FIRST 10 PAGES
CHAPTER 1
The warm spring day had sunken into a dreadful, dark and damp night. When police arrived on the scene of the accident, they could hear the sound of the crashed cars creaking as they settled from the recent impact. Fluids from the engine were leaking and pooling on the asphalt and escaping water hissed from a crushed radiator. The paramedics had already been summoned. The windshields of both vehicles were cracked and blood-splattered. The impact had wrapped both cars around the traffic light post. It was hard to decipher exactly what had happened because the damage was so extensive.
The two officers split off to look for the survivors. They were unable to tell how many people were trapped inside the wreckage. It was immediately apparent that the “jaws of life” would be necessary to retrieve the injured from both vehicles.
The scene was eerily quiet. There were no cries for help or painful moans coming from inside the cars. While nervously awaiting the arrival of emergency crews, one officer started the report as the other tried in vain to get a response from a passenger in either vehicle.
Within moments the paramedics and firefighters arrived at the scene and began the rescue effort. After five minutes of sawing, which seemed like an hour, the first victim was pulled from the wreckage. It was a middle-aged woman; she was unconscious and had severe lacerations to the head and chest.
As the paramedic secured her on the stretcher, he caught wind of the strong smell of alcohol on her breath.
“This one’s been drinking,” he said to the police officer that stood by watching helplessly, shaking his head.
The officer made note of the medic’s comments in his report as the first victim, possibly the one who caused this horrific scene, was whisked away to the hospital in the ambulance within minutes of being pulled from the wreckage. Three more ambulances sat nearby with engines humming and lights flashing in anticipation of more survivors.
A wrecker truck had to pry the first victim’s crumpled car away from the other vehicle before the next rescue attempt could begin.The wrecker driver secured several sturdy iron hooks to the bent frame of the empty car. As he began to pull the car away, the other rescuers selflessly risked injury to themselves by climbing into the wreckage and sawing the twisted metal from the two cars apart; all in an effort to speed up the process and find survivors.
The crowd of curious onlookers slowly grew as the firefighters and medics struggled to break through to the injured, and the lights from the emergency vehicles bounced aimlessly off the surrounding trees and buildings.
Once the silver Camry was pulled away, another female body was detected. She was trapped inside a crushed red Mustang, pinned firmly to the door with the hood collapsed on top of her. She was a virtual sardine and with each cut through the car, they risked further injury to her. They worked carefully and methodically. This time over twenty minutes passed before the next victim was retrieved. Her young face was covered in blood and her neck was clearly broken. There was no pulse; she was dead.
The same thoughts went through all of their minds. Another life cut short by a drunk driver. She was too young, she was someone’s daughter, sister, friend. She would never grow up, have a family of her own, she would never grow old.
The morale of the rescue team was sinking quickly, then they heard the first muffled cry for help from the inside of the car, since they began their effort. There appeared to be one more victim left, and this one was alive. Desperate not to lose another, medics were thankfully able to retrieve the last survivor within ten minutes. She had come to and was highly agitated, but not completely coherent. No one had the heart to try to explain to her what had happened – that her friend was dead. They just tried to settle her and get her into the ambulance and to the hospital as soon as possible.
As the ambulance drove away, the search began for identification. The officer’s heart sank as he knew what his next duty would be, the depressing and devastating task of knocking on the family’s door.
Several miles from the scene of the crash, a warm glowing fire flickered and popped below a hand-carved, candle-lit, marble mantle, as Dr. Jack Martin finished the thirteenth draft of the speech he would give in the morning. He relaxed in the high-backed leather chair gazing into the glowing embers, finally content. Tomorrow would be a turning point in his career. As a respected psychiatrist, it certainly wasn’t the first speech he had given, but it was the first original therapy he would introduce to his peers. It could make him or break him. Would he be lauded as a genius; or scoffed upon as a fool.
With that thought, the warm, fuzzy feeling of contentment snapped like an icicle. Martin leapt from his fireside chair, speech in hand, and dashed down the hall, up the stairs, to the right, into his bedroom, then into the dressing room, to a full-length mirror. He stood there, looking at himself, adjusting his pose until it was just right. Then he began to read the speech aloud, as if he was reading it to an auditorium filled with his peers.
He began using this practice when we rehearsed for plays during college. He had also recommended it several patients experiencing performance anxiety. After the first two pages he felt the uneasy, uncertain feeling melt away. He was on fire with confidence. He imagined the crowd watching on intently, yearning for his next thought.
After an hour or so of repetition and visualization, Dr. Martin felt somewhat content again. Whether his peers agreed with him or not, there was no denying the technology was impressive.
Looking into the minds of patients has long been the work of psychiatrists; but actually seeing the patient’s mental imagery through technology; well, that was all-together new. There would definitely be applause, he thought. Whether or not Martin’s reconditioning treatment would actually produce permanent results, was the real question.
Even though he had already spent years developing and testing his theory, treatment, and equipment - tomorrow was a new beginning.
CHAPTER 2
The house had an unusual silence when Emily was gone. Though he had begun to look forward to her monthly out-of-town business trips, George missed being waited on, and he had finally learned to appreciate all the things she did for him. After twenty some odd years of marriage, one tends to take all those favors for granted. For Emily, the little things that started as favors done out of love, had been degraded over time, to bothersome chores.
When the kids started high school, Emily got her first real job. Having a life of her own and a career that took her away from home two to three days a week, made her forgetful of his needs.
Every cloud has a silver lining he thought, as he laughed out loud. Take for instance, the dry cleaning. For years, Emily religiously collected, delivered, monitored and picked up his dry cleaning.
That’s when it all began. His virgin trip to the dry cleaner started out innocently enough. Three pairs of slacks, one suit, and six shirts in a white canvas laundry bag. Emily had always stressed the importance of inventorying the items for drop off, as dry cleaners are notorious for losing things. Once they’ve lost something, it’s almost impossible to get them to ‘fess up to it’ and it’s even harder to get any money from them to replace it. Emily’s detail-oriented style made her very good at her job, but often hard to live with.
The girl at the counter could easily have been a classmate to his son. She was that age anyway. There was something about her that was different. She wasn’t like the typical giddy, giggly immature, uncoordinated escorts his son brought home. She was much more than that. She was absolutely stunning. She had long brown hair that graced her shoulders and complimented her neck and delicate oval face. She was mysterious, alluring and oozing with charisma. His attraction to her was purely sexual; after all, what could a 17-year-old dry cleaning counter girl teach an experienced criminal court judge, that he didn’t already know?
Being a prominent figure in town, Judge George Richards had a reputation to protect. Being married, he shouldn’t have ever entertained the thought about getting involved in an extramarital relationship; especially not with someone young enough to be his daughter, and definitely not with someone under the age of 18.
Another thing that he liked about her was that she had no idea who he was, and she didn’t seem to care. He figured she was just in it for sex too. He wondered from time to time just how promiscuous she was. Did she tell her friends about the older man she was having an elusive affair with? Were there other older men? Did she even date anyone her age? Did she know his kids? What were her parents like? How would they deal with the situation if they found out? Did he know her parents? Where did she live?
He was jealous of her in some respects because, for him, the arrangement was completely secretive. There was not a soul he could brag to or even discuss the matter with. All of his friends adored his wife. She was pretty close to perfect, as far as wives go. Everyone who knew her loved her. She was attractive, had a great personality and was devoted to her family. There was really no faulting Emily. Most of his friends were envious of what they thought was his perfect wife and his perfect marriage. If they only knew about his perfect affair.
He tried not to think about Emily ever finding out. That would be disastrous. Though their relationship had lost its sparkle, he had no intention of hurting or leaving her. She had been very good to him.
She got something new to spice up her life in her job. She was consumed by it. She spent all her time doing it or talking about it. He got Jennifer to spice up his life.
He couldn’t focus on the morning news he was trying to read. It was Monday and he had a busy day ahead. He would have to be better informed about the world’s events tomorrow. He closed his laptop, straightened his tie, put on his tailored jacket, picked up his keys from the peg by the door and went out to the garage.
He couldn’t help but admire the classic lines of his new white BMW. It was a beautiful car and he loved driving it. He opened the door. He even loved the sound the door made when it opened and closed. He slid into its sleek seat and pulled down the visor to take another look at himself in the mirror before he backed out onto the driveway. Amazingly well preserved for forty-two, he thought. He was one of the lucky ones; his friends hated him because he didn’t even have a receding hairline. How could she resist him? Emily wouldn’t be home until Wednesday, so maybe he could plan a rendezvous tonight.
As he drove down the lane in front of his house, he noticed how the light frost on the trees twinkled in the early morning sun. It was unusual for this time of year. The spring flowers had already begun to bloom, and the trees were budding. In less than an hour the frost would be gone, leaving the already struggling new growth to make its way.
He pulled up to the dry cleaners at 7:45 a.m. He was filled with excitement and anticipation at the thought of seeing her. He jotted down a quick message on a light blue piece of paper and folded it half, and then in half again. He picked up a pair of pants and stuck the note strategically in the back pocket, the first place she usually looked. That was their way of communicating. She would check his pockets, find the note and respond one way or the other. It was all part of the game.
He remembered the first time she pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a receipt for flowers he had bought for his secretary on her birthday.
As she checked his pockets and revealed the crumpled piece of paper, she very gingerly unfolded it with her soft gentle fingers. He was completely mesmerized by her. As she handed the receipt back to him she said, “Lucky girl.” Her creamy skin glowed and her deep burgundy lips were so enticing, he couldn’t manage to reply. He felt like a thirteen-year-old boy.
“Don’t you worry sir, I always check the pockets,” was her next line. The rest was history.
She took him up on his first offer of meeting at the Four Leaf Clover, an non-descript drive-in bar and grill on the outskirts of town. Shortly after eating a brief dinner without much conversation, they ended up down a desolate country road in the back of his BMW. On their next meetings, they skipped dinner and went straight for dessert.
The next thing he knew, he was standing at a locked door. He peered through the lightly-tinted storefront window in search of her and saw no one. Weird, he thought. The dry cleaner is always open at this time. He raised his jacket sleeve with one hand to check the time on his stainless-steel Rolex. Then, he checked the store hours posted in the window on the standard black sign with changeable white letters. They should be open, he thought. He turned around and scanned the parking lot. Her car wasn’t there. It was basically empty. He was puzzled, but not particularly worried. Maybe the guy with the key was just late. He got back in his car and drove to his office to start his busy week. He would stop by on his way home and try again.
CHAPTER 3
With six years of research and development, two years of carefully monitored and documented clinical research, and a successful introduction to his peers under his belt, Dr. Jack Martin was finally moving forward with his vision.
It was his dream to transform his radical treatment into a program that could help the masses. The key, he felt, was presenting it to the public in a way that didn’t seem too much like a psychiatric treatment or too unconventional like hypnotism or psychic advisement. He felt strongly that it needed medical and scientific credibility with a casual, but conservative image. He wanted to reach out to people who had issues to address, but normally wouldn’t seek psychiatric care.
He had developed and tested model treatment programs that help people suffering
from behaviors like overeating, smoking, alcohol and drug abuse. His research had also proven the program successful in treating those afflicted with problems coping with grief and guilt in relation to specific events like death and divorce; as well as obsessive-compulsive disorders. These are common problems that multitudes of people face every day.
He had spent months researching and interviewing companies and individuals who specialized in new business development and conceptual marketing. Finally, he ended up with the one man he felt could do the job.
His name was Alex Hatcher . . .