Knox County Ch. 01

"What the fuck am I doing?" she said to the night.

* * *

David Holloway sat at his desk, gazing into the monitor, working the code from back to front and back again. He couldn't find the glitch. He was so close, almost done with the software, but it kept crashing on the timing calculator.

Telecommunications software and hardware was his business, and he kept around forty people busy making the latest and greatest in secure teleconferencing equipment. He had a partner, Mike Green, who concentrated on the hardware and circuitry. He concentrated on the software, highly secure encryption software for military and high-end corporate use. What you do is you gather ten scientists around a table and the equipment in a conference room at Cal Tech, you gather another ten around a conference table across the country at Langley. They can talk to each other, hear each other, see each other, even send documents through an attached fax, and it's all secure. No one can listen in and decipher what the hell is going on. Assuming, of course, they bought their equipment from MG Telecommunications. Which they did, and it had made David Holloway and Mike Green very rich men.

To stay ahead of the spooks, though, they needed to constantly advance the software. Once you got a good thing going, the little men in white jackets at the NSA, MI6, Mossad, and all the others bought it and tried to decrypt the communications constantly going out. This meant keeping ahead of the curve. This also meant the software went with a licensing agreement, and the end users paid a hefty monthly fee to keep the latest and greatest software in their devices. This also meant, of course, that the hardware sometimes needed updating as well. Either way, it guaranteed a steady stream of income from all current users that only grew with the sales of their units. It also guaranteed long nights for David trying to stay ahead of that ever expanding curve.

David chose Tuesday nights to try and work around Cynthia's schedule. Since they had joined the Club two years after their marriage, just when the business was taking off, she spent every Tuesday afternoon playing tennis. David didn't play tennis, and didn't really like the Club all that much, so he stayed late and tried to coincide his return from work with her return from the Club. That used to be at seven or so every Tuesday, but it started getting later. He'd come home at seven thirty and wait an hour or so before falling asleep on the couch; then he'd push it back to eight thirty, and he'd be dozing off when she traipsed in at nine; so he made it nine and she'd be out until ten. He finally gave up, decided it was best they each have a night to themselves, and decided to spend his nights in the dark solitude of his office, working on coding in advances to the software.

He had been working on this latest glitch for the past hour, and he was getting nowhere fast. He looked at the digital readout at the bottom of his screen. 11:37 PM. He yawned and decided to call it a night. He saved his work to the hard drive, backed it up to a card, popped the card in the fireproof safe, and left his office.

When he got outside, his was the only car in the parking lot. He had heard the cleaners leave hours ago, and this was nothing new. What was new, though, was the manila envelope he saw stuck under his windshield.

He walked to his car and slipped the envelope from beneath the wiper. "I thought you should know," the script said. Neat, feminine handwriting. He bent the metal clip, opened the envelope, and reached inside. He pulled out a stack of eight by ten photos and looked. He couldn't make out the photographs by the light of the sliver of moon. He opened the door to the car, slid in, turned the ignition, and turned on the dome light. He looked again at the top photo.

The clarity of the photos was lacking, and he looked closer, pulling his glasses down as he did so. The lines became better. He could make out two cars, one a police car, parked bumper to bumper. He saw two figures at the hood of the front car, one bent over and the other–in a hat, a police hat, tall–standing behind. He couldn't make out the faces, but he recognized the car in front. Cynthia's red BMW convertible. He looked in the bottom corner and saw the time stamp. 9 AUG 2007 2119 HRS.

David shuddered, his eyes glued as he flipped to another photo. This one showed the same couple from the front of the BMW, her legs splayed, his groin against hers. Time stamp was four minutes after the first. He felt a ringing in his ears, his heart beating in his chest, his stomach turning in knots.

The next photo was much the same, but the time stamp was different. It was from the week before, about the same time, and this time she was on her knees giving him head. The next photo was the same night, ten minutes later, her ass on the hood and legs around the cop as he pumped into her from the front.

David flipped though the photos faster, the ringing in his ears growing louder, his stomach clenching in a fist. He barely saw the photos, only long enough to confirm it was some version of the same, but concentrated instead on the time stamps. It was the same: two photos of each encounter, each photo showing what was now undeniably Cynthia and a cop, a tall cop, banging each other senseless. A total of twenty-four photos, going back to late April. He flipped back and forth, trying to find the missed Tuesday. Then it registered. The two Tuesdays they were in Hawaii, late May. The best sex of their marriage. The two weeks of bliss when she couldn't get enough of him.

He slipped the photos into the envelope and leaned back, trying to think. What the fuck was she doing? How long had this been going on? Who was he? The cop? He tried to convince himself that this could be rape, maybe not even Cynthia. But it went back months. If this was rape, if his marriage were real, she'd have come to him. He couldn't think, couldn't figure it out. His world seemed to be crumbling and he couldn't get to rational thought. The one thing he always did so well, analyze dispassionately and rationally seek a solution. It was gone in a whirlwind of confusion.

What the fuck am I going to do? he thought.

He didn't notice the shadow at the end of the building disappear around the corner.

* * *

Aimee Rogers slipped away quietly. He got the photos, saw them, and now he knew. Just like she knew, had known for almost four months. Her husband, Officer Timothy Rogers, was really Officer Friendly. And Cynthia Holloway wasn't the only one, either. He had a fucking stable of them, three or four nights a week he was doing this, sometime more than once a night. No wonder he was rarely in the mood anymore.

It was an accident, really, the way she caught him. She was an art teacher for the Armitage District No. 26, which meant she taught at John Glenn Middle School and Jane Addams Elementary. Not exactly what she'd hoped for while in school, but she knew she didn't have it–that indefinableitthat made you a great artist. So she was content with teaching, marrying her high school sweetheart, and settling down in her home town. One night, though, she was rummaging around looking for her checkbook to pay the bills. It was nowhere to be found, though, and she was ready to give up until she remembered paying for girl scout cookies at work that afternoon. Probably still on my desk, she had thought. So she went to her car, drove to the school, used her keys to get in, and went to the art room. The first floor classroom with a view of the parking lot. The parking lot with two cars and two people. Fucking. Right in front of her.

She'd recognized Tim immediately, of course. But she didn't know what to do. He had always been like this, she knew now. Always flirting, always trying to get in as many panties as possible. She thought he loved her, though, and had given it up. Settled down. Was ready to start a family and live the steady, comfortable, boring American dream. She saw then, in the parking lot before her, that that normal life with Timothy was not to be.

She knew her life, at least her current version, was over. Tim was gone, history, and she'd have to start anew. Yet she had no idea what to do, how to accomplish this straightforward task. She wasn't angry. Hell, she knew what she was getting in to with him. She saw that now, realized she'd known all along how this was going to end. But she didn't want him getting away with it anymore. And she didn't want this fucking tramp in the parking lot to get away with it, either.

No, she didn't know what to do. So she bided her time. And she started following Tim around on her evenings. After all, there was nothing else to do. He worked three to midnight, Wednesdays and Fridays off, and she was alone almost every night.

It took awhile to get the hang of at first. Following someone around wasn't as easy as they made it look on television. And taking pictures at night wasn't that easy, either. No, it all took practice. But after the first month, she had the routine down flat. And she had the names and addresses of the stable, as well. All of them, including their husbands or boyfriends.

She knew most of them, too. That was the hard part. She knew these people and had for years. There was, of course, Cynthia Holloway. She'd seen her around town, driving her little red Beemer, short skirts, getting her hair done all the time and generally acting like a stuck up bitch. She didn't know David Holloway, but it was easy enough to follow his car out of the driveway in the mornings before school and track him to work.

Then there was Jenny Silverman. Little Jenny Silverman, such a sweet girl always looking out for the next adventure. She'd been like that since Aimee had taught her to draw. That was Aimee's first year teaching, eight years before. Jenny was now twenty, and she'd grown into a very pretty twenty. Long skinny body, long brown hair, tiny titties, constant smirk of self-satisfaction. She knew George Silverman and his wife, Sarah, wouldn't be too happy about their precious little bitch out rutting with Officer Friendly. Neither would Andy Palmer, for that matter. But he was just another in a long line of Jenny's boy toys, and Aimee figured there'd be little he could do about it. But George? Oh, George would go fucking nuts.

And Sally Rodriguez. Cute little Sally, about Aimee's age, married, three kids. A little on the pudgy side, but her acrobatics on Thursday nights made up for it. After she got over her disgust, Aimee was more than a little impressed with Sally's love for sex, her experimental streak, and her insatiable appetite. Thursday nights were always a one-a-night for Officer Friendly. Aimee figured Sally Rodriguez flat wore him out. Just like Julio Rodriguez would flat wear out Tim's ass when he found out Tim was tapping his wife. Julio owned his own auto repair shop, and he usually did the oil changes and tire rotations on Aimee's car. He was a sawed off little shit, but his arms were huge. And tatooed. Aimee hoped it was gang tatoos. Think maybe then Tim will get the point?

And there were more. Some were one night stands, some were semi-regulars, three of them were same-time-next-weekers. Aimee decided to ignore the one night stands–she figured those may not have been entirely voluntary–and focused on all the others. If they showed up three nights or more, Aimee kept the pictures stored away on her computer.

After four months of getting the pictures right, Aimee decided to start. She had decided to begin with the easiest one, the one most likely to not immediately run right out and kick Tim in the balls. The smartest one. And, Aimee thought uncomfortably, the one most likely to be totally in the dark. The software dude, slaving away late into the nights so that slut could prance about in her Beemer and designer slut wear.

So she parked a few buildings over, walked to the parking lot, and left the envelope under his windshield wipers. Then she walked back and waited behind the bushes at the end of the building, maybe forty feet from his car.

Maybe a half hour later, he came out. She watched him take the envelope, open it, squint, and get in the car. Then the dome light went on and she saw him tip his glasses down and look at the pictures. She saw his mouth open, and his eyes peer intently then dart back and forth, flipping the photos. After about five minutes of this, she watched him slip the pictures back into the envelope and toss it on the seat beside him. She watched him stare into the night, squeezing his eyes shut, rubbing his hands up and down his face, tilting his head back.

Aimee could see the shock on his face, the angst, the overwhelming sorrow. She bit her lip, wondering if she'd done the right thing.

* * *

Elizabeth Han glanced down at the envelope in her purse, reading the address again, before looking back at the number on the townhouse in front of her. 1219, this is it, she thought. She had butterflies in her stomach, the light queasy feeling she still got after ten months of this. The what awaits behind that door feeling. It was worse when she first started, and she was getting better, but the feeling was still there. Always there.

She knocked firmly on the door, then stood back and smoothed her blouse into her skirt. It was a simple gray skirt, starched white blouse, nylons, sensible black shoes. To passersby she would appear a young business woman, which was what the Agency and the clientele usually wanted.

The door opened. "Hello," said a man, late twenties, short cut brown hair parted on one side.

"Hello yourself," she said, sticking her hand out. "William Sherman?"

"Will," he said. He took her hand and shook, firm but not crushing. "You're Elizabeth?" She nodded, and he said, "Please. Come in." He stood back, held the door wide, and she stepped in past him, looking him up and down as she did so. His face was open, boyish, with large brown eyes and long brown eyelashes. He could have been anywhere from twenty to thirty, but she inclined toward the latter based on his expensive abode in the fancy part of the city. He was in suit pants, light blue dress shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, barefoot, an awkward smile on his lips. Inwardly, Elizabeth sighed, the tension beginning to uncoil in her stomach. At least he wasn't some fifty year old potbellied pig.

The townhouse was nice. They usually were, she thought. These young stockbrokers–or lawyers, or accountants at some big firm–had one thing and one thing only: money. What they didn't have was time. They worked ninety hour weeks billing their clients and slaving away in their tiny little offices or trading on the floors and building their client base. Either way, it rarely left time for finding, let alone keeping, wives, family, or girlfriends. So they turned to the Agency, which gladly and discreetly met their needs in a simple, anonymous way.

These young professionals comprised the vast majority of Elizabeth's clients, which wasn't so bad. She was twenty-four, so they were usually within five years of her age. And they were usually at least mildly cute, slim, good dressers, well mannered. But they were also, almost to a man, alpha personalities. Not mean, but used to being in charge, taking what they wanted. This made it easier to just get the night over quickly without emotional attachment. Unfortunately, it also invariably led to her being unfulfilled in any way by the evening. She was there for them, and they didn't seem to notice or care about her needs.

"Would you like a glass of wine? Beer?" he said.

"Wine would be nice," she said.

He went to the kitchen, her trailing behind. Tastefully decorated, she noticed. Not too manly, no Michael Jordan posters on the walls. There were some pictures of what appeared to be family on top of the entertainment center, prints on the walls, soft tan leather sofa and love seat. It was clean, tidy, no dirty clothes or shoes laying around. There was a light scent, cinnamon, and she saw a candle burning on the counter as she entered the kitchen. Sink clean, counters spotless, a coffee maker, toaster, and some utensils in a ceramic vase all neatly lined up in the corner of the counter.

He opened the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of wine. She leaned against the counter and noticed the contents the refrigerator. Ketchup, mustard, mayo, Chinese carry-out, diet soda, some bottles of various beers, and a couple of bottles of wine. More like a typical bachelor.

He kept his back to her as he reached into a drawer, pulled out a wine opener, and started uncorking a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Nice figure, Elizabeth thought. He had a tight ass, narrow waist, and shoulders only slightly broader than his hips. He wasn't tall, only three or four inches taller than her five feet seven. But he looked to be in good shape without being musclebound. And she really liked the ass.

He grabbed two glasses of wine, poured some, and turned around. "Shall we?" he said, holding up the two glasses on one hand and the bottle in the other. She nodded, and he walked past her back into the living room. He placed the glassware and bottle on the coffee table without spilling any and sat on the corner of the couch, waving her to the other end. She sat and crossed her legs, sinking into the soft leather. He reached over, picked up the glasses, and held one over to her. She took it from him and took a sip, watching him over the top of her glass.

"Thank you," she said. "It's good." He smiled. She continued. "Why don't you tell me about yourself, Will?"

"Not much to tell," he shrugged. She raised her eyebrows, surprised. These guys, especially these guys, usually loved to talk about themselves, brag about their accomplishments.

"Well," she said, "what do you do for a living? Where do you work? Where are you from?"

"Lawyer. Hart Shafer and Coombs. Iowa." He sipped his wine and looked her in the eyes. "Elizabeth . . . is that what I should call you, what you like to be called?" She nodded. "Elizabeth, I've never done this before." She waited. Many of them said that. Most of those were lies, but she believed this one. He seemed so . . . so . . . like a puppy dog? No, so earnest. And innocent.

"Then why now?" she said.

He looked away and gulped his wine. "I don't know. I've been so busy lately. Last seven months, actually. Big antitrust case went to trial, I was second chair. Eighteen hour days for seven months." He looked back at her. "I had a girlfriend. A trader at one of the commodities houses. She worked long hours, too, so it usually wasn't a big deal. But this was. A big deal, that is. And she dumped me. Said I needed to get a life. On the phone. Didn't even come over. Said I was too busy, which I was, and had no time for her."

He stared into her eyes–not her tits, like most of them–as his words poured out. She leaned over and poured him another glass of wine, held it out to him. He took it without stopping, spilling a little on his lap without noticing.

"So I go to the partner, the guy running the case," he continued, taking a quick sip of wine. "When it's all over. The trial. I tell him, I say, 'This cost me my girlfriend. The only one willing to put up with these hours and it was too much even for her.' He laughs, throws his arm around me. Says, 'Get used to it, Will. I'm on wife number three, and it took me twenty years, two houses, and a shitload of alimony to find someone who is content to see me a few hours a week, spend my money, and put out when I need it.' Then he digs around in his desk, hands me a card, tells me to call your employer. Says a lot of the guys do this. You're discreet, no big deal. Gives me a huge bonus for the case. We won, so the firm got a ton of dough extra, the partner tells 'em to share some with me. They agree, give me the bonus. So I call."