In the end we all, I mean each of us, is really nothing more or less than a reflection of what we’d like to be. We are what we are – the secret is to be at peace with that inescapable truth…

1 - The Circling Fan

Best of luck in your new life… Leda wrote. She hoped the words were legible. Her hand was cramping and she was only half way through the string of buyers that trailed through the busy store. She’d heard the book industry was in its death-throes, but you’d never know it here. Maybe it was ‘end-of-cycle’ activity, that final burst of energy that erupts from any dying creature. The last dance of denial…

Leda had always wanted to be a writer. As a child she’d read adventures, the ultimate escape, and dreamed of being lost on a peaceful island somewhere far, far away…

Courage had been lacking. Try as she might, she couldn’t see herself as someone who had anything to say, at least not anything that might sell books.

“Thank you,” the woman muttered, clutching the autographed copy to her chest. Her eyes were tired and wary. That’s the way most of her readers seemed to Leda: a worn-out, apprehensive lot desperately in need of hope. They looked to her for answers. She gave them what she could.

“We broke a hundred copies,” Maggie whispered, leaning over Leda’s left ear. The right ear, she knew, was impaired and would not register the subtlety of a whisper.

Leda nodded in acknowledgment, signing another book, this one for a sixty-something grey-haired gentleman.

“It’s for my daughter,” the man said. “Her name is Debbie.”

For Debbie, Leda wrote. It was always like that – women trying frantically to change their lives, men hoping to guide a loved one to a better existence. Everyone looking for a way to take hold of reality and shape it into something worthwhile…

Glancing up, she saw him again, the young, dark-haired man who had been stalking her. He was not overly tall, defined muscles belying a boyish face. His eyes darted around the store, unnerving Leda.

She waved at Maggie, who rushed back to the table.

“He’s over there,” she said, keeping her voice low and taking care not to lift her eyes.

“The blonde guy?”

“No. The dark-haired one, with the khaki pants and jacket. He’s twisting about with a handful of books, as if he has to use the bathroom or something.”

“Did you call the number I gave you?”

“Yes. I’m meeting Strachan this afternoon, after we leave here.”

“OK. I’ll make sure he doesn’t follow you. Try to get his name when you sign for him.”

Leda’s heart tapped out a manic S.O.S. as she hurried through the signing, all the while watching him approach. He twitched and shifted from one foot to the other, obviously feeling every bit as agitated as she did. His tension was apparent, though, while hers was hidden. Even her closest friend and agent Maggie wouldn’t have guessed how upset she was if she hadn’t confided to her a few days earlier.

Leda prided herself on being in control of her outward appearances. She’d learned as a child to hide her true feelings. Those childhood lessons seldom are un-learned.

Everyone thought she was so brave, putting it all on paper the way she had in Two Good Hands. When she read her own words, though, they didn’t seem courageous. They seemed removed, clinical, as if those events had happened to someone else.

It was funny, but as a younger woman when she’d tried to tell people about her experiences they often hadn’t believed her. In the telling she always removed herself from the story. Remaining detached was the only way she could communicate the truth. Just the facts…

But when she wrote the stories down, the same words were transformed into something they could grab hold of… touch… believe in. Suddenly people no longer doubted her honesty.

There was no point trying to figure it out. They wanted to know. There was an element of sensationalism in their desire to read about her life. Some were titillated by the suffering of another human being. Still others thought she was mercenary. They couldn’t understand how she could profit from the kind of things she’d been through.

To hell with them! It was her story, her suffering, her life. She owned those experiences, every dark and sordid one among them. If she couldn’t turn them into something good, a living and a way to help others, then who could?

“My name is Robert,” he said. “Can you please say ‘For my friend, Robert…’”

She met his eyes, then looked away quickly, unsettled by their intensity. It figured – he would want her to write ‘friend’. It fit with his apparent fantasy. He’d been to every signing she’d done in the last three months, from the Mid-west to the East coast, even following her South to Florida. She had no idea how he could afford to track her, but here he was again. She suspected he lived in Toronto. That’s probably why he felt so connected to her. Maybe he felt they shared this, a common geography, if nothing else.

He wanted to talk. She knew better than to encourage him. It would only feed his delusions of their ‘friendship’.

“The part about your childhood,” he began, lowering his eyes, “did that really happen?”

“This is an autobiography. Everything in the book is true.”

“But how…?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning to the next person in line, a scrawny middle-aged woman with what looked like a bruised eye, “there are a lot of people still waiting.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, almost dropping his copy of Two Good Hands in his hurry to leave the signing table. He didn’t leave the store, though, she noticed. He hung back, hoping, no doubt, to speak with her again when the crowd had thinned.
***

Helen Strachan stood in front of the mirror, smoothing her dark blue trousers and pulling the side of her jacket into place over her heavy flashlight. As owner of one of the top ‘personal security’ organisations in Southern Ontario, she was not licensed to carry a weapon. She always wore the intimidating, club-like flashlight when meeting with new clients, in case her height and stature were not enough to convince them of her ‘ability to protect’. When meeting with men, she usually pulled her long blonde curls into a bun. Her hair was the one truly feminine vanity to which she still clung, and she clung to it fiercely, despite a nagging belief that it made her seem less powerful than she was.

In truth, no one could ever mistake her for the vulnerable sort. At six feet tall, her body was athletic in the Grecian style, as tight as a coiled spring.

She tucked her copy of Two Good Hands into her leather case and ran her fingers through the loose curls one last time.

She’d bought the book after receiving the call from Leda Maguire, intending to scan it as ‘research’, so she’d know something about the woman before they met. It always helped to show an interest in your clients.

She hadn’t expected to read the whole damn thing, page after scathing page. She hadn’t expected to find herself crying in the late-night hours. She certainly hadn’t expected to recognise her own human self in this tiny academic-looking woman from North York.

Helen Strachan was not a person who emoted easily. She preferred to forget the things that hurt and keep her feet planted firmly in the ‘here-and-now’. She arranged her clothes, wanting to present herself as someone who could help.
***

“I read your book,” Strachan said, setting it on the table beside the glass of water that had just been delivered.

Leda Maguire was exactly as she expected, quiet, diminutive, thoughtful… Her small hands rested on the table, not fidgeting the way most people did who chose to hire a personal bodyguard.

“Thank you. I appreciate you spending the time.”

“Not at all. I couldn’t put it down. When does your ex-husband get out of prison?”

“Not for a good, long time, I hope. Meanwhile, I still look over my shoulder. After all, he could hire someone. He could track me down.”

“Do you have reason to believe he’s done that?”

“Not at the moment. My immediate problem has to do with a fan, of all things. He’s been following me all over North America. I recently had a new house built in the country up near Midland. I’d like to spend some time there alone, just writing, but frankly I’ve been afraid…”

“I’m not surprised. Anyone who’s been through the things you’ve been through would be nervous.”

Leda laughed. The sound was pleasant and normal, the bell-like laughter of a woman who had earned her small joys and was determined to appreciate them.

“It isn’t paranoia,” she said, “if they really are following you.”

“Of course not,” Strachan said. “I didn’t mean to imply you were imagining it. Can you give me a description?”

“I can do better than that. My agent, Maggie Landers, took a picture with my phone.” Leda passed the phone across the table.

“Does he always look this ‘furtive’?”

“Yes. He never stands still, always twirling about in the line-up, waiting for his turn. Everyone else looks bored or impatient, but not Robert. He looks like there’s no place else he’d rather be, as if he’s got a ‘starring role’ in the event.”

“I see.” Strachan passed the phone back.

“Do you want me to email a copy of this picture to your office?” Leda asked.

“That won’t be necessary. If you’re interested, I can take the job immediately. I’ll be with you at your next event. I’ll have a chance to meet this ‘Robert’ face-to-face.”
***

Robert Lowry smiled as he turned the key in his apartment door. At first he’d been frustrated when that busybody ‘agent’ had gotten between him and Leda, holding onto his arm and telling him Ms. Mcguire was exhausted and couldn’t answer any more questions. He’d tried to break away, but couldn’t without creating a scene. He’d almost lost his temper when he spotted Leda hurrying out of the store, with too much of a head-start for him to be able to follow her.

He’d spent the afternoon at the library, consoling himself by re-reading the part about how her ex-husband had broken into her parents’ home on Christmas Eve, killing Leda’s mother and father as well as her three-month-old baby in an uncontrollable rage while she looked on in helpless horror.

Robert knew what he’d do to that bastard Ethan if he ever got his hands on him – killing an innocent baby – it was unthinkable! How had poor Leda survived it all? He’d never understand.

He knew, though, that no one would ever hurt her again. He’d make sure of it. He had already booked the flight to Boston for her next appearance. Somehow he’d find the courage to let her know his feelings, to tell her he was there for her. Somehow, in Boston, it would be different.

He turned on the light, making his way down the hall toward the kitchen where he kept his small computer. Too late, he heard the sound of a footstep, caught a blurred movement out of the corner of his eye.

Too late…. As he fell, he dropped his latest signed copy of Leda’s book. The last thing he saw before he died was a pair of hands picking the book up from the floor.

A pair of good, strong hands.

Tune in next week, for Volume 2!

Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

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