Sycamore Hill

I had no idea what to do, where to go or even, what exactly, was going on. I drove randomly for an hour or so, skirting the smaller communities around the lake, taking care to avoid spending too much time in one area. My leg hurt badly, I had a terrible headache and I couldn't seem to think clearly. I immersed in a thick fog of confusion and my sense of panic wasn't helping me to sort things out. In retrospect, calling the police and reporting the incident seems like the obvious move, but in the moment I was unsure of anything, let alone if or how the police would react if I reported the incident.

Driven by fear and by instinct I started to make my way toward home before it occurred to me that this would be the first place shave-head would look. I decided I needed to go somewhere safe, but someplace relatively unexpected, so I began indirectly making my way back to the one person in the area I thought I could trust.

It was nearly 10 o'clock when I found myself standing outside of Virgil's apartment, hesitantly reaching up to knock on his door. He answered it with an air of annoyance that abruptly turned to surprise and then concern as he noted my condition; bloody leg, torn clothes, babbling semi-coherently about guns and cheating wives and a rich, dead man.

Virgil quickly pulled me inside and cleared his debris covered couch, throwing armfuls of clothes and pizza boxes onto the floor and ordered me to lie down, take off my pants and shut up for a few minutes. He momentarily disappeared into his bathroom and returned with a brown bottle which he uncapped and then proceeded to pour the contents over my leg wound. The pain was sudden, deep and electric and my response was to jerk my leg away and yell at Virgil.

"What the hell is that? What are you doing?"

Virgil looked a little annoyed, shrugged his shoulders and replied. "It's peroxide man. The cut looks bad and I figured we'd better clean it up some. It's either this or some Vodka I have in the kitchen. I thought this seemed like the better choice."

I grunted in agreement but reached out and grabbed the peroxide and proceeded to drizzle it over my leg. Virgil left for the kitchen and came back with a clean towel and some duct tape. I looked at him quizzically.

"Bandage." He said flatly, answering my unspoken question and kneeling by my leg. He folded the towel up, pressed it against the wound and firmly duct taped it to my leg.

"Ok, that should hold for a while. Now, put your pants back on before I get too creeped out. I'll get you something to drink."

I painfully pulled my pants back on and Virgil returned from the kitchen with a couple of beers. He shoved one into my hand and fell onto the couch next to me.

We sat there silently for a few minutes sipping our beers and starring at the trash on the floor until Virgil finally cleared his throat and turned to me.

"So, can you tell me what the hell happened to you without sounding like some sort of a coked up auctioneer?"

I smiled grimly and proceeded to describe to him, as carefully and as controlled as possible, about the strange experience I'd had that night. He listened intently and his expression changed from interest to concern to borderline disbelief as I recounted the events at Sycamore Hill. After I was done, he shook his head as he considered the story.

"You call the police?"

"No."

"Why not? You busted in on a murder. You ought to get the police involved, for your own safety if nothing else."

"I...I just want to think about what to do for a while. I swear to God it with the way they were waiting for me there, Lara talking on the phone, the shaved headed dude firing at me, it was some sort of a setup and I don't know if the police are already after me. And...I just don't get it. If she was having an affair with John Williamson, why have him killed and set me up? It...it just doesn't make sense to me. I want to understand what the hell is going on. I need information. Something...to...try and figure this out."

Virgil pursed his lips and looked at me, evidently weighing whether he should say what was on his mind.

"Are you sure she was having an affair with Williamson? Positive?"

I was incredulous that he'd even ask the question. "Well, shit Virgil. You saw the e-mails. I told you about how she was acting at the fucking party. And...and she admitted it when she left. I mean she threw it right in my face, called me a wimp and announced she was going to him. How the fuck much surer can I be?"

Virgil answered in a calm, measured tone. "Well, from where I sit, she made it pretty easy for you to think she was with Williamson and, honestly, knowing your history, the way she taunted you today was like...like the perfect bait to make you chase her down."

I swallowed hard as I considered what he'd said and pressed my eyes closed in an effort to concentrate against a growing headache.

"Shit Virgil, maybe...maybe she's in with somebody else. Maybe that shaved headed guy. Fuck, I don't even know if I'm playing a game, let alone who I might be playing against. I mean, if you're right, then we have to find out all over again who she's fucking."

"Kevin...let me ask you something." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand nervously while I opened my hands in a gesture to proceed.

"Did you and Lara do some...uh...kinky stuff from time to time?"

The question had come out of nowhere and I couldn't see the relevance.

"What? What's that got to do with what's going on?"

"Humor me for a minute. Anything kinky games at all?"

"Like what Virgil? I mean we've tried a few things like most couples but nothing I'd really consider...kinky. "

"Like...like...well, you know about amateur porn sites right? Couples that like to tape themselves and post it on the net?"

"Sure."

"Well?"

"Huh? Wait, no we don't do that at all, I mean...what? What's this about?"

Virgil rubbed his hands together for a minute and then, in a vaguely reluctant manner wandered to the kitchen table, retrieved Lara's computer and set it on a box in front of the couch. He opened it up and pounded out a few keystrokes before turning it to me.

"Here. Take a look at this video while I...uh...use the bathroom... for a while. Let me know what you think when I get back."

Virgil shuffled out of the room without looking back and loudly shut the bathroom door behind him, signaling that I was alone.

I started the video and within moments felt a sickening lump form in my gut. I'd seen porn before, pictures, videos of all kinds, couples, lesbians, single girls, the whole gamut that most every guy in America indulges in from time to time. But I'd never seen porn that included my wife and I'd certainly never seen myself and I never dreamed that the night she offered me her ass we were being filmed.

I watched with increasing horror as she spread the lube on her ass, as I hesitantly stepped forward and eventually witness my penetration of her ass. I watched for a couple of minutes or less before the pain, revulsion and embarrassment become too much, and shut it down, pinching my eyes shut as if I could extirpate the vision through simple physical effort.

After a while, Virgil made his way back out and sat quietly on the floor by the computer. I could barely look him in the eye.

"Uh...let me explain. She...she...oh God this is so fucking weird..."

"You didn't know you were being filmed at all?"

"Hell no. At the time I wasn't even sure it wasn't some sort of a trap to see if I'd respect her or something. It was completely out of character for her to ask for it and the idea that she'd arranged to have it filmed..." My head was starting to hurt so badly, it felt like the pressure would push my eyes out, I closed them and pushed the heels of my hands into my sockets as hard as I could and slowly spoke to Virgil through the darkness.

"How is this even related to the shit-storm I walked into tonight?"

"It may not be, but...listen, we're looking for someone that might behind this whole thing, someone that got Lara involved, because it doesn't make sense she put this all together herself, right?"

I nodded to him in agreement and he continued. "So, this video... it was attached to an e-mail thread between Lara and some guy that kept asking if she'd gotten it done, like he was daring her or forcing her to do it, and the video was like some sort of proof that she'd gone through with it. I have to wonder if he was, I don't know, maybe checking to see how far she'd go for him."

"What? Why would some guy want to force her to have ass-sex with her husband? That doesn't make any sense. None of this does."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure it has to make sense at this point, but at least it gives us somewhere to start looking to see who is pulling the strings and why."

Virgil turned to the computer and started banging through some keys. "Hold on, let me get this one e-mail and read it." In less than a minute I saw him raise his eyebrows in recognition. "Ok...here it is...just listen to this, it's from this mystery dude."

He began reading the e-mail in a loud, authoritarian voice, taking on the tone of the message itself.

"Lara, you know me well enough that if you don't do what I say, I will end our relationship. If I can't trust you to do something simple, how can I trust you with my love? How can I trust you to carry out our plans so that we can be together? I'm taking a huge risk for us. You need to show me that you have what it takes and I need to show you what kind of man your husband really is."

He looked over to me and raised his eyebrows, gauging my reaction, which was undoubtedly one of confusion and disgust. I nodded my head weakly.

"OK." Virgil continued. "So Lara answers with an e-mail that she got it done and that she sees the light and was ready to do whatever she was asked."

My head was still spinning in confusion when I mumbled out a question asking if Virgil had any idea who was pulling Lara's strings.

He licked his lips and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in back of his head. "Some guy named Danny." He said flatly. "You or Lara know a guy of that name that might have a reason to want Williamson dead?"

Virgil's question struck me like an icepick to the chest and, suddenly, in my mind's eye, I could see a seemingly distraught, gorgeous blond woman with perfect skin and a knockout body crying her eyes out as she gave me the directions to her husband's death scene.

"Yeah. I do. Only, Danny isn't a guy."

Combing through the e-mails felt like sitting in the middle of some kind of intervention in which the uncaring participants goal was to get you to see that you are a naïve asshole that everyone hates.

The plot to knock off John Williamson was never directly discussed, but occasionally alluded to and I was discussed in varying, rather derogatory terms, including 'the oaf', 'the prick', and 'the patsy'. The last term made it clear to me what my role in the Williamson murder was meant to be and it occurred to both Virgil and me that it was time to contact the police.

"Should we call?" Virgil asked.

"No, I want to get out of here. Let's just go to the station and bring the laptop. I don't want any misunderstandings. Let's take your car, I don't feel like driving right now."

I picked up the laptop and started limping toward the door, Virgil grabbed his keys and we left the apartment and rounded a corner on the outside walkway to take the stairs down to the parking lot.

As I passed a small alcove opening to some apartment doors, I heard a brief shuffle and then a very distinctive click and turned to find myself looking down the barrel of a gun, held steadily at my head by the shave-headed thug from Sycamore Hill.

"Don't move asshole, don't move at all. One little twitch from you or your friend and I'll blow your head off." His voice was thick and deep with a hint of some sort of an east coast accent. From behind me I could hear Virgil starting to hyperventilate, mumbling out a choked cry.

"Oh God, oh shit..."

Shave-head smiled grimly. "Now, I want you to slowly bend down and lay the laptop on the ground and slide it to me."

There was no advantage in disobeying, so I did as he said, as slowly and carefully as possible. Shave-head made no move to pick it up, but rather pushed it against the wall with the side of his foot.

"OK. Now, I want your car keys."

At this point, I thought I'd play for time and started to shake my head as if to say I didn't have them on me.

Shave-head flared his nostrils and spoke to me through gritted teeth in a clear, malevolent voice. "Fucking give them to me now, because if you don't, one of two things are going to happen. I'll shoot you for the hell of it right away or I'll search you, find them and then shoot you for the hell of it."

I nodded, shrugged my shoulders in capitulation and slowly retrieved the keys from my front pocket to dangle them by two fingers in front of Shave-head. He reached forward and I quickly tossed them over his head, distracting him as I threw myself over the railing to the alley below and felt an electric shock run through my ankle and already injured thigh as I landed.

Ignoring the pain, I made my way to the edge of the building, turned the corner and staggered down an alleyway that was partially blocked by a large, jet black, limousine, the motor still running and one of the passenger doors open.

Leaning against the trunk, still wearing the French braids and clad in the sundress, was the small, seemingly inconsequential figure of Danielle Williamson, holding some sort of a baton in her right hand, her face a mixture of exasperation and surprise. She stood and took a step toward me, raising the baton in front of her, holding it like it was some sort of a sword, but I kept stumbling onward, thinking that even with a hurt ankle and a throbbing thigh, she couldn't offer any real resistance.

I was wrong though. As she shoved the baton into my right shoulder, I caught a glimpse of two spikes projecting from the end and then felt an electrical explosion that stopped me in my tracks and then sent me to my knees as she kept it pressed against me. I lost the ability to support myself and fell to the ground, where she continued the shock until I found myself rolling up into the fetal position, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

And then she spoke. But the voice I heard had none of the softness of the woman I'd met at the party or the vulnerability of the crying wife I'd encountered the evening before. Her speech was direct and harsh and sent a chill through my very core.

"Stay the hell down or I'll shock you until you're a fucking zombie."

She called out to the Shave-head and he shouted something back that I didn't understand and a few minutes later appeared with Virgil, literally in tow, his hands bound together with zip ties, clothesline wrapped multiple times around his torso with one end free to act as a sort of leash. She looked at Shave-head and gestured toward me while keeping the stun baton a few inches from my chest. He nodded and opened up a satchel, pulling out some zip ties and a long length of clothesline and proceeded to bind my wrists and truss me up identically to Virgil, all while I tried to suppress m y ever increasing sense of panic.

"What now?"

The voice came from in back of me, soft and unsure, completely familiar but strangely alien at the same time. I turned awkwardly and saw Lara standing in the flickering light of a dying streetlamp. She was an ill-defined silhouette, and it was hard to see her clearly, but I could make out a stun baton, similar to what Danielle carried, in her left hand and a handgun, probably a 9mm in her right. She assiduously avoided looking at me while she waited for an answer, looking only toward Danielle. Our love had clearly died some time ago, but the idea that she was part of some sort of murderous plot with me as the patsy made my insides turn cold.

Quietly, desperately, I called her name and tried to make eye-contact, but Shave-head raised the 38 to my face, told me to shut up and then ordered me to stand. Between my sprained ankle, the thigh laceration and my tied hands I could barely make it to my feet, rising like a drunken bum.

Trevor, the Shave-head, turned to Lara and tossed her the keys, asking if she'd found my car.

"Yea, it's over there." She said, pointing vaguely to the parking lot.

The Shave-head grunted. "Ok, let's go." He said giving Virgil and me a shove in the direction of the car.

We took a couple of steps before Danielle told him to stop. With some annoyance she barked out that the original plans were off because we'd seen her and that we might as well get in the limo for the first half of the ride and have Lara take my car to the meeting place. Trevor gave her a questioning look, but she took a step toward him and mumbled something under her breath about keeping me separate from Lara as much as possible. He nodded and then looked to Lara.

"You know the place?"

"Yea, sure." Her voice sounded unsure, disappointed.

"OK, then. Take his car and we'll meet you there."

She nodded to him, turned and began walking briskly in the direction of my car while Trevor herded Virgil and me into the back seat of the Limo.

The limo was spacious, with plush leather bench seats facing each other across a carpeted open area. Faint running lights partially illuminated the inside of the car. Danielle climbed into the seat facing us, holding the stun baton as well as the 38 that Trevor had been carrying. She trained the gun on us both and strongly insisting we sit still and say nothing. Trevor settled into the driver's seat , briefly glanced into the back to make sure everything was ok and then smoothly guided the car out of the alley and onto the surface streets.

We were heading, north, probably towards either the mansion or Sycamore Hill. Through the limo's running lights and the streetlights that flashed through the windows like a washed out strobe, I tried to take the measure of the other riders. Trevor seemed nervous. His hands gripping and ungripping the wheel as he drove, occasionally let out long, low breaths as if he'd was intermittently holding his breath. Virgil looked like a frightened child, nervously glancing around the car, beads of sweat appearing on his face, too scared to make conversation and too anxious to sit still. I had to wonder if I looked more or less the same. Danielle was oozing confidence and seemed almost bored. She continued to eye us with unconcealed contemptuous amusement, lazily point the gun in our general direction, checking her watch every few minutes.

The fear and uncertainty were generating a sort of nervous energy that made me feel as if my heart was going to explode as well as a kind of paralyzing confusion. But my mind was screaming at me to do something, that my life was hanging by a thread and I was just sitting there watching it tick away.

I decided I had nothing to lose, so I started talk, trying a bluff at first, hoping that I could shake Danielle up. I tried to put some confidence in my voice, but I could hear my own tremulousness when I spoke.

"You know I've called the police. They know what's up so there's no way that whatever you're trying to do here is going to work. "

Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me with angry contempt and I thought for sure she'd tell me to shut up, but then her expression softened to a sort of smug smile before she let out a condescending laugh.

"I rather doubt that Kevin. It's become rather evident over the last few months that you aren't particularly bright, so let me point out some things that should have been obvious to you by now. Your phone has been cloned and we've got a tracer on your car, so we know you haven't called anyone at all and we know exactly where you've been all night. I suppose you could have used Virgil's phone, but I rather doubt that or you wouldn't be turning, what is the phrase from that song? "A whiter shade of pale?"