Start with a middle-aged man who lays tile for a living but doubts himself in many ways. Add a wife who is seeking satisfaction of any kind: sexual, personal, and getting rid of a childhood addiction. Throw in a neighbor who's mentally challenged and a target for the neighborhood bully who doesn't care whom he roughs up, even if it's neighbors' pets. For added tension add the thoughts of a young married couple who believe every thing their young daughter tells them, even when it hurts others. Finally, throw in the lonely life of a woman who's probably frigid and hopes to connect with a man and life. Mix these characters well and observe how they touch each other's lives in a way small towns are commonly known for. The results bring death, revelations, and redemption.

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Tracking Lives

By James D. Hand

AuthorHouse

Copyright � 2009 James D. Hand
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-9735-3

Chapter One

Harry Ludlow stood sideways in front of the mirror, trying not to suck in his stomach but afraid to look at his reflection without doing it. He might not be too muscular, he thought, but if he could avoid the middle-aged spread, all was not lost. Love handles be damned! He wanted-no, needed-a trim look.

"Do you need to take a lunch today, Honey?" queried Hazel, his wife.

"No, I'm pretty sure I'll be home for lunch. I'm just going for an estimate this morning, nothing more. I'll call you when I'm leaving there, just in case something else comes up," Harry said. He was not quite as confident about his appointment as he probably sounded to Hazel, but he tried to hide his insecurities as best he could. He knew he seldom succeeded. It was easy to read Harry's inner feelings.

When he was a youngster, Harry was always a prime target of the schoolyard bully. Gary Dickey was his name and terrorizing younger kids was his game. And he was good at it. Actually, all a bully has to do is huff and puff like Billy Goat Gruff and he will find an attentive audience in the neighborhood. If only the poor beleaguered victims had had the acuity to analyze Gary, they would have realized he was just making up for a lack of love and respect he received from his parents. The old expression "Misery loves company" was Gary's theme song, whether he knew it or not. "Pass the pain" would have worked just as well, for Gary seemed jealous of the happiness of others more than he did of their grades or possessions. Seeing Harry playing with David Payner at cowboys and Indians, Gary would quickly grab all the arrows he could get his hands on and break them over his knee, not that he wanted arrows. He just wanted to see someone cry and they usually did.

Then there was the time when Harry and a friend rode to the edge of town on their bicycles to have a fun day climbing a hill that was known as a place where, years ago, Indians had buried their dead. The boys had been there many times and always hoped they would see some bones sticking out of the ground, perhaps holding a hatchet, but it never happened. The best they could do was pick around in the dirt and look for Indian beads. On this particular day, however, their fun was cut very short by the appearance of Gary Dickey. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to know where to be to find his victims and Harry was one of his favorites. Gary really didn't do that much to intimidate Harry and his buddy. His repertoire of mischief for that day consisted of little else than shoving Harry and Bob around, kicking dirt on them, and making them roll down the hill to the bottom. It could have been funny if Harry and Bob had given it much thought, but they had left their sense of humor at home; they were lucky not to cry. Once at the bottom of the hill, they hopped onto their bicycles and rode directly home, but not so fast that they were unable to hear Gary's wicked laughter.

Another day Gary was delighted to discover that both he and Harry had decided to go to the Y.M.C. A. at the same time. Gary couldn't believe his good luck. Actually, it was easy to find Harry at the Y, as he called it, for it was one of Harry's favorite hangouts. He loved to play ping pong, swim, and shoot baskets. Normally he took the time to lock his bicycle when he arrived at the Y, but one day he forgot his combination lock and had no choice but to leave his pride and joy standing in the bike rack without protection. Gary, recognizing a gift from Heaven, jumped on the bike while Harry was inside and went for a joy ride. Eventually he left it lying on its side in an empty lot not far from where they both lived and then waited for Harry to come home. He acted concerned when Harry arrived, worn out from a walk of 13 blocks, and began asking questions about its whereabouts. He even feigned surprise that someone would actually steal a bike from the Y. After an hour or so, Gary couldn't stand it any more and told Harry what he had done and where the bike was. Harry tried to get up enough courage to give Gary a shove or least do something-and Gary hoped that he would-but Harry just couldn't muster up the nerve. His only attempt at getting even was to call Gary a bad name under his breath as he started trotting toward the vacant lot. If Gary heard the name he ignored it. He was satisfied with what stress he had caused Harry that day.

Harry's worst moment of being tortured was right in his front yard. He found himself lying on his back with Gary on top of him, yelling at him to say Uncle so he could be let up. That would have been the ultimate disgrace, so the only alternative he had, as he saw it, was to tell another friend who was watching the sad affair to go tell his mom that Gary had him pinned to the ground. In retrospect he wished he would have at least swung his arms and fists at Gary even if it had been a futile effort. Perhaps Gary would have respected him a little bit for the effort, but Harry was never to know that. Yelling for Mommy was his first line of defense. And so it went.

A quick glance at his watch told Harry that he would be in plenty of time for his appointment. He smiled as he remembered the times others had marveled at his punctuality, thinking he surely had been in the military. No, it simply was important to him to arrive either on time or early, whatever the occasion was. Why chance a late arrival and be subjected to all those glances, all those accusations: Who do you think you are? Where have you been? What do you have to say for yourself? Letting the door shut quietly behind him after a quick goodbye kiss to Hazel, he complimented himself on leaving early. If no one else noticed his punctuality, he certainly did, and that's all he needed, he concluded.

Harry was sensitive; he always had been. He had no idea how it all started, but it was not coincidental that heal ways rooted for the underdog in any sporting event. It takes one to know one and he knew himself thoroughly. He was the archetype of the fellow in the football joke: When the team huddles, they are doing so to talk about him!

He had tried to figure out the reasons for his insecurities and sometimes found himself scratching his head, although he didn't know why that was supposed to help. It just seemed like the thing to do. He recalled being so nervous when he was a kid that he had chewed a knuckle on his right hand so much it became raw and eventually left a scar when it healed. Oddly enough, he never chewed his fingernails or showed any overt signs of nervousness or insecurity, unless you call grimacing such a gesture. His dad has once told him he grimaced just like Louie Tinzer. Harry had no idea who that person was, so the comparison was lost, and he never knew if it was a compliment or criticism. He was afraid to ask.

Then there was the time his friend George Lewis had talked him into bleaching his hair with peroxide and ammonia when he was a senior in high school. It was supposed to make him look cool, but after George saw the results, he refused to let Harry bleach his hair. In a week or two after the experiment as the roots began to grow out, Harry looked even more ridiculous and tried to keep as low a profile as possible in school. His parents were so confused about why he did it they asked only a few questions and then shrugged their shoulders. His classmates didn't even bother to laugh behind his back. The fall from cool to stupid was immediate.

He switched from one radio...

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