A Lethal Legacy
Authors: P. C. Zick
Tags: #Fiction, #Psychological, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thrillers
A Lethal
Legacy
Copyright ©
2013 by P.C. Zick, 2nd Printing
Original
Copyright 2003 by Patricia C. Behnke
All rights
reserved.
Cover Design:
Travis Miles
This is a work
of fiction. The characters, events, and dialogues portrayed in this book are
products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this
book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems without permission by the
author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a
review.
Author Contact:
P. C. Zick
To
my husband Robert – you’ve made all my dreams come true.
To
my daughter Anna – you’re the best legacy I can leave.
I remember
those who came before me and dedicate this book to them: My father, Harmon
Camburn; my mother, Gertrude Stephens Camburn; my aunt Minnie Camburn Eyster;
my aunt Vera Nichols Camburn; my uncle Paul Camburn; my brothers Marvin and
Donald Camburn; and my cousin Tom Camburn.
ONE
The fog enveloped me
for the first time on that Thanksgiving in 1986. I remained trapped in it for
an entire decade.
I married, made love,
had children, and buried my relatives, but I did it while covered in a shroud
of heavy moisture laden with coldness and despair. The years of my youth caught
up with me, and my penchant for saving the world served as a guiding light as I
fought to break through the deepening depression.
Trying to live and love
and feel with a deep foreboding never leaving my consciousness proved to be a
challenge. I knew I couldn't see the road before me. My actions came from
instinct because the path in front of me lacked directions.
On that Thanksgiving
eve, I drove over the bridges connecting the bayous and swamps that lead into
New Orleans. The evening, warm for November, rained humidity, leaving
everything in its wake damp. As I came closer to the city, the fog surrounded
my car, swallowing it in one bite. I drove on, not sure where the road would
take me, but still happy that I had decided to spend Thanksgiving with my
cousin Gary Townsend who had moved to New Orleans almost ten years ago.
"Hey, Ed, don't
you think it's time to get together?" Gary asked when he called the week
before to ask me to spend Thanksgiving with him.
"It's been
awhile, hasn't it?" I said.
"Why don't you
come here? Then we can enjoy ourselves without our mothers' fussing over us and
Philip growling at me."
"Who's going to
tell them?"
"Well, you of
course, Cuz! Tell them they'll have us both at Christmas. That should be enough
for one year, right?"
Gary and I had grown up in
Michigan, but in 1977 when both of our second marriages ended, Gary, an
advertising executive, transferred to New Orleans. I was teaching high school
English in Ann Arbor for ten years by then, but I aspired to be a novelist. When
my mother moved to Florida after my dad died, I began considering a move there.
She moved after my father’s death in 1977 and joined Gary's parents in
retirement heaven near Ocala.
By 1979, with two novels
published, I quit teaching to write full time, and occasionally offering
writing seminars through local community colleges.
In 1980, I moved from
Ann Arbor into an apartment south of Gainesville, the home of the University of
Florida, near the flat, yet powerful landscape of Paynes Prairie, and within a
half hour's drive to my relatives in Ocala. I left my teaching career in
Michigan with little regret and concentrated on my third novel that was a departure
of sorts for me. After some research, I began writing about Florida's role in
the Civil War.
Previously I wrote
contemporary works with some autobiographical material. More accurately, those
books contained Gary's life within their covers. I never wrote about myself,
but I certainly had insight into Gary and could pontificate about his
shortcomings and insecurities with ease. Gary, forever the faithful cousin,
never minded. Or if he did mind, he never let me know.
North Florida's
landscape lured and inspired me unlike anything I had experienced in the
industrial regions of southeastern Michigan. The expansive branches of the
majestic oak and towering pine trees calmed my senses and allowed me to enjoy
the coldest January night and the hottest August afternoon. Either the Atlantic
Ocean or the Gulf of Mexico was an hour's drive from my apartment. I found
myself yearning for the sound of the waves upon the flat, white beaches of a
north Florida coast if I went more than a month without a visit. The coasts
boosted my creativity, and the beauty of the rolling hills of the horse farms
kept me grounded.
On one of my first
visits to the Atlantic coast, I went to Amelia Island just inside the state
line but with a view of Georgia's Cumberland Island across a strait at the
northern end of Amelia. I camped at Fort Clinch State Park, where one of the
protective fortresses built by the British in the 1800s still stands. On my
picnic table, someone had placed a sea oat branch. The sea oat, a highly
protected plant that grows on the dunes, consists of a long slender reed with
wispy threads coming off the seeds of the plant. It is at once beautiful and
fragile looking.
I took it home with
me and placed it in a tiny vase near my computer. A friend saw it one day and
asked in horror why I had a sea oat on my desk.
"I didn't pick
it. It was on a picnic table," I said.
"I'd keep it
hidden. You were supposed to leave it there so it could reseed itself," my
friend said.
I found it doubtful
that such a wisp of a weed could offer much to the shore, so I read about the
sea oat soon after and discovered that although it looks fragile in nature it
actually performs an important but unseen duty on the dunes. It has a very long
and deep root system that keeps the sand in place and helps prevent erosion.
I still keep the
sprig of sea oats next to me as I write. The plant reminds me of myself. It
doesn't look like much with its tall thin stalk, but it provides an unseen
service to the world around it.
People often refer to
me as having a lanky build. My sandy brown hair has always defied conventions.
During my high school years, Brylcreme kept it in place. During the '60s, I let
it grow long, but now it is a respectable length, rather short, but manageable.
Standing beside Gary, I look like the sea oat next to his Live Oak tree. His
sturdy build, enhanced by the weights he had lifted since high school, and his
dark hair, always manageable, provided a contrast that kept most people from
ever guessing that we shared some of the same gene pool.
But I kept the family
together. I ran interference with Gary and his family, and since I lived so
close to my mother, Gary's parents, and our fathers' sister, Aunt Susan, I
became the family's anchor. I didn't mind. In fact, for once in my life, I felt
that I was doing something important. Since my own father had died before my
mother moved to Florida, I didn't have someone constantly criticizing my every
move.
So like the sea oat,
my outward appearance drew little attention, but I had deeply buried roots that
helped keep our family in place.
When Gary called
suggesting that I come to New Orleans for this visit, I didn't hesitate. We had
gone too long without seeing one another. Even though Gary and I were cousins,
we had a relationship closer than brothers. Born only months apart, we both
faced the burden of being only sons of two very different, yet complicated
fathers.
As the fog deepened,
I began to feel uncomfortable with my decision to make the twelve-hour drive
from Gainesville. It didn't help that I had decided to take the less-traveled
roads into Louisiana instead of I-10. Usually the view relaxed me and prepared
me for the carnival atmosphere that is New Orleans no matter what time of year.
However, the heavy mists on this evening left me feeling uneasy about the
holiday that lay ahead. At times, the road disappeared, filling me with the
sense that I might also disappear into the fog.
I settled into a
confused state, unsure of why I now dreaded this visit. Gary always gave me a
connection with my past and with myself.
However, I wanted to
see Gary and touch base once again with my best friend. We talked on the phone,
but the distance in miles kept us from visiting each other as often as we would
have liked.
Where I remained reluctant to become involved with anyone after my
second divorce, Gary forged ahead with new relationships after his move to New
Orleans.
Gary knew he disappointed
his father, but only in recent years had he stopped trying to please my Uncle
Philip. Although I suspected that if Philip would ever offer Gary that much-needed
acceptance, Gary would jump off cliffs, swim oceans, and fight wild boars to
bask in the glow of his father's love.
Philip Townsend
played football at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor during the late 1920s,
gaining a celebrity status as the team's star quarterback. He continued his
hero status in the southeastern Michigan area by coaching football teams to two
state championships while a coach at Pioneer High School, also in Ann Arbor. As
a young boy, Gary didn't show much inclination toward athletics, and his father
criticized him regularly for it.
"What's wrong
with you, Gary," became an often-heard comment at the Philip Townsend
house.
To make things
tougher on Gary, I did perform well on the playing field. My lanky form might
not have attracted girls, but it served me well in basketball and football.
When Gary didn't make
the junior varsity basketball team his first year in high school, Uncle Philip
quit talking to Gary for weeks. He wouldn't even look at his son. Although Gary
agonized over it, Uncle Philip’s probably saved Gary from further anguish.
The Junior Varsity
coach, who didn't choose Philip Townsend's son for his team, left his position
the following year. Philip's previous reputation still allowed him a certain
amount of power within the school community even though he left coaching and
teaching several years earlier to take a lucrative sales position with a large
pharmaceutical company out of Detroit. He made a small fortune selling vitamins.
The JV basketball
coach, new to the area, probably hadn't realized the mistake he made by not
putting Gary somewhere on the team, no matter how badly he played. Gary himself
only tried out because his father made him.
When Gary called me
the afternoon that the final cut for the team was posted, he seemed relieved,
but he dreaded telling his father. Gary's mother, my Aunt Claire, suggested he
invite me for dinner to help soften Philip's attacks, which we were all certain
would occur. Even his wife was powerless under his abuse.
We had just finished
eating when Claire gave Gary a meaningful look. She waited to clear away the
dishes while Gary cleared his throat. The three of us held our breath.
"Dad, I didn't
make the basketball team," Gary said as his father took the last bites of
his apple pie.
"What do you
mean you didn't
make the basketball team?
”
Philip shouted. In his
world, a son of his would never "not make the team."
"I don't know.
Coach didn't put my name on the list." Gary hung his head while he waited
for his father's explosion.
"Gary, what's
the matter with you? Everyone in this family has played sports. Get out there
and apply yourself. Look at Ed, for chrissakes. Now there's a true
Townsend," Philip said.
"Philip, stop.
. .," began Claire.
"Sorry, Dad. But
I'm going to run for class president."
"Class
president? What kind of pansy runs for class president?" Philip asked.
"Philip!"
Claire repeated. "Leave the boy alone. He'll be the most greatest
fantasticest president ever. Right, Ed?" Claire always made up
silly-sounding superlatives whenever she most wanted to cover up her true
feelings. Mostly she did it when Philip acted stupidly. No matter her reasons
for making the words up, it always made me feel close to her when she did it.
"You bet, Aunt
Claire. Gary's the most popular guy in his class. You should see the girls
chase him around when we go to the movies."
Gary and his father
both stopped arguing. Philip brought the sports section up in front of his
face, and Gary walked slowly down the hall to his bedroom. I looked at Aunt
Claire and shrugged. She motioned with her hands for me to follow Gary.
"I guess I'll
call Dad to come and get me, OK?" I said when I entered the bedroom.
Gary was sprawled
across his bed. "I'm not a pansy," he said.
"Gary, you know
how your dad is. Even if you had made the team, things wouldn't have worked
out. Remember how he was when we played ball when we were kids? You don't want
to go through that again. He doesn't know anything about being a class
president, so you'll be safe."
"Hey, that's
right, buddy! To hell with him! Let's walk downtown and get some ice cream.
Then call home." Gary always rebounded quickly from one of his father's
rebuffs, and in his typical pattern, he would usually do something stupendous
in an attempt to win back his respect.
He won his election
by a landslide, not because he had any outstanding qualities for class
president, but because he was popular with both females and males. He served in
this role for the next three years while doing very little work for his class.
He had plenty of girls around to organize everything, while he received all the
glory.
Gary lived right in the heart of the French Quarter. Many of the
establishments along Royal Street rented apartments when not using the upper
floors as art galleries. I found his place easily, but uneasily parked my car
on St. Louis Street a block away. Gary assured me that New Orleans was safe,
but I doubted his wisdom especially on this eerie night. The feeling of
foreboding remained with me as I locked the car and walked toward his
apartment.
"Cuz! You made
it! Finally!" Gary said as he held me at arm's length to give me a long
look.
"Hey, who
ordered that fog? How can you live in a place where you can't see the road in
front of you?"