Betrayed
by
Wodke Hawkinson
© 2011 by Wodke Hawkinson
All rights reserved.
Acknowledgement
We thank our spouses and families
for their support and encouragement.
Alone Looking at the Mountain
All the birds have flown up and gone;
A lonely cloud floats leisurely by.
We never tire of looking at each other -
Only the mountain and I.
Chapter 1
As they entered their six-car garage, Brook reached for the keys to the Cayenne Turbo S. With its 520 horsepower, it was capable of handling even the most extreme conditions and Clark always insisted Brook drive it in the winter. Now, however, Clark placed his hand over hers to stop her from taking the keys.
“Why don’t you drive the Ferrari? This might be the last day of the year you’ll be able to take it out.” He smiled and kissed her cheek as he grabbed the keys to his Spyker D8. He tossed his briefcase through the backward-opening rear door, slipped into the driver’s seat, and pressed the garage door opener. Blowing Brook a kiss, he exited into the late autumn morning.
Brook took the keys to the Spider, slid into the luxurious interior, entered the address of her destination into the GPS unit, and backed out of the garage. Moving into the street, she glided past million dollar mansions that sat on two to three acres of well-manicured land. She exited the gated community, nodding to Jerry in the guardhouse. Jerry waved and smiled. Brook saw him bend to record the time she left and what vehicle she was driving. Security at Pinion Plateau was state-of-the-art. No one entered or left without their presence being noted.
The brisk air held the threat of impending snow as Brook made her way through town. They’d had a couple of small snowfalls already, but for now the roads were clear and the Spider moved in and out of traffic like a red blip on a radar screen. Clark was right, the day was beautiful, and Brook basked in the bright morning sunlight that slanted through the windshield as she went about her errands.
She knew it wouldn’t be long before the first big snow hit and then driving would become a chore, if the town didn’t shut down completely. Forecasts were calling for a real whopper.
At the GPS unit's prompt, she signaled for a right turn and zipped down an unfamiliar byway. The Ferrari was as responsive as a lover under her hands.
Soon, Brook had left the city-major behind. She didn’t care for the looks of the area she was now entering. She tapped her manicured nails nervously on the steering wheel as she sat at a stoplight. A group of young men loitering on the corner noted her discomfort and watched with amused looks on their faces. She pulled away quickly as the light turned green.
She'd decided to get this chore out of the way before running her other errands, after which, she would grab some lunch at Maurice’s. Then, she could go home, tend to daily household chores, relax in the hot tub, and shower before Clark returned home from work. Maybe she would have Rachel whip up something special for dinner. She could use some intimacy. Clark had been working long hours lately and they’d had little time together. As she drove, she reflected on the lack of companionship she had recently been feeling in her marriage. She missed the closeness that had filled their lives before…well, before the tragedy that had changed everything. She shook her head, pushing away painful memories and focused instead on the reason for this particular errand.
That morning at breakfast, completely out of character, Clark had asked her to do him a favor. He wanted her to go to a bookstore on the south side of town. He said he had done some research and this was the only shop he could locate that carried a copy of a rare book his boss had mentioned. Clark wanted to surprise Harold with the book on his upcoming birthday. He had stressed several times that this was the only store in the state with a copy and he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to make the purchase. The book was being held under his name. She had watched him as he finished eating, took a final sip of coffee, and then began stuffing papers into his briefcase. He had seemed nervous, fidgety, but she couldn’t imagine why. Their usual morning conversation had been stilted and they had parted in the garage shortly after.
Brook assumed Clark hadn’t sent his assistant on this errand for fear Harold would hear about the book and the surprise would be ruined. Anxiety rose within her as she found herself amid abandoned stores intermingled with porn, tattoo, and head shops. Splashes of graffiti scarred the forsaken buildings. In a weed-choked lot, two groups of rough-looking youths sat atop parked cars and hollered lazy insults back and forth. Further ahead, posturing gang bangers strutted their colors, advertising their menace. A ragged homeless woman shuffled through the garbage- strewn streets.
Adding to Brook’s discomfort, her shiny red car was drawing unwanted attention from watchers with desire written on their faces. With each passing block, her surroundings became more sinister. Low---riders cruised up and down the street, and men with low-hanging pants stood in small groups volleying banter and invective between them. They all stared at her car, some blatantly, others from beneath downcast eyes.
Brook peeked at the GPS display and checked it against the paper on which Clark had scribbled the address of the bookstore. She appeared to be in the right location. She scanned the names on the buildings and found Bill’s Bawdy Book Barn stuck between Fanny’s Massage Parlor and The Dragon’s Den tattoo shop. As she stared aghast, the GPS informed her she had reached her destination. Brook frowned, muttering in disbelie f.
She hesitated before stepping from the vehicle. Her eyes darted nervously from side to side and then to the rearview mirror. Why would Clark send her here? He couldn’t possibly have realized how bad this part of town was, or he surely would have taken care of this himself. Although Brook wasn’t easily intimidated, she also wasn’t usually exposed to this sort of living or the vibes of danger that radiated from the men on the street.
Brook gathered her courage and stepped from the car. She felt exposed and vulnerable. Holding her Bottega Veneta handbag close to her midriff, she walked briskly from the lot to the sidewalk. Turning the corner, she took perhaps half a dozen steps before she was accosted by a young man.
Shaggy brown hair hung in greasy strands around his face, and his clothes were torn and dirty. “Well, well,
