Authors: Jean Lorrah
“Really?"
“One mob boss who disappeared to the Bahamas was an avid coin collector. They advertised some coin that would fill in a gap in his collection, and followed the purchaser straight to the man. Another time it was someone who liked a very specific kind of pornography. He was so dumb he sent in a change-of-address form to some skin magazine!"
“So dumb or so obsessed,” Dan said. “This is absolutely fascinating, Brandy."
“We can trace backwards as well as forwards,” said Brandy. “Dr. Land was good enough at chess to play by mail, yet he didn't play locally. Another chess-playing college professor wouldn't stand out much, would he?"
“No. Probably fifteen to twenty-five percent of any university's faculty play."
“What would be the most likely reason for Dr. Land not to join the university chess club?"
“Ordinarily I'd say he didn't feel qualified. But given his play by mail, perhaps he didn't want to call attention to himself. If he had excelled he'd have been pushed into tournaments."
“He wasn't afraid to appear at academic conferences,” said Brandy. “Probably something he didn't do in his former life. He earned his Ph.D. after he became Everett Land. If he stopped playing chess when he changed his identity, it could be because he'd be recognized in chess circles. Dan—what if that money he had was won in chess tournaments?"
He was staring at her. “You're amazing."
“I'm speculating,” she corrected, “but I have to check it out. Let's go to the library."
The university library was the largest in West Kentucky. The budget constraints of recent years did not affect its older holdings, so it didn't take long for Dan and Brandy to locate Chess Review for the 1960's.
There were photos of regional, national, and world champions, including one Marvin Clement of Monsey, New York, Northeast Regional Champion for 1966 and 1967, U.S. Champion for 1968, and semi-finalist in the World Championship for 1969. And after that year he disappeared from the records.
“What an incredibly cautious man,” said Dan. “He must have set himself a specific amount, and when he reached it, he changed identities.” For the face in the photos was that of the man Jackson Purchase State University had known as Everett C. Land.
“It would be hard to come that close to being world champion, and not go for it,” said Brandy. “He appears to be what, late thirties or early forties in these photos?"
“It's the haircut and conservative clothes,” said Dan. “If he were wearing a headband and love beads, he'd look twenty-something."
“Mmmm,” Brandy equivocated. The photos were neither large nor clear. “Blowing up screened prints will enlarge the dots, not give us details. If he were in his thirties or forties in 1969, he'd have been in his sixties or seventies when he died. Yet he was passing for forty-something now.” She looked up at Dan. “This is truly weird."
“But not criminal. If the man won his nest egg playing chess, there's no international conspiracy of atomic spies or jewel thieves. You've solved your case."
“It ain't over till it's over,” Brandy muttered, feeding dimes into the copy machine to make sure the evidence could not conveniently disappear. But Dan was right; there was still no evidence that either Land or his alter ego, Marvin Clement, had committed a crime.
So why had he changed his identity?
And why had he not aged for thirty years, and then grown old and died in a few hours?
Brandy's stomach growled, and she looked at her watch. 11:54am. Remembering her promise to Dan, she put the photocopies into the backpack she had brought instead of a purse for today's outing. “Okay—let's go get your swimming trunks, and stop at Kroger's for picnic stuff. I promise—no more detective work today."
“You really want to go swimming?"
“This could be the last hot weekend of the year."
He gave in. “Okay, but I have to stop at a drugstore for sunscreen. I've got a sun allergy, Brandy. Too many direct rays and I get a rash that would put Job to shame."
“So that's your big secret,” she said. “I thought you couldn't swim. Get some SPF 30. I'll rub it on your back."
Brandy drove Dan to his car, and went to purchase food. Then she drove to his apartment for the first time. “Come on in if you like,” he said as he opened the door.
He had a small, well-worn backpack open on the couch, obviously about to put into it the towel, swim trunks, and sunscreen laid out on the cushions.
“Haven't you been out to the lake?” asked Brandy. “There aren't any cabanas. We wear our suits under our clothes. If we're too wet when it's time to go home, we can go up to the lodge and change clothes in the restrooms."
“Okay,” he said. “I'll just be a minute.” That gave Brandy the chance to look around.
Dan lived in one of the newer apartment complexes north of town. Brandy was astonished at how much more spacious his living room was than hers, until she realized that the illusion was created by a mirror-lined wall.
The apartment was a plain beige box, a rectangle divided into four smaller ones. The first was the living room, and beyond that the kitchen, sharing plumbing with the small bath at one end. Behind the kitchen was the bedroom—an economical plan used for at least half the apartments in Murphy, as it neatly fit the entire living quarters for one or two people into a fifteen by thirty-two-foot area.
Dan had personalized it with plants, soft green drapes, and bright Oriental throw rugs over the wall-to-wall carpeting. His bookshelves were massed with books, one layer standing straight, another stacked atop them. A low shelving unit under the window was laden with videotapes and game cartridges. In front of it stood a television on a rolling cart complete with VCR, Playstation, and other electronic components.
Near the bookshelves, a small desk held a closed laptop computer, more books, a stack of folded printouts with a post-it note saying “CSC 243,” and a green gradebook.
Brandy turned from that end of the room, and faced a display on the opposite wall, which had been to her left when she entered. Everything else in the room was new and modern; this piece had the look of great age.
It was a stone crucifix, a good three feet high, mounted against a deep red mat. The figure was broken in some places, worn and weathered in others, but the power of suffering shone in the distorted position of the limbs, the tortured eyes whose detail peered from beneath the shelter of weathered brows.
Although she had no particularly Christian feelings, the emblem made Brandy stop to stare even though it made her uncomfortable. Dan emerged from the kitchen. “I see you've discovered my contraband Christ."
“Contraband?"
“It's from a bombed-out cathedral in what used to be East Germany. When I was in college, I was part of a team excavating the cathedral—we were only supposed to take photographs. Then the professor learned that we were being used to locate forbidden religious objects, which were to be destroyed."
“So you managed to save this one piece, Indiana Jones?” she asked.
“We saved more than one. I suspect the customs officials didn't like their cultural heritage being destroyed any more than we did. We gave away our clothes to the German friends we'd made, and loaded our luggage with what we could carry. We had to leave most of it behind as it was. This was the heaviest object we managed to get out—and as you can see, it was in pieces."
In some places iron bands held pieces of stone together, while in others there were wide gaps.
Dan continued, “Professor Everholt packed part of it in his luggage, and I took the rest. We pieced it together, and it was displayed in the department office until Professor Everholt retired. He left it to me in his will."
“Well, now I know how you came to be fluent in German,” said Brandy.
He chuckled. “I've never met anyone whose mind works like yours, Brandy. Everything's a clue to a puzzle."
“Isn't that what life is?” asked Brandy. “A puzzle for us to solve?"
“A whole series of puzzles,” he agreed. “Solving one just leads to another one, usually even more confusing."
“More challenging,” she amended. “What's life without a challenge?"
The story he had told her, which entailed a truly foolish risk of life and liberty for the sake of a few lifeless objects, made her rethink her assessment of Danton Martin—again. And at the lake, when he took off his shirt and jeans, she was forced to rethink again.
The man was beautiful.
Brandy had only seen him fully dressed, and now that she knew about his sun allergy she understood why he always wore long sleeves. In his professor's clothes he looked nice, attractive, even handsome in a conservative way. But when he stripped down to his bathing suit she saw for the first time the power in his compact body.
Broad shoulders, flat belly, narrow hips, neat round buns, and nice long, firm legs. Although the hair on his head was thick and black, he had only a modest amount on his chest, none on his back or shoulders.
Immediately, he opened the tube of sun block and began slathering it on every exposed square inch, saying, “Sorry—this must be done. It's embarrassing, but at least since they invented this stuff I can go out in the sun. It wasn't much fun in college when my choices were not to go to the beach, or to be all covered up in long sleeves and a hat."
“How'd you survive in Florida?” Brandy asked.
“Night classes.” He handed her the tube. “You promised to put it on my back.” And he stretched out on his towel.
She looked at the label on the tube. It was SPF 30, and guaranteed waterproof. There was a small note that it was used by the U.S. Olympic Team, chosen to protect athletes who exposed their skin to grueling summer sun.
Brandy routinely wore makeup containing sunscreen, a modern woman's weapon against premature aging, but she didn't bother with the rest of her body unless she would be exposed for the entire day. She tanned easily, and this late in the year needed no protection for a couple of hours.
She was perfectly content to baste Dan, though. He was not only gorgeous to look at, he was pleasant to touch, his skin smooth and soft over hard muscles. She lifted his sunglasses to put sunscreen behind his ears and all along his hairline, then let her hands rove down across his broad back. There was something odd—
No blemishes. No pimples, blackheads, scars, or even rough areas marred his perfect skin. Would everyone's skin be this smooth if they kept it hidden from the sun?
But if he always kept his skin covered by clothing or sunscreen—"Why aren't you pale?” she asked.
“Mmpf?” He sounded half asleep.
“If you're always covered up, how did your skin get to be such a nice golden color?"
He lifted his head to look at her over one shoulder. “You promised no more detective work today."
She couldn't resist giving him a light slap on one buttock. “Just answer the question."
“Police brutality!” he protested.
“Answer the question or I won't put any sunscreen right on the place nobody can reach by themselves."
“Okay, okay, I give in. I'm a typical American mongrel with ancestors from lots of different places. My coloring might come from Spanish or Italian ancestors, or maybe from the Apache brave who kidnapped and married my great-great-grandmother."
“You're making that up!"
He grinned, an expression she had never seen before. “You'll never know, will you?” he teased. “That's family oral history you won't find in the library or the computer. Now if you'll just finish your job before I start to go up in smoke, we can have lunch.” And he put the broad-brimmed straw hat he had brought over his head, hiding even the side of his face as he pillowed it once more on his folded arms.
“Let's swim first,” said Brandy, feeling embarrassed as she realized she had been treating Dan like a suspect.
The beach was not sand, but smooth stones. They wore their shoes to the water's edge, kicking them off to enter the lake. Eyes followed them, for the beach was crowded with high school and college kids. Brandy knew they made a striking couple—they could have been models in a magazine ad. No one called out Dan's name today, but that could be simple shock to any of his students discovering what was usually kept concealed beneath his modest clothing.
Brandy swam strongly, stretching her body, letting the hard work raise her heart rate. She hadn't found time for the gym this past week. It felt good to test her limits.
She had always been athletic. Her wind was better than any man's she had ever swum with—until Dan Martin. He kept up stroke for stroke, not even laboring for breath when Brandy tired enough to tread water. She grinned at him, panting through her teeth in sheer exhilaration.
When they had caught their breath, she said, “I didn't know you were in such good condition. Most of the men I meet think golf is hard exercise!"
“I knew you were,” he replied. “You are beautiful, Brandy.” And he kissed her.
They were out farther than any of the other swimmers, so if there were some of Dan's students here today they wouldn't be able to see their professor twine his body with Brandy's.
Distracted from paddling, they went under for the duration of the kiss. As before, it was intoxicating—Brandy almost forgot to breathe when they surfaced. After a moment to re-oxygenate, Dan kissed her again.
Brandy's bathing suit was as skimpy as West Kentucky mores permitted—modest by California standards, perhaps, but she was skin to skin with Dan for most of the length of her body. Where they touched, their water-cooled skin became warm again, as did Dan's hands and arms against her back. Only her back. He neither groped downward, nor tried to bring a hand between them to touch her breasts.
She wanted him to, wanted an excuse to mold her hands around the perfect buttocks she had only dared to slap playfully earlier. She wanted to touch this man all over, to make love with him—but his perfect courtesy in spite of his obvious interest made it impossible for her to initiate such a move.
They resurfaced to breathe. Treading water, they gulped air until Dan said, “I think we'd better swim back before we get in too deep."
“It's not too deep,” said Brandy, not meaning the lake.