Chapter Two - Ray Meets Jack -- 1984

Dead bodies never bothered Ray. He scorned people who spoke of spirits and ghosts walking the earth. He believed he was practical, cold-hearted, and immune to that type of idiocy.
He was wrong.
He was usually right, so his error was a great surprise.
An intelligent man will try to understand his limitations and minimize those limitations. Ray was an intelligent man. He had worked diligently over the years to ensure he had few limitations. He was an expert in every type of killing, though his preferred method was a clean sniper’s rifle kill since the distance provided a better opportunity to leave the scene. Plus, he never missed; one shot and he was out. Of course, the client would often have specific requests, so Ray had perfected his skills using any type of weapon or strategy. Unlike killers in movies, he never had any reason to use rapid-fire automatic rifles or any of the other over-the-top weapons which Hollywood put into the hands of star-quality killers. Normally, Ray left the scene of the crime without anyone knowing that he had been there.
One of his best skills was his ability to understand the level of detail the police would go in order to determine who the murderer was. Crime scene investigators on television always find the clues, but in reality, it was much more difficult to find a good clue when a professional was involved. Planning was vital to his success, since it was virtually impossible not to leave some evidence. The question was never "did I leave a clue?" but rather "will the police find the evidence, and will they have the skills, or even take the time to use that evidence to find the killer". As technology progressed, Ray had to keep up with technological improvements. Starting in the nineties, DNA typing would drastically change the way he handled some jobs, especially insurance scams.
In 1984, however, DNA typing wasn't a factor, so Ray was able to handle insurance scams fairly easily. Ray was good at insurance scams. However, despite his reputation for always performing an insurance fraud contact flawlessly, he developed some reasons for not liking that type of job. In an insurance scam, if anyone really died he usually chose a homeless vagrant to fill in for the “deceased”, since no one would usually question the disappearance of a vagrant. The body of a wino would usually be burned beyond recognition, and the "deceased” would fly away under false papers. The “deceased’s” wife, husband, or significant other, would collect the huge insurance payoff, maybe collect an inheritance, and eventually join the very much alive loved-one in South America or a Pacific Island to enjoy their ill-gotten gains.
Ray had never failed to successfully complete his part of an insurance fraud job, but a couple of his clients had failed with their part. In one case, a newly enriched client had gone to Mexico to live with his windfall wealth but couldn't pass up an opportunity to attend the wedding of his own daughter in Syracuse, New York. An intuitive insurance inspector had also decided to attend the wedding, feeling that if the man had managed to defraud the insurance company, perhaps he would feel confidant enough to attend his daughter's wedding.
The father of the bride had disguised himself, but he hadn't been able to resist indulging in the flowing champagne. Drunk and overwhelmed with the joy and tender sadness, he had gone up to ask the bride to dance and had cried out how much he missed her and was so proud of her. The insurance inspector, still sober and looking forward to a large bonus, snatched the man and took him to the police.
Ray had followed the case carefully in the news. The impetuous father had told the police that he had hired a professional to help him defraud his insurance company. He described the man in detail and described how he had contacted him. Ray wasn't concerned, since he had closed down that contact route immediately following the crime. Furthermore, the police were looking for a middle aged, balding man, who wore glasses and spoke as though he were from Brooklyn. Ray smiled when the news showed the man, handcuffed, on his way out of the courthouse, having just been sentenced to life for conspiracy to commit murder and fraud. Ray said to the television, "You are such a fool. Your foolishness sent you to jail, not the crime, or even the court. You jailed yourself."
Ray told each of his insurance scam clients this story from then on, to ensure they understood the consequences of foolishness. Ray told them he would not kill another innocent man just to have the client get himself arrested and thrown in jail, again. He explained how carefully he planned, and didn't like his planning torn apart because of idiots.
Ray’s final insurance scam job looked as if it would be easy, and he never expected how it would affect him. His client, Mr. Frank Kern, was impatient to have his "body" found and identified with no legal hassle. He wanted to have the insurance company pay out his money to his wife, as well as to have his estate cleared as quickly as possible. His wife was going to send him half of her ill-gotten gains to where he was to live the rest of his life, Brazil. He wasn't anxious to live there for months or years with only the little money he'd been able to set aside in a Swiss bank account. Therefore, the substitute body had to be readily identified as Frank Kern as quickly as possible.
Ray explained that it shouldn't be a problem, though he couldn't guarantee how quick the courts would be in settling the estate. He explained some of the basic plans that Ray would usually modify to meet the client's needs, but Mr. Kern stopped him.
"I have to die in a boating accident." Mr. Kern explained. "I know it sounds crazy, but this good friend of mine once said that he and I would both wind up killed by the seas."
Ray looked at Mr. Kern without speaking. He was trying to determine the best way to convince this prospective client that he needed to change his mind.
Mr. Kern continued, "You see, we were always bumming around the water; ever since we were kids. We used to do some crazy things together, really stupid. So, at a friend's yacht party a few years ago, we get drunk and decide to hang over the side of the boat and see who can hang on longer than the other." Mr. Kern looked at Ray as if he were embarrassed to be discussing this with a hired killer. "Anyway, it was really stupid. We both fell off into the water almost right away - - we were so drunk you see."
Ray sat back and crossed his arms, hoping this would end soon.
Mr. Kern laughed, still embarrassed. "So, they fish us out of the water, and while we're dripping on the deck waiting for some towels, my buddy tells me, "You know, Frank, we're both going to die at sea someday, you and me. The sea's going to get us, by God.' And I said, 'Yeah, the sea, by God!'" Frank grinned at Ray and then scowled. "Well, two months later, my buddy gets attacked by a shark while he was skin-diving near Bermuda. He's in the hospital, and the nurse said his dying words were, 'Tell Frank, it'll be the sea, by God!'"
Mr. Kern wriggled in his seat, remembering hearing those words for the first time. He said, "I know you might think it sounds stupid, but the real thing is that all my friends in the world know about it. They've been expecting me to die whenever I go out on my boat! Not a one of my friends or colleagues will doubt that it was me that died, especially if it's an accident involving my boat. I even changed my boat's name to By God. They know I do some pretty stupid things when I'm out on that boat."
Ray had to admit, Kern's reasoning wasn't well thought-out, but he had a valid reason for wanting the incident to occur at sea. The plan still had a lot of flaws, so Ray discussed the details of it with Kern. This discussion which revealed even more of Kern's special requirements and Ray tried to talk him out of it. Kern insisted. Finally, Ray had to say, "The main thing is, if you want the body to be burned beyond recognition, but still float to shore at a point where someone will find it, and someone will be able to identify it as you, we have a major issue we have to get around." Ray saw that he had Kern's attention, so he continued, "One of the primary ways a burned corpse gets positively ID'd is through its teeth. They compare the teeth with the dental records. I can cause an explosion which will blow out the teeth, but not on your boat, since you say you want it to be found floating at sea."
Mr. Kern smiled. He seemed about to say something, but hesitated.
Ray leaned forward and said, "Look, Mr. Kern, you're not giving me a lot to go on. You want the boat burned, but floating. You want the corpse to be found on a beach, burned, but identifiable, such as with rings, watches, and things the fish might not eat totally off the body before it's found." Ray sat back again, "It looks as if the only way to do this is to actually kill you, Mr. Kern."
Kern looked shocked for a second, then decided Ray had to be joking and laughed loudly. He chuckled and then looked shocked again when he saw that Ray wasn't laughing.
"Okay, I can see your point." Kern smiled again. "I guess I'm glad you didn't notice before, since I paid a lot of money for these babies, but I have some help for you on this matter." Kern put his hand to his mouth and tugged on his teeth. Ray let himself show surprise when Kern pulled out a set of complete, well-made and expensive dentures. "You see, they don't need to find any teeth, and you don't need to knock them out, all they gotta find are these babies." Now his smile was grotesque without the teeth, but Ray managed to return the grin.
Ray still had a challenge ahead of him. Ray had to find a homeless person who was almost an exact physical match. He would have to remove any identifiable marks on the dead body, including his fingerprints. Ray had still almost turned the job down. However, Kern was offering more that double the normal payment for an insurance scam, and, besides, Ray always liked a good challenge.
Ray found a suitable wino only after several days of searching the streets of Seattle. He had the same build, roughly the same head and bone structure, the same hair color, and even the same, pensive eyes. However, before Ray could be sure he had the right victim, he had to check the guy out further.
First, Ray became a vagrant himself. Dressed in filthy rags, carrying a huge, beat up woven bag full of the kind of stuff street people carry, Ray slept not far from the chosen wino one night. The next day he offered to share some of his Mad Dog with the guy. By that night, the ex-serviceman, ex-this and former-that wino was talking abut himself non-stop. His name was Jack.
Ray asked the questions he needed to have answered soon. If there were any problems, he'd have to start all over again. He was pleased to find out that the man had no serious scars. No organs had been removed or replaced. He had dentures and they were full dentures, though they didn't fit very well and Jack often went through a day without wearing them. He hadn't been on the street for too long, so his health wasn't failing too badly. He had never done drugs with a needle, so there wouldn't be any scars from that. Because Ray seemed so full of questions, Jack became suspicious, despite the ready bottle of fortified wine. Ray shut up and pretended to fall asleep. Jack finished the bottle, and fell asleep still holding the bottle, and his dentures, in his lap.
Ray was gone the next morning before Jack woke up. He contacted his client to tell him that he was ready to put the plan in motion, if the client was ready. Kern agreed; everything was ready.
Ray made his final preparations during the morning, drove by Jack's normal hang-out, saw the wino in the usual place, begging for money, and then Ray drove to his apartment to sleep a few hours. Later that evening, Ray was dressed in a nice suit when he walked up to Jack. He gave the wino a dollar and started to walk by without stopping. He saw that Jack had no idea that he was his fellow wino from the previous two nights. Ray turned.
“Hey, buddy. You look like you could use a good meal.” Ray smiled his best smile. “I could give you a good meal. In fact, you could take a bath at my place if you want.”
Jack suspected that Ray was gay and looking for some anonymous companionship. It wasn't unusual for homosexuals to look for some of the healthier vagrants as potential short-term partners. Some vagrants took advantage of the time they could spend under a roof with regular food and clean, if shared, sheets. However, vagrants were also victims of people who enjoyed sadistic, anonymous adventures.
Jack's wine-fogged brain was still clear enough to allow a healthy degree of skepticism and mistrust of anyone offering him help. It took almost half an hour of Ray using his best charm and warmest smile to convince the wino to get in Ray's rental car and then, again, to get in the house Ray had leased for this job. If Jack had not wanted to go with him, Ray had an alternative plan he could implement. But, the voluntary method always worked best.
“I’ll make dinner. Why don’t you just relax?” Ray showed jack a comfortable chair and then walked over to the wet bar. “Do you drink whiskey?”
“Whiskey? I love whiskey,” Jack looked eagerly at the bottle Ray held up. “I haven’t had good whiskey in so long.” Jack looked away as if he was thinking back to something he wished he hadn’t remembered.
Ray poured them both a tumbler of whiskey, ensuring Jack's glass was quite full. Ray sipped at his drink while he cooked the meal. The whiskey they were drinking was an Irish whiskey, the brand favored by Mr. Kern. They talked while the sauce bubbled and the spaghetti achieved perfect al dente. Ray had grown to love cooking for himself over the years, and he now found it interesting to cook for someone else, as well. He even looked forward to what Jack would think about the meal, though he was sure the wino wouldn't notice the fine ingredients and the preparation details.
Ray was wrong. Jack had worked as an assistant chef for one of the better restaurants before he had become a hardcore alcoholic. Jack commented on some of Ray's preparations and remarked that he had obviously had some good training. Ray smiled and didn't offer that he had only cooked for himself and had taught himself everything he knew. He also smiled when he saw that Jack had managed to consume his first glass of whiskey and had refilled it almost to the brim.
When they sat down to dinner, Jack appeared nicely toasted. Despite his daily drinking habit, he had rarely drunk anything besides fortified wine for the past year. He managed to enjoy the meal and the wine, commenting that the Valpolicella was a nice wine, and few Americans seemed to try it, preferring the more popular Chianti. Ray found he was enjoying the conversation with Jack and instantly realized he should not continue as if he were a friend to this man. Trying to appear as if he were still enjoying the conversation, Ray gradually shortened his responses and withdrew his interest.
Ray offered to make a desert of hot custard over strudel and Jack's jaw almost dropped. He couldn't believe how fortunate he was. Jack seemed to decide that, even if this guy was gay, he'd stay with him for awhile.
Ray suggested that Jack take a bath while he prepared the desert, which would probably take awhile. Jack, starting to feel quite merry, agreed, grabbing the bottle of whiskey when Ray showed him the bath supplies.
The wino had obviously decided nothing was amiss, and got into the tub while the air filled with the odors of an apple strudel warming and custard cooking. With the whiskey bottle close by his side, Jack scrubbed away layers of dirt and then quickly drifted to sleep in the warm water.
After ten minutes, Ray looked in on him. The wino appeared passed out enough to possibly drown on his own; without Ray’s help. But, of course, Ray couldn’t wait for that chance. He brought in a large bottle of sea water, water which he'd gotten from the area of sea he would take Jack's body to that night. During any autopsy, the coroner must be able to determine that water causing "Kern" to drown was seawater, not soapy bath water. Attached to the bottle to seawater was a hand pump and hose Ray had modified to make his job easier.
Next, Ray grabbed the two big feather pillows from the bed. He put the pillows into the bathroom sink, soaked them in water and then took them to the bathtub. Stripping his outer clothes off, Ray watched to make sure Jack was completely passed out. As if to confirm his state, Jack slipped further into the bath by a couple inches, bringing his mouth near the surface of the water.
Carefully, Ray laid the pillows onto the bath, ensuring that Jacks arms and legs would be unable to move once Ray put pressure on the pillows. Jack didn't respond to the weight of the pillows. Ray then moved over the bathtub, holding a hose from the water bottle, with the hand pump attached, and lay down directly onto the pillows.
When Jack felt the weight, his eyes opened in surprise. He began to struggle, but Ray had his upper body and arms held down easily under the upper pillow. Jack could move his legs a little, but the second sodden pillow held them more-or-less in place. The feeble kicking Jack managed was ineffectual and wouldn’t even cause bruising.
Before Jack could understand what was happening, Ray pushed the hose into his mouth, stuffing a washcloth in around it so it wouldn't leave any marks. With his left hand, Ray pumped the sea water into Jack's throat, while holding the cloth and hose in place with his right.
Jack struggled, but quickly realized his feeble struggles were useless. Jack had learned to face hard reality while on the streets. He soon accepted his fate.
Jack’s eyes glared at Ray accusingly once he had accepted that he wasn’t able to break free. Ray watched those eyes, feeling the unspoken accusation more strongly than he normally would. The only reason this man was dying was because he bore a resemblance to Mr. Frank Kern. A poor reason, but one for which Ray had killed before.
Ray felt almost saddened by the taking of Jack's life. Then, concerned about why he worried about this man’s death at all, he could only surmise that he felt different since he was so close to the man while killing him. When killing at close range, he would normally chose a quick, sudden method which didn’t allow the victim to even know he was dying, much less glare an accusation at his killer. He dismissed the unusual thoughts and continued pumping without a pause.
Ray waited about five minutes, ensuring Jack was dead. He lifted himself off the pillows, and then pulled them aside. He drained the tub and emptied as much of the water as he could out of the body’s lungs and stomach. He quickly ran an electric clipper over Jack's face, giving him a five o'clock shadow, rather than a scraggly beard. He trimmed his hair into Frank Kern’s most recent hair style.
Then, after wrapping the body in a plastic sheet and then a canvas tarp, he carried it into the attached garage, and slid Jack into the trunk of the car. Ray then quickly cleaned the bathroom and then the entire house, leaving it much cleaner than when he had rented it. While he was cleaning, he would frequently return to the garage and turn the body in the trunk so the body fluids would not settle on one side. After the place was clean, he removed his few private possessions from the small house, and carried them to the car. He went for one final walk-through and checked to make sure he had left nothing which would show that a crime had been committed there, or that Ray Goddard had ever been there.
As he drove north, it was after one o’clock on a Tuesday morning, so Seattle was relatively quiet. The streets were nearly empty, as was Bay Street and the Kitsap Marina, in Port Orchard, where Kern kept his small cruiser. As he carried the wrapped-up body onto its deck, Ray looked around the boat. He had often thought that he might spend part of his accumulating fortune on a boat and he admired the classic design of Kern's thirty-two foot, Chris Craft Cavalier, made in the mid-sixties. It was a beautiful boat, well cared for, with as much of the natural wood exposed and polished to a high shine as was practical. Its original engines had been replaced by twin 350 Chevy engines within the last decade, and they rumbled gratifyingly.
With Jack’s body on the deck, still covered by the tarp, Ray pulled out of the dock. He headed north, through Puget Sound, then west, into the Pacific. After Ray had entered open waters and looked around to ensure no running lights of other vessels were visible, he steered south, slowly, with engines barely above idle. He prepared the boat for the accidental death of Mr. Frank Kern.
Ray had to damage the engine enough to cause it to malfunction and then explode, a task he abhorred when he looked at the immaculate condition of the engine. He adjusted the mixture to rich, which caused the engine to belch black smoke and run roughly.
Ray pulled Jack's body out of the tarp and plastic sheet. He examined the body again, mentally noting a few small scars; Ray would later burn these off the skin. He dressed Jack in some clothes from Kern's closet down below. He also replaced Jack's dentures with Kern's expensive ones. He then placed Kern's rings and watch on the hands of the body. The watch had a loving inscription from Kern's wife.
Ray then placed the body in the right position for the "accident". Jack’s body was above the engine compartment, and a Monkey Wrench was in his lifeless hands, reaching into the compartment. Avoiding Jack's head, which was placed just above the opening, Ray started banging away at the carburetor with a long, steel rod he had pulled from his backpack. He purposely hit the fuel pump as well, spilling enough fuel to send fumes into the small compartment.
Pulling back from the opening, and checking again that Jack was correctly positioned, Ray lit a match and flicked it into the engine compartment. The resulting explosion was small, but it burned and disfigured Jack’s face.
Turning the body over, he pulled a hand torch out of his backpack, lit it, and held it to Jacks face. He pulled out the expensive dentures. They would have to be left on the boat, since they'd never stay in Jack's mouth in the water. Ray moved the torch to Jacks lips and gums. As flesh burned, producing a nauseous odor, Ray noticed Jack’s eyes were open. For a moment, Ray imagined that the eyes were again glaring an accusation at him, and he almost dropped the torch.
Realizing how foolish he was acting, but suddenly afraid to be alone with the corpse, Ray turned off the torch, moved to the helm and checked the boat's position. Ray glanced at Jack’s disfigured face from a safe distance, more disturbed than he had been since he'd started this work. Ray shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He looked at the black sky around him, but it offered no consolation since it was a moonless night with high clouds, so no stars were visible, and he could see no surface lights around him at all.
Ray suddenly had a ghastly vision of becoming lost on the ocean with a corpse which would come back to life seeking revenge for the horrid way he’d treated him. The fear was the same as he’d felt as a small boy when he sneaked into the living room while his parents had watched a horror movie late on Saturday night. The fear brought back another memory from when he was a child.
This memory came to him as clearly as if it had occurred the day before. This intrigued him for two reasons: he had been only five when it occurred, and he normally remembered little of the years during which his mother was alive. One bright morning he had asked his mother what made something a horror. But his childish pronunciation had made it sound as if he asked, “Ma, whut makes summthin a whore.”
She’d looked at him with wide, surprised eyes; she was ready to whup his behind if he’d said what she thought he’d said. She asked, “What’d you say, Raymond Calvin Goddard?” Her hand was already swinging back to increase the impact of the punishment.
Scared, but wanting to know the answer, Ray tried again, “Ma, you know those scary movies you and Dad watch? Those movies that are really scary, they call them a whore. Whut makes it a whore?” He tried to appear innocent, and it must have done the trick, because his mother dropped her hand in surprise, and looked at his big, brown eyes, and just started laughing and laughing.
Then she’d hugged him and said over and over again, “Being scary is what makes it a HOR-ROR. Being scary is what makes it a HOR-ROR.” She hugged him and laughed until he thought she’d gone crazy.
Looking back on it now, with his “horror” of the Jack's staring eyes still fresh in his mind, he started laughing uncontrollably. He shook and laughed, remembering his mother’s shocked face. He dropped to his knees with the strength of his laughter. As he slowly relaxed and his laughter became quiet guffaws, drifting out over the quiet water, Ray stood up again and looked at Jack's body.
No longer afraid, he moved back to the corpse. Ray looked over the body carefully. He burned the wino's hands thoroughly to obscure the fingerprints and to help complete the picture of a drunken Kern trying to fix the boat's engine with a cigarette in his mouth. He burned several large patches on the body, now trying to give the impression of a man, his clothes on fire, rolling around on the partially burning deck, unable to control the fire as it licked from place to place on his body. Ray was sure to burn off the scars that Jack had, as well as to burn the places where Kern had marks that could be looked for during the identification process. In the end, Jacks body was fairly well burned. Ray knew hungry fish would help obscure even more of the body, but he'd done as much as had to be done, without appearing overdone.
Periodically, Ray scanned the water for other boats. He was still alone on the water.
Checking the body’s face again, unable to believe that he had been so afraid of the accusing eyes, Ray again began to work with the torch. He flicked some drops of fuel onto Jack's face and hair, and then turned the torch onto the hair, the fuel caught quickly, completely burning the hair and some of his facial skin. Ray charred the dentures more than they were already and dropped them into the engine compartment.
Ray put his tools in his backpack and then checked the entire boat, looking for anything he may have left which would appear out of place, and found nothing. He inflated the dinghy he'd brought with him, so the boat's life raft would still be on-board, and placed it into the water, ensuring it was tied fast to the railing. He carried the body down into the dinghy and put his backpack beside the body. After making sure he was ready to cast off quickly, Ray stepped over the body, back up the rope ladder and onto the boat. He took a container of the engine’s fuel in a small jug and spread some fuel around the engine port and then splattered some fuel onto the deck. He took a cold, partially smoked cigarette out of a plastic bag in his pocket. Kern had smoked it earlier and given it to him. He flicked it into the engine port and stepped backward towards the ladder to the dinghy. As he stepped down into the dinghy, he poured a few remaining drops of the fuel onto the deck, and lit it with a lighter. As the fuel caught fire, Ray slipped off the dinghy's rope and pushed off hard with an oar.
The boat wouldn’t burn enough to sink, but the fire would make a mess of the beautiful cruiser. Ray wished he could have done something other than burn the boat. He wondered how Kern could plan for the destruction of something he obviously cared for a great deal. Shaking his head, he tried to concentrate on the job at hand. He watched for a moment to ensure all the fuel he'd put down was flaming.
As he headed back to the east, Ray occasionally looked back to watch the boat burn. The flames lit up the night immediately surrounding the boat, but somehow Ray felt as if the fire could be seen only by him, as if he were in a tunnel instead of the open ocean. The light seemed to be absorbed by the surrounding darkness. Ray watched until he and the dinghy were about a mile to the east of the boat and then turned on a small electric lantern. He pulled out his charts then turned to where he could see a faint outline of the coastline. The clouds there held some of the reflected light from Seattle and the surrounding area. He found he was further south than he had planned, so he turned a little north of east, and continued his job.
He placed a soft rubber hose into Jack’s blackened, burned mouth, then gently pushed the slender hose down into Jack’s throat. With his hand pump, Ray transferred first some more of the whiskey and then ocean water into Jack, making the stomach bulge. He adjusted the hose in Jack’s throat a bit more and moved his throat up and his head back. Pumping again, Ray forced the ocean water into Jack’s lungs. Ray only stopped once water had streamed from Jack’s mouth for several pumps. Ray was satisfied that any trace elements which the forensic folks would look for in Ray's lungs and stomach would be present in the correct amounts.
Ray again checked his navigational chart and headed the boat just north of east. In another five minutes, he would be sure he was close enough to the shore, and into a current which would pull Jack’s body toward the coast of one of the larger islands of Washington. He glanced at Jack’s face and was satisfied that no accusations emerged from the burned eyes. Then he wondered why he would think about that. He wondered, briefly, if he were losing his nerve, shook the thought off and returned his attention to the chart.
Once he was satisfied that he was close enough to the shore, and into the correct current, he prepared to lower the body into the water. He shut off the electric motor, which had been quiet enough, but the absence of the subdued drone made the silence seem palpable. In a moment, he heard the distant sound of water breaking onto the shore. After turning off the small lamp, he looked carefully around, over the water as well as along the dark shoreline. He saw no signs of activity. He listened, and heard nothing but the far-off breakers. Kneeling by the body, he picked it up and held it to the side of the dinghy.
As Ray lowered the bloated body into the water, the pressure of his hold forced some of the water out of Jack’s stomach and lungs, gurgling and spattering. Startled, Ray dropped the body into the water with a splash. The dinghy moved away from the drifting body. As Ray recovered his composure once again that night, he watched the body slowly sink under the low waves, then suspend its movement, so that it stayed about three feet under the surface. The dinghy and the body slowly separated.
Ray realized that the job had gone almost perfectly according to plan, but he felt tense and jittery. After a few moments, he rowed due east toward a portion of the coastline that met the road where he’d parked his second rental car. Occasionally, he would look into the darkness behind the dinghy, as if he might see the body floating close behind.
When he pulled the dingy onto the shore and released the valves to deflate the craft, he found himself looking fretfully one more time toward the open water. He refused to believe he’d lost his nerve, but he vowed to never take a job that took him so close to a victim again.

Chapter One - Their First Meeting -- 1997
Ray Goddard, nondescript and dour, sat in the back booth in a small, Italian restaurant. The fragrant odors, which drifted over him from the kitchen, brought a rare smile to his face, softening the harsher lines around his mouth. Good Italian food always revealed his better nature.
A bus boy passed his table without even glancing at him. The bus boy, a young man named Christopher Seesons, was an avid moviegoer. He'd seen every action movie that had come out in the past five years at least once. If a movie had innumerable shootings, tremendous explosions and rivers of blood, Christopher would see it in the theater at least three to four times and he'd rent the video to copy it. Christopher preferred shatteringly loud, destructive movies where professional killers showed uncommon understanding of how to eliminate even the smartest target, and where the killers used their opponents to test modern or even futuristic firepower. He'd seen Jackal ten times. He would have dropped to his knees and slobbered over the shoes of any man he believed to be a true professional killer. Yet, he passed Ray without a glance.
In fact, anyone would have passed Ray by without ever guessing his profession. He preferred it that way. Few people knew Ray or knew what his name was; but if they did, they would not have recognized him if they bumped into him on the street. He didn't look particularly exciting, or tough, or even interesting to talk to.
Ray was a highly successful, professional killer.
Tonight Ray was waiting to meet a prospective client who’d been cleared and referred on by one of his middlemen, Joey Battagia. Joey had said this one was odd, in fact very different from anything Joey had ever heard of. Despite Joey's reticence, Ray had reviewed the file the middleman had built and had agreed to a meeting. Ray was sure he wouldn’t be surprised by the job’s requirements, he’d done too many, with too many variations of the same themes - - killing for greed, hate, vengeance or love. He seemed to kill more often for greed, but the killing of people for love seemed to be a close second. Ray didn’t like to philosophize about his work. He was good at it and his only real philosophy was simple: Get the job done quickly and cleanly.
Ray had made sure Joey had checked out the client as usual. “No problem. It’s a legit hit, it’s just a weird situation. But she’s legit.” Joey had assured him. As usual, when meeting a potential client, Ray had prepared for the meeting wearing deceptive devices. He never used the term 'disguise', because it conjured up in his mind a much more involved and false looking result than he actually achieved. It made him think of B movie protagonists with wigs and mustaches. Though facial hair was an element of Ray's repertoire, it was modest, usually real, and never exaggerated.
Today, he wore a blue blazer, an open-collared white shirt, gray slacks and black oxfords. He wore small, circular wire-rimmed glasses and shaded his hair to a dark blonde, slicking it back with glossy hair gel. He had grown a moderate mustache which he’d thinned and then tinted light red. A little make-up provided him with a pasty skin, making it appear that he was never in the sun. He wore blue contact lenses. When he’d walked into the small, quiet restaurant, he walked with a slow, stiff gait. He had been speaking in a quiet manner with a slight Boston accent. The hostess who had seated him thought he was a tourist.
His face was not too ugly, nor too handsome to draw attention. The clothes were tailored in a way to understate his strong, solid build. The padding on his stomach looked natural but added almost five inches. He was someone whom most people noticed only long enough to decide they didn’t care to make an effort to get to know him better.
Seated in a booth in a back corner of the small Seattle restaurant, he had a view of the entire room, including the entranceway. To his right and immediate rear was the short hall containing doors to the two restrooms, a secondary entrance to the kitchen, and an exit to the alleyway. He appeared relaxed with his beer, but all his senses were alert to any change in the atmosphere in the room, anyone entering was scrutinized carefully.
The waitress walked toward his table with a smile on her face, “Are you ready to order, sir?” she asked. She noticed that he was nursing his beer, and was concerned that he wouldn’t order much and would leave little, if any, tip.
He returned her smile with a half-hearted one, “Not yet, thank-you. I’m waiting for someone, and she should be here shortly.” He noticed that the waitress brightened at the prospect of a couple ordering dinner rather than one man nursing a beer.
“Perhaps you know what the lady would like to drink, so we can have it ready for her when she arrives?” Ray had never heard this offered before. He hesitated as if considering the question.
“No, I’m sorry. I have no idea what she’ll be in the mood to drink tonight.” Ray then changed his mind and smiled, more broadly this time, “But, you can be sure she’ll have at least a couple glasses of good red wine with dinner. Perhaps you could get one of your better bottles of Italian Red ready?” Ray had appreciated his potential client’s taste for Italian wines when he had gone over her file. The background check on her had revealed many things, but not who she wanted killed, or any solid motivation for wanting anyone killed.
The waitress left his table grinning since quality wine enhanced the size of the bill and any associated tip.
As the waitress walked away, Ray looked toward the door and recognized the potential client as she stepped into the room. Short brownish-red hair flecked with white. Freckles spread generously across her broad face. About twenty extra pounds, at least, on her large, medium-to-tall frame. Brown eyes showing tension and nervousness, something she was not used to feeling, but which were expected under the circumstances. She was closing a dripping umbrella; it had begun to rain heavily while Ray sat in the restaurant.
As she glanced around the restaurant, Ray raised his hand, catching her eye. As instructed, she smiled and waved back to him, as if gladly recognizing him and as if she were looking forward to sharing yet another dinner with him. It was important that people find everything about them ordinary and not worth remembering, later. He chastised himself for ordering an expensive wine.
She moved across the room to him, he stood, took her hands, and kissed her cheek as she murmured, “Sorry I was late, Glenn. The traffic, and now the weather….” He was impressed, not just with her remembering the words so well, but in her speaking them naturally, with the proper inflections.
“No problem, Glenda. It was nice to relax for awhile.” His response confirming he was ready to discuss her request. He smiled at her. She returned his smile and sat down.
She picked up the menu. He said, “I recommend the garlic pastasciutta, since you enjoy spicy food, followed by the chicken cacciatora al marsala, which I understand is quite good here.” He himself intended to have the pasta e fasule followed by the veal scaloppine al marsala.
Kelly glanced at the menu, smiled that he had indeed suggested the items she would have chosen, and murmured her thank-you. The waitress appeared as soon as she had closed the menu, asking if Kelly would like a cocktail while she was waiting. “No thank you, I’d like just some mineral water now, please. But I’d like to have some red wine with dinner, if I could see a wine list.”
The waitress had the list in her hand and held it out, saying, “Yes, the gentleman already asked for a good Italian red wine and we suggest this 1985 Merlot.”
As the waitress indicated the suggested vintage, Kelly raised her eyebrows and looked sharply at Ray. He'd done his homework.
Both she and Ray confirmed that they agreed with the choice, and then ordered their meals.
As the waitress left, Kelly remarked, “Well, you know me quite well, ‘Glenn’. I’m at a disadvantage. Though I was in Air Force intelligence, I was only allowed to look at foreign countries and their capabilities.” She sipped her ice water. “I never knew the actual capabilities of our own underworld.” She glanced up to make sure he hadn’t taken obvious offense to the term, “And I usually doubted the movie industry’s depiction of how easy it was for non-governmental organizations to gather information on people. I suppose you consider me naïve.”
Though she was obviously still nervous, Kelly was able to handle herself with surprising ease for her first meeting with a professional killer, considering that Ray had met potential clients who had almost jumped out of their skins whenever he spoke to them. Ray did consider her naïve, but she was definitely self-confident and not easily intimidated. Most of his clients, unless involved in organized crime, were scared by the mere fact that he was a man capable of killing anyone, anytime, without remorse.
At that very moment, Kelly was wondering at her unexpected calm demeanor, which hid her real reaction to actually meeting the man she considered the answer to her long search. She had expected to find someone she could easily dislike. The thought of eating dinner with a professional killer had made her almost turn away from the planned rendezvous several times during the past hour. However, the excitement of actually putting her plan into motion had outweighed her aversion. When he had bent to kiss her cheek as she came into the restaurant, she had forced herself not to recoil from this personal touch. Now, much to her surprise, her expected aversion to this man was forgotten as she felt almost charmed by him. She expected that one of his talents was to appear as if he was not capable of murder.
He smiled, and tried to appear modest while responding to her comments on his research. “I have many contacts, and therefore, many sources of information are available to me. The fact that you share my taste for good Italian food and drink makes those facts about you stand out, and so I remembered them more than most of the information my people gathered on you.” In fact, he had studied every detail, so the fact that this woman wanted someone killed continued to confuse him.
Throughout her files, she appeared to have been dedicated to her service in the Air Force. Despite the break-up of her marriage, she had always personified high moral standards. He could find no evidence of a grudge held against anyone, except perhaps towards the commander who had removed her security clearance, and therefore ended her career, for “emotional instability”. But, she had shown no previous inclination to get back at her in anyway.
Most recently, when her husband had left her and taken their daughter with him, she’d been upset, but had recovered and actually established a cordial, platonic relationship with him. Ray suspected her request might be very unusual, as Joey Battagia had suggested.
She appeared to sense his general train of thought. “Well, I doubt sharing a taste in food is going to help you decide whether to take me on as a client or not, but it’s going to make an uncomfortable evening a little less unpleasant. Please let me know when you’re ready to discuss details. I’ll openly tell you anything I can about my request.”
“Alright,” he responded quietly, as the waitress was returning with her mineral water. “I’d prefer to discuss it during our main course, since that is when we should be left alone for the longest period of time.” He watched Kelly as she thanked the waitress and sipped her mineral water. He pondered Joey Battagia’s assessment that she was a legitimate client. He found himself growing more curious and looked forward to finding out what Kelly’s request would be.
Finally, with salad and pasta consumed, the meat dishes on the table, and two glasses of excellent Merlot enjoyed, Ray stated, “I think we can talk about this now.” He knew Kelly was much more relaxed now, though having dinner with him still had her on edge. Nonetheless, in her current, relatively comfortable mood, she would be more likely to be open and tell him all the details he needed to know to do the job.
“Alright,” Kelly started hesitantly and glanced backward at the rest of the restaurant’s customers, none of which were seated nearby. “I have a rather strange request. I need to take out a contract on myself.” She looked at him to get his reaction, unsure if he’d heard when he seemed unperturbed by the statement.
He took a bite of meat and chewed thoughtfully. He was surprised, not at the request, but at the fact that Joey had thought it unusual. He’d helped in several insurance scams where the client was in financial or legal trouble, and the only source of money was an insurance policy. Ray considered, trying to remember who the recipient of the insurance policy would be. Probably the daughter, though she was still young and an unlikely accomplice.
“This isn’t really a very strange request, “ he started, watching her own response, “In fact, I’ve arranged for the bogus deaths of many people. However, it’s a very complicated issue. Since we may need another body, there will be at least one other person involved, and insurance companies are quite cautious these days...”
He stopped as she shook her head several times, providing him a small, embarrassed smile. He asked, “It isn’t an insurance scam? Well, surely you don’t REALLY want to pay me to kill you.” He stopped again when she nodded. He wondered, was she some kind of suicidal coward who couldn’t bring herself to put a gun in her mouth or sleeping pills down her throat? It didn’t fit.
“Okay.” She stopped him from asking anymore questions. “I’ll explain it to you. If you’ve done so much research on me, you know that both my parents are dead, and in 1993 I had to become guardian for my two paternal grandparents, who died within a year.” He remembered this from the files, but now he wished he’d paid more attention to that period in her life.
“I know that you put them in a care home and that within a year, they had both died. Even before their deaths, you had been appointed Guardian and had to manage their estates. Within another year after they died, you had lost your clearances in the Air Force, ending your career, apparently due to something related to your strong feelings about losing your grandparents.” He started to make a connection, but she spoke before he could ask any questions.
“They had both suffered from senile dementia. My Grandmother also had some degree of Alsheimer’s. They were unable to take care of themselves because their mental capabilities had failed them. Because of my military career, it made it virtually impossible for me to take them in and care for them. My sister wasn't financially able to do it, either.”
She continued, explaining everything, including how she’d felt every time she realized she would most likely end up in the same condition one day.
“How can you be so sure that you’ll suffer from senile dementia?” He asked after listening carefully to the whole story. He had more important questions, but this one had to be asked first. He was completely unsure of his ability to handle this client. Even if she really wanted something like this done, he was sure another method of ensuring her death would be both more assured and more affordable.
“I can't tell you how I'm sure, just that I am sure. Both of my father's parents suffered from it. Other relatives on my father's side suffered from it. My mother was adopted, but there was a rumor of parental mental problems causing her to be an orphan. She never wanted to look into it because she was afraid of what she might find out." She cleared her throat. Her throat was tightening, as it always did when discussing her mother.
Sipping her wine, Kelly managed to continue. "My parents died too young to be sure, but both deaths were health related, one from an addiction to alcohol. My older sister died from an addiction to both drugs and alcohol. Some of the doctors I’ve talked to believe that this tendency toward addiction may be related to later mental weaknesses.” She looked miserable and she’d lost her confident manner. Her meal was left half-finished and cold on her plate. “I feel as if I’m on a roller coaster that I know will fail on the sharpest turn on the one millionth cycle. I'm not sure what cycle I'm on now, but that roller coaster will fail and I won't be able to stop it. The worst part is that I can’t get off before the failure happens."
She looked down at her plate, seeing something other than the veal. When she looked up again, her eyes were bright with emotion. "I like to be in control of my life. Despite being religious and believing I should accept what God gives me in this life, I don’t want to accept this for my family. I’ll be unaware at the time of what I’m doing to them, and they’ll forget the way I was before. Before they have to feed and change me and bathe me or argue with me about eating enough to live.” Despite living with these emotions for years, now, Kelly still choked up as she talked to Ray. "I have to tell you that I love life. I don't want to kill myself now in order to keep this from happening. I enjoy my life too much, even though my life hasn't been the greatest over the past few years." She paused for a breath, "I know that suicide would make an irreversible impact on my daughter, who's already been through too much because of what I've done so far. I know how she'd feel." Kelly paused to see if he were still listening, and saw that he was waiting for her to continue. "She'd feel responsible; whether it's right or not, she'd feel responsible. I couldn't do that to my girl."
After she’d had a long drink of water and paused to breathe slowly, she explained further. “I also don't want all money and property that I've tried to build up for my family to go to some care facility or the state. My grandparents always loved the fact that they'd be able to leave behind something for their grandchildren. But, when they had to be put in the care facility, most of their estate went to pay for their bills. Bills for drugs and treatment that neither of them would have wanted. If I lose the ability to think for myself, I don't want to be taken care of. I don't want to be a burden, and I don't want the money I've saved over the years to go to an old folks home." She looked at Ray, composed again. "I can’t prove I'll get senile dementia or Alzheimer's. But, basically what I want to buy is insurance against the possibility that I will.”
“Death Insurance.” He stated.
She looked at his eyes and saw the understanding there. “Yes, that’s right. Death insurance.” She breathed a sigh that showed how relieved she was that Ray, a professional, understood her and that he was obviously giving her suggestion consideration.
But Ray had more questions before he'd take this suggestion seriously. “Isn't there some sort of real insurance program you could get to pay for possible hospitalization? Or, have you checked with Dr. Kevorkian, or someone like him? It sounds more like something that he could handle.” As she calmly told him how none of the things he brought up would work for her, Ray felt an emotion which he never experienced. He felt anxious. He was moved by what this woman wanted, but he felt he was in no position to help her. Moreover, he wasn’t in the right profession to be emotional. He would convince her to try something else.
Ray was going to suggest some other possible solutions when he recognized the source of his agitation. He felt powerless; powerless because it was obvious that the job was not for him. He should tell her so, then get up, wish her good luck, and leave. But, he wouldn’t do that. He didn’t want to admit it, but this woman had gotten to him. Ray had divorced himself from the ordinary world for many years, never allowing emotions to cloud his judgement. Now, he was unsure how to progress. He didn’t want to kill this woman, but he didn't want to tell her "No!"
Ray sat back. He looked at her serious face and considered his alternatives.
"I'm not going to say yes or no at this point. I wasn't prepared for this type of request and I may need to look into it further. However, I realize that you have specific details in mind which would help this work, so let's discuss those." Ray's voice was strictly business-like and remote. Kelly noticed the difference, and she also moved into a more professional frame of mind. She started to explain her plan.
They went over the details of her proposal, which included semi-annual letters from her to a P.O. Box. In these letters, she would let him know where she was living, plus, provide her phone number and the status of her health. He would phone her within a month and confirm that he had received the letter and that he was still able to carry out the contract when necessary. When he failed to receive a letter when expected, he was to seek her out and determine if she were suffering from a mental or physical disorder which would drain her family, both financially and emotionally. If so, he was to effect her death. He was to make the death appear to be natural, to minimize the concern to her family.
Kelly explained that she would pay him half the contract fee if and when he agreed to take on the contract. Then, she would ensure that her will included a clause which would have a key to a safe deposit box sent to the P.O. Box where she'd been sending the letters. In the safe deposit box, he would find the second half of the contract fee.
"Will you increase the second half of the fee over the years? I'm sure you don’t expect this to happen soon." Ray asked.
"Yes. I thought I'd increase it annually, based on inflation." Kelly replied. "However, if you think that's not fair, please tell me. Or, if along the way your services become more costly, let me know in the semi-annual phone call."
"Alright. How do I know there really will be a safe deposit box with the second half of the fee?"
Kelly looked at him, "The same way I know that you'll perform your part of the job even though I won't be mentally competent to enforce the contract." Kelly wondered if she should make a joke, saying that he could kill her if she didn't pay him the money.
She wasn't sure how he'd take that poor attempt at humor, when he said, "I suppose I could dig you up, and put a bullet in your skull." His half smile encouraged her and she laughed. She was relieved that he said nothing further. She realized that he could threaten to hurt a member of her family if the second half of the payment was too small, or didn't even materialize. Looking at Ray as he thought about her proposal, she felt that he trusted her to carry out her part of the contract.
Ray considered the details of this obscure, yet plausible idea. He suggested a few minor modifications, which Kelly accepted readily, almost eagerly. He considered it some more.
"I can't tell you yes or no, yet. I'll contact Joey with my answer in a couple days." He paused, startled by her smile. She seemed so happy that he was considering her proposal, yet she was far from suicidal. He considered that her obsession may actually fade over the following years. If so, he would have half the agreed money without taking any risk. Even as he contemplated that possibility, he could see from the anticipation in her eyes, that she was unlikely to be dissuaded from her course. If he didn't agree to do it, someone else would. Another contract killer may decide to just make off with the money and never carry out the contract. Ray realized why Joey had referred her to him. She had asked for a killer could be trusted to carry out the contract as agreed. Joey knew that Ray would never break a contract.
They left the restaurant together, walked a block and then separated. He told her, "I may have to discuss some more changes to the details that would prove too complicated if we use Joey as an intermediary. I may have to have him contact you with another time to meet with me. Would that be alright?" His voice was still neutral, and even more remote.
Kelly turned to him and said, "If we have to meet again, I think that would be alright." She was not able to keep emotion out of her voice. "Thank you for even considering this." She turned and walked toward a bus stop. She pulled her umbrella open again, though the faint mist had felt refreshing when they'd stepped from the restaurant. She was starting to tremble, though whether from a chill or from emotion, she wasn't sure.
As he turned to walk the mile to where he'd parked his car, Ray realized that he had spent an evening socializing with someone he may have to kill in the future. Ray pushed the thought out of his mind, but his thoughts involuntarily turned to a night he’d vowed to never get close to one of his victims again.

Prologue - Ray's Final Visit

A soft sound. A movement with barely more noise than the closing of an eyelid stirred the old woman. Her first impression was of stark, bright, white that hurt her eyes. A hospital bed - no, the smells confirmed it wasn't a hospital, but a "home". A home for old people whose lives were no longer their own.
She realized, with the first clear thoughts she'd had for sometime, that this wasn't a new place. The smells and bright white were not new; in fact they were familiar. Her understanding of them was new.
Another sound drew her eyes to a man, a man in dark clothes, standing at the end of her bed. He wore an old fashioned hat, what she had always considered a gangster's hat. He wore it low over his brow so the light, as bright as it was, didn't fall on his eyes.
His mouth was grimly set in a determined scowl. The wrinkles around his mouth were even deeper than her own. It was a familiar mouth that she once thought she'd dread seeing even as she welcomed it. It was Ray's mouth.
As Ray stood at the end her bed for the second time in their lives, she was certain that this time he was ready to finally complete their contract. Her certainty made the elderly woman think back to why she’d planned for Ray to come and end her life.
As often had been the case lately, Kelly’s memories of years past were the only clear thoughts she had. Unfortunately, even her memories had become increasingly filled with haze and doubtful recollections. She now knew that she’d been right about her decision, all her detractors had been wrong.
While Kelly watched Ray and thought back to the events of her life that had delivered her to this juncture, Ray watched her and contemplated the events in his own life that had drawn him to this woman in this room at this time.

Please be sure to read the blog entries below (Chapters 1, 2 and 3) before you read this one.

Chapter 4 – Vicki Beside Me

I told the funeral director that I wanted Vicki to be cremated, something I had already told my policeman friend. He said he would be able to make the arrangements and it could be done as early as tomorrow. I would be able to pick up the remains in Omaha, and he gave me a sheet with directions.

As I signed a check in payment for services rendered, I wondered how he had squelched his desire to try to sell me more services. Then, as if on cue, he asked if I’d like to choose from among his wide range of cremation urns. I looked at him with weary eyes and thanked him, but said no. I knew from the experience of my father and mother that I would be able to find a more acceptable container in Albuquerque. My family loved the Southwest, so it had to be an urn, or covered pot, that spoke of the southwest. Besides, Vicki’s ashes would not be held for eternity in a bit of pottery. I knew, and my sisters had agreed, that she would want to have her ashes spread somewhere significant. We just had to agree on the right place.

With directions provided by the Police Chief, I drove to the home that Vicki had hoped would house her salvation. I was struck by the absolutely straight roads and 90 degree intersections out in the middle of the farm land. Trees grew abundantly around old farmhouses, but seemed to be pushed back by farm lands in between.

I found the old farm house and pulled into the dirt driveway. A beat up truck and a really beat up sedan were there already. I didn’t expect to spend much time here, but I needed to meet the men that had allowed Vicki to die. I expected to be angry with them, but I wasn’t one to show anger quickly to strangers.

A tall, blond, good-looking man stepped out of the side doorway. He was wearing a complete coverall uniform that reeked of cattle dung and urine. He called, “Sorry, but I’ve got to clean-up. Use the front door and Jim will meet you inside.”

Over the next several hours anger never showed its ugly face. I discovered that the blond had “escaped” from Albuquerque a couple years before, trying to run away from the environment that had facilitated his heroin addiction. Through relative isolation, hard work at a cattle feeding operation where he collected the waste of the cattle - a resource as valuable as the meat the cattle were raised for - and nightly doses of beer, he had managed to keep away from drugs. He admitted he was still an addict, and was afraid of returning to that life, so he worked extra hard in order to exhaust himself daily.

Jim, the boyfriend, explained that Vicki had been drinking Vodka heavily the night she died since they didn’t have enough methadone to help both of them. I understood that they were taking turns in using the methadone, and it had been Vicki’s turn to do without. She had gone to bed drunkenly late that night while Jim and the blond watched television and drank beer. The two men had heard a thump in the bedroom and Jim went to see if Vicki was alright. He saw that she’d fallen on the floor so pulled the covers off the bed and lay down beside her, covering her up and trying to keep her warm. When he woke up, she was ice cold and stiff. He realized she was gone and was tormented with the thought that if he’d taken her to the hospital when she’d fallen, she might still be alive.

The stories grew more irrelevant and more maudlin as the two men drank beer after beer. They had leftover pizza for dinner and I ate a few bites.

When I could, I broke away, saying goodbye. I’d see Jim again in Albuquerque.

Driving back to the motel, hoping I hadn’t made a wrong turn on one of the roads that looked like all the rest, I drove in the dark feeling empty and discouraged. At one point (I know it sounds absurd, but it’s a fact), I felt, and could almost see, Vicki’s ghost next to me. I put it down to being tired and strung-out, but it seemed very real. Instead of being afraid, I felt comforted by Vicki’s presence there and she seemed happy that I felt that way. It lasted for several minutes. A car came toward me with its bright lights on and I flashed my lights to stop it from blinding me. Once the car had passed, I no longer felt Vicki’s presence next to me, but the feeling of comfort was still there.

The next day, I got lost several times in Omaha trying to find the crematorium. At one point I was frantic that I would miss my flight out that afternoon, but I finally saw the crematorium’s name on a sign under an overpass. I managed to eventually find the right exit to reach the place and saw an industrial style building and I realized that I’d been expecting something like a funeral home.

As I entered the front door, I saw that the front area had been made into a somewhat comfortable waiting area with several cushioned seats. I gave the receptionist my name, and my sister’s name. She picked up the phone and spoke to someone and then turned to me, explaining that it would be about half and hour. When she saw the surprise in my face, she told me that my sister’s body had not arrived on schedule. I sat down, wondering if I’d passed the car holding Vicki’s body on the roads as I drove lost around Omaha.

I started to worry about missing my flight, and then I calmed down. I didn’t care if I missed my flight. It wasn’t important.

In the 25 minutes I sat there, a few people came and went. I saw one young man in a suit walk out with an elaborate urn under his arm. He had been flirting with the receptionist and I realized he probably worked for a funeral home and wasn’t emotionally associated with the person whose remains he was picking up.

As I watched him get into a limousine in the parking lot, I heard the receptionist say my name. I looked at her in surprise and noticed a plain brown box in front of her. It took a minute for me to understand that this box was what held Vicki’s ashes. For a moment, I was dumbfounded and then I mentally slapped myself in the face. What had I expected? I hadn’t ordered an urn or anything else. This was it.

I stepped up to the desk and asked if I owed anything. The receptionist shook her head and said I’d already paid through the funeral home. I hesitated to reach out for the box. The receptionist picked it up and handed it to me. I had no choice.

I reached out and took the box from her. Again I was shocked, but this time it was because the box was very warm. The overwhelming reality of what I held in my hands brought rapid tears to my eyes. I choked out “Thank you,” and walked out of the building.

At the car, I became confused about what I should do. Should I put her in my suitcase and let Vicki ride in my luggage? Or should I put her in my backpack and know she was there at my feet throughout the flight? I almost walked back in to the receptionist to ask her advice and then realized how stupid the question would sound.

Suddenly, a feeling of serenity came over me and I put the box in my backpack. As I got in the car, I put the backpack in my passenger seat. Vicki would once again ride next to me, bringing me comfort.

As I now hold the photo of the two of us in my hand, it feels warm like the box which held her ashes. We did have fun together. We were sisters. We will always have that.

Please be sure to read the blog entries below (Chapter 1 and 2) before you read this one.

Chapter 3 – Old enough to know better

Years later, when I was in the Air Force and visiting home, Vicki drove up to our mother’s house in her pick-up truck. The windshield on the truck was not the right size, and it was duct-taped to the window frame. The driver’s side door was the wrong color, and two bullet holes pierced the center of it. However, the other door was completely missing. Other dents and scrapes showed that her driving was as erratic as her behavior.

This was after my mother had finally left my father. Left. Hmmm. She had never left him completely. She had checked on him every day and bought him groceries; since he had never shopped for groceries in the many years they’d been married, she was afraid he would buy all the wrong things.

What he did do was drink himself to death. Just over a year after my mother had escaped his daily abuses, he died of liver failure. The description of his actual death is much worse than the sound of the words “liver failure.” When my brother-in-law discovered my father, he had been vomiting so much blood that it was all over his bedroom and bathroom, even on the walls. When Wes had come upon him, my father was still alive, but not for long. I was in Denver, Colorado, but I didn’t get back in time to see him before he died.

None of us siblings were overly tormented with our father’s death, though we were all saddened and wished it could have been different. Vicki, who really was most like our father in her addictions and her instant temper, seemed most perturbed, but she rarely talked about it. The visit to Albuquerque, where I saw the sad state of her truck, was a few years after our father died, and we rarely mentioned him.

“That’s quite a truck you’ve got there, isn’t it?” I needled Vicki as she came up the walk.

She actually gave a proud smile and said, “That took a lot of work to get that truck just right.” Her speech was too quick and she stuttered a little. She was on speed. Great. She looked at me, her eyes squinting as if trying to make sure I wasn’t making fun of her. “At least people don’t hassle me on the streets. They know I don’t care if I bash it up some more.” She gave a forced laugh and pushed past me into the house.

I felt a tremor going through me. All my life I’d looked up to my sister and known she had some special gifts. Her artwork was inspired, though she could never get herself together to work on it in a way to earn money. She was highly intelligent, even if she had failed to use her intelligence in any constructive ways. She was my older sister, and I had carried to that moment the belief that she would overcome her addictions through pure strength and will-power. In that brief moment when she pushed past me and rushed into the house in her altered state, I had a vision of her sharing our father’s fate. She would die of her addictions. Was it really too late to do anything?

It was a warm summer day in Albuquerque. A gentle breeze blew and shook the leaves in the large oak tree in my mother’s front yard. The breeze chilled the sweat that my worries had engendered. I was scared for Vicki, and I was still too much of a little sister, a little girl, to believe I could do anything about it.

I tried to talk to her during my visit, but she was uninterested. Plus, I had old friends to see and places to visit to reminisce. I had just broken up with a man I’d spent a year and a half with and had thought I was going to marry, and I had my own emotional issues to deal with during that visit. Because of my own, selfish concerns, I didn’t force a heart-to-heart with Vicki, allowing myself to believe it would yield nothing. I returned to my job and life in England and rarely thought about what I should have done that visit.

Several years after that, our mother died, apparently of a heart attack. We girls came together during that time and felt closer than we had in many years, perhaps closer than we ever had been. We shared memories we had of our mother, and I think we were all startled to remember some good times that we’d had together. Those weren’t the times that come to mind first, except when we need them to help mend our wounds.

The wound of our mother’s death was huge for all of us. She had given her love selflessly. We had not always returned it that way, but she always knew our separate loves for her were strong. We tried not to remember the times we’d given our mother pain, but they came to our minds unhindered. Vicki, whose frenetic life had caused our mother the most pain, felt her transgressions most deeply, and escaped them in her usual way, with drugs. Again, though I did try to talk to her, Vicki’s easy dismissals of my concern were enough to make me stop. I thought I’d have enough time in later years to talk to her and help her. Once we all recovered from our mother’s death, there would be time.

Time is not often our friend. It’s slippery and won’t let us hold onto the moments we want most to hold. It slipped so quickly from my grasp that it was more than two years before I realized my tragic mistake of not confronting my sister and forcing her to take some help.

As the policeman introduced himself over the phone, my thoughts instantly turned to Vicki. I’m not sure why, but it’s probably because my husband and my daughter were safe at home with me, and Vicki was the next one in line to worry about. Our Mother and Father were dead, and Vicki was the oldest sibling. Plus, she had had more confrontations with the police than the rest of us put together. He mentioned some town in Nebraska that I’d never heard about. Who would be in Nebraska?

“Are you the sister of Victoria Sporleder, also known as Victoria Pobst?” My stomach turned to icy liquid and I answered that, yes, I was. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Are you aware that your sister had drug and alcohol addictions?”

“Yes.” I wanted to say more, or ask questions, but only the one word would come out. I sat down.

“Well, last night it appears that your sister died of alcohol poisoning.” No, no. It wasn’t really true. Alcohol? Never.

“We need your permission as next of kin to perform an autopsy to determine the actual cause of death.” Next of kin? Oh, my God. I was going to have to call Julie and Debby. I wiped my face and only then realized that tears streamed down my face.

“Autopsy? What happened? Why was Vicki in Nebraska?” The words came out in a stream. I shut my mouth so he’d be able to answer at least one of the questions.
Over the next few minutes I discovered that Vicki had gone to this tiny farm town in Nebraska to stay with a friend of hers from Albuquerque. This friend had left Albuquerque in a desperate attempt to get over his heroin addiction. He had succeeded. So, Vicki and her boyfriend had gone to stay with him to get over their own heroin addictions.

Heroin. Just the sound of the word now makes me sick. Vicki hated getting shots when she was growing up. I’d always believed she would never be able to stick a needle into herself willingly. I was so naïve about drug addictions. Despite seeing Vicki stoned most of her adult life, I never thought she’d get into heroin. How stupid could I have been?

To make it worse, it turned out that her “boyfriend” was the one who had turned her on to heroin in the first place. They’d fallen hard and made the trip to see their old heroin needle-sharing buddy who’d been able to escape their world and quit.

The next day, I flew in from California and landed at the airport in Omaha. I rented a car. I’d brought our Rand McNally Road Atlas from home and had already figured out how to get to the tiny town where my older sister was undergoing an autopsy. My world seemed to be all out of kilter. The drive was easy with few cars on the road. While I drove, I noticed the countryside and I tried to concentrate on it to stop my thoughts from running amuck. Every few miles or so there was a huge cattle feeding lot. I was used to the open ranges of the west and was surprised at all these feedlots with cattle all crammed in together.

When I got into town, I grabbed a room at an inexpensive looking motel and threw my bag into the room. I called the police station and asked for the policeman who had called me the night before. I came to realize he was the captain or chief of police. He gave me directions to the station and I drove there to meet him.

The town was a lovely country town, with wide “downtown” streets and a church on a grass covered hill that overlooked the main town. I was numb to the pleasant appearance of this small town that I had never expected to see.

I found the Police Station and had no trouble parking nearby. I walked in. I had dressed in what I’d meant to be professional looking clothes, to show the policemen that my family were not drug abusers and did not die of alcohol poisoning in anonymous small towns. But my clothes were rumpled as was my face as I shook hands with the kind-looking man whose job too often included giving bad news to friends and strangers.

He told me the autopsy had confirmed alcohol poisoning. He said that, though the boyfriend was a little strange, he didn’t suspect foul play. Their friend was a good, hard-working member of the local community.

“Why alcohol poisoning?” I forced the words out. “If they were addicted to heroin, why did she die of alcohol poisoning?” I thought afterwards that it sounded as if I’d rathered that Vicki had died of a heroin overdose.

He understood my confusion. “Apparently one of them was officially in a heroin addiction program. So they had brought methadone with them from Albuquerque to help fight their cravings for heroin. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough methadone for both of them, so they had to use whatever they could to take an edge off. The only thing available here was alcohol.”

Oh, God. Poor Vicki. What she must have been going through.

We walked to the funeral home and he held the door open for me. The funeral director greeted us and I tried to keep the word ‘undertaker” out of my head. After some unnecessary pleasantries, he led me to a long, low room. The viewing room. At the far end of the dark, dank room was a coffin with what was supposed to be my sister in it. I held back for a second and the two men left me alone in the room. I walked slowly to where the body lay. Dead bodies never look good, and no great pains had been taken to make Vicki look better.

She had obviously gained weight while she was attempting her escape from heroin addiction, and the usual relaxation of facial muscles in death made her face look wide, flat and empty. Her dark hair was still long, and they’d tried to brush it out, but it had been a long time since her hair had been cut well, and it seemed straggly despite their brief efforts. She almost seemed like the witch that she had wanted to be in her youth. But that wasn’t right either.

This was the body that had held Vicki prisoner with its addictions. This wasn’t Vicki at all. She had been held prisoner in this body with its frailties and desires. With this body’s death, Vicki was at last free. I mourned for my sister who had been searching for something important and had taken all the wrong paths. I didn’t mourn for the sister who had died the day before, though I grieved that she had suffered.

With a kiss on her cold, hard forehead, I wished her goodbye and said a prayer that God would have been able to see the real Vicki and had spared her eternal soul. Since he is so much wiser than I, he must have been able to see her goodness, when I had missed it for so long.