by Thomas L. Traband III
Chapter I
“Would you like to see it again?” the TV spoke quietly to itself. I couldn’t manage to pay enough attention to it to make it worthwhile. This was fortunate or I might never have heard the doorbell ring.
“Mr. Reuter?”
On my front stoop stood a tall, dark stranger. She easily cleared six feet and was clad in a tight, fashionable black suit. Everything she wore was black including her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. Her make-up looked as though it functioned as some sort of sun screen.
“May I come in?”
I discovered I possessed the ability of human speech and invited her in. I stood nervously with her in the entry hallway and summoned up a suitable opening line.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? It’s not been often women of your caliber have passed through that door.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” she mumbled. To me: “I see you have already judged me on my merits as a potential sexual partner...”
“Oh, good heavens, no,” I interrupted. “Is that what you think? I’ll admit it’s hard not too at first glance, but I put that behind me and...”
“Oh, quit babbling. Men are all alike. Besides, I was merely stating a fact, not passing a judgement on the propriety of it. Now then, will you please invite me into a less well-lit room?”
I led her downstairs. The basement received less light than any other part of the house. A question flitted briefly across my addled mind. I think it had something to do with finding out her identity. At the time, however, more pressing demands were being made upon my nervous and endocrine systems.
“Won’t you have a seat?” I offered with a gesture toward my sectional sofa.
She walked by me, and I imagined she brushed up against me as she did so. At the time I found it to be a silly thought.
“You simply must stop undressing me with your eyes,” she said.
“I’m not un...”
“You’re a terrible liar. You must, also, stop imagining what it must be like to have sex with me. No, don’t start denying it. You realize, of course, that this hampers our business relationship.”
“Well, uh, how do you know what I’m thinking?”
“There’s not much a man can think that I don’t know. Anyway, it looks as if I shall be forced to put an end to this,” she sighed.
While I tried lamely to assimilate what was happening, I vaguely noticed her removing her hat and sunglasses, which revealed very dark eyes and shoulder length black hair.
“It would seem the best way to end your imaginings is to remove the mystery,” she said as she removed her jacket and unbuttoned her sleeves.
“Wait a minute. Do you mean...” I trailed off as I watched her remove her blouse.
“Quite so. Now please hurry and get undressed.”
I briefly noticed the extreme paleness of her skin. It was almost bone-white. I filed this knowledge away somewhere with the information of her manner of dress and feelings about daylight. I then continued gazing dumbly as she continued stripping.
Her body was bare beneath her blouse. She looked up at me and met my gaze. I had not begun to take my clothes off. She gave me a stern look and I pulled my T-shirt off. I unbuttoned my blue jeans and she dropped her eyes and focussed her attention on removing her skirt.
“Do you really think this is necessary?” I inquired nervously.
“Absolutely.”
She wriggled slightly and the skirt shimmied to her ankles.
I took a step back and watched her step out of her skirt. A black lace garter belt, black stockings and black heels were all that was left. My heart stopped and started, stopped and started with prodigious desire for her amazingly anatomically perfect body. Somewhere in the back of my head, alarm bells should have been ringing. If they were, I chose to hear what she was saying instead of listening to them.
“Not quite as exciting as you had hoped? Why don’t you get those pants off and join me over here on your sofa,” she invited.
She dropped onto the sofa and propped her long, extremely female legs on the unstained coffee table. She tossed her head, causing her silky black hair to fall in her face.
I dropped my pants and crossed the room. I started to sit down and she moved to stop me. She pointed to a point just below my waist.
“Is that a cucumber in your shorts or are you just glad to see me?”
I blushed briefly before regaining my composure.
“Guess,” I said.
“I think you’re glad to see me. Take off your shorts before you sit down here. Then we’ll know for sure.”
I raised my chin and pridefully slid my undershorts off. At the sight, she clapped her hands girlishly and giggled.
“Just as I thought. Now come over here so we can get to work,” she crowed.
I sat next to her, still hesitant about this whole situation. That didn’t bother her too much as she seized me and and attempted to swallow my face.
“Let’s get your orgasm over with so we can get on with business, ”she breathed.
After a couple of minutes of exploring my body with her hands, she latched onto something that interested her. She pulled and squeezed and petted and stroked and prodded and guided. Within a few seconds I exploded, relieved of the near unbearable pressure.
I took a brief vacation, with a walk down a long, cool beach. The ocean lapped gently at the shore. Palm trees hung over me, rich with coconuts. Some driftwood littered the beach but there was no sign of human civilization.
The next time I noticed who I was and what day of the week it had been, she had dressed and was sitting in a shadow, the source of which I was unable to discern.
Not liking to get caught with my pants down, I attended to my own dressing.
“When you’re finished covering yourself, shall we get on with our business?” she asked impatiently.
“Look, what is this business you keep speaking of? First, you flounce in here...” I began.
“I don’t flounce,” she interrupted.
“...then, you seduce me, the whole time complaining that my sexual thoughts and desires are hampering our business relationship and how you have to put a stop to them,” I said and zipped up my pants with finality. “What business relationship are you talking about?”
“I’m hiring you as a private detective.”
Apparently no one had let her in on the secret that I was a writer. I picked up a journal which contained a published story of mine and handed it to her.
“I appreciate all you’ve done today, but, as you can see, I’m not in the P.I. business. I’m a writer. My job is to write stories.”
“Oh, I know,” she said as she cast the journal onto the coffee table. “I’ve read a few of your stories. I believe you to be very bright, intuitive and terribly well-suited to the profession of investigation. I also want someone without a name as a detective since I don’t know who my father’s enemies are.”
“Enemies? I think it just might be time to sit down and discuss this whole affair.”
Scott McPherson spent most of his adult life locked in his laboratory. It doubled as his home. He purchased the farm, christened McPherson Farm, in Reston in ’61, before it was Reston. He hoped to get away from cities and people and universities, having had enough of research and the whole defense-industrial program. Science for science’s sake stood no better. He married Jennie Cook the year before acquiring the farm.
In June of ’63, Mrs. McPherson gave birth to Melanie Grace McPherson. Her father set up a workroom in the barn about that time and began doing some metal work. He made a few things for the house, but much of what he did was not understood by his family. He took to locking the door of the barn and to excluding visitors.
By the time Melanie began attending high school and Reston became a full fledged community, McPherson became more and more reclusive, spending long hours in his lab. Fortunately, Mrs. McPherson worked as a secretary for a major insurance company’s branch office in McLean. She kept the family from starving, Melanie felt. Melanie began working as a word processor for a temporary firm after graduation from high school which gave the family two incomes. Melanie’s mother could only take so much of her husband’s abandonment and had reached her limit in ’85. She filed for divorce, which was granted after many accusations and recriminations on both sides. McPherson then dove right back into his lab, not being seen for weeks at a time.
Melanie sought counseling after her mother’s death. This helped her get used to living with her father’s absent presence. She made a lot of progress and led a fairly normal life. She and her analyst felt the key problem to be resolved was her seeming need to replace her father in her life. She tried with a passion. This resulted in numerous short, intense romantic-sexual relationships with men. Each ended disappointingly to her.
“I came home from work Tuesday. The door to the barn was wide open and there was no one in there. The place was a mess. Papers were thrown about everywhere. It looked as if someone went through it very quickly looking for something. My father was gone. He never did come back.”
She paused. I waited for her to continue.
“I closed the barn and bought a padlock for it. I called the police and reported him missing. They came over and inspected the place and said they would file a report. They told me not to worry, he was sure to turn up. They told me he couldn’t have too many enemies. Hermits never did. They believed he just got tired of the old barn and needed to slip out and have a few drinks of something.”
“You don’t seem satisfied with their efforts...”
“Despite everything, I loved my father. He was my father after all.”
“Have you told your mother, yet?”
“No. I didn’t know how I should approach her with this news.”
“But the two of you must have been very close?”
“We were very close. She loved him, too, in her own way. She waited until I was old enough to take care of myself before getting the divorce. She moved out to California and wanted me to go, but I felt someone should stay and watch over my dad. I just don’t know what to say to her.”
“Has anything been disturbed in the barn after the police investigation?”
“No, they left it as it was.”
“This certainly piques my curiosity. I’m not even sure how I would proceed if I were to take this case.”
“You sound like you already have decided to take it. Think it over and call me when you decide what to do. I think you’ll do a fine job. I hope you will help me out.”
She pulled a little notebook out of her purse and jotted her phone number down on a page. She added a second number and denoted it with the bracketted letter ‘h’.
“Please call me.”
She turned and headed up the stairs. I heard the front door open and close. A minute later I heard a car start and then drive away.
“Ba-da-deep, ba-da-deep,” called Greg’s office telephone incessantly.
“Greg Callaghan,” Greg chirped into his Rolm desk phone.
“Greg Callaghan? Nick Reuter. What’s up?”
“What’s ever up?”
“The strangest thing happened here, today. I’ll tell you all about it later. Do you know where McPherson Farm is?” I asked.
“It’s in Reston, off of Hunter Mill Road. Why?”
“It all has to do with a woman in black and a missing father who happens to be a leading superconductor scientist. Anyway, I called about that job today...”
“Wait a minute! What have you gotten us into?” Greg interrupted.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain it all when you get home.”
“I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Great. I can’t wait to start on this. I’ll see you then. Bye.”
“Do you know who Scott McPherson is?” I asked.
“Isn’t he the star of that new comedy series?”
“No, and we ain’t in Kansas, neither.”
“Does this have something to do with the strange thing that happened to you today?”
“Quite. But first, some background. I spent the whole day at the library, going over back issues of the Post on microfiche. It seems this guy worked for the government on superconductors back in the late fifties. Everyone thought her was on to something. Then he got married, headed for the country and the next thing you know, he’s flipped out. At least as far as the government was concerned. What do you think we should do?” I asked my roommate.
“Well, we can fire up the new stereo cable box, and you can explain to me what’s been going on,” Greg suggested.
I paced to the sliding glass door, then back into the living room to look out the front window. I turned and repeated this performance. I took out a cigarette and lit it up. I gazed out over the deck at the common area. A light bulb went off over my head. Actually it was a flourescent strip in the overhead light that burned out, but the effect was the same.
“I’ve got it!” I cried. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“A topless bar in Georgetown.”
“Now you’re talking. But what about what happened?”
“Would you rather sit here and discuss it, or go to a topless bar and discuss it?”
“I’ll get my coat.”
“I’ll have a rum and coke and you can hold the coke.”
A young college co-ed, who was trying to work her way through law school and who wore nothing above the waist, took our orders. One look at her made me decide against any risk that might dilute my alcoholstream by allowing my blood cells to gain a majority.
“I like this place,” remarked Greg.
“I thought you would. Now, let me explain what we’re going to do.”
“You brought me here to tell me what we’re going to do?”
“It helps me think. Besides, I couldn’t be sure this was what I wanted to do until I came here. Listen closely, because I don’t want to repeat this.”
“So, what you’re telling me is, this sexy babe comes in, dressed all in black...”
“That’s right...”
“...And this babe takes various liberties with you...”
“Yep.” I laughed maniacally and got a wink from one of the waitresses.
“...And then this babe hires you as a private investigator,” Greg finished. He wrinkled his brow and squinted at me.
“You batted 1.000, kid.”
“Okay, well that’s enough for me. I don’t want to know any more. Just make sure you pay the rent before you die.”
“Yes, mom. By the way, I need you to come out to Reston with me to have a look at this barn.”
“Oh, no, I want nothing to do with this. You want to play at being a private eye, you do it alone.”
Our waitress returned and leaned over the table to give Greg his drink, which gave me an excellent view of some real estate that interested me.
“You have an extraordinarily expansive plot of undeveloped land, there,” I said to her. “You must really pay alot in property taxes. Ever consider putting that on the open market?”
She smiled politely and sashayed over to another table.
“Leave her a big tip, Greg,” I suggested.
“I’ll leave her a tip she’ll never forget.”
“Sure.”
After several wine coolers on Greg’s part and countless Scotch and sodas on my part, we were both roaring drunk.
“I still can’t believe this is happening,” Greg sputtered.
“Oh, it is. And I need your help solving this thing.”
“No chance. Besides, what good would a graphics artist be?”
“As much good as an aspiring writer.”
I took a long drag on my cigarette and looked at my watch. I could just make out the numbers. Then I focused on the hands to see which way they pointed. I got that down, but lost sight of the numbers. I tried again and discovered it was only 11:00. I dimly noticed Greg talking.
“...and even if I did decide to help you, what makes you think we can find this guy?”
“Does that mean you’re going to help me?”
“Yes. How could I turn down a friend in need. You know something?”
“I know a lot of things,” I intimated.
“One thing in particular. You’re about to get burned.”
“Huh?”
“Your cigarette.”
“How about that. I must be drunk. I guess I should put it out.”
I reached out for the ash tray and missed. I corrected my aim and crunched out the smoldering butt. Little to my perception, I managed to slide the ash tray off the table where it shattered on the metal base of the table.
“Way to go,” said Greg.
“Huh?”
“That gentleman over there behind you...”
He pointed and I turned around to see and nearly slid out of my chair.
“...is coming over to ask us to leave since you broke a piece of this place’s property.”
“You mean we’re going to get thrown out of a bar?”
A heavy slab of meat crushed my shoulder.
“Let’s go fellas,” this extremely large, walking ham said.
We followed up on this lead and headed for Nags Head. Fortunately, Greg owned a week at a time-share. We took up residence at the Outer Banks Beach Club in a parking lot-facing, one-bedroom condo.
“I get the bedroom,” I proclaimed.
“Oh no you don’t. This is my condo and I get the bedroom,” Greg countered.
“Good, I wanted the couch, anyway,” I said after having neatly hoodwinked my friend.
“Greg? Nick sent me.”
“Greg noted the black raincoat, followed it up to the sign hanging against her ample bosom. It read, simply, ‘To: Greg’. Greg recognized that the card was written in Spanish. He looked a little closer.
“Am I going to get the same treatment every time I come into this house? Here, take the card and read it somewhere a little farther away from my breast.” The dark-clothed young lady removed the card by its string and handed it to Greg, and noticed a familiar flicker in his eye.
“No, I didn’t mean down there,” she said, looking down at her raincoat.
“Huh?” Greg smiled. He inspected the proffered card and noticed it to be an X-rated postcard from Honduras.
“May I come in now? These ultraviolets are killing me.”
Greg noticed her again and saw that, despite the bright, sunny weather, she was wearing a black raincoat, dark glasses and a black, wide-brimmed hat. Realization dawned on him like a glacier advancing up a hill.
“Yes, please. Come on in. Have a seat. Can I take your coat?”
“After we get downstairs. This is the most dreadfully illuminated house I have ever been in. Why don’t you buy some heavy drapes and paint the walls black?” she suggested as they descended the stairs to the basement.
“I’m already in enough trouble with the homeowner’s association. The Cherrywood Square Homeowner’s Association Decorating Police are going to come and demand to know why the door is the wrong color and why the drapes are the wrong color and why the walls are the wrong color and why...”
Greg was interrupted by a very passionate, very distracting kiss.
He reached the second peak and surveyed the untamed landscape. The world had been worn smooth and barren. The only life he could see from his vantage point was to the south and that appeared to be some thick vegetation. Exploring that patch of growth seemed to be his best move.
He slid down the south slope of this hill and struck a direct course for that clump of life. Since his path proceeded downhill, he could keep his goal in sight throughout his journey.
A couple hours later he entered in through the first few stalks. The same flora made up the entire copse. It felt like he had been there for days, as he trampled deeper.
Suddenly, he found himself falling into the deepest, blackest pit imaginable. He kept falling and falling. No bottom could be seen. In fact, nothing could be seen.
The last thing he heard was a woman’s voice saying, “Honey, the telephone’s ringing...” and then, unconciousness.