I don't know about you, but when I write a chapter I'm unsure of, I ask various folks to read it and give me their feedback. Some will read and say, "not enough action going on," or "boring" or "up to you" which I hate. (I'm getting their opinion, that is the whole point).
Well, after taking a poll, people said to keep it in. Just a teaser of "The Long Road to Extradition". Please let me know what you think. Leave comments! Leave more comments! Just leave some comments, ok?
The scars you can't see are the hardest to heal. ~Astrid Alauda
Prologue
“A Place Called Home”
June 6, 1996, Bounty Island, New Zealand
Everyone has a place they call home. For some, the memories are tucked away in a comforting place where a story of once upon a time is easily found again. For others, the memories are painful and purposely vague when asked to recall them. There isn’t a comforting place to be found and the memories are buried in a wanderer’s heaving bag slung carelessly over weary shoulders.
Shannon knew that Nicholas was naturally drawn to the ocean. It was there that he felt peaceful and could lose his thoughts while immersed in the deafening sounds of waves crashing around him. The spray and mist of the ocean seemed to be a living, breathing, yet wounded animal. The fury of the waves never settled and the spew of foam touched all that dared to sit near it.
Nick aligned himself with the ocean and it was here that she learned the truth about her husband’s past. Shannon glanced at Nick as he sat upon a rock looking out upon the never ending ocean line. She recognized his faraway stare and silently wondered why he never flinched as the waves sprayed and crashed against the shore.
Slowly, Nicholas turned his attention away from the force of nature to look at Shannon. He saw the look of pity and somewhat frightened face he had come to know so well. It was time. He had carried his unspoken burden for 23 years and was too exhausted to carry it in silence any longer.
Perhaps it was the ocean encouraging him to release the fury of his demons. In some ways, it seemed like he was even taunted as the regurgitation of foam and spray washed over his body. He wanted to feel the baptism of release. He got up from his front row and center view and held out his hand to Shannon. She grabbed it and he guided her back to their chalet.
They walked back in silence until they got to the door; “You’re sopped, go ahead and change clothes and I’ll make us a pot of tea.” Nick gave a weak smile and grabbed a pair of sweat pants and a favorite denim shirt from the bedroom. He dried himself off with a towel and changed. When he walked into the living room, he saw that Shannon had fixed them both a cup of Earl Grey. Hers with lemon and his with honey and a cinnamon stick. She was curled up in the bay window that separated her from the ocean, lost in thought and sipping her tea.
“Penny for your thoughts” Nick urged. On some level, he wanted her to ask him plainly. He had grown shy within the silence of their home. She smiled and patted the cushion across from her in the window. In the distance, he could still see the ocean hurling waves against the rocks. Drinking a sip of his tea, it was smooth, sweet and rich in flavor. It was then when his request had been granted.
“Tell me. I should know.” Shannon’s simple statement suddenly exposed the emotion of wondering what could be so bad that he wouldn’t tell her. She had hinted countless times before, never wanting to upset him more than he already was.
The years of holidays, her family get-togethers and his avoidance of wanting to participate in any way puzzled, angered and hurt her. She always tried to wait for a good time to bring up the subject. Yet, somehow when looking into his eyes, the glint of anguish dissolved into tears that were dangerously close to spilling upon his cheeks but never did.
Nick took a breath and looked into his wife’s blue eyes and thought for a moment. He looked at his empty cup and could feel hysteria building up inside himself.
“I need something to drink. Get me a bottle of Rye and a tumbler of ice.” His voice had begun to shake as another panic attack was lurking nearby. He began pacing and gratefully accepted the whiskey on the rocks and downed it in one shot. She watched him down 3 long shots of whiskey one after the other and he finally seemed to be somewhat recovered.
Nick wandered over to the stereo and thumbed through the tapes of music. Shannon was a fan of classical music and easy listening. He made a face as he browsed through Rachmaninoff, Carole King, James Taylor and Gershwin. He came to the tapes he listened to; ACDC, Metallica, Megadeath, Judas Priest. The power riff of the guitars and thundering bass line always rumbled his insides. The frenetic and chaotic feeling of the music felt familiar. In fact, the music mirrored his psyche which felt to be in a permanent frame of disarray and confusion.
“Shannon, when you listen to this classical stuff, why do you listen to it?” he asked as he drank another long shot.
“I love the melodies,” she offered, unsure of his line of questioning.
“It’s how you feel inside?” he pushed.
Shannon thought about it and clarified; “Yeah, I guess so. I feel relaxed when I listen to it.”
Nick nodded and grabbed one of his tapes and cued up a song from one of the metal bands that flaunted machine gun riffs. He positioned her in between the two giant speakers and turned the volume to max. The jolt of the music caused Shannon to scream. Nick was seemingly oblivious and held her in place near the speakers. The wall of sound was terrifying to her and the bass and drums were causing her heartbeat to fluctuate. When she began to cry, Nick turned the tape off and listened to the buzz of silence.
“Why the hell did you do that?” Shannon shouted in anger.
“That’s what it feels like to be me.” Shannon stared at him for several moments and slowly walked to the kitchen returning with a tumbler of ice. She grabbed the Rye and poured generously into both glasses. She was seeing a different side to him for the first time.
She remembered when they first met; it was her that struck conversation. His shyness was almost crippling yet, she persisted. She was drawn to him and couldn’t reason why. As a permanent student of psychology, she mused that it must be amago. Or, maybe he seemed dangerous in some way that was “safe enough” for her. He was a great listener and never tired of her conversation.
She noticed every nuance of his physical traits. It was a playful test to see if she could connect the dots of her new suitor’s history. He had a brooding personality that suited his looks. It was a safe guess that he wasn’t a businessman. His tousled hair suggested that he hadn’t had a haircut in awhile and was incapable of being combed neatly. His eyes were hazel which was featured prominently against his olive skin. He was striking to gaze upon which explained why no one ever took the time to get to know Nicholas Fontenot. He rarely smiled and enjoyed people watching. His hands were calloused from what appeared to be from years of labor. Life must have been hard on him, judging from his reluctance to share any personal details. She quickly glanced at his left hand which was ringless and made her move.
Now, after 2 years of living together, she needed something more than psychological guessing games to explain the source of Nick’s wounded soul.
Nick reached under the cushion of the sofa and pulled out a thick journal. He held it for a few moments and opened the cover. He struggled to explain, to give some preparation for what he was about to read, yet he couldn’t think of what to say. He looked at her with troubled eyes and she smiled encouragement through her tears.
“Go ahead…tell me.” It would be the last words she would utter until he reached the end.
~~~~~
