Chapter 1
December 8, 1989
Oahu, Hawaii.
Alone near the dinner table, Yulie cringed and held her breath
when the ragged screen door banged against its weather-beaten split wood frame.
In silent gloom, her child, Davy, stared into the plate of last night’s canned
tuna over rice. For nine long years, this of all days resurrected the worst
upheaval forced on a living soul. And now, her youngster suffered horrible
nightmares alongside five anguish anniversaries of his disgusting bloodline. He
agonized over terrible dreams of people ripping out his father’s heart with
razor-sharp fingers, and then turning on the lad, chasing him, yelling, “Kill
the son.” Yulie tried consoling her little boy, saying his dreams were
make-believe and only silly nonsense. However, each year the dreams grew
bloodier, forever haunting his mind, and severely changed the way he developed.
He always asked his mother what would people really do to him if they actually
found out who his father was. “They will do nothing,” she assured him, “except
feel sorry for you.”
Davy’s disappointed
gaze on the hot-scooped serving shifted toward Yulie, but only in pity, and
returned to the unappetizing goop. His tightened, crumpled lips spoke louder
than their defeated manner and reached her same conclusion. Both hated
leftovers, but money problems long ago kept them from enjoying more.
She tried to fake a
smile. “Remember, Davy, your father cherished the Beatles as we do.”
His piercing eyes
lifted fast from the plate, bolted onto hers colder than Iceland, but all the
same burned the woman’s flesh like scorching steam. “No. As grandma says, I
wish Father never existed. I wish you’d married a Beatle. Father didn’t cherish
the Beatles, I love the Beatles. I hate Father.” The boy dragged out his table
chair with a rough jerk but refused to sit. “I’m glad he never saw me, Mom, and
I never want to see him or his grave.”
“You’re upset at today,
not at Father.”
“No. Everything wrong
comes from Father.” He scooted his chair back in place and softened his tone.
“I’m not hungry. I’ll wait till breakfast.”
“Expect to fix yourself
a bowl of cold cereal. I’ll use tonight’s dinner and make you a plump tuna with
rice sandwich stored in the fridge for lunch. I have an early shift tomorrow
and can’t upset Ms. Yoshida clocking in late.”
“You shouldn’t let that
rotten woman treat you like she does. It’s evil.”
“I’m sorry you saw
that, but try to overlook her faults; I do.”
“Good night, Mom.”
__________________________
4 Years Later, December 9, 1993.
County Courthouse conference room, Oahu, Hawaii.
“Please have a seat Mrs. Chapman; I appreciate you taking time
from your employment,” said the young doctor.
Her spine stiffened,
upper teeth bit hard against her lower lip and like a shot, both arms folded
tight under her breasts. “Davy’s father is Mr. Chapman, but I’m Ms. Tanaka,
Yulie Tanaka.”
“Oh, my mistake; I
apologize, Ms. Tanaka.” He waited for her to settle into the chair. “Mr. Lundy,
our juvenile corrections director, called me in last night to begin behavior
counseling for your 13-year-old son, Davy.” Her chin tilted south, forcing her
eyes to stare at the ground, which threw an uneasy mood into the room. “Before
meeting the boy, I read through the officer’s incident report, as a head start
to find a method best suitable.” His pause lasted longer than customary.
She raised her head.
“And?”
“His conduct showed
severe bi-polar characteristics, but after hours of psychoanalysis, I can vouch
that his hate stems from an abandonment disorder.”
In shame, the meek
woman accepted a facial tissue. “Yes, Doctor, Mr. Chapman left a solitary
shadow of shame hanging over me and uprooted a rocky wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am
romance. He deserted us during the fourth month of my pregnancy, and the denial
of Davy by his father has multiplied fits of anger streaks to our son.”
“Ms. Yoshida’s screams
saved her bodily harm from the silver hammer Davy possessed during their heated
conflict. Your boy’s public defender seeks a reduced six-month sentence, but I
urge you to reconsider. The needed therapy for personal happiness may succeed
if we’re given a full year and can rehabilitate his hostility. My staff and I
will uncover any clinical disarray and redirect delicate emotions from his
negative thoughts wedged inside his head. Moreover, the process comes free.”
“That’s next to all I
can afford, free, but must he live here for a whole year? Davy hasn’t slept in
another bed besides his own until last night.”
“He must, or our
no-cost treatment disappears, Ms. Tanaka.”
She rose to her feet
while the mangled tissue again wiped her dampen eyes. “I understand.”
“Good. I’ll make Davy’s
arrangements with the public defender this afternoon. Don’t look so worried;
this is a positive thing, and we welcome your visits from two to five p.m. Come
release time, you will see young Davy well-grounded and able to serve society
as opposed to engaging in violent criminal activity.”
“Thank you, Doctor, for
looking after him.”
__________________________
18 Years Later, Late March 2011.
Los Angeles County
To commemorate three decades of service to the Main Headquarters
Library in Ash Lyn, California, appointed as CEO to the entire seven branches
and three bookmobiles 20 years ago, Freda Kelly was ready to clean out her desk
and call it quits.
50-years old, she
seldom strayed from any goal, short or long, and looked forward to her $2,000
per month pension. With over $3,450,000 in reserves, she was ready to ignite
her new dream.
Fewer than five weeks
and the garage sale will include my awful alarm clock, she told herself, and
when the house sells, I’ll launch my patented reading program in Central
America. Ten months ago, Panama’s Department of Education had learned that
Freda’s new course, Getting Better - A Child’s Right to Read, could offer the
equivalent of a day-by-day confidence booster shot to any child four through
fourteen. For the last two years, not a week went by without her e-mail account
filling with hundreds of testimonial triumphs from pre-school, elementary, and
middle-school staff who admired her teachable recipe. Each message brought
complete fulfillment. How these educators located her e-mail, though, remained
unclear. Last August, Panama made a perfect offer suited for her career. Small
group lessons from border to border, conducted Tuesdays through Thursdays, and
when travel exceeded 100 miles from her new residence, the department would
provide an automobile, lodging, and meals.
Unmarried, although
several men pursued her, Freda decided in high school to serve others rather
than devote her best to a husband with baggage, or to juggle a selfish family
who resents giving away her time. Her success as campaign manager to elect
Mayor Dave Chapman soared into shape as if a cakewalk compared to the four long
years designing, planning, and editing her smart software curriculum. Since the
program’s debut, the educated tool became a Godsend to teachers and a gold mine
to its author.
A home in Panama
presented no problems for her thriving DVD business. Freda’s Getting Better web
page directed all inquiries and product purchase dealings through a major
manufacturer in Bombay, India prior to its one-year anniversary in 2010.
The ring from the phone
broke her pleasant-life-abroad daydream, but Freda, conscious of being on duty,
assisted the caller. “Ash Lyn Main Library, Freda speaking.”
“Hello, Freda, I
applaud and salute your 30 unsurpassed performance years to the city. Deeds
proficient by few saved those you inspire to follow your example in leadership
skills, for our future.”
Unsure who this caller
with a hinted Asian accent was, she said, “Why, thank you.”
“I understand you reach
discomfort with idle small talk, so let me disclose the reason for my call. I
need to verify you received the $100,000 grant prearranged by the American
Library Association in Chicago.”
In all her years
collecting donated funds from different reliable authority, never had a soul
requested a verbal record. “We received the deposit Monday. Is anything wrong?”
“Not at all; I wanted
to authenticate its actual arrival and appearance.”
Freda was baffled.
“Authenticate its actual arrival and appearance? Who are you?”
“Call me Pang.”
“Please forgive me, Mr.
Pang, but I . . .”
“Not Mr. Pang,” he
interrupted her. “Just Pang.”
“Alright, Pang, as I
said the money is safe, and I have confirmed it, so if nothing else?”
“One important item, if
you please. I necessitate the account number and its password that secure the
main branch grant fund.”
She channeled a
defensive attitude. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Unless
you cooperate, disturbed consequences will follow, so I suggest you conform.”
A quartet of
townspeople formed a line for service near the checkout desk, and each
shouldered at least six books. “I’ve got a few patrons near the counter,” she
said. “I’ll take your call in my quarters.”
Pang agreed.
After entering her
office, she slammed the door with an inflamed temper and clenched her jaw.
“Now, Mr. Pang, I mean Pang, why must you make such a doubtful demand?”
“You ask a fair
question, indeed, justifiable of an immediate, precise answer. I alone shall
remove either 20% from the grant fund balance under your care or 100% of the
currency from your personal savings sheltered by Wells Fargo. You have 10
seconds to render its password and 20 seconds to divulge its account number, or
say goodbye to three and a half million dollars and the cash flow it supplies
for your abundant fortunes in India.”
“Now look here, you son
of a bitch . . .”
“It appears you
affirmed which account to defile. In my opinion, an unwise choice, but you are
young and in another fourteen years earning wages with your current employer,
money lost today will build back.
Regrettable that you still must sell your home, because how will
you subsidize the expenses Bombay requires each week? At least, any apartment
community should welcome you based on superb references, plus the library’s
gratitude you’re staying on must feel nice.”
“Why trounce on me, and
how did you uncover my personal livelihood?”
“I’m privileged to have
known just a little extra. Farewell, Freda.”
“No, wait,” she said,
but Pang’s phone disconnected.
In a rush, she logged her PC to the internet,
and from her favorites list, double-clicked the Wells Fargo Bank website. Her
heart pounded as the screen loaded its sign-in page. Afterward, she typed her
username, password, and clicked go.
____________________________
Finished with a morning customer, the strange noise beyond Freda’s
closed door startled Cilla from her chair. Looking toward the sound, and to the
other side, no one else showed concern. Cilla White, assistant director, moved
up the promotion ladder quickly and was tickled pink to work alongside Freda.
Not wanting to appear
too inquisitive, Cilla fixed her gaze on the door, hopeful her boss would exit
with a humorous reason. Minutes had gone by but not another sound. “I know,”
said Cilla, “I’ll phone and remind her the Friends of the Library gratitude
luncheon begins this Saturday.” She dialed Freda’s extension and listened to
the rings in the next room. Bewildered at hearing the line ring after ring and
no pick-up, she approached the door and knocked. Still silence. She entered
slowly, calling Freda’s name, but saw Freda drooped face down, motionless, gun
in hand and a bullet wound to her temple. Cilla screamed for help, and others
rushed to the gruesome scene.
A male volunteer
commanded, “No one touch a thing and leave the room. Let the police handle
this.”
All Cilla could say was,
“Why.” Freda’s PC monitor had darkened, and the screensaver had seconds until
it rid the vital clue needed to solve the atrocious act. Just a slight nudge of
the mouse might have told detectives the answer to Cilla’s question, but no.
The screensaver gave up its exposure. If anyone was to revive the image now,
first, her password required consent acceptance, and the monitor could
reproduce what devastated Freda to take her life by the consequent
display: Wells Fargo account number
909-17-642: Transfer $3,459,783.44 to Ping Gou You Han Gung Ci Bank of Hong
Kong. Transaction completed and accepted today at 10:41 a.m. local time. New
Balance: 00.00
________________________
Inside a five-star hotel room, within an easy stroll from Ping Gou
You Han Gung Ci Bank, the flawless apparatus plugged into Pang’s computer
worked impeccable. Its inventor, Mr. Lee Wang Hue, guaranteed all along that
his unique prototype device would pass the test miles beyond Pang’s belief.
These units read computer language in English then transposed it to Mandarin, Min,
or Hakka Chinese, and with great success. By sheer coincidence, to make banking
easier for his grandfather’s sour memory, Hue learned of its incredible ability
to expose necessary passwords when fed correct figures in an easy-to-follow
order.
“Now remember, Pang, if
you fail to send my creation the exact last deposit amount, the password shall
remain hidden. Each attempt requires dollars and cents, so stay alert your
records furnish full discovery.”
“Yes, Mr. Hue, my stats
provide everything I need to make your creation and myself content. Please tell
me once again the mandatory steps to success.”
“Sure. First, you bring
up the bank account website. Click username and type in the account number plus
dot Q-dot number one, and hit enter.” Pang took immaculate notes as Hue paused.
“The device will enter whichever code name used by this account number and
perform a cut and paste-like command. Next, click password and type in the last
deposit dollar amount plus dot Q-dot number two and again, hit the enter key.”
Pang raised a hand in
an apologetic gesture to wait a moment, and after scripting notes, said, “Thank
you, please continue, Mr. Hue.”
“The device will
formulate the last deposit as authorized proof to access the account, and again,
a cut and paste will fill in the routine password. The secret word continues
undisclosed to the eye, but you are ready to withdraw from any checking or
savings associated with the account holder. If password observance turns
crucial for any reason, highlight the coded password, press the Alt key, and
hit number 9 plus F9 together.”
“What happens, Mr.
Hue?”
“My effective little
charmer shall rewrite the code to English like it rewrites English to Chinese.
Nothing hit or miss. If the user’s password has certain caps, they will show.
If the user likes the number three for the letter E or the dollar sign for the
letter S, they too will show.”
Pang lifted himself
from the leather chair and extended his hand toward Hue. “Mr. Hue, I accept our
deal. Here are your contacts in Bombay. The Getting Better reading programs
include three DVD packages, pre-school, elementary school, and middle school.
The pitch for how you negotiate distribution rests in your hands. If you can
enlarge your territory sales beyond China, you have my blessing. As I
mentioned, the product has pretty much topped sales in North America, so no
doubt you will advance an instant hero to India’s economics, and China’s
education system. With your invented English to Chinese translator, you gain
chance selling your proprietary product plus a reading DVD to every school in
your country.”
Hue examined the
contact names for Bombay. “Our agreement pleases me, and I look upon you as my
family. Although, forgive me, your face doesn’t appear to have traditional
Chinese features.”
“My mother was an Asian
from Japan, but my father was Caucasian. Nevertheless, I also welcome you like
family. Let’s celebrate with a traditional Geisha House meal. Rumors from
Special Administrative Region predict they could be going in and out of style,
therefore tomorrow might be too late. I must return to Beijing come the dawn.”
_____________________________
THREE MONTHS LATER
Wednesday morning, minutes after five o’clock as the day began,
United’s commercial jet engines finished their rotated spin parked at the LAX
gate ramp. Tall, dark, and more handsome than most movie stars, 27-year-old Mr.
Heath Wilson unlatched the overhead compartment and replaced the official
documents, which robbed him of slumber aboard the outbound red eye flight from
the nation’s capital. Even with little sleep, his prominent good looks suffered
modest penalty. A smidgen of strain darted from his dark blue pupils, taking on
a busy overworked proofreader appearance. But his five o’clock shadow, darkened
by 12 hours of overtime, paid magnetic tribute to the firm masculine chin
anchored below lips women dream to experience. The man’s abilities to perk up
the opposite sex faster than a blood bank can change a vampire’s eyeteeth into
fangs didn’t register a clue inside his own wits. He had suffered from
self-confidence around girls during his final years in high school, and ever
since, had preferred to let his work assignments drive and embrace every part
of his passion.
Unbothered by the
occasional bump from other passengers as they squeezed by, he took his time and
assured each folder returned in episode order, convinced a precedent of sorts
begged for the spotlight.
With the double-locked
briefcase secured in his hand, he reached for his carry-on luggage. Light
travel made leaving the jet easy, and he proceeded toward the exit equipped to
dismantle the horrified misfortunes plaguing this 99,000-count resident
community.
“Thank you for flying
with us, Mr. Wilson,” said the airline’s angelic blonde-haired woman with
hazel-gray Sophia Loren eyes, but much more beautiful.
Reverence splashed
across his face. “I should thank you for your concern, Tiffany, but if I fell
asleep as you suggested, my eyes would have missed the enrichment of your
loveliness.”
Undenied loveliness
surrounded this gorgeous Germanic, Anglo-Saxon goddess, built with an ideal
figure, which curved in all the right places. Her luminous hair, falling just
past the mid-length of her back, outweighed the look and feel of silk, and long
sinuous strands framed her delicate face as if God knew He had outdone Himself
in creating His genuine and utmost masterpiece.
Her face flushed,
self-conscious by Wilson’s tribute, and sensitive to the fact that the pilot
heard his eulogized comment, she did nothing but smile. A smile both Wilson and
the pilot relished.
Intrigued by the minor
tension and reluctant to yield, Wilson let fly, “I should have complimented you
hours ago. When you blush, you become twice as beautiful.”
“Yes, she does,”
interrupted the pilot.
Embarrassed, she
mouthed the words thank you three times and held onto his left hand moving the
last few steps to the outlet, where she continued her farewells until finished
with the other passengers.
Because the local car
rental choices remained closed another two hours, Wilson studied the hotel
panel lined with guest phones who promised shuttle service 24/7. Puzzled by
which lodge operated near City Hall, he prepared to dial the long hospitality
list and wondered how he’d remember the ideal place after his basic questions,
such as rates, parking, room service, and any other upgraded perks.
“Need a good advocate,
Mr. Wilson? I’ve lived in Ash Lyn my whole life.”
Pleased to see the
beautiful angel, he perked right up and concealed his fatigue. “I’m in your
hands, Tiff, but I have necessities.”
“Necessities like
single, blonde, and hazel eyes?”
“I’m ah, speaking hotel
features.”
“I knew it,” Tiff said.
“I’m testing the waters, and you passed.”
“Passed?”
“You know. Curious if
you’re the kiss-and-tell or the look-but-don’t- touch type.”
He fumbled with his
loosened tie to align it straighter. “I like to credit myself as the respectful
type.”
“How impressive.”
“As impressive as the
pilot?”
“The flight captain?”
she said, amused. “He failed.”
“How so?”
“Let’s just say he
kisses and tells and is the can’t-keep-his-hands-to- himself type. But enough
of him, how about a place to stay I offered earlier?”
“Okay, I trust you.”
“Excellent, explain
your necessities.”
With a hand placed near
his chin, he responded, “I’d like something close to City Hall and secure
parking for a rental. If the hotel has good food with room service, I’m
indebted. Free high-speed internet and cable TV will help rebuff my all-work-and-no-play
syndrome. And any rather particular features you believe will improve my stay.”
“Is that a come on, Mr.
Wilson?”
“Please call me Heath.”
His foot inched a step toward her. “A come on, never. I invite you to suggest
anything I’ve missed.”
“I know just the place,
Heath. I can drive you.”
“I don’t want to
impose?”
“Quit with the guilt
trip. Besides, I hoped we could get closer acquainted.”
“Me too,” he said
without a beat, surprising himself.
Burrowed tight inside
her car, with his seat belt locked in place, Wilson thrashed about to free his
wallet. Tiffany watched the comical antic and within her chuckle, he held up
his billfold. “Victory at last.”
“What gives, if you
don’t mind me asking?”
“At least let me pay
your parking.”
“The airport permits
airline employees to park free, goofy. Why can’t you accept it?”
“Accept what?”
“I’m a cheap date.”
Laughter spewed from both and lightened their jitters. “So, Heath, what line of
work do you do?”
“If I tell you, I have
to kill you.”
“Oh, confidential
government top-secret type stuff?”
“I wish. Try
confidential mortified top-secret type stuff.”
She gave him a double
take. “Oh, now you really have me curious, even if it means my doom.”
“All right, but you
asked for it. I research reporting news for Lacey Grief.”
“Ugh, I can’t stand
her.”
“Get in line. But she
pays well, and I travel a lot, so I spend little time in her presence, thank
God.”
“How do you put up with
a few minutes in her presence? She acts like such a know-it-all, and so rude.
Interrupts her guests left and right, and lordy, how she goes off to make them
look stupid when she’s the one who comes across like THE DUMB BLONDE. Ding,
hello . . . does that ring a bell for ya, Lacey Grief?”
“Whoa, calm down, Tiff.
Don’t break a blood vessel over that witch spelled with a b.”
“I hate people who put
themselves on higher pedestals.”
“If Lacey didn’t, who
else would? She confesses her biggest fan is her father.”
Tiff raised her
eyebrows. “Yes, a child only a parent could love.”
“Let me share a funny
incident that happened at the studio not so long ago. Maybe you will enjoy this
sweet revenge tidbit against Mrs. Know-It-All.”
“Do tell.”
“Lacey, in the middle
of invited input from her expert panel, wretched a losing battle with those who
disagreed with her and cowered behind those who supported her stand. A caller
enters announced because Lacey can’t turn the heated feud in her favor, and the
viewer says how much he enjoys the show and never misses her program. She
thanks him for his allegiance and says, ‘What’s your question, dear?’ Then the
caller asked, ‘How much do you pay your guests for all the grief you put them
through? I’m sure plenty, because 99% of the questions from callers who watch
your show are passed to them. Your producer must live high on the hog to
justify enormous sums for them to bail you out since you don’t feel confident
to answer. I also notice you don’t listen, asking dumb questions by the score
already verified for you and us during your show. I mean, come on, Lacey; please
stop your boring questions we viewers can answer.’”
“Oh, wow, I wish I
could have seen that particular program,” said Tiff.
“Sorry to say, I’m sure
none of the TV audience saw it. Live television regulates a mandatory 10-second
delay just in case someone live decides to mess with the standards and
practices behavior code. A perfect example is Janet Jackson’s wardrobe mishap
at Super Bowl XXXVIII in 2004.”
“I remember.”
“Anyway, the entire
staff, Lacey’s guests, and many sister affiliates witnessed freak-out drama
with Lacey Grief as the star. The incident happened so fast, shock turned to
hysterics, impossible to control. Everyone crowed, and the e-mails from other
associate stations jabbed just as hilarious. The program director had no choice
but to cut to commercial and plead for everyone’s self-control, however, before
reset from the sponsored break, our Camera 3 Operator zooms in on Lacey’s face,
and from the video booth a voice echoes through the entire studio with these
words. ‘Lacey, please grab a tissue; we see a long, unattractive booger making
a floppy nuisance every time you exhale.’ Well, this even caused the program
director to lose it. People fell to the floor in stitches they were laughing so
hard.”
Tiff sputtered giggles.
“Please, don’t stop, tell me the rest.”
“The video booth ran
another commercial because no way her live segment participants could maintain
composure, let alone function without bobbled heads, shaken shoulders, and nose
snorts.”
“What about the famous
pledge, the show must go on?” she asked.
“Oh, the show went on,
but the executive producer gave the video manager orders to use a prior tape
with similar subject content. I doubt viewers could tell the difference. Lacey
took a few vacation days to repair confidence, and by the time she returned,
common decency from the staff had closed the matter. But it’s a fun story to
tell anyone who dislikes her.”
“I agree. What
reporting news brings you to Ash Lyn?”
Wilson hesitated.
“You’re no doubt aware city workers received provoked threats by e-mail,
correct?”
“Yeah, but isn’t that
all they are, threats from dissatisfied residents about the cost of living? At
least the local newscasts interpret them as such.”
“Yes, but to paraphrase
Lacey, threats with or without action may lead to powerful TV ratings, pumped
up with her exaggerated bylines, of course.”
“I don’t believe her,
Mr. Research Reporter, but remind me to send a thank you note for assigning you
to my neighborhood.”
He half-jokingly added,
“You write it, and we both sign it.”
Wilson noticed Tiff’s
car decelerate as she announced, “Last stop, City Hall, two blocks safe and
sound. Underground guest parking with security personnel, and a yummy superior
hotel restaurant. Last but not least, cable TV includes free movie channels and
high-speed internet.”
Wilson clapped in
approval. “I’d give you a standing ovation if I were a midget.”
“If you were a midget,
I’d be home by now.”
“You wouldn’t go out of
your way for a little person?”
“Not true,” she
answered, “who put those silly things in your head? If you were a little
person, I’d still recommend this first-rate lodge, even escort you for
transport.”
“Then how would you be
home by now?”
“You’d be inside the
hotel’s courtesy van.” She flashed her passenger an enormous wink.
Wilson shifted, reached
for his baggage, and asked, “Can I buy you breakfast?”
“You mean dinner?”
“No. I mean breakfast,
as in right now.”
Tiff grinned a
closed-mouth smile. “I eat breakfast at 7:30 in the evening. Remember, I work the red-eye flight every
Tuesday.”
“You’re right, I mean
dinner.”
“I’d love to,” she said,
“but I just have enough time to run a few errands before I get my beauty sleep.
You also should get some rest and dream sweet dreams, if you can, for me. I
gazed at you the complete trip, and not once did you put your paperwork aside.”
He raised his
shoulders. “A man’s got to do what a man has to do, although, I’m not
responsible if you obtain added beauty and I can’t resist your smile.”
She blushed again and
jotted her number on a scrap of paper. “Yes, you can buy me breakfast. I set my
alarm for 6:00 p.m. on Wednesdays.”
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