Persistence

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-Three

Our hero, Gideon Nelson continues to search for the killer of a young girl while balancing a newly found romantic interest and new friends.

            “God damn you, god damn you,” Tina cried as a great orgasm wracked her body, her pelvis arching into Nelson’s in a series of primal thrusts and her nails digging into his back. Nelson placed a hand behind her head and held it as a massive climax, also, emptied him of all thought or reason. They clung together, two wild beasts finding safety in a storm. It was over, but neither moved, the only sounds being their breathing and the last, faint remnant of a moan from Tina.

            Then it was completely over, and a stillness settled upon the room, the tendrils of its quietude seeking and filling every space like a fog covering a forest. Tina raised her head to Nelson, who lay over her, his weight resting upon his elbows. She kissed him. He kissed her back. In the stillness, she said, so softly that the sound barely carried through quiet, “God damn you.”

            Nelson rolled to his left leaving his right arm around her shoulder and, with it, pulled her to where her head lay upon his chest. He spoke into her ear. “Now what did I do?”

            Tina didn’t respond right away. She spoke only after she had raised her mouth to his chin, took it between her teeth, and bit gently. “I should have never let another man make me feel like that again,” she said. She began to lick his chest in quick, darting taps.

            “So I did something wrong?”

            “No asshole,” she said, raising her head to run her tongue across his lips, “You did something quite right, and that is the problem.” She rested her head on his chest and moved her hand to where it rested between his legs. She moved, and after a moment, said, “And I’m afraid you might do just do it again.”

As he started to turn toward her, he tensed and his face broke into a grimace. Two spasms racked his body, then another. Tina raised her head toward his. “Something wrong?” she said.

            He closed his eyes and his body began to relax. Slowly, his face returned to a smile. “Nothing you can’t cure,” he said.

            Next morning, after both had showered, they returned to her kitchen and the site where it all had started. The half-finished meal remained. A red stain formed a circle where Tina had knocked over her wine as she had risen quickly and grabbed Nelson by his hand. The chair he was using at the time still rested on its side, away from the table. Nelson returned it to an upright condition and began to clear the table as Tina made coffee. She stopped and looked over at the stain in the table cloth.

            “See what you made me do,” she said.

            “I thought for a moment that you had gone mad,” Nelson said.

            “Raging hormones,” she said. “Didn’t they teach you about those during your Navy training?”

            “Now what on earth,” he said, smiling, “would the United States Navy know about raging hormones?”

            “Some say that they are simply experts at redirecting them,” she said, “toward more useful purposes, such as killing and maiming people whom our government decides that they don’t like.” She poured two cups of coffee and carried them to the table. Placing one in front of Nelson, she moved to the opposite side of the table, placed the other cup in front of her, and sat. “That’s a basic problem, as we sociologists see it.”

            “And what basic problem is that?”

            “Raging hormones.”

            “Raging hormones in whom, exactly?” He drank from his cup.

            “Let’s start with young girls,” she said. “Back around 1900, the onset of puberty, and the resultant raging hormones was from about 15 to 17 years of age. So, it occurred about the time they were ready for marriage, and the world, as your friend John Steinbeck would say, was ‘spinning in greased grooves.’ Now,” she said, “with improved nutrition and general health, that onset may occur as early as 11 years of age. With marriage ages moving out, we have the evangelical dilemma.”

            “The what?”

            “The problem that evangelical Christians have with science.”

            “And that problem is?”

            “Math and science, actually,” she said. “They expect girls with raging hormones just to say ‘no’ and things will be fine. Back in the day, they might have to say ‘no’ for less than a year.” She took a drink of coffee. “Now we ask them to say it for more than ten years.”

            “I see,” he said. “Not good odds.”

            “Bad news for the uneducated, as usual,” she said. “But there’s another problem.”

            “Oh? And what is that?”

            “That shit just wears us out …,” she said, “us women. So before long—a good ways ahead of men—we grow weary of ‘making the beast with two backs’ and take up more meaningful pastimes, like shopping or scrapbooking.”

            Nelson drank his coffee and listened.

            “So men need younger and younger women to keep them, shall we say, up for the challenge.” She stopped and looked off. “Then, it’s not only the young girls you need, but chemical assistance to help launch the bombardment, so to speak.”

            “You’re beginning to embarrass me,” Nelson said.

            “Good,” she said. “You need to understand why mature women get weary sometimes.”

            He nodded toward the stain. “You haven’t reached that stage yet.”

            “No,” she said, “so you’d better seek a berth every time you get near port, sailor,” she said.

            When Nelson arrived home, he saw two bicycles parked on the front porch with a chain locking them to a column. He smiled as he pulled his truck into the drive and parked. He slammed the truck’s door with unnecessary force and waited a few moments before walking on to the porch steps, where he stomped loudly.  He reached the door and fumbled with it before entering. “Well come in,” a voice said from within. “Don’t tear the place down.”

            He entered the house to see Charlie and the familiar jogger sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Neither wore the flamboyant type of attire typical of most cyclists filling the city streets. Both could have just walked in from a picnic. The woman had dark red hair that would have cascaded to her shoulders had it not been pulled and secured behind her head. She had piercing blue eyes and a somewhat ruddy complexion. Full lips completed the case for a very seductive look, one not hampered by full breasts swelling beneath a grey sweater. Both wore shorts, despite the fact that mornings could still be quite cool. Charlie wore a sweater retrieved from a box of clothing that had been in his car when they had gone for it. A cartoon appeared on the front, depicting an artilleryman stopping the recoil of a Civil War era cannon with his leg. A caption read, “The Army Artillery Redlegs, Keeping Our Pals Safe.”

            “Good morning,” Nelson said.

            “Hello sailor,” Charlie said. “Meet Angela, Angela Masterson.”

            When she extended her hand, Nelson crossed the room and shook it. “I’ve seen you pass by,” he said.

            “Yeah,” she said, “you always watch my tits jiggle.”

            Nelson’s face reddened as Charlie laughed and slapped his leg. Nelson looked from one of them to the other, not speaking.

            “He made me say it,” Angela said, gesturing toward Charlie and laughing as well. “He told me it would be a good way to break the ice with a hard-core sailor.” She gave Nelson a smile that would have melted pig iron. “Friends?” she said.

            Nelson finally smiled. “Friends,” he said, “but don’t do everything he suggests. Not everyone is as trained to withstand surprise attacks as I am.”

            “Message received and understood, sir,” she said, giving Nelson a mock salute. She began to rise from her chair, “Coffee?”

            Nelson pursed his lips and thought. “Why not?”

            Angela walked the cabinet as if she had lived in the house for years and selected a cup for Nelson. It was a thick white cup with no handle. She filled it and placed it before him. “Navy issue?” she said.

            “Old Navy,” Nelson said. “I found it in an antique store and couldn’t resist. They’re pretty rare.”

            “I’ll not choose it then,” Angela said, “if I ever need to throw something at him for protection.” She used her same disarming smile on Charlie and sat between the two men.

            “Charlie says you are a GIS expert,” Nelson saoid.

            “Courtesy of the United States Air Force,” she said. “I know you probably don’t think highly of flyboys and girls, but they taught me a great set of skills.” She drank her coffee. “In fact I still work for them as a contract professional.”

            “She does top secret stuff,” Charlie said. “She can’t tell us what because she’d have to kill us then.”

            “I’ll be you have some pretty high-classed equipment,” Nelson said.

            “You mean my mapping equipment, or what?”

            Nelson reddened again and Charlie laughed.

            “Yes,” Angela said. “To answer your question,” I have some fairly sophisticated software, and the Air Force has capabilities you wouldn’t believe for this entire area, what with a huge air base at Jacksonville.”

            “She can probably read the license number on your truck,” Charlie said.

            “I could probably tell you when you washed your truck last,” Angela said. “So don’t go places you don’t want your buddy here to know about.”

            “I’ll remember what you said,” Nelson said. “What are you two up to today?”

            “Going to ride the River Trail,” Charlie said. “She’s going to show me some new sights.”

            “On the River Trail only,” Angela said. This time it was Charlie who reddened and all three laughed. She looked at Nelson. “Want to come along? I can borrow another bike.”

            “Thanks,” Nelson said, “but I think I’ll drift over to Connorville and see what the progressives are up to these days.”

            Angela frowned, “In Connorville? Progressives?”

            “I want to see both of them,” Nelson said. “Has Charlie told you that I’m officially investigating a murder there?”

            Angela grew serious. “He has,” she said, adding, “and it’s somewhat personal with me. I work with a lot of airmen that know the poor girl’s dad. In fact, I met him once.” She drank more coffee. “It was a real tragedy.” She sat her cup on table and leaned forward. “Are you at liberty to tell me if you are making any progress?”

            Nelson lifted his own cup with two hands and drank. “I’m at liberty to tell you but I can’t.”

            “Can’t what?” Angela looked at him closely.

            “Can’t tell you that I’m making progress because I’m not,” Nelson said. “But it does seem that a church in Connorville is beginning to act like a clue magnet.”

            Angela stiffened. “You mean that mega-church in the middle of town?”

            “Why yes,” Nelson said. “You know anything about the church, or a bunch of hooligans that hang out there and call themselves the Soul Warriors?”

            Angela started to speak but changed her mind and leaned back. “Let’s not talk about it right now,” she said. She brightened at turned to Charlie, “You going to ride me, I mean ride with me today or not?” she said.

            “That’s a fact, ma’am,” he side rising and coming to attention. All three laughed.