Shades of Cassandra ch1

    Chapter 1



         The cabin was beautiful in its rustic simplicity. It was one room with a single twin bed. On the wall opposite the bed sat an ancient looking cast iron stove, its rusty innards already stocked with firewood from the last time her father had visited. On the adjoining wall, directly in front of the cabin’s single paned window, sat a 1950s era chromed table and chairs. That would work perfectly as a writing table, plenty of sunshine, a good view of the forest, and plenty of room for her ancient Smith-Corona typewriter. She never composed upon a computer, at least not until the second draft, not until the story had blossomed from the inner reaches of her brain. Steven always made fun of her low tech approach to creativity. He had always called her the crazy typewriter lady. Unfortunately Steven had been dipping his pen in a blonde shaded ink well while she was composing her last romance novel. The divorce had been messy and trying on her soul.

         She set her suitcases and hiking gear down upon the bed and stepped outside of her father’s hunting cabin, allowing the bright sun to warm her face and body. She looked around at the scenery that was the Flathead National Forest, reflecting on how long it had been since she had taken a simple walk in the woods, had touched the trunk of a red cedar tree, and viewed a grazing mule deer in a meadow. Too long, it had been far too long. But that had been Steven’s fault, not hers. Steven could never find the time for them. The business, a souvenir stand and miniature golf course in Columbia Falls, had always come first. That and young blondes. Apparently he had become tired of Italian American brunettes, tired of her.

         And that was why she was here, deep in the forest, just north of a trout filled lake, and just south of Cougar Summit. She was here attempting to shake the poison left behind from a divorce from her soul, to shake the trauma of Steven Brice from her spirit and find the courage to move on, to write again. It was hard for a romance novelist to write romance when all the love in your heart had wilted and died.

         She stepped off the porch and walked across the clearing, past her silver colored Jeep Wrangler, to where a small path led her back to her father’s contribution to rustic plumbing, a homemade shower house, something old Jed Clampett would have used back in the hills, or perhaps something Hawkeye Pierce would have swilled Gin from. It looked more like a still than a shower house; especially with two cast iron kettles mounted on top of it, copper pipe running down from each and forming together at a T- junction, providing the occupant with a mixture of hot and cold water. Unfortunately, there was no way to regulate the hot to cold ratio. How it mixed was what you got. She already anticipated the possibility of being scalded.

         She walked on past the shower house, not far, just a little ways, to where the toilet was. Now she understood how rustic her father, the great forest ranger, Sergio DeFazio, was. He had dug a deep pit, laid a concrete slab atop it, and mounted a porcelain toilet atop that (minus the flush tank). There was no enclosure to speak of. She would be exposed to every form of wildlife (both two and four legged) there was to be found in the forest. Everyone and anyone would be able to watch her take care of her personal business. She debated setting up her port-a-potty instead, perhaps inside the cabin. That would be a bit more private, not to mention safer. She should have expected something like this from her father. She loved him to death, and she thought of him as the world’s greatest forest ranger, but he was one of the most eccentric people she knew, the kind of man who would put peanut butter on corn of the cob, the only man she knew who did put peanut butter on corn on the cob.

         Shaking her head in dismay at her father’s bizarre sense of ingenuity, she turned around and headed back down the short trail and back to the cabin. She was burning up daylight, and she had a deadline to keep, a new romance novel to write. She had to send her alter ego, Cassandra Wilson, on an erotic adventure on the streets of London. She intended to reunite her with her one true love; the hunky and rather muscle bound Hank Hammer. Kim had created old Hank with the intention of conjuring up a man who was everything Steven wasn’t; handsome, charming, trustworthy, not to mention loyal. In retrospect she already knew her marriage was in the shit hole when she created Hank three novels ago. She was simply in denial, especially after blonde beach bunny, Betty Sue Richardson came to work for them.

         She paused by the back of the Jeep and opened the tailgate, extracting the dreaded port-a-potty. She set it on the ground and paused for a moment, comparing Betty Sue’s perky face with a proverbial pile of shit. She should have never agreed to hire Betty Sue. ‘It’s something good, part of the Park Services program’, Steven stated at the time. ‘Let’s hire a college student for the summer. We could use the help.’ Two weeks later Betty Sue showed up at the door, looking as if she had just left the grounds of the Playboy mansion; pink halter top revealing her rather ample bust line, a pair of cut off shorts which revealed most of her rather tanned legs, pouting red lips which practically screamed ‘kiss me’ before Betty Sue even opened her mouth. How could Steven not hire her, and how could he not be seduced by her. If Kim were a man she would have been seduced by her.

         “Piss on men.” She said out loud. “Piss on men and piss on any type of romance.”

         How was she to write a romance novel? Who was she kidding?

         Unfortunately she had no choice but to write one. Steven had retained a very talented lawyer, one who specialized in divorce settlements favoring the husband. Kim’s lawyer, as it turned out, had barely passed his bar exams by the skin of his teeth. She lost nearly everything save the Jeep and her laptop computer. What made it worse was the fact she was now living in a single wide trailer alongside some of Kalispell’s least desirable neighbors. Every night seemed to be a new adventure in beer parties, loud screaming, and the stark fear she would soon hear a gunshot announcing a trailer trash divorce. That was not the most desirable environment in which to get a seventy-thousand word novel written.

         She picked up the port-a-potty and closed the hatch on the Jeep, walking back up to her new home away from home. She stepped inside the cabin and set the toilet down in a far corner, dismissing it for the moment, and turned to what was really important, the typewriter case she had laid on the bed with her gear. Now was as good of time as any to start.  She unbuckled the case and extracted her antique, mint condition, Smith-Corona Sterling typewriter, circa 1935. She set it down on the small kitchen table, running her hands lovingly over the carriage, longing for simpler times when she truly believed herself to be in love, when Steven was actually there for her, supporting her writing efforts.

         But just because she was in pain didn’t mean Cassandra Wilson had to be. Cassandra wouldn’t take a divorce lying down, so to speak. She was strong. She would shake off the pain and soldier on to the next adventure. And that was what Kim intended for her to do. Cassandra and Hank had become separated by geography during a rather harrowing scrape in Budapest. And now Kim was sending the stunned romantic heroine on to London, onto a beautiful estate owned by a duke in an effort to recuperate. But, unbeknown to her, Hank was headed for the same estate after narrowly escaping the clutches of Al-Qaeda terrorists. The two were destined to rejoin under the sheets in a guest bedroom, and stumble onto a plot which was aimed at none other than the Duchess of Cambridge.

         But where should she start?

         Two months ago, prior to the divorce, she knew where Cassandra was headed and why. Now, with her life now being the settled debris of an emotional train wreck, she had no idea where to begin. All she had set in her mind was a scene where Cassandra exits a jet at Heathrow airport. She had no plot, no set story line, just her arrival. She hadn’t even any idea who the Al-Qaeda terrorists were or why they were after the duchess. She reached up and grabbed a fist full of her long, black hair, twisting it in nervous frustration. She wanted to scream. She wanted to punch something, something blonde, something named Betty Sue Richardson.

         Betty Sue … Why not give Cassandra a nemesis?

         She stood up, backed away from the typewriter as the thought rumbled through her mind like a runaway freight train. What if she did base a character off of Betty Sue? Could she be sued for something like that? Would Steven or Betty even bother to read one of her books? Would they find out? There was no point in asking her idiot lawyer. He wouldn’t know a legal president if it came up and bit him on the ass. She could ask her publisher, but that would give the source of her inspiration away. No, perhaps she should change the character just enough, make her different enough to put any similarities in doubt.

         But she couldn’t just create a character out of thin air. She needed to think about this. She needed to step away from the typewriter and truly think about what a nemesis worthy of Cassandra Wilson would entail. There was a lake nearby, and her father kept some fly tackle stored in the cabin. Perhaps she could spend the afternoon casting a fly rod, chase down some cutthroat trout. It would give her time to think.

         

****



         She spent her first afternoon in Flathead National Forest in a pair of hip waders, standing in knee deep water. Her mind was focused on her casts. There was no pressure of a deadline or of dreaming up a nemesis, her spirit was actually at peace for the first time since the divorce. Perhaps it was how the sun reflected upon the water, all glistening and golden, shining up at her face. Perhaps it was the rows upon rows of Colorado Spruce which lined the shores of Honeysuckle Lake, providing her with a rather majestic and soul nourishing view. Or perhaps it was the two cutthroat trout she had already caught, the makings of a shore lunch back up at the cabin.

         Whatever it was, she felt one-hundred percent better. She felt like a person again and not everyone’s punching bag. And as her mind wrapped itself around the concept of her well being, she began to readdress the subject of Cassandra Wilson’s nemesis, the woman who would be Cassandra’s equal; cause her a sufficient amount of challenge. The villain would have to be cunning, diabolically evil. And she would need a motive not only to pursue the affections of Hank Hammer, but to be a potential threat to the duchess and her husband, the prince. And she would have to somehow be tied to Al-Qaeda; she would have to be Middle Eastern. Or would she?

         A name came to Kim as she made yet another cast with the fly-rod, sending the bright orange line a little further out into the center of the lake. The name, two names actually, dropped into her mind at once. The first one she considered was the name of Aimee. The image of Betty Sue as a young British girl appeared to her momentarily, all prim and proper. But that didn’t seem quite right, not for a potential terrorist. No, the second name to occur to her seemed better suited. She imagined Betty Sue as an Irish woman, an Irish terrorist … a remnant of the IRA. A member of the IRA and Al-Qaeda would team up given the opportunity, wouldn’t they? Assuming their interests and goals intersected.

         And as she hooked yet another cutthroat trout and reeled it in, Kim DeFazio formed a name, an Irish name. Sheila O’Malley. Yes, Sheila would be everything Kim had hated about Betty Sue. She would be young and beautiful, a dedicated whore, and oh so diabolically evil. She would hate the British government, and she would hate Cassandra Wilson merely because she was friends with a duke, and because Cassandra had Hank Hammer, the man she most desired to make her own.

         Kim placed her third trout within the floating live well, the fish basket she had secured to a belt loop via a nylon rope. She then turned around, deciding it was time to quit; her short stint of fishing had served its purpose. She unhooked the fly she was using, a black and yellow lure her father had made himself, and stuck the hook into the fabric of the fly-fishing vest she was wearing. She then started wading back to the shore, a good seventy foot distance.

         She was twenty feet from the shore when she felt she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t anything definite, just a feeling someone or something was observing her, watching her actions. Her first thought was bear. There were plenty of bears inhabiting Flathead National Forest, both black bear and Grizzly. She had a basket full of smelly trout, certainly a treat for any hungry omnivore. And so she stopped, standing still in three feet of water, her fish basket floating aimlessly behind her as she scanned the shoreline, looking for the telltale image of a nine hundred pound brute standing up on its hind legs, jaws open as it anticipated a fish lunch, and perhaps a side order of fresh human. Kim’s only defense against such an intruder would be the flimsy fly-rod, not much good against such a beast. She silently swore at herself. She had left her hand gun up in the Jeep. She should have brought it with her to the lake.

         “Hello?”

         She listened for a response, all the while scanning the shoreline brush for some form of movement. Nothing moved. The world was perfectly still, as if anticipating her next action.

         “Hello, is someone there?”

         What happened next would have been comical had she not been so on edge. It wasn’t a bear which appeared before her at the shoreline, nor a cougar. It was a lone coyote, a pup barely old enough to be out on his own. The animal appeared at the shoreline, ears up and looking as if it wanted to ask her a question. And she knew what that question was. Do you have anything for me to eat? You caught something. I can smell it.

         Had this been your average stray dog she might have not been afraid. She might have even offered it something, a piece of cheese or perhaps a piece of the beef jerky she had brought with her from Kalispell. But this wasn’t some stray German shepherd looking for a handout. This was a wild coyote out looking for its supper. And a coyote, a hungry one, could be just as dangerous as any other animal. She could still be bitten.

         She took a few steps back into the lake, never taking her eyes off the canine. The coyote, in response, stepped forward, walking to the water’s edge. It wined at her and sniffed the air, apparently focusing on smell of the trout. Then it did something rather strange, something which changed Kim’s state of mind, adding puzzlement to her fear. It growled at her and stepped back suddenly, tail tucked between its legs.

         Kim watched, her emotions churning as the coyote turned and ducked behind a tree. She looked around behind her, expecting to see a bear or some other large predator on the opposite shore. But there was nothing. There was only her. Something about her had suddenly upset the animal. And that in itself was strange. She never had an animal act like this before. She was always kind to animals, and they to her (with the exception of the overprotective mother grizzly bear which had chased her home when she was eleven). Her father had rescued her from certain death that day, scaring the bear off with a blast of buck shot.

         But this was strange. The coyote was actually shivering, and it was wining.. With a renewed sense of courage, Kim stepped forward, emerging from the lake. Now feeling bad for the canine’s state of fear, she attempted to approach it, left hand holding the fish basket and fly rod, right hand held out in front of her. But instead of reaching out and sniffing her hand, the coyote cowered further, and then turned and ran into the forest.

         Kim stood there perplexed, and perhaps a little hurt. A few moments ago she had been the one afraid, now she appeared to be the one to be afraid of and she didn’t know why. She stepped up onto the path which wound its way around Honeysuckle Lake, gazing down to where the coyote had run to. It had paused on the path, down near the south end of the lake, watching her emerge. Its ears were laid back upon its head and it was still shivering with fear. Kim called to it, trying to soothe the animal’s trauma. But all she managed to do was encourage the pup to run further down the trail and into the woods.

         Kim stood for a moment, attempting to understand just what exactly had happened. Perhaps it was because the coyote was just a pup, venturing out on its own. Perhaps she was the first human it had ever seen. That must be it. A fear of man was a natural thing for an animal to have, a fear of the unknown. The coyote merely didn’t know what to make of her.

         Satisfied with her interpretation of the situation, Kim turned her thoughts back to her story, to the new nemesis she now had to bring to life. She turned back towards the direction of the cabin, anticipating the taste of fresh trout and a few long hours over the type-writer, a bottle of Moose Drool Ale by her side and a story blossoming onto the page in front of her. She intended to breathe the fire of life into Sheila O’Malley, make her into a real person.

         

****



         Writer’s block was a horrible thing, and despite her trip to the lake and her revelation concerning a nemesis, she was still having a hard time getting going. Kim was stuck. Despite making her part of the IRA, she still needed a reason for Sheila to hate the royal family. Why would she hate the duchess so much? Why would she risk her life to cause England’s newest Princess so much pain and suffering? It just wasn’t making sense to her. She rubbed her eyes, attempting to alleviate the eye strain which was being amplified by the failing light of the evening.

         Discouraged, she sat back and stared out at the darkness beyond the window. It was a clear night, and the sky was rapidly filling up with the stars of the Milky Way, reminding her just why Montana was called big sky country. To her left, to the east, a sliver of moon was appearing over the trees. She paused and thought how her father used to sit up with her at night and point out the constellations; Cygnus, Hercules, Sagittarius. They spent hours together just gazing at the stars, discussing the possibility of life on other worlds, discussing whether man would ever travel the stars as easily as he traveled the sky in airplanes. She missed those times. But people grow up.

         Kim stood up and stretched, again wondering if going outside and getting some fresh air would break loose the blockage and allow her creative juices to flow. Maybe if she just walked back to the lake, observed the moonlight reflecting upon the water, it would be enough to shake the cobwebs loose and she could ….

         She saw a shadow move among the trees, just past the faint silhouette of her Jeep. What the hell? Was someone out there? A hiker? Some pot smoking hippie from Missoula? Worse yet, a serial killer? She was a woman who was up here alone. How easy would it be to be raped or perhaps killed up here, her father finding her mangled body only after she failed to return home?

         However, Kim was not someone to avoid danger when it presented itself. She grabbed her gun, unlocking the safety. Then, after crossing herself and saying a prayer, and grabbing a flashlight, she pushed the cabin door open and stepped out onto the porch, her eyes straining to see in the faint moonlight illuminating the ground. There were no other cars on the entry road when she had driven up here, and no hikers. So who the hell could be up here, sneaking around in the middle of the night? Damn if she wasn’t going to find out.

         She carefully walked across the dirt yard to her Jeep, pausing and kneeling in front of the grill. She then peeked around the driver’s side fender, watching the shadow as it stood at the edge of the forest right where the path to Honeysuckle Lake started. Maybe someone had seen her fishing at the lake and got curious. Maybe … was that a woman? Kim stood up, exposing her upper torso above the hood of her Jeep. That looked like a woman … wearing a dress of all things, a petticoat.

         “Hey, who goes there? Identify yourself!”

         The shadow moved slightly to the right, blending into the darkness of the trees.

         “I have a gun. Identify yourself!”

         She shone the light on the spot she believed the woman to be hiding. She swept it over the trees, illuminating the leaves. Something moved into the shadows, avoiding her beam. She then heard the sound of rustling leaves and footfalls as someone ran away.

         On impulse, and due to the confidence a Glock 17 nine millimeter gave her, she ran towards the trail and towards the mystery woman she had just glimpsed in the brush. She moved onto the trail, following the winding path which took her back to the lake. The woman, the shadow, seemed to be just out of range of her flashlight beam, just past the point where Kim could at least identify her as a solid object. She tried to run faster, trying to catch up to her unknown stranger, but only managed to go tumbling forward as her hiking boot caught the edge of an exposed tree root. She slid through a muddy patch and crashed head first into a small grove of fern bushes.

         “Ah fuck!”

         She didn’t break any bones, of that much she was sure of. She did, however, bruise something as she slid through the mud. She discovered her ribs were sore when she sat up, and her left palm had been cut on something sharp. She could feel blood trickling down her finger tips.

         “Kim, you stupid bitch!”

         She transferred the light to her right hand and used it to inspect her now throbbing left palm. She had cut herself on her Eveready flashlight. The light had belonged to her father and was of an old style, made when metal, not plastic had been used in flashlight manufacture. Her hand had slipped forward over the slide switch, which had inadvertently dug into her palm.

         “You stupid fucking bitch.”

         Groaning, she managed to stand up and turn around, pointing the now blood stained flashlight towards the trees, looking for any sign of movement. There was nothing. The night was perfectly still and silent except for the faint chirping of an odd cricket. Her mystery woman had vanished. As a result  she was now convinced she had chased a shadow, a figment of her imagination. It did not really move right to be anything else. It had glided over the ground. She had heard footsteps, but it had actually glided.

         Feeling a bit foolish she turned around and headed back to the cabin, wondering how much damage she had actually done to her left hand and her ribs (she felt pain every time she took a breath). As for her hands, she was just grateful she had not been holding the light with the right one. She typed with both hands, but it was her right one which dominated the typewriter keys (she had never bothered to take a proper typing class). If she had messed up the right hand, her novel, not to mention her writing career, would be finished.