Perusing The Novels

Prologue

Thursday, September 5th

Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial Library, Washington, D.C.

     “You disgusting pervert!” shouted a woman’s voice from behind the vertical files. A piercing scream instantly followed the words.

     Dennis Walker and Joel Abrams looked at each other wide-eyed and jumped up from the table in the center of the history section where they had been doing research.

     “It’s got to be the flasher!” Dennis took off toward the stacks in the direction of the scream, with Joel hot on his heels.

     They knew there had been some episodes in that library with an exhibitionist—the guy was jumping out of the stacks and showing his Willie to unsuspecting women. But he had always managed to elude the security staff and get out of the building before anyone could catch him.

     They followed the scream to its source—an elderly woman being held by a young companion, who pointed down the aisle between tall shelves of books.

     “The freak went down there and turned right,” she said, as the elderly woman continued to scream like a police siren.

     Dennis and Joel ran off in the direction the woman had indicated, following the sound of thudding footsteps on the carpeted floor. They saw the man dart out the exit doors and down the hall to the opposite side of the building. He went right past the elevators and into the literature section of the library. A group of women sitting in a circle of chairs in the foyer reading poetry to each other looked up and turned their heads to watch the chase. They stared openmouthed at the flasher with his raincoat flapping around his skinny, naked legs.

     Joel shouted, “You take this door, and I’ll take the one over there. He won’t get away this time!”

     As Dennis ran into the room, the flasher turned between the card catalogue and a row of tall service desks. Dennis moved in behind him, and Joel appeared at the opposite end. The flasher pulled to a stop, realizing he had no place left to run.

     He turned to Dennis, laughing and holding his raincoat wide open. “Okay, you caught me! Do you want to cuff it?”

     Joel got out his cell phone and called 9-1-1, while Dennis held his arms outstretched to block the passageway. People began getting up from the tables in the center of the room and gathering to see what the commotion was about, and Dennis turned his head slightly to ask for help.

     “Someone see if we can get security up here,” he said.

     Just at that moment, the flasher lunged at Dennis, slamming him hard in the chest.

     Dennis stumbled backward and fell, cracking his head against the corner of one of the tall desks and collapsing onto the floor. The flasher jumped lightly over his body, but two other men grabbed him and held him.

     Joel bent over Dennis. Blood was seeping out from the back of his head.

     “Ariel,” Dennis whispered. Then his head rolled slightly to the side, and his eyes glazed over.

     “Oh, my God!” Joel said, turning to look at the flasher. “You’ve killed him!”

   Chapter One

Friday, September 5th, One Year Later

     I had the kettle in my hand and was turning toward the counter where a Mikasa teapot and cups sat on a Delft-tile tray.

      “Don’t step on the cat!” Bernice shouted.

     Suddenly there was a squeal and a blur of fur, and I went tush over teakettle and found myself sitting on my keester in the middle of the kitchen floor.

     “Too late,” I muttered.

     ***

     My name is Ariel Quigley, and my life changed the day I tripped over that cat. Bernice Wise, whose cat had just spooked me, is a 55-year-old Jungian psychologist who runs a private practice out of her sprawling 18th-century Colonial-style home in Alexandria, Virginia. She’s also a student in one of my evening poetry classes. In fact, in the past year she’d signed up for the class two sessions in a row. From listening to her poetry in the classroom, I’d been impressed with her sense of humor and her practical wisdom. She was also earthy and gregarious—just fun to be around—and we were beginning to develop a friendship. So she had invited me for tea, to be followed by dinner at a local restaurant where I would be her guest.

     And there I sat, my eye position almost exactly level with her knees, and my life about to change in ways I had never imagined.

     Bernice laughed and rescued me from my position on the floor. “I should have warned you—Freud the Cat is always underfoot. While I refill the kettle, why don’t you go into the pantry and grab a box of cookies?”

     The cat, a tabby-point Siamese, had skittered away after our encounter, but as I walked into the pantry, I saw her hiding under a shelf, from where she silently glared at me.

     “I’m sorry,” I said, apologizing to her. “I didn’t see you. I mean, how could I have done it on purpose? I don’t even know you.”

     The cat sniffed and backed away, slowly edging her way out of the room, eyeballing me as she went to be sure I didn’t make any sudden moves.

     “I’m really sorry,” I called after her.

     Bernice answered from the kitchen stove, “If that’s about the kettle, don’t worry. Hardly anything spilled. If it’s to the world in general, I would guess you’re either Catholic or Jewish.”

     “Oh, I just don’t want the cat to be mad at me,” I called back. “I’m feeling a little bit down today, and having a cat mad at you is kind of like making a teddy bear mad. Pets and stuffed animals are supposed to be supportive.”

     “Don’t worry,” Bernice answered. “She’ll probably forget it by the time we’ve finished our tea.”

     I eyeballed a shelf with about fifteen different varieties of fancy cookies. Somewhat overwhelmed by the choices, I slipped into a sort of daze.

     Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I jumped straight up in the air.

     “Yikes!” I shouted. I turned to see who had come in behind me, but there was no one there. I felt the hair on my neck bristle. I wondered what Bernice would think of me if I told her she had a ghost in her pantry.

Copyright © 2006 Honora Finkelstein and Susan Smily

This website and all the material presented herein is copyright © 2006
by Honora Finkelstein and Susan Smily.

Updated: 02/04/2008