Damage

Dedicated to my lovely wife, Teri. Thank you for your love and support, and for all the wonderful things you have brought to my life!

Also many thanks to Teri, Beverly, Rebecca and Tom for your thoughts, comments and time.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text & Cover Art copyright © 2013 Mark Feggeler

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, copying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission of the publisher.

Sunday, Part I

A click and a garbled ring tone let Ray know he was finally getting through to Jake's cell phone. He groaned at the thought of leaving another message. Five messages in as many days.

"Hey, Jake, it's me again. Look, call me back, will you? Everybody keeps asking where you're at and I'm running out of bullshit excuses. I talked to Marco yesterday and he understands how it is. Your job is there for you whenever you resurface. Just... Just call me. Okay?"

Persistence had paid off through the years when it came to pulling Jake out of his many downward spirals, but something about this time gnawed at Ray. There had been fewer warning signs, no escalating mood swings or erratic behavior. Six days ago, Jake showed up to work clean and healthy. Five days ago he fell off everyone's radar. The total blackout of communication is what worried Ray the most. Not even Emily had heard a peep from him. At his worst, Jake would usually sober up just enough to touch base with his little sister to let her know he was still alive.

It was times like these Ray wondered how much Jake's family cared whether he lived or died. How many times can you set yourself up for disappointment with the same person before you write him off as a bad investment? Each time Jake went off on a bender Ray thought he might be ready to find out, but he always allowed himself to be drawn back in.

There's a fine line between faith and delusion. Ray knew he'd crossed it many times when it came to Jake's sobriety. Chances were good he would cross it again soon.

Sunday, Part II

He couldn't worry about Jake now. It was quarter to two, and Ray had fifteen minutes to make the twenty-minute drive west through Glen Meadows and Watsons Glen out toward the St. Thomas Retirement Cottages to cover a groundbreaking ceremony for some new gated community. As if Tramway County needed another golf course.
 

Like most others in the area, it would open as a members-only club, lose money, and be selling associate memberships to non-residents by the end of the year. Residents would cry foul and hold private meetings. Then they would hold public meetings to pressure and embarrass the club management. Ray's managing editor would send him out to cover the meetings for the paper. A brief article and a photo of an angry, wealthy, white man with his arms in the air and his mouth open would run on page five next to an advertisement for a furniture store liquidation sale.

As it turned out, arriving fifteen minutes late was on par with many other attendees. His was one in a line of cars waiting to park in a field adjacent to a massive enclosed tent in a clearing a few hundred feet away. Instead of waiting, he found a spot next to a thicket of bamboo growing out of a soggy ravine alongside the road and parked.

Ornate flowers lined a freshly mown path leading through tall grass to the tied-back entrance flaps of the white tent. Inside, numerous round banquet tables balanced stout centerpieces on rented linens. Hundreds of plastic white folding chairs surrounded them. Directly ahead of him as he entered the tent was a riser along the opposite wall that held a table of honor for a handful of special dignitaries, along with a podium, meaning Ray would not escape the day without being subjected to at least one speech. People in suits and elegant dresses stood in line for drinks at the bar station to the right, or in the buffet line to the left, or simply socializing in small groups. A three-piece band played watered down jazz in the far right corner of the tent.

The head of the Tramway County Chamber of Commerce launched over to Ray the second he spotted him, his deep voice bursting over the gathering crowd like canon fire.

"Raymond!"
 

Jared Upton was a thick-necked man with a ruddy complexion, slicked-back blonde hair, and sweat dripping from his forehead. When he smiled, his face practically split in two. He shook Ray's hand with such enthusiasm Ray twice had to correct his balance. Anyone who didn't know Upton might have thought he was speaking nervously fast due to the pressures of the event, but it was his way.

"We're running a little late, as you can see." Upton ushered Ray to a table on which a printed sign indicated it was reserved for members of the press. The seats all were empty. "We've invited Garry Vincent from WGRC, and Carrie Gallagher from the radio station, and Holly Klumper from the Glen Meadows Exclusive. But you get the prize for first on the scene! We're going to have a few people speak right up there."

He pointed to the podium as if Ray couldn't reason out for himself where the speakers might stand.
 
"Then we're going to come down right in front of the stage, here, to turn over the first shovel of dirt." He pointed to a row of five shiny gold shovels propped against the riser several feet away from the press table. "We put you all front and center so you'd have prime seats for the best view."

"I'm sure Carrie will appreciate that," Ray deadpanned. "Do you have a list of the speakers so I can spell their names right this time?"

Upton scurried around an elderly couple and strained to grab from a stack of programs on the head table. The program he handed Ray listed the usual suspects: Upton, of course, representing the Chamber of Commerce; the mayor of Watsons Glen, since the development was in the town's extraterritorial jurisdiction; some woman named Meredith Muncie from the firm hired to design the community's golf course; and, finally, primary investor Evan Wallace, the driving force behind the creation of Lonesome Pines Country Club.

Ray knew all of them except for Meredith Muncie, which is to say he had interviewed or photographed the others at some point during his seven-year tenure at the newspaper. As one of four full-time reporters for the Tramway County Citizen-Gazette & Daily Standard, he had become familiar with many of the prominent locals over the years. Most people referred to the newspaper either affectionately or derisively as the Citizen-Gazette, depending on how favorably its articles had recently portrayed them.

Rather than sit at the press table alone and waiting for the festivities to begin, Ray popped the lens cover off his camera and wandered through the tent snapping candid pictures. Some people posed, others pretended not to notice him. From a distance he saw Carrie Gallagher from radio station WCBT arrive. Upton swung down upon her, bursting with the same enthusiasm with which he had greeted Ray and ushered her to the press table where he appeared to deliver the same explanation of how the event would unfold. He pointed to the podium, to the shovels, and then to the chairs around the press table. The man was a model of robotic efficiency. Carrie also took to her feet once Upton had finished with her. She grabbed her tape recorder and microphone to hunt down unsuspecting dignitaries.

"I know you," said a gravely voice behind Ray. He turned to find Sheriff Edgar Redmond standing in his wake as if the man had been following him. Ray took a step back, lowered his camera, and extended his hand.

"Sheriff Redmond. I'm Ray Waugh from the Citizen-Gazette," he said. "We've met several times at the county commissioner meetings. I interviewed you last summer when you ran for re-election."

"I thought you looked like a man of the press," Redmond said in a haughty tone, apparently impressed by his own observation.
 

"My cousin Billy works for you," Ray said. When a quizzical expression fell across the sheriff's face he added, "Deputy William Merrill?"

"Yes, Deputy Merrill," Redmond nodded. "Didn't know he had family in the area."

"Oh, just me," Ray said. "He and I are all we've got left. Actually, I'll see him bright and early tomorrow. I'm doing a ride along on his morning patrol for a feature article on a day in the life of a sheriff's deputy."

"Really," Redmond said with keen interest. "I don't recall approving that."
 

"We've done it before," Ray said. "Several times, in fact."

Redmond stared into Ray's eyes for several seconds, then cracked a broad smile across his craggy face. "I'm sure it'll be all right, then."

The sheriff gripped Ray's forearm firmly and led him a short distance to a table where two women were seated. One was older and sharply dressed in a gray dress suit that played well off the silver highlights in her hair. The other, in her early forties and trying not to show it, was comically stuffed into an undersized crimson and green velvet gown. Neither woman spoke to Ray, even when Redmond introduced him to them. It turned out the chubby woman in the off-season holiday gown and caked-on makeup was Redmond's daughter, Mimi, who presently served as director of the neighboring St. Thomas Retirement Cottages. The older woman was her executive secretary Eleanor. Not seeming to notice their lack of hospitality, Redmond released Ray's arm and joined the women at the table.

"How about a picture for the paper?" Redmond asked.

The three odd people smiled up at him and he snapped several shots. When finished, they turned their attention to other distractions, as though Ray had magically disappeared the moment he had their picture. He had served his purpose and could leave. The abruptness of the change in Redmond's behavior toward him would have been comical if it weren't so insulting. It might not have been the first time Ray was treated rudely, but it certainly ranked as one of the more peculiar.

After another ten minutes of wayward wandering, Ray decided it was time to check out the buffet. It wasn't often that covering events for the Citizen-Gazette held the promise of finely prepared foods. Typically, the meetings and social gatherings he covered offered the usual variety of cubed cheese, meatballs in a mystery sauce, stale hushpuppies, and an entree item the editorial staff at the Citizen-Gazette lovingly referred to as "nonprofit chicken." Not so this time. Even before he reached the three-table-long buffet, he could smell the grilled asparagus and the rare prime rib being sliced to order at the carving station at the far end. He took a sample of each delicacy that appealed to him until his chilled glass plate had vanished under a mound of shrimp, beef, rolls and cheese. Plate in one hand, notepad in the other, he turned to make his way to the press table when the camera strap slipped off his shoulder and settled in the crook of his arm, threatening to unbalance his bounty.

"Let me help you," said a soft voice.

The woman who took his plate had straight brown hair that stopped at her shoulders. She wore a brilliantly simple red dress with a modest neckline. She smiled at Ray and motioned for him to lead the way. Ray set down the camera and wine on the press table when they reached it, took the plate, and thanked her.

"My pleasure," she said. "It seems to be my lot today, rescuing men who get in over their heads."

"Who else have you saved today?"

"No one, yet," she said, casting a furtive glance around the tent. "But my husband might need rescuing if he doesn't get here soon. He managed to get a last-minute tee time this morning, which should tell you something about his priorities. I'm trying to temper the anger of the people he keeps waiting until he gets here. I'd much rather keep a low profile at these kinds of functions."
 

"Are you trying to avoid someone?" Ray asked.

"I avoid everyone. Unfortunately, luck has been against me this afternoon."

"Then join me here at the press table," Ray suggested. "I can pretend to be interviewing you so people will leave you alone."

The little woman smiled again at Ray. She promptly set her plate next to his and lowered herself effortlessly into the white plastic folding chair next to his. Unlike Redmond's daughter, this woman wore almost no makeup, which served her well. Despite the way her red party dress flattered her petite frame, she had the look of a woman out of her element in formal wear. The only jewelry she wore was a thin gold wire necklace with three white pearls and a braided gold wedding band with a tremendous diamond at its center. She craned her neck to peer around Ray toward the entrance flap.
 

"Sorry," she said, relaxing back into the discomfort of the folding chair. "I thought that was my husband."

Ray turned to see a tall, elderly man entering the tent with the aid of a cain.

"Not unless your husband is forty years older than you," he said. He pointed to an even older man in a wheelchair sitting hunched over a plate of shrimp at the next table. "Maybe that's your husband over there."

The woman perked up as she peeked at the man Ray pointed to, then gave a playfully reproachful glare when she realized he was joking. He couldn't help smiling back at her. The woman's good mood was infectious.