Authors: Elizabeth Lowe
It was unbelievable,
Brad mused, how those memories occasionally resurfaced, each time as vibrant as
it was then, bringing on a rush, a need.
He remembered few birthdays after that, few women, nothing since quite
measured up to the thrill of discovering a woman’s gifts for the first
time.
At first, Brad was
furious with Ted's callous treatment of Cindy, his true feelings buried deep by
the close bonds cultivated over the years.
Young and confused, he did not know whether to hate Ted or be grateful.
Learning Ted ended his relationship with
Cindy the following day became the first crack in a widening gap between
friends.
In
the beginning feeling used, then rejected, later Cindy reasoned her
relationship with Ted would never be the same.
She had explored an erotic new world with the best, a kind, and caring,
nurturing young man.
Ted did not possess
the credentials to measure up to Brad sadly, as years passed no other man would
ever come close.
All
three avoided one another during the remaining years of high school.
For both of their sakes, considering their
ravenous appetites that evening, Brad was relieved Cindy did not become
pregnant.
Ted, as usual, lectured his convincing
theory women were put on earth to satisfy men and regardless life would go
on.
In the years that followed, sharing female
friends was acceptable behavior until now.
Brad's appetite for one-night stands was over.
Spontaneously,
visions of Sam lying naked on the hay flashed before Brad making him wonder
what it would be like to take her the same way, if he’d remember her like
Cindy.
Now older and wiser something
told him he would not be able to walk away from Sam, that beautiful face, that
body.
She was refreshing, wholesome,
untainted, sweetness all wrapped up in a china doll, an orbit away from the
hard, uncaring, overpowering, arrogant women he had known.
The loud ticking of the clock behind him was
warning that the time had come to end his torment go home and settle down.
Gnawing
questions interrupted his reflections, was Sam another play toy for Ted, or was
he serious?
Would she become another one
of his victims or, was it possible Ted was getting tired of the whoring as
well?
Known to be realistic, before
warning Sam, he would have to get to know her better and feel out Ted's
intentions.
Uneasiness assailed him as he pondered the
idea of her living with them.
How would
he survive the torment, enough you fool, he rallied?
She is not your problem.
She is just another of Ted’s conquests. Pull
yourself together, get to work and you will be fine.
He left unobtrusively for the office.
CHAPTER 9
“JUNE 2011”
Positioned
outside the hospital waiting room, two men in blue uniform’s perused Brad and
Ralph settled in adjoining chairs each staring adamantly at an unknown
object.
The emotional state manifested
on the men's faces made each officer reluctant to perform their duty.
They
were investigating the battering and brutal raping of another woman who arrived
at the hospital a few hours after Mrs. Peterson.
A case they ruled a domestic quarrel that got
out of hand.
The female murdered her
assailant.
There was little evidence
pertaining to the incident, the on scene investigation incomplete.
Listed in critical condition, the woman
remained unconscious unable to enlighten them further.
Just another case typical of the hundreds
occurring daily in New York all too similar to the one the officers were now
preparing to probe.
Pen and pad in hand, the officers
entered, the tall slender man confronting Brad, “Are you Mr. Peterson?”
Raising his head, Brad’s shock
stricken eyes endeavored to assess the figure standing before him.
Indignantly he answered, “Who wants to know?”
“I'm Lieutenant Randall.
This is Sergeant Phelps.
We are investigating the alleged beating of
Mrs. Peterson.”
As
if struck by lightning, Brad vaulted to his feet, eyes blazing into the
Lieutenant's mere inches away.
‘‘What in
hell's going on?”
Brow furrowed, his
bewildered gaze examined the men expecting to be enlighten, including Ralph who
now stood beside him.
“What do you mean beating?
Christ . . . I don't understand.
Who would hurt Sam?
I thought maybe . . . maybe . . .”
“Maybe what, Mr. Peterson,” Randall
prodded.
Brad
hesitated shaking his head before replying in a weak voice, “I don't know.”
Lungs sucking in stale air forced emotion down his throat.
Running one hand through unruly strands, he
propped the other on his hip replaying the Lieutenants words, and wondering if
he had heard correctly.
Randall persisted, “I realize you're
upset, Mr. Peterson, but I need some answers.”
Beginning his vendetta with a short
stretch of worn tile, Brad’s utterance was barely audible, “I'm . . . I'm . . .
not Mr. Peterson.”
Not at all amused, Lieutenant Randall
snapped, “The nurses said you were.”
Warily
Ralph explained, “You see, Lieutenant, Brad is a very dear friend of
Samantha's.
Only by posing as her
husband was he allowed entrance.”
“Who are you,” Randall barked.
“I'm Ralph, an employee of Mr. Peterson
and Brad's . . . I mean Mr. Johnson,” gesturing toward Brad with his hand.
Not particularly interested in
Ralph, Randall studied Brad closely.
“I
don’t imagine that either of you know where we can locate her husband?”
Brad and Ralph
answered in unison, “No, sir.”
Feeling suspended in a horrible
nightmare, Brad's voice cracked, “Mr. Peterson and I are business partners and
friends.”
Pausing at the officer's feet,
he continued,” Please, sir, you have got to tell me what's going on.”
With expressions reflecting their
mutual sympathy, Phelps and Randall glanced at one another neither uttered a
word.
Knowing there was no gentle
explanation, Randall elaborated.
“All I
can say at this time is that we were summoned by the director of the hospital
who was informed by the attending physicians Mrs. Peterson was severely
beaten.
Our information states the
couple has been having marital difficulties for some time, and the only
fingerprints found in the apartment belonged to them.
The husband was the last person seen
entering and leaving the penthouse making him our primary suspect.”
Knowing how Brad would react, Ralph was not
surprised when his young friend turned on him, seized his collar and shook him
violently.
“Why didn't you tell me?
Send for
me?”
Using all their
strength, positioned on opposing sides of Brad, the officers pulled him away
from Ralph.
Forcing him into a chair
both officers physically contained him.
With a firm commanding voice, Lieutenant
Randall emphasized each word, “Look, Mr. Johnson, we understand you're
distraught, but we won't get anywhere unless you calm down right now.
Do you understand?”
Though Brad's jaw continued to twitch and
his face was flushed with anger, the tension in his muscles drained enough for
the officers to release their hold.
Lieutenant Randall
continued, “Obviously, Mrs. Peterson means a lot to you.
We could use your help.”
Subdued by numbness drained the
color from Brad's complexion.
His heart plunged
to the empty pit of his stomach.
There
was no comprehending the possibility that Ted was responsible.
Spending the majority of his life, working
and playing with someone he knew, and thought he understood, none of what
happened made sense.
Brad's pain emanating into him as if
it were his own made Ralph enter body shudder.
After traveling all day without sustenance, in desperate need of sleep,
and now knowing what happened to Sam, Ralph wondered just how much more his
young friend could bear.
Surely if Sam
died, guilt, like acid, would eat at Brad’s soul for deserting her.
Ralph knew, even before Brad, Sam
was the one he had been waiting for.
From the first introduction there was magic between them.
Memories of Brad being brought to his knees
by a little slip of a girl often made Ralph chuckle.
It was obvious the Rock of Gibraltar was
beginning to crumble. Whenever they were together Brad and Sam generated a
magnetism that drew everyone's attention including company employees who
gossiped about what a handsome couple they would make.
They felt Sam was too good for Ted the way he
cheated on her did not help.
She was the
only one fooled by what went on behind Ted's office doors.
Frequently stressed out by the
situation, Brad would throw his arms around Ralph’s shoulders and invite him
out for a beer.
Ralph never refused;
spending time with Brad was the highlight of his day.
He secretly hoped his companionship would
lighten the load of an unrequited love. During their frequent stops for beer
whenever Ralph encouraged Brad to express his feelings for Sam, he would simply
lift his beer, smile and say, “She belongs to Ted, remember,” before guzzling
the liquid and ordering another.
Brads
increased drinking since Sam arrived, troubled Ralph.
There were too many times when he took Brad
to his meager apartment to get him sober.
However difficult it was to imagine the complications of being in love
with a best friend’s girl, any dunce would know that one day it would
blow.
Never did Ralph imagine the degree
of the explosion.
Slumping over, resting his elbow on
his knees head bracketed in his hands Brad tried collecting his thoughts.
After a long silence, he spoke to the
officers.
“I haven't seen Ted or Sam in
over six months.
I am here because she
sent for me.
I do not know why, but
suspected she was in trouble.”
Sergeant Phelps, a middle-aged
thickset man with a wiry mustache, drew up a chair directly in front of
Brad.
Reaching to tap him reassuringly
on the shoulder, he prompted, “Tell us son, what makes you think she was in
trouble?”
Jerking his head up, Brad peered
into beady eyes. “Before I left, she told me she never wanted to see or hear
from me again.
I insisted if she ever
needed anything to send for me.
I knew
she wouldn't unless . . .”
Listening intently,
Sergeant Phelps persisted, “Unless what, son?”
Silence stretched on
as flat dull eyes held the Sergeant in suspense.
Finally, Brad mumbled, “Unless things weren't
good between her and Ted.”
Exhaustion emanated from Brads'
face.
Unable to witness his agony any
longer, Ralph approached the officers.
“Look, can't you see he has had enough for one night?
He needs some rest?”
Irate, Sergeant
Phelps turned on Ralph.
“You saw that
young lady.
What do you think she would
want us to do, go home and sleep?
Allow
that son of a bitch time to escape?”