catarina and she kinda took possession of me. One of the reasons I hadn't gotten further with Maria was because her daughter always seemed to be between us.
I grabbed Catarina as I tried to keep from falling down the stairs and started tickling her. She squiggled out of my arms, giggling and running up the stairs to her grandma, Fia. We chatted for a little and then went to Maria's apartment.
Maria asked, "Could you give Catarina her English lesson while I fix the dinner? We are having Bacalhau à Brás with a nice Vinho Verde with it."
I had been working with Catarina for about two months with children's books in English. She loved the stories and most nights when I was there, I would make up a story for her after her mom put her in bed. She would fight to stay awake, but always fall asleep after about five minutes. I think this was Maria's secret plan in having me help with Catarina with her English!
While we were eating the cod, and enjoying the wine, Maria looked at me seriously for a minute and said, "We need to talk after Catarina goes to sleep."
I thought, "Oh God! What did I do now?" I finished the meal with some trepidation, but I had no idea what she wanted to talk about. We sat around drinking coffee and enjoying a very nice vintage Tawny Port for a while as Catarina played with her toys. Maria got her daughter ready for bed and started cleaning up the kitchen while I told Catarina her story.
I was sitting on the sofa sipping another small port when Maria came in. "Can I sit down with you?" she quietly asked.
I opened my arms and she slipped into them as she sat on my lap. Not knowing what was going on I sat there without moving, my arms around her. After a minute, I could see her shoulders gently shaking. I lifted her chin and stared into her eyes. She was crying!
"Maria, what's wrong!"
With that, she started sobbing. I just helplessly held her and waited for her to calm down.
After a bit, she looked up and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse. She looked at me for a minute, quietly, and then buried her face in my shoulder. With a muffled voice, she whispered, "Charlie, I know you care for me, and the way you are with Catarina has been priceless for me. No, don't say anything yet!"
"I'm lonely," she whispered. "I want you; I want to be with you! Neither of us has said anything, but I think God wants us to be together. You are the answer to my prayers for myself and Catarina."
"Maria..."
"No, wait! I must get through this. I'm so happy with you but I haven't been honest." With that, she started sobbing again. After a bit, she continued. "I've told you about Paulo, my husband. Charlie, I'm Catholic! You know that. I can't get a divorce and I can't marry you!" She slid to the floor and her body just shook with her crying.
Stunned, I sat there for a minute. Marriage? Shit, I hadn't said anything about that. I mean, Christ, I was dead! I couldn't marry anyone. After a while, Maria quieted down and fell into a restless half-sleep. Looking at her, I didn't know what to do. Finally, I picked her up, carried her into her bedroom and lay her down. I dampened a washcloth and gently bathed her face. She twisted restlessly, but didn't wake up. I covered her up, and not wanting to leave her alone like that, I lay on top of the sheet next to her.
It took me awhile to get to sleep and I started replaying what had happened. I had not really thought about the problems of marriage. Her problem was easy, that's just religion. Mine, jeez! I had a wife in jail, probably for life. If I were to try for a divorce, then obviously I wouldn't be dead anymore. If I loved a woman enough to marry her, how could I live a lie and be a bigamist? Life is complicated when you are dead.
I woke in the first faint light of dawn to see Maria sitting in bed staring at me. Blushing violently, she asked, "Charlie, how did I get in bed?"
I looked at her for a minute; she was softly lovely in the early morning light. "Maria, you fell asleep in my arms. I carried you in and laid you under the covers. I was going to go to my apartment, but I couldn't leave you like that. I lay down next to you because I just didn't know what else to do."
Embarrassed, she lay beside me and hid her face in my shoulder again. Christ, this was getting to be a habit... not that I minded, of course.
After a few minutes, maybe ten, I put my arm around her and pulled her tight. "Maria, it's my turn to talk. Just hush for a bit and let me talk now."
I turned her head and gently brushed my lips against hers. Startled, I pulled back and had an epiphany! Jesus, God! I did love her. With all my being, I did love her!
Maria lay there looking up at me with a curious smile on her face. I kissed that lovely little smile, no blush now! I pulled her tighter and teased her lips open with my tongue. She lay, not moving, with her eyes closed. Suddenly she pulled back, opened her beautiful blue eyes and looked deep into mine. She saw something, for she suddenly jumped up and lay on top of me, violently kissing me.
She gasped, "Oh Charlie! Oh Charlie! God, I've been so lonely. Love me. Make love to me, even if it's just for now."
Later, I lay still and realized she was crying again, but as she looked up I saw it was "cry for happy."
"Charlie, I don't care what happens, I love you! I just want to live with you, love you. I need you. Catarina needs you. Love me now, please!"
I turned her over and slid off her gown. In the full dawn light, she was so lovely! We loved one another with a quiet passion until we heard Catarina moving in her room. Looking at me, she said, "Charlie, we have to talk." This time she had a smile on her face.
We had our talk and a few weeks later, I moved in with her. After a time, I became a Portuguese citizen and a father to Catarina. I started working with her and her partner in her agency. I stopped doing translations and focused on writing romance novels. I was almost too successful. I used a nom de plume, a name you would well recognize: a woman's name.
A couple of years later, we bought a nice apartment in Cascais, four or five blocks from the sea. We never again mentioned marriage, but frequently talked of our love. I was as happy as I'd ever been!
My time of darkness, my time of death was over; I was alive!
Life is good!
Oh! And my "loving wife," Sandra? Would I ever cry over her?
Nah! I don't think so!
THE END
Not! SHIT HAPPENS!
PART TWO - How did it all begin?
How did I die? Well, at least for the first time? That was a part of my life that only Jim Phillips knew about.
I was born in Italy. My dad was an officer in the 31st Communications Squadron, part of the 31st Fighter Wing at Aviano Air Force Base, north of Venice. This was a NATO Base, so the fighter wing was part of the larger force. The year before I was born, my dad had met a girl working as a secretary at the base, from Udine. She was a tall lithe beauty and it took little time for them to become a couple. Her name was Antonia Chialina and within six months, they were wed. Less than a year later, I came along, adding the name Alex Samuele to my father's family. In the casual way these things happen, I was called Sammy until I was about twelve or thirteen, and then it evolved to Sam.
My dad, Alex Carson, seemed to be transferred every two to three years—except for occasional TDY posts for training—mostly between posts in Texas, Arizona, Spain and Italy. I grew up speaking English, Spanish and Italian equally fluently, and with a more limited fluency of Portuguese. Whenever we were stationed at Moron AFB near Sevilla, we would take frequent trips into the Algarve, in Southern Portugal.
Mom and I would take regular trips to Udine, which polished my already native Italian. From the time I was born, Mom never spoke anything but Italian with me when we were alone. My Dad believed that my sister and I should go to local schools instead of the ones on post. He felt that it wasn't just learning the language, but also the culture and history. These were always Catholic schools where we had to wear Uniforms... which we invariably hated.
On one of the trips to Udine, when I was about ten or eleven, I spent more time with Mom's nephew, Danilo Chialina. He was a couple years older than me, and taught me a lot. I learned from him how to swear in a way that would make a Naples dockhand blush. I learned how to fight, the street-fighting dirty way. I became skilled at making apples from the open-air market disappear. I became proficient, in a dirty way, at neighborhood brawls.
Then came the event that shocked my mom: I was escorted home by the Polizia di Stato after putting a kid three years older than I was in the hospital. We left the next morning and I never visited Udine again. My mother quickly convinced me not to use my enhanced vocabulary.
When I was 18, I started school at Texas A&M. I chose them because they had one of the best Air Force ROTC programs in the nation. From everything I'd seen with my dad, I had a lot of respect for the Air Force. Also, from spending a lot of time on base at many AF Bases scattered around the world, I was really impressed by the Air Police, the AF equivalent of the Army MPs. I didn't bother with sports; I was on a mission. I majored in International Studies and history, with a focus on Military History.
I worked hard on my studies and even harder on ROTC. I graduated with honors and accepted a commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Air Force. I'd chosen the Air Force Police, which came with a four-year commitment. I enjoyed my time, did a good job and worked my way up to a Captain. However, when it came time to decide if I wanted to make it a career, I decided not to continue.
I had to do some mandatory separation training, and I asked to have it done at Lackland AFB, outside of San Antonio. I chose Lackland because I was familiar with it. The training covered being a civilian again: jobs, Veterans Affairs etc. In one of the last classes I was given a note to be at Base HQ after the class was over.
I was met at the front desk by an airman who led me to a secure conference room. I walked in and met Jim Phillips. At the time that I had no idea this meeting would have an impact on me, every day for the rest of my life. Jim was a senior manager in the Special Operations Group of the Marshal's Service.
I was surprised when Jim introduced himself in excellent Italian with a hint of a Milano accent. For the rest of the interview, and through the years, every discussion I had with Jim was in Italian.
"Sam, I'm Jim Phillips. We, well actually, a collection of Federal Agencies, need you. Anyone with the languages that you have would do, but as far as we can find out, you have a unique skill set. You have experience as a leader, some undercover work, an outstanding knowledge of Italy and specifically, Italian with an accent of Friuli-Venezia Giulia, in northeastern Italy. I understand you literally have a native accent. Is this correct?"
"Yes, Sir, but..." I asked with a decidedly perplexed look.
Jim sighed, "I guess there is no other way but to lay it out. I'm sure you know about the long history of the Mob in the Greater New York area. We've never been able to completely obliterate it, but the last few years it has toned down somewhat. Over the last two years, a new organization has popped up. It's the Mala del Brenta, also known as Mafia Veneta (Venetian mafia) or Mafia del Piovese ... "
I groaned, "Oh, shit!"
Jim chuckled and went on, "Yes, I guess you would have heard of them."
"Well, the kid I put in the hospital—I assume you know about that—was a runner for them, and that led me to leave Udine. I've never been back."
Jim asked, "Do you still know anyone there?"
"That was what, about sixteen years ago? No, just some remnant of the family. My mom tells me they have mostly scattered.
"Do you have any, umm, entanglements now?"
I laughed at that. "Sure, I've had a few ‘friends' in the Air Force, but with fraternization rules and all, I certainly do not have any entanglements."
"What about your folks?"
"My dad is in his last tour before retiring, two more years at Mainz AFB."
"Would you be interested in helping us? We have our hands around the neck of one of the mid-range members of this gang. He will work with us to train someone on the organization and bring you into the mob under him. We'd start you at the dock for a couple of weeks and then you will help him in a fight. He will gradually bring you in and set you up."
"How long are you looking at?"
"We figure maybe eighteen months. It will take some time to look across his organization."
"What are they into?"
"Money laundering, prostitution, murder for hire, extortion, just about everything. The key is that they are very violent. They'll kill a cop, bystander, just about anyone."
I laughed, "Oh, that's not so bad, I thought maybe they were bad-asses or something."
We got down to brass tacks, the details of what, how, when, who.
On his jet flying to Andrews AFB, I thought it over. I didn't really like undercover, but it really came down to loyalty. I loved my country and hated to see it infected by vermin like this.
The overall team met as needed at a conference room on Andrews, in a fenced separate area just inside the gates. Jim was involved because the Marshal's service provided protection for Federal Juries as needed, and in this case for my protection. DEA was there along with the US Attorney for NY, a contact for the NY Police Commissioner, Army 12th Aviation Battalion for helicopters as needed; and a few that never introduced themselves. Most of them had European accents. There were regular update meetings, but the place was mostly used for training.
I got slide shows of all the new Mob's employees they knew about, who was where, what I would do, what information they needed, etc. Part of it was all the player's roles in the Udine and Venice area of Italy. The focus was on the low-level grunts that I might be expected to know.
It looked as if the key was the snitch they "owned." I was to spend a week with him, going over process, and how to bring me in. One minor hitch: when Jim walked Antonio Duca in to introduce him to me, I ‘bout shit a brick! Antonio was my cousin Danilo Chialina. Most people wouldn't recognize each other after that much time, but after that long hot wild summer... it was instant.
Walking into the conference room, he looked confused, then shocked. As Jim turned to take his arm, I quickly did a "no way in hell do you know me" look and shook my head quickly. He recovered and we talked it over for a couple of hours. At the end, Jim looked at Antonio and suggested, "Why don't you take Nicolo out for a few beers, get to know each other?" Nicolo Rosso was my new name for this exercise.
We got to the bar, a rundown sorta place with sticky floors, and servers that came by only when you raised your arm and waved it with increasing irritation until a server came by. We got a pitcher of beer and a couple of questionably clean glasses ... well, really, there was no question.
"Holy Shit, Sammy, it shook me up when I saw you sittin' there."
"Hey, Antonio, I'm Nicolo, get with the game!"
"Scusi, Nic!" He smiled at me for a minute. "I always liked you; you had guts. I never forgot when you kicked that testa di cazzo (dickhead) so hard he was in the hospital for a week. Look, we gotta work together on this. I'm inna tight place. I'll take care of you, watch your back."
We talked, drank beer, played old-home-week.
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Jim gave me the final overview. "We will give you a generous allowance to "take" care of your new friends. When this is over, we must kill you! Ha, ha! You should see your face. You do realize you can never use your name again. When this is over, we will get you a new ID and hide you somewhere for a couple of years. After that, you will get another new ID and you can come back to the States, but never to the Northeast. We will be generous during the settlement time and will set you up with a very large amount of money in a Swiss safety deposit box. This is not taxpayer money, but money we have taken from the Mob and are putting it to a better use."
He went on with rules of engagement, "Try not to kill any civilians; the paperwork is unbelievable! If you are asked to take out a mob figure, be my guest. You will probably need to do some enforcing: bills to loan sharks, numbers, protection ... you know the drill. As much as you can, just try to hold off just a little.
"Gain 30 pounds as quickly as possible, let your hair grow, grow a mustache, not a beard. We will get you some flashy clothes. We can do something to your nose to change the profile; they can fix it later or, if you want, you can just keep it. He laughed, and said, "But it might be a little bit crooked."
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I did what I had to. It took sixteen months to gather the evidence. It was over a year of hell. I did things I was proud of, and things I was ashamed of for the rest of my life. The trial lasted for six months before it came time for me to testify. This testimony was the end result of all the crap and danger I'd put up with. The more time I had spent with this gang, the surer I was that I had done the right thing. I spoke to the jury clearly, conviction in my voice, wanting them to understand what was at stake. The jury seemed entranced with my story; I could see they were feeling the love.
When I finished there was s dead silence, as if everyone were holding their breath. Then, as I stepped down from the witness box, all hell broke loose.
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Jim met me at Andrews. I laid it out straight.
"I think the documentation is still good, but I want to change the itinerary. You still have my original ID?" He nodded. "Good, get me an Air Force uniform that fits and I'll fly on an Air Force plane to Brussels. Just another low-level courier going to NATO, a dime a dozen. I'll take a taxi to a hotel, dump the uniform, destroy my original life, and take a train to Frankfurt using the new Spanish ID. I'll rent a car, and drive to Munich and on to Madrid by train.
"I'll stay there for a few weeks, buy a car and drive to Sevilla. From then on, it's the original plan. You come to Sevilla with new ID in a couple of years, and then I'll go back to the United States with my final ID, as Dave Lawrence. I plan on flying to Dallas and I've decided on Colorado for a permanent home."
Jim gave me the IDs, the key for the lockbox in Zurich, a hefty wad of Euros, and gave me a big hug. "I don't know how to thank you for all you've done. You have helped America but I'm afraid there is no way to give you that recognition. I'll do all I can to make your life comfortable, and if you ever need to get hold of me use the method we discussed."
I stood up to leave and he handed me a newspaper clipping from the Miami Herald:
Sam Carson, famous as a witness during a recent mob trial in New York, was killed in a boat accident about twenty miles south of Marathon, Florida. The Coast Guard reports it was a vintage Chris Craft 28' Cabin Cruiser. At the time, there is no conclusive explanation for the fire and explosion. While there was no body found, a leather briefcase with documents in Carson's name and what was described as a large amount of money were found in the wreckage. There have been no statements from any government agency. We will publish more as facts become available, other than this one from the Coast Guard.
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I wound up in Madrid for six months. My health was the shits. All the weight I had to gain, the high cholesterol from all the Italian restaurants, no exercise. I joined a local sports club and started exercising. I really cleaned up my eating habits. As I said, I had cut out fast food cold turkey. I lost twenty pounds in the first four months. As I lost weight, I gradually replaced my clothes with a more European look.
I moved to Sevilla, where I planned on staying for some time. It was a nice town. I fit right in; it was a lovely place to live with a good climate. This was in Southwest Spain, close to the Mediterranean and not far from the Algarve area of Southern Portugal. There were days that I felt like staying there and not going back to America, but the US was home and it pulled on me in a melancholy way. I had comfortable lodging, the food and wine were world class, and I occasionally found some friends with very nice benefits. I never felt that one of the ladies I met—and they were all ladies—was anyone I wanted to be with for a lifetime. I had strong feelings about matrimony and I wanted to wait for the one!
I never really felt lonely. There were two different women from England that were both spectacular. One was buying oranges (the English love their Orange Marmalade made with Sevilla oranges) and the other, sherry (the English also dearly love sherry). And the secretary at the Italian Consulate... she was, how should I say, delizioso.
I drove over to Portugal a few times, working on my Portuguese and enjoying the backcountry. The Algarve, centered on Faro and trendy Albufeira, is solid tourist along the coast, but ten miles inland, it is a quiet, almost sleepy area of farms and small towns. A couple times I went on up to Lisbon. The food was as good as in Spain, but there were some different trends, which made it interesting.
I also enjoyed driving around the places nearby. Southeast from Sevilla is Malaga, and straight south is Jerez de Frontera, the main area where sherry is made. I had many quiet afternoons idling around some rural Bodega, sipping the best of the sherries and enjoying quiet conversations. It was pleasant on the hot days to rest in the coolness of the ivy covered stone buildings.
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Then came the time to go home. Jim came, and over a magnificent dinner, we agreed that I was well and truly dead. That was an incredible relief for me. He gave me my final papers and I was ready to go home. At the end, he gave me bad news.
"I'm sorry, but they got to Antonio. He was safe in a suburb of Phoenix, but got the gambler's itch and drove to Las Vegas. Someone recognized him, and his body was found in the desert a few days later. Even if he was forced to talk, there are no links to you."
He took off and later that night I sat out on the balcony, looking up at the starry sky. The glass of sherry was giving me no joy as I remembered the number of times Danilo had put his life in danger to save mine. It made me reflect that I had to be ever vigilant, and that it was time for me to settle down and get married with a house in the country. I was Dave Lawrence and I was going home.
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It took a couple days to wrap things up, such as the flat, a car I was leasing, and closing out the bank accounts. I didn't say goodbye to anyone. Just took a taxi to the train station and took the train to Lisbon. I didn't want to go through New York, so I flew to Heathrow in London and then direct to Dallas. After a short layover, I took the final flight to Denver.
After Jim had visited me in Sevilla, he had opened an investment account and an online checking/savings account at one of the major national banks in Denver. With no address, he used a PO Box in the Denver Post Office. I had logged in to both accounts to make sure all notices and statements were sent electronically. In any case, I would clear out the PO Box as soon as I got to Denver.
On the long leg over the ocean, I started trying to get used to the name Dave Lawrence. I thought about the four novels I'd written while in Sevilla. Jim had suggested writing to earn money for the future. Even though I had ample money, people might ask questions if I never worked. I'd thought about it and decided to start writing. I felt my work was good (with proper editing!) to publish. After I finished the second book, I went back and looked at the first and basically rewrote it.
The same thing happened with the third book: I went back and made major changes to the first two. After that, it seemed easier; I could write consistent stories. My particular bane was punctuation... a pox on it all. The Romans had it right: LATINJUSTRUNSTOGETHER WITHNO PUNCTUATIONNOTEVENASPACEORLOWERCASE.
I settled in Denver in a rental near the Denver Tech Center. I liked the house and talked to the owner about buying it. We worked it out and I gradually started remodeling, replacing all the flooring with hardwood, new appliances and furniture, and having the yard redone. I had the contractor rip out the bath and replace it with a large walk-in shower with clear glass walls. Not that I'd need it, but a group of four would have fit in easily.
I wasn't exactly looking for a wife, but I was craving some regular companionship. I took some dance lessons, including some on Western Swing, which seemed to be popular in Denver.
I asked around and got a referral to an agent for my writing. I met with her, and got good vibes. I left her with the first story, and on her recommendation, started making outlines for future stories. I liked the idea, because I could take each character and see how I wanted it to change it over time.
A couple of days later, my agent, Ginger Simms (the ginger was a nickname because of her red hair), called and asked, "Do you have any more books ready?"
"Yeah, I've got three more, and a start on a fifth."
"Have you started on the outlining?"
With a bit of excitement in my voice, I replied, "Sure. It's been a great help. I can see this character working for about ten books, altogether. As I get time, I'll look at a new character, line out an environment, and start outlines for the next book series."
Ginger replied, "Great, can you bring the other three books in, along with your outlines? I've found a publisher that really likes the book and is ready to give a nice advance check. This is a package deal; they do the editing, work with you directly on fixes, they are very interested in a long-term arrangement."
"That sounds really good, but I don't need the up-front money."
"Dave, Dave, think about it. You get a wad of cash and invest it. It's making money right away. Do you have a financial advisor? If not, I can make a couple of suggestions."
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A few months later we were all at a party in a private room in one of Denver's finest restaurants. Everyone who had been involved was there, along with a few hangers-on. There was a table with a stack of my first book, "Devil Wind." I'd written a personal note for each of the contributors, plus a few extra to autograph for any extra guests who always came to such parties.
Ginger had a great idea; she left several boxes of the books with the Maitre'D for each waiter to leave at a table when the bill was presented. Any leftovers were given on a first-come basis to the staff.
Not too long after the party started, I couldn't help but notice a stunning brunette walk into the room and make "kissy-face" with Ginger. After they chatted for a few minutes, Ginger started walking my way with the dark-haired beauty. This gave me a chance to take a discreet look as she came closer and closer. There was an enticing sway to her hips. She had a, well, the best I could explain, a "womanly" look to her. I could even say she was the personification of woman.
Tall, curvy, but still svelte; her hair was cut stylishly short, showing off her long, elegant neck. The simple black dress exuded an almost raw sexuality. She had my undivided attention.
Ginger introduced her to me with a flourish, as if she was giving her to me... as if! "Dave, this is Sandra Payne; we were sister Tri-Delts at Colorado. Sandra, this is my client and good friend, Dave Lawrence."
We made small talk for a few minutes; the champagne tray occasionally came by and we were not shy. Ginger handed me a book to autograph for Sandra. I quickly took the pen and wrote, "To Sandra, a lovely dream that has touched my heart". I know, corny, and if I'd thought a moment, I would have quit at, "To Sandra" and left it at that.
I could see her lips do something that might have been a smirk, but what do I know? The band started playing with a nice two-step song. Sandra took my arm and led me to the dance floor—my guess just to see if I could dance (bless those dance lessons!). The song was one of Tim McGraw's: "I Need You."
I wanna wrap the moon around us, lay beside you skin on skin Make love til the sun comes up, til the sun goes down again Cause I need you
It started as just a dance, but something was happening to me as we danced around the floor. Some yen, some deep seated longing for something that had never been in my life before. It scared me a little because it was so different for me; I was the standoffish analytical one. I was the one who always kept my distance because danger was always a constant in my life. I was afraid of this feeling of need.
That night, late, I downed a six-pack of Coors just looking at the sky, the stars and moon; thinking of nothing, my mind empty as I looked at the dim outline of the mountains to the west.
The next morning, I felt energized, eager to face the day. I went for an early morning walk and then wrote until lunchtime. I called Ginger. Somehow, I hadn't got Sandra's phone number last night.
I called with no small amount of trepidation, but she seemed happy to hear from me; we talked for some time. In the end, we had a dinner and dance date for the coming Saturday night. It was at one of the larger hotels with a Tommy Dorsey type swing band.
Three months later we were married! It was so fast I felt like I was in a dream the entire time. I had the wife I'd always envisioned: sweet, lovely, personable; let's not forget sexy. But most of all, I had the loyal companion that would be with me until the end of days. I was as happy as I had ever been.
After two years, we had a custom log cabin built in Evergreen, a lively development in the foothills above Denver, on the way to the mountains. It was a lovely home and I could see myself living with my love forever in this winter wonderland. We sold the house out by the Tech Center for a nice profit... it paid most of the cost for the new home.
The only cloud on the horizon was the frequent trips she was taking for training seminars or conventions. She said that the trips were important for her work, but they seemed to be every six to eight weeks.
PART THREE - Just what went wrong?
Oh yeah! I bet you are wondering how I came to die for the second time! It seems a lifetime ago; some of the details I've forgotten. Some of the rage has left. I no longer think much about Sandra. She may or may not still be in prison. I don't really give a shit!
It wouldn't bother me if she were released. It wouldn't bother me if she rotted in jail. I'd never cared enough to find out. I'm happy as long as the bitch stays out of my life.
What I remember most is the white-hot anger that overwhelmed me when I saw the email messages. I wasn't looking for them. I hadn't been concerned about anything. I had a happy marriage to a wonderful wife.
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Sandra was on yet another of her trips, this time to Phoenix, when it all fell apart. Somehow, a virus had infected our PC, and I had to reinstall some of the applications. The biggest problem seemed to be the email system. Before I uninstalled it, I copied the email archive file to a separate hard disk, and reinstalled the email software. In doing this, I, of course, wiped out any existing passwords, so, it started up with a blank, default password. I made a mental note that when Sandra returned, I'd let her know what I'd done to recover from the virus.
I reinstalled the software and reloaded the email archive. I decided I'd better check and make sure everything was working; everything else seemed to be okay now, so it seemed this would fix the problem. My email came up okay, great so far. I pondered for a minute and decided I'd better check Sandra's email, also. She got real bitchy when the computer didn't work right.
The way the blank password worked is that you had to change it before you could use the software for the first time. I figured I'd just reinstall the software again after I checked everything out. Otherwise, she would bitch at me for reading her email. I entered a password and opened her email, and I started dying! The headers were certainly catchy. The dialog between this jerk Andrew and Sandra was hot! The pictures were even hotter. Hottest of all was my anger, a burning, vicious, killing anger! I couldn't breathe for a minute. I ran into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face , my chest heaving, trying to breathe. Suddenly, I ran into the toilet area and really heaved! I felt like my guts were coming out.
Going into my office I poured a small glass of scotch, and gulped it down. Then, I poured a bigger one. Then another one. Shit!
Finally calming down. I stopped drinking, and started breathing. I began thinking. My anger had coalesced into a tight hard ball where my heart used to be. It felt like a cancer, eating away, destroying me from the inside. It took years and a beautiful four-year-old girl before this cancer in my heart started to dissolve!
Christ, I hated her! Christ, I hated him! I focused on my hate. "Let that keep me going," I resolved. I was smart. I had a good imagination.
My dad had always told me that when bad times come, "And they will," he said. "Don't give in to your weaknesses and stand on your strengths."
I never asked him what had happened to him that he felt he had to tell me this over and over, but by God I listened and I heard him, and I remembered.
My strength was my writing. I wrote novels. Sometimes I wrote crime novels and/or detective and/or murder, but always a mystery. I was successful. I was well known. I researched. I talked to cops. I talked to cons. I talked to judges, reporters and victims. I knew a lot of people.
I had met a con at the Colorado Territorial Prison in Canon City a few years previously. I did him some favors (cigarettes, helping his son out of a jam, etc.) for taking the time to talk with me, helping me to solve a plot problem. A few years later, he was released. I helped him get a job. I did him a few more favors. I occasionally paid him for research. He walked the walk; he talked the talk! His insights added veracity to my stories, and money to my bank account.
Now, in my time of need, real need, I remembered Glenn. I drove down to see him, picked up a couple of cases of cold brews on the way and said, "Glenn, I need to die. I need to have my wife and her asshole buddy (really, I saw the photos!), murder me. They need to be caught, and they need to go to jail."
I told him the whole story and asked him for help. We treated it like a new idea for a novel (and someday I might write it, under a different nom de plume, of course). I laid out a storyboard. We covered all the details. Anyone watching us would think we were plotting to rob Fort Knox.
This is what we did. We planned everything to happen when she went on her next seminar. I went back to Evergreen. I became the most loving husband. Sandra was puzzled at times, but I just "loved" her and kept on with my writing. Every time we made love, I had a fantasy of choking her as she came. Gradually the sex got a little rougher; instead of complaining she seemed to enjoy it more. She was happier every day and I died a little more each day. She became a piece of meat to me. I used her, but then she had been using me for years.
I told her about the computer problem, of how I reinstalled the software and it would have a blank password. I made sure she knew she would have to enter a password before she could check her email, the lying, cheating bitch!
Meanwhile, I got smart. She was changing her password regularly, but all I had to do was copy her email archive file to my laptop and fire it up. I tracked her email every day.
Andrew sent her a message asking if I ever noticed anything. She replied, "No, if anything he is even more loving."
"God, what a fucking wimp he is!" Andrew sent back.
"Yeah but he's my wimp. I do love him, but I also love to fuck you. He is so caught up in his writing that the only way he would notice anything is if he wrote it himself."
"Wimp my ass," I thought. One of my favorite clichés was, "He who laughs last, laughs last."
Several months later, it was time for her next seminar, this time in San Antonio. She was going for the usual five days. She was also going to hell for eternity, but she didn't know that yet. I had a plan.
Yeah, I know. You think I'm a vindictive SOB. Damn straight; you would be correct.
Was I weeping?
"You think I'll weep No, I'll not weep: I have full cause of weeping; but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, Or ere I'll weep."
Hell no, I wasn't weeping!
PART FOUR - And this is how it all ended.
Dave Lawrence had to die.
All the planning Glenn and I had done broke into three main parts that had to merge together perfectly:
- How to kill me - How to make me born again - How to send the sinners to hell
Everything was in place; now it was time to act.
The first problem was money. I had to leave with total transparency. I couldn't take anything with me except the clothes on my back. I had a commission check I'd been holding onto. As soon as Sandra left, I went to the bank and deposited the check, a little over twenty grand. I kept out about $2,500, typical for ongoing expense funds. This would get me started; most of that money could disappear with me.
It wasn't nearly what I needed, though.
Sandra had some heirloom jewelry she had inherited from her grandmother. I don't know the current value, but when we had it assessed for insurance several years ago, they came out at spot on a quarter mil. They were too valuable to keep in the house (and too old fashioned for darling Sandra to wear), so we kept them in a large safety deposit box at the bank. They were kept in a locked box within the safety deposit box. Both keys were kept in our safe at home.
While she was still on her previous, infamous trip, I went to the bank and took the jewelry out, leaving a large envelope filled with last year's tax papers in the front of the box. I gave the jewelry to Glenn to fence. He got just under a hundred grand for it from someone in his past life. I gave him ten thousand for his help and hoped the rest would last me long enough for the expenses involved with my death and enough to live on for a year or so.
I kept out a beautiful emerald brooch worth around five thousand. I would use this later. We also had twenty thousand in emergency cash in two wrapped bundles. I kept one bundle and put the other to use with the brooch.
A couple of days after Sandra got back from Phoenix; I caught her just as she was leaving for work. "Babe, could you do me a favor? I have an envelope with tax papers in the bank vault that I need. Could you run over during lunch and pick it up for me?"
"Sure, honey, could you grab the key for me?"
"It's right here. I got it out of the safe while you were taking your shower. Thanks a million, I'll give you a back rub tonight to thank you."
"Oh! I can hardly wait; will you wait hardly?" she laughed, (her and her sense of humor).
Without the key to the locked jewelry box, she wouldn't be able to look at her jewelry, not that she would have any reason to view it. The last time that this had been opened was when we had all the pieces appraised. At the time, I had a typed a list of the contents of both the safety deposit box and the enclosed jewelry box. A copy of this went to my lawyer.
Now she was on record as the last one to use the safety deposit box. The tax papers I left in my file cabinet at home, ready for anyone that cared to look at if she even remembered picking them up.
Next, I needed documentation. I knew this was going to be expensive. Glenn had another "friend." This guy had worked in the documentation section of the CIA for over thirty years. He was essentially paid to forge documents: everything an agent would need to get into a foreign country.
I didn't need that much. I talked it over with Glenn and we figured on a passport (well used), Driver's License, car insurance card (with insurance in force if anyone asked), International Driver's License, VISA and AMEX cards, bank Letter of Credit; you get the picture. This was going to cost me $10,000 if I could wait six months, or for $20,000, I could get them in six weeks. I could not wait six months.
I had letters from my new agent about a romance novel done under my new name. I had a manuscript almost ready for editing.
We started the messy business of killing me. First, we needed blood. Glenn knew a guy that had worked in the infirmary at the State Prison. We met in a back room of a bar in Trinidad, south of Denver almost to the New Mexico line. He took about a dozen vials of my blood and put them in a cooler with ice.
I sprinkled some blood in the trunk of her car and then did a half-assed job of trying to clean it up. I put a couple of drops of blood in the corner of the trunk along with some fuzz from a burlap bag. I stuck a couple of hairs from my head on the blood while it was still moist. I also put blood on the laundry room throw rug leading to the garage. This, I half-ass cleaned up. I added a few drops underneath the rear bumper of the car.
Glenn got a shovel from Andrew's shed and left it in my shed. Again, I put some blood on it and did a little better job of cleaning it off, but NOT perfect!
In the middle of the night, Glenn picked the lock at Andrew's apartment and we went in. I got some hairs from Andrew's brush to put in my brush at home and a couple to put under the pillow in our master bedroom. I carefully got an empty beer can from his trash to put in our kitchen trash. I got lucky and found a tied off condom in the wastebasket in his bathroom. That got thrown behind our toilet bowl in our bath. It would take a good cleaning to spot it, or a good search! Finally, I took the emerald brooch and wrapping in one of his handkerchiefs along with the wrapped ten thousand, and put it in the bottom drawer of his armoire beneath some of his sweaters.
Hopefully, when the police found the brooch and the bundle of cash, they would assume that Andrew had taken all the jewelry and money out of the safe deposit box, and not look elsewhere for it. When everything took place, my lawyer would deliver a copy of the contents of the Safety Deposit Box to the Jefferson County Sheriff's Office.
Glenn had gotten a cell phone in Andrew's name and I used that to call her hotel. I knew he was not taking his car because Sandra's company always provided limo service for the airport. I took (and later replaced) the key to his locker at Cherry Chase Country Club where he belonged. I went to the club for lunch and then wandered into the locker room. No one was around, so I left the cell phone in his locker. Of course, Glenn and I were both very careful to leave no signs of our presence.
Starting from a few days before Sandra left (for her final trip), I was careful to leave no telltale footprints, such as reading my email when I was supposed to be dead. I left my billfold with everything in it in the silver tray in the drawer of my dresser where I always left it. There was a little over six hundred dollars in it, about the usual amount.
Not wanting to leave my usual mess, I ate out, but no more fast food. I just stopped. Quit. I didn't have any coffee, tea or beer, taking nothing in the place I did not consider to be my home anymore. In fact, I cut out hard liquor; I needed to stay sharp and not make any mistakes. I was staying with Glenn and driving back and forth. Hell, I didn't even take a piss in the house.
I didn't go to any of my usual hangouts; none of my favorite bars, restaurants or other places I usually went. I stayed away from anywhere I might run into a friend. All my visits to the house were late at night and I parked Glenn's car at least a block away.
I got a new prescription for my blood pressure and cholesterol medicine from the same guy that drew my blood; I renewed them over the Internet in my new name and had them sent to Glenn's address. I didn't go to any local grocery stores and drugstores. I was as close to invisible as possible. A lot of this probably didn't make much difference, but I wanted to sow the seed of confusion far and wide.
I was leaving a lot, a bunch of money, a way of life I enjoyed and a few friends I would miss. Thankfully, there wasn't much family left. My sister was living in Boston and I just saw her every other year or so. She would miss me but with the kids, her husband and her job she would be okay. My parents had recently moved to the area north of Sydney, Australia, with two other couples. They were all into the active life, golf, tennis, sailing, and particularly neighborhood cookouts. Of, course I hadn't seen them or my sister since I died in the Caribbean, so dying again should not be an onerous burden.
I left about $600,000 in cash or near cash in various checking, savings and money market accounts. My IRA was probably around a half mil. The house in Evergreen had about $700,000 in equity. Most of all, I left my career as a crime writer. I was good at it. I made tons of money from my writing. I had four novels under contract, two of which I had already received advances for. One of those was in the editing process and would be published in a couple of months.
In addition, I had a significant amount of money stashed in an account in the Cayman Islands. I got the idea from one of the stories I wrote; I had gone down to the Caymans, and on a whim decided to open an account. I started it with a quarter million, and occasionally sent more to the account. I thought about grabbing some of this but decided it was wise to leave it alone.
Our joint will left everything to the survivor, and if we both died, to the Salvation Army for their work with the homeless and Veterans. I knew it was a lot of money, but it was the cost for my dying. If Sandra was convicted of my murder, she would not be able to inherit: those damn ill-gotten gains. I assumed it would take seven years for the court to declare me dead, given the lack of a body. The Salvation Army was patient; they would surely not mind waiting.
I left my car in the garage, my lovely silver BMW coupe, "The M6." It sure looked like I was going to miss my Beemer more than I would Sandra.
I wish I had kids to leave all this to, but if I had kids, I wouldn't have done it this way. Sure, I would have thrown her sorry ass out, but I would have lost this precious revenge. Every day since Glenn and I had started planning this, especially on those nights after Sandra and I mated (I never made love to her again after seeing those emails), I pulled my revenge out and caressed it. I petted it. I loved it. It was literally precious to me. Was I vindictive? You bet your sweet ass I was!
Finally, it was time for lights out, time to die. All of Glenn's and my efforts were to show that she had me killed before she left on her last trip. I imagined her coming home and being perplexed when I wasn't there. She would ask around and finally call the police and report me missing. About that time, she would start wondering if somehow Andrew had had me killed while they had been in San Antonio. I'm sure she would be a nervous wreck by the time the police got there.
Glenn drove me down to Albuquerque where I gave him a big hug and said goodbye. I caught a bus to El Paso. All my documentation looked used as appropriate. My luggage was even more used. At El Paso, I filled the luggage up with new clothes, totally different brands and styles down to shoes, socks and underwear. I took a taxi into Juarez. I caught another bus to Mexico City. There, I took a plane to Buenos Aires. I stayed there for a week, decompressing and enjoying some excellent food and wine. I got my hair restyled and a more modern look for my eyeglass frames. From Argentina, I flew on to Tel Aviv. Glenn and I, in our discussions, figured that no one would ever look for me there.
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I did not follow the plan Glenn and I made; I deviated, big time. So far as Glenn knew, I was in Israel. Instead, well, I dropped off the earth, and wound up in Stockholm instead of Tel Aviv. I'd contacted Jim Phillips and as a "favor" for my past services, he provided me with a new ID. He had the Gunnery Sergeant from the Embassy (An NCO from the Marines oversaw the Marine Security Guard at each Embassy, typically a Gunnery Sergeant) meet me at a coffee house near the Casa Rosada, the President of Argentina's home. He walked right up to me, accepted my passport and handed me a sealed manila envelope, turned around, and disappeared.
I opened the packet and saw a perfectly good used passport with a short, typewritten bio. There was a note to take the overnight Viking cruise ship from Stockholm to Helsinki on a specified date and ask for Frank's table at the Hostess station. There were no directions on how to get there, just be on that ship on that date.
In any event, I took a train from Buenos Aires to Santiago, Chile, then a plane on to Heathrow. I took a shuttle to Gatwick and flew on to Stockholm on Norwegian Air. That gave me ten days in Stockholm before I took the overnight ferry on to Helsinki.
Stockholm is a wonderful, very clean place, and heaven if you like fresh seafood. For the first time since this soap opera had started, I had a chance to really relax. It's a good town for walking, and I did a lot of that. I'd let myself go and got out of shape and a bit flabby (okay, truth, more than a bit). I loved the food, the best seafood I'd ever had. I stayed at an old hotel on Gamla Stan, a small island near the main downtown part of Stockholm. In my touristy running around what I enjoyed the most was a visit to the Naval Museum. It had a wonderful collection of rifles and pistols covering hundreds of years, and Naval Uniforms through the centuries.
At last, the night came to take the ferry. I got there early; I did not want to miss this boat. After it departed, there were several hours of passing through the thousands of islands in the water leaving Stockholm. Some were tiny, a rock with a boat dock and a house. Most were very heavily wooded. All in all, it was an incredibly scenic trip.
It came time for dinner, so I walked to the restaurant. As directed, I asked for Frank's table at the front desk and a lovely hostess took me to the table. When we neared, I almost tripped as I saw Jim Phillips sitting at the table. He had a big, innocent smile and stood up. I thanked the hostess and offered my hand: "Frank, great seeing you!"
Jim replied, calmly, "Same to you, let's have a nice dinner and we can talk in my cabin."
I have no recollection of what I ate, but it was good. Afterwards, we walked around the deck a couple of times in the quasi-darkness and ended up in his cabin.
"I was really surprised to hear from you; I didn't know if you were alive or dead. Well, I know you are dead, but let's make sure that this is the last time."
We talked for a while, doing definite damage to a bottle of Finnish Vodka. At the end, he gave me a new, and what was to prove to be, the final ID packet I'd ever need. He took the Buenos Aires papers and made them disappear.
When I got back to my cabin, I opened the passport and found out I was a Spanish citizen from Madrid. I would have no problem there as my Spanish was very close to native Madrileño.
After we docked, I spent a few hours looking around the city (Jim was staying on the ship for the return to Stockholm), then caught a plane to Frankfurt. From there, I took a train to Madrid where I would wind up staying for a few months. Jim had a flat arranged and pre-paid for six months in a nice part of Madrid, fairly near the Prado art museum. Jim had also given me five thousand Euros cash, and the info I needed for my bank account which had another twenty thousand in it. I still had the Swiss lock box, and periodically, I would go to Switzerland and pick up some of the Krugerrands. I'd sell these in Madrid, usually losing four to five percent.
I stayed in Madrid for a short time, half a year or so, and moved on to San Sebastian. I liked the city, and it was an easy trip to either France or Portugal. The food was good, and it was a beautiful area, located on the Atlantic coast on the Bay of Biscay, a short twelve miles from the French border.
I found a flat with a one-year lease. It was on the top (sixth) floor of a building, with one flat per floor. The elevator was on the side of the building, with a small entryway. On one side of the entryway was a door for the area in which the owner of the building lived.
It was a keyed elevator, with a different key for each floor. This allowed the elevator to open directly into each apartment, in my case the large living room. On the front end was the bedroom suite and the other end was the kitchen/dining area.
It was done very elegantly, with parquet floors and all leather furniture. There was a nice balcony in the front bedroom part of the house and a larger terrace off the kitchen. It was perfectly suitable for my needs.
The location was perfect, a short block to the beach, and in an area of bars and restaurants. There were 18 Michelin starred restaurants within 15 miles. Within a couple of blocks were a half-dozen pintxos bars—the Basque equivalent of tapas — that form the cornerstone of San Sebastian's foodie culture. These were small plates of great variety.
I loved getting up early in the mornings and walking on the beach, then stopping at one of the small bakeries for coffee and pastry at the outdoor tables.
I made many short trips around the area, maybe taking the train to Bayonne in France, or driving to Santiago de Compostela. The Cathedral there is the end-point of the famous pilgrimage trek of Camino de Compostela, or the Way of St. James.
Once, I took the train to Porto, at the ocean end of the Douro River Valley, and spent a week going around the bodegas tasting port.
I had an enjoyable time—I would always remember it as a nice interlude—but finally was ready to settle down... permanently!
Epilogue
I-Andrew
During the intensive investigation of Andrew Swingfield, Detective Ed Brogan with the Colorado Bureau of Investigation keep thinking there was something not quite right with this case. He had been with the CBI almost fifteen years and had good instincts. He finally dug into the notices file and eventually came across two interesting notifications. There was one from the FBI, but under a slightly different name. There was also one from Interpol specifically identifying Andrew Swingfield with photos.
He talked to the Lieutenant and contacted both agencies. They had the same MO (modus operandi) of a con man swindling widows and sometimes killing the woman involved. They were intensely interested in seeing him caught and sent a representative along with case files.
With this additional help they could were able to indict Andrew. Unfortunately, he had taken a runner and it was almost a year before they found him living with a rich widow in Salem Oregon. After much argument, it was agreed that the FBI would be in charge and they would try him in a Federal Court. Sandra was convinced to be a witness for a reduced sentence. With her testimony, the trial was a slam dunk and Andrew is now a permanent guest of the Federal Bureau of Prisons at The Fort Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary.
II-Sandra
Even though there was clear premeditation, the court found that she had been manipulated and probably drugged based on the FBI files showing how Andrew worked. As a result, she agreed to a five-year term at the Colorado Women's Prison in Cañon City rather than going through a trial.
During her time in prison she started going to outreach prison ministry sessions run by nuns at a nearby convent in Colorado Springs. She wasn't "born again," but she was impressed by Sister Anne's message of personal responsibility. She came to realize that her problems were her own problems, she had wanted life given to her on a silver platter. But as she came to understand in conversations with Sister Anne that life is partnership with others.
When the trial for Andrew came up she was offered a reduction in sentence to two years. Her testimony was key to a quick conviction in Federal Court. With just six months left on her sentence she started planning on a new life.
Upon her release, she stayed at the Convent in Colorado Springs while she worked towards a Certificate in Early Childhood Education. After completion, she found a job as a Kindergarten Teacher and moved to a small apartment near the school.
Sandra led an essentially monastic life for the next year... until she met the brother of a fellow teacher visiting from California. They had an immediate attraction for each other, and six months later she was married in Redding, California, to a well-known orthodontist. They have three kids, a boy and two girls, and are very happy.
She had been devastated when she found out Andrew had been drugging her, and was only interested in Dave's money. This shock helped her turn her life around. She is happy teaching second grade at a school close to their home. She started writing children's books and became very successful. All the money she earned was given to local charities to support early childhood education.
As a footnote, she was told by her lawyer that she could not inherit ill-gotten gains. When the idle thought came to her later to appeal the inheritance, she quickly decided that she wanted no part of it. She had the most valuable gift possible... a loving family that thought the world of her. She was rich beyond comparison!
Seven years after Dave Lawrence was declared dead by the court, The Salvation Army received a large sum of money. They leveraged this with gifts from other donors and put in place programs to help veterans that had been left by the wayside and to search for new approaches for the homeless nationwide.
III-Maria and Charlie
Charlie and Maria led a good life in Cascais. Catarina was a lovely, outgoing child that was adored by all that met her. Two more girls did nothing to dim the fire of their love. After several years they bought a house a few miles north of Lisbon, on a bluff overlooking the ocean. They led a quiet life but neither were bothered by this. Occasionally would think about the money he walked away from, but knew that no amount of money could buy the riches he had.
He heard from Jim Phillips one last time. Charlie's dad was dying of cancer and Jim thought it should be safe for him to go to Australia. His dad died two weeks after Charlie and his family arrived, but his dad had been able to see his lovely wife and children. His mom was so enthralled with the kids that several months after the funeral she moved to live with her son in Portugal.
Shortly after Charlie's mother moved in, during a match between Manchester City and Roma, Maria's husband, Paulo, died in a freak accident. He was diving low to try to head the ball into the goal, when a defender, in trying to clear the ball kicked him in the temple. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. It was on television and newspapers all over Europe. There was one gruesome video that showed the defender had hit the ball first, but the follow-through literally caved in her husband's temple.
Two months later, Charlie and Maria were married. The ceremony was in the local church, with just a few people in attendance. There was no problem with the church, because Charlie's papers included his birth certificate, baptism, first communion and confirmation papers. (Because of his Italian mother, Sam Carson had done these sacraments, but after leaving home for college, he rarely attended church. Charlie's three girls, on the other hand, with an Italian Grandmother's doting care, religiously attend mass.)
Jim had also told him to take anything left in the Swiss Bank deposit box and close it out. Most of the remaining gold was used to build or renovate the schools in the small village near where they lived.
Maria and Charlie, lived a satisfying life. They were close to their three girls, and loved their grandchildren as they came along. They were not rich but were comfortable and had all that they needed. Charlies mother lived with them for fifteen years, helping with the kids, and helping Charlie resolve some of the conflicts from his hectic, unusual life. He had told his mother everything, but all Maria ever knew was that he done some work for the American Government and had to change his name and become a Spaniard. That was enough for her; she never had any questions.
Caterina started helping with the Agent/Publishing business, and Charlie and Maria found she had a knack for writing. After much discussion and research, she went to the University of Iowa, where she earned a Masters of Fine Arts in Spanish Creative Writing, with a focus also on Portuguese Creative Writing. The experience was good and she eventually took over the business. She married late and had her only child a boy, when she was thirty.
Ana married a lawyer and lived in Lisbon. She was happy being a housewife and mother for her three children, the oldest a boy.
Lucia, the baby of the family, married early, right after graduating from the University of Porto with a Master of Science in Viticulture and Enology. Her husband was a classmate and the son of one of the largest Port makers in the Douro Valley, East of Porto. She was visited many times by her parents, and sisters.
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Thanks for reading this story—I appreciate all comments and will always try to respond to emails.
Kudos to "The Wanderer" for his challenge. It's always fun to put yourself inside someone else's head and try to imagine what they would have written.
For those of you who are reconciliation fans, sorry! Given what Sandra had done and Dave's response it just seemed hopeless. I couldn't see Sandra getting out of jail 20 years later and bumping into Dave, who suddenly missed his former life and wife, meeting again and having a joyful reunion.
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