Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (35 page)

He was again hot and sweaty, so after leaving
the Monte Carlo he removed the sweatshirt. Staying behind the line
of cars he made his way to the Wildcat while looking at the plant
exit into the parking lot. People were beginning to run from the
exit toward their cars. Hurriedly he hot wired the car, and when
the 430 cube engine roared to life, headed for the exit and out
onto the four lane street.

In another twenty minutes he was parked in a
residential neighborhood behind his own car. After making certain
nothing had been left behind he locked the Wildcat and put all his
gear in his car and drove back to his motel.

Inside his room he stripped off all his
clothes and put them in a plastic bag. The next morning he would
distribute the clothing, shoes, cap and gloves to dumpsters away
from the area. He filled a plastic cup with ice cubes and bourbon
and headed to the bathroom for a long hot shower. Jesus, he
thought, what a day. This had been by far his biggest and most
publicized hit. The precautions the authorities had imposed called
for extreme measures. Now, maybe Tony would stop thinking of him as
an amateur; a kid playing at a man’s job. He was sure he would be
in demand after he was linked to this hit. The bosses who hired
people like him required positive results and no loose ends.
Someone might complain about the blonde getting bumped off, but
they would have to agree her actions had warranted it. To relax
before going to sleep he did an analysis of the entire job deciding
what he could have done differently to improve the outcome. He was
very pleased when only minor issues came to mind.

The next morning he slept late, getting out
of bed after eleven. It was past noon before he made it over to the
restaurant at the motel, bought a Sunday paper and settled in to
wait for breakfast. He drank his first cup of coffee before reading
the story under the banner headline, “Key Government Witness Shot
and Killed!” The article stated Trezzini had been rushed to an
undisclosed hospital in critical condition with a gunshot wound to
his chest and had died en- route before surgery could be started.
He hoped the reporter knew what he was talking about when he wrote
“the FBI and local authorities have no clues as to the identity of
the attackers.” They also didn’t have a confirmed positive identity
for the blonde found dead in the street at the municipal water
tower on Seiler Street, but surmised she was part of the conspiracy
to kill government witness Dominick Michael Trezzini. Tentatively
she had been identified as Irene Rizzo Calipio, wife of a deceased
mob figure. She was reputed to have been involved in the brutal
murders of several individuals linked to organized crime.

Another part of the article dealt with the
destruction of a building under construction near where the witness
had been interned and the suspicion of it being used as a diversion
to cause the witness to expose himself. Clay thought, no shit, now
that's brilliant reporting. A guard at the blast site was also
killed when debris from the collapsing building buried him while he
was inside a porta-john next to the building. Clay chuckled out
loud as he thought about the guard getting the shit scared out of
him when the bomb went off. At least he was in the right place at
the right time.

After lunch Clay got rid of all the trash in
the bag and put his own license plates back on his car. The rest of
the afternoon was spent sight seeing, visiting local attractions
listed in brochures displayed in the motel lobby. Monday was spent
sightseeing in Manhattan; visiting the Statue of Liberty, riding
the Staten Island Ferry and walking down Wall Street. At a local
tavern near Wall Street he stopped for a beer and met an attractive
woman. For three hundred dollars the prostitute took him to her
nearby apartment and entertained him the rest of the afternoon and
well into the night.

Tuesday morning he checked out of his motel
and headed for home; resisting the urge to pass by the A.I. one
last time.

He arrived home midday Sunday after stopping
at antique shops in Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana; picking up good
pieces of glassware at the right price. He found three French Cameo
art glass vases by Galle, two cut glass pitchers in a pineapple
pattern and seven hand painted R.S. Prussia plates and bowls of
outstanding quality. In addition he had bought seventeen pieces of
oak and walnut furniture and had to rent a trailer. With his newly
earned fortune he could have bought ten truckloads, but of
necessity he forced himself to hold back. But in the near future he
would find ways to funnel his cash horde into his new business
address and would locate a house in a good neighborhood. It was
past time to move on, although he would miss his Mom and Walt more
than his ego would let him admit.

Monday morning, after opening the shop and
moving his newly acquired antiques into the display area, he
reviewed the books for the period he had been gone and met with the
help. In the afternoon he decided to visit Tony.

“Clay, you are definitely number one! Those
pictures of the building you blew were something. Who the hell
would have thought some diesel fuel and fertilizer like I use at
the farm would do so much damage?”

“A year ago I wouldn’t have believed it
either.”

“I heard from my contact in New York, they
got a confirmation on the guy you shot really being dead. The
families were concerned he might not have died and the F.B.I. could
be hiding him out while he recovered. They convinced both of the
paramedics who responded to tell them about the ride to the
hospital after they picked the patient up. The guys swore your
target was dead when they picked him up. Three bullets hit him; two
would have been serious and one was definitely fatal by itself.
You're some marksman Clay.”

“Thanks Tony, but as much as I hate to admit
it there was a lot of luck involved. I don’t think any lone shooter
could guarantee a shot at the distance I had. But it turned out
well in the end. I don’t like the fact of the old guard at the
construction site getting killed but it’s the risk they take in
their line of work.”

T
hree months after
his return home, on a Saturday afternoon when he was at the shop,
Lizzy stopped by to see him.

“Hi brother, I need to talk with you. Are you
free for a while?"

“For you, of course I’m free. What do you
want to talk about?”

“It’s personal. And I don’t want to talk
about it here. Would you mind leaving with me so we can talk in
private?”

“Sure, we can leave if you’ll feel better
talking somewhere else.”

“Thank you, I’d feel much better. I don’t
want your employees or anyone, especially mom or dad walking in
during what I have to say; I’m not even very sure you’ll
understand. Hell, I’m just beginning to understand and accept it
myself. I’ll be ready in a few minutes. I need to make a phone call
before we leave.”

They drove to a gas station where he bought a
large black coffee and she got a large soda. She asked him to drive
to a small public park nearby where they could sit outside in the
sunlight. By now Clay was very curious as to what Lizzy might have
to talk about. Since Rocco had been taken care of what could be so
big a deal she couldn’t tell Mom?

They walked to a park bench, twelve feet off
the walkway and in the shade of a huge black oak tree with limbs
stretching out at least thirty feet. Clay was thinking, Christ I
thought girls told their mothers everything; not their brothers.
What am I getting into?

Sitting down, he said, “O.K. what’s the
problem?”

“It’s not nearly so simple or easy. I wish it
were.” Lizzy took a deep breath and turned to him.

“When I was a little girl, six or eight I
guess, I always felt different from the other kids. But of course,
I had no idea why. When I asked mom about it she praised me and
pointed out all my good qualities and said I’d outgrow the feelings
as I got older. I’m twenty two and I haven’t outgrown them
yet.”

“When I entered adolescence and started
dating I wanted affection from the boys I went out with. Being
immature I associated affection with sex and started doing IT with
my boyfriends; anything to feel loved and wanted. But they didn’t
care about me. They just wanted to get laid and I was easy, so they
took me out. It wasn’t their fault; they were doing what young boys
do at their age. I’m really thankful I at least had enough sense to
be careful and not get pregnant, or contract some venereal
disease.”

“Anyway, during the seven years I’ve been
dating boys I increasingly came to realize I wanted someone, anyone
to really care about ME. Not just having a sexual encounter, but
having someone care about what kind of person I am, what I think
about things and how I feel about myself.”

Clay spoke up, “Are you going to tell me
you’ve finally found the right guy?”

“Sort of; I’ll tell you more about it. What
I'm going to tell you is how something serious happened last
October; serious enough for me to have contemplated suicide.”

“Lizzy!” Clay exclaimed and reached over to
lay his hand on her shoulder. The month she mentioned brought back
vivid personal memories she knew nothing about. He realized and
hated to admit he should have anticipated such a reaction, but
didn’t.

“It’s alright Clay. It’s in the past and I’m
O.K. with it. I’d been dating a guy named Johnny. He was gentle and
kind to me when we first met, but then he started talking kinky
stuff. Instead of just being together he wanted to watch porno
films, talked about group sex and a bunch of quirky stuff. I was at
the point of breaking off our relationship when I went to his
apartment one night last October. We had a drink and he must have
put some kind of drug in mine. A little while later, I remember two
of his friends came in and then the three of them raped me. The
next day we had a big fight and broke up. I was very depressed over
being attacked and used by them, but you were there to talk to me
and showed me you really cared and were concerned about me. It was
just enough to keep me from going over the edge. You might not
recall the rest of the Johnny story, but about a week later the
police charged him with murdering a policeman. I just saw on the
news one night last week where the trial ended and he was found
guilty. I guess I’m lucky he didn’t do something worse to me.”

“Now, on with my story. After last October, I
avoided contact with men and turned away their advances. It wasn’t
because I was afraid they would attack me too; I just realized I
had never been with a man I could really love, and truly be
satisfied with. So, instead of dating, I concentrated on my school
work. And thank you for your support there too. Mom and Dad were
very pleased when I told them my grades had improved, but it just
meant more when you showed a genuine interest too. Thanks. I was
spending more time studying, and actually doing research for my
papers instead of winging it, when I noticed a girl from two of my
classes was in the library a lot too. We got acquainted, started
studying together, and have become very good and close friends. Her
name is Irish Rose O’Conner; she’s twenty four and goes by her
first name, Irish. I hope you’ll like her."

“Lizzy, if you like her, I’m positive I will
too.”

“We’ll see. O.K., continuing on. Irish and I
have spent a lot of time discussing the way each of us feel about
everything we can think of. It’s amazing how our childhood
circumstances and the resulting feelings were so similar. We each
reached the same conclusions about the boys we were dating; only
she was way out in front of me in doing so. I guess I always knew
in the back of my mind what my problem was, but I was afraid to
admit it, even to myself.”

Clay was becoming increasingly uncomfortable
with the way the conversation was going. He wasn’t sure he wanted
his sister to continue, and began to focus his attention on a
lovely young woman who would soon pass right by his vantage point.
Tall and slender, with dark auburn hair; even at the distance of at
least a hundred feet he could sense as much as see how beautiful
she was. Her pace was quick and purposeful, her stride long and
assured. Her cream colored short sleeved blouse was tucked into a
pair of black dress slacks, the legs of which swished to and fro as
she approached their bench.

“Please Clay, I really need for you to try to
understand and accept what I’m about to tell you.”

The beautiful dark haired woman was almost in
front of him now, and he waited in anticipation for the view as she
would pass and continue to walk away.

Instead, she abruptly turned toward them,
strode over to the bench in long purposeful strides, stopped in
front of him and extended her right hand.

“You must be Clay.”

“Clay. Clay.” Lizzy was addressing him and
punched him in the ribs to get his attention. Coming to his senses
he stuck out his hand and enveloped the most beautiful, fragile
hand in the world.

Attempting to think of something with which
to respond to the soft, firm, feminine voice he finally stammered,
“Hi, I, I’m Clay, Lizzy’s brother.”

“Of course you are” she replied softly. “And
I’m Irish; Lizzy’s lover.”

Lizzy said “Irish, I hadn’t told him about us
yet.”

Clay’s hand dropped. His jaw dropped. His
eyes bulged. “I should have seen it coming,” he mumbled aloud.
There was something in the way Lizzy was leading up to this and it
had alerted his brain. One side of his brain had tried to warn him;
but the other side wasn’t ready for this. Not this. For Christ
sake, not this. And then there was his short lived fantasy of him
and the beautiful dark haired vision naked and touching. She’s a
damn lesbian. And my sister’s a damn lesbian, was all he could
think of. Sitting there, emotionally deflated, slouched down on the
park bench, continuing to stare at the beautiful shell of a woman
in front of him, he heard Irish say, “I think he might be having a
stroke.”