FORWARD
Helen Summers sat there on the other side of Ray Carson’s desk looking like a million bucks. But in reality, there would be no money changing hands.
“So what’s your budget for this ad campaign?” Ray asked.
Helen ran a non-profit organization out to preserve a scenic stretch of trail. The local power company had other ideas. They planned on cutting down the trees along the trail so they could put steel towers and overhead powerlines in their place.
“We don’t have a budget.”
“Don’t have as in undefined? Or non-existent?”
“It is a good cause, wouldn’t you agree Mr. Carson?”
Ray couldn’t get used to this 24-year old calling him mister.
“Please, call me Shirley.”
“And call me crazy, but after pouring your heart and soul into this for the last 8 months you’re not going to call it quits are you?”
She was good. Ray and his partner Farley had created the Save The Trail logo and designed the website for the group. But another pro-bono project? The phone rang. Saved by the bell.
“Admaker,” Ray said into the receiver.
“Ray, it’s Farley. I’m going to be a little late today.”
Ray glanced at his watch. It was nearly 4pm. “Perhaps you’re turning Japanese. It’s only 5am there.”
“I broke my finger.”
“Hitting the snooze button too fiercely?”
“Trying to get the last olive out of a bottle.”
“I told you not to shove it in that far.”
Helen sat there hearing only one side of the conversation and started shaking her head.
“You didn’t lose a fingernail in the process, did you Far?”
That was enough for Helen who stood to leave but not without a parting shot.
“Maybe you should go over to your partner’s house and do some spelunking “
“Helen, don’t go,” Ray said.
“I’ve got a meeting with Mayor Haven.”
“Haven can wait.”
“Ha ha. Very clever. Always a pleasure Mister Carson.”
“It’s all mine, Miss Summers, all mine.”
She made for the door, and Ray made nice.
“I’ll think about the ad campaign,” he promised.
She blew him a kiss on her way out.
Farley cursed on the other end of the line at the thought of more work for no money.
Ray hung up on him and gazed longingly at the door.
CHAPTER 1
After sitting in the office thinking of nothing but Helen for an hour, Ray decided to head for the trail and try to sweat her out of his mind. He was also hoping for a little inspiration.
“What the heck are we gonna do with these hundred-foot towers, Sampras?” he asked his running companion, a small tri-colored cavalier spaniel. Sampras looked up at Ray with her goofy tongue-hanging-out-of-her-mouth smile.
"Bury the monsters," Sampras replied, but all Ray heard was a bark.
As they rocketed down the trail, Ray captured his thoughts by dictating into a small microphone attached to his iPod. On the trunk of a large tree alongside the path he saw an engraving of a hearty over the word LOVE.
“You won’t find the same four-letter sentiment etched on a 110-foot steel tower,” he said into the iPod. Sampras barked, providing a fitting exclamation.
The local power company planned to clearcut the trail and build towers bearing overhead powerlines. Helen's non-profit group Save The Trail was fighting them.
The cicadas serenaded Ray and Sampras with their staccato rhythm section until the power station appeared, and the natural music of the insects was replaced by the incessant synthetic hum of the electrical lines overhead.
A faint, but distinct, odor of PCBs permeated the charged atmosphere. It was soon replaced by the scent of rain falling on warm pavement.
“I love running through the rain,” Ray said to Sampras but his dog wasn’t listening. Sampras began to growl.
“What is it, Sampras?” Ray asked. He saw the powerline swinging towards him too late. Before he could change his course, the cable struck him, sending a paralyzing shock through his body. The last thing to run through Ray's mind before he died was Walt Whitman’s I Sing The Body Electric.
A dark figure emerged from the neighboring woods. He wore thick rubber gloves, which had enabled him to held the severed powerline without electrocuting himself. Sampras snarled at him as he approached. He kicked the dog, removed a glove and bent over Ray to check his pulse. Finding none, he said “Good riddance,” and grabbed Sampras saying, “I can probably get a pretty penny for a mutt like you.”
As the killer disappeared, the weather worsened. The wind picked up, the rain turned cold, and the sky was painted black. Suddenly there was a crack of thunder coinciding with a flash of light and a bolt shot down from the sky bathing the trail in light.
The lightning struck Ray with such forced his body levitated briefly from the ground before settling back down. As it did, a pulse returned to the body, followed by Ray’s consciousness. His mouth opened before his eyes and emitted a painful scream, “Aaaaaaaah,” that soon turned into more of an expression of pleasure, “Ahhhhhhhhhh,” as the pain subsided and was replaced by a sense of warmth, awareness and wholeness the likes of which Ray had never experienced before.
He got to his feet and called for his dog, “Sampras! Sampras!” but there was no sign of him. Off the side of the trail, Ray spotted his iPod and picked it up. He noticed the record button was on and thought to himself I must have turned it on when that cable jolted me.
Curious, he played back the digital recording and listened to the sizzle of the powerline electrocuting him, his body falling to the ground, the iPod following, Sampras growling and then whimpering, and a voice saying “Good riddance,” followed by “I can probably get a pretty penny for a mutt like you.”
“Sampras,” Ray said sadly, a warm tear streaming down his cheek amidst the cold rain. He made his way back down the trail with the wind at his back. It pushed him to superhuman speed and the rain parted befoe him, but Ray didn’t seem to notice.
He was preoccupied with replaying the recording of the man’s voice repeatedly, engraving it in his memory.
