April 28, 2006
Thinking about it, some of the issue might be how chapter 1 begins one quite gripping story, and chapter 2 takes us to a seemingly different story. Upon reading Chapter 1, I can see where there's a full adventure/survival/revenge novel just waiting to be told that might be better told than to be back story. Gee, 2 books instead of one.

Anyway, here's chapter 2.







2
London, England
Ten Years Later

Dr. Michael Peters adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses and smiled as the head of Worthington Pharmaceuticals led him into the conference room followed by a battalion of vice presidents, mid-level functionaries and attorneys. It was a large, plush room with thick champagne-colored carpeting and a wall of windows displaying a slice of the London skyline.

Alexander Forsythe, the CEO, rocked onto the heels of his shiny black wingtips for a moment. “Dr. Deck won’t be joining us today?” His voice was a rich, plummy baritone with the rounded careful diction an expensive education at Eton and Oxford provided.

“He’s been delayed,” Peters said. “But he’ll make it. However, I have the authority to go over the contracts ... one more time.”

Forsythe settled his lean, elegant frame onto the maroon leather chair at the head of the polished mahogany conference table. Peters sat in the chair next to him. He reached for the cut crystal goblet in front of him and took a sip of the lukewarm water. I’ve also got a great recipe for ice, he thought. I’ll sell it to you cheap.

“Mr. Ballenger has approved the contracts,” Forsythe rumbled. “But, of course, we appreciate your thoroughness.”

Peters smiled. “I’m sure there won’t be a problem. It’s just that my father always told me to never sign anything until I read it first.”

“Of course,” Forsythe said. “Excellent advice.”

Peters flicked a glance down the shiny length of the conference table to where their attorney, Charles Ballenger, rolled his eyes. Peters winked and examined the contract, bound in glossy maroon leather with the Worthington Pharmaceuticals logo on the cover. It was the exact same color as the carpet. With a silent mental sigh, Peters proceeded to go over the documents one slow, mind-numbing page at a time. All around him carefully coiffed men and women in overpriced navy blue wool suits rustled with corporate impatience.

He was halfway through page five when the intercom burped and a frosty, worried-sounding woman said, “Mr. Forsythe, there’s a, uh, gentleman claiming to be a Doctor William Deck here.”

“Send him right in, Cecilia.”

There was an electronic pause, then, “Yes sir. Right away.”

The door burst open and in strode Dr. William Deck, Ph.D.

No one gasped, Peters noted, but there were definitely a few pairs of wide eyes and a dropped jaw or two. He kept his eyes on the contract, trying not to laugh.

Bill Deck was an inch or two over six feet with short-cropped dark hair and broad shoulders. At the moment he wore black leather: riding gloves, black biker jacket over a black tank top, creaking black chaps over blue jeans, heavy black leather boots. If he’d had a switchblade or length of chain in his fist he would have looked ready for a rumble.

“Sorry, sorry,” he boomed, the Texas in his voice more pronounced than usual. “Got a little turned around on your roads while I was gettin’ here.” He patted Mike on the shoulder as he passed by, thrusting his gloved hand toward Alexander Forsythe.

“Good to see you again, Al.”

“Dr. Deck, have a seat. Your partner’s going over the paperwork.”

Deck slammed into the chair opposite Peters and rested his forearms on the tabletop. He turned sideways and glanced toward Charles Ballenger.

“Hey Charlie, how’s it going?”

“Just fine, Dr. Deck.”

“All the paperwork in order?”

“Yes sir.” Charles Ballenger was a portly fifty-two with a well-fed round face, thinning brown hair and a mind that ticked along like the Chunnel train.

Deck continued. “Fifteen million for Exotic Worlds, Incorporated, five million for the government of Malaysia, all the proper royalties, schedules and elevator clauses?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well hell, Mike! Sounds like payday. Hand me a pen.”

* * *

Walking out the entrance of the ten-story Worthington Pharmaceuticals building, Deck said, “Nice suit. New?”

Mike Peters, as tall as Deck, but thinner, with sandy brown hair, blue eyes and sharp, angular features, held his arms out as if inspecting the suit for the first time. “Like it? Bought it yesterday on Saville Row.”

“Nifty.”

Peters grunted. “I haven’t heard nifty in a while.”

Deck squinted at the late-afternoon sun. “Fine word, about due for a revival. Why the hell were you going over the contract again? You, me and Charlie practically have that thing memorized.”

“Gave me something to do while we waited for your grand entrance. I informed them my father told me never to sign anything till I read it.”

“Your father also said you’d never make any money in anthropology.”

“This is true. Like I said, I was just killing time till you made your entrance.”

“Like it?”

“Not bad. The eccentric American. You do it so well.”

“Some are born that way, others, like you, hide it.”

“That way they underestimate just how truly eccentric I am, my friend,” Peters said. “You pick up the new bike?”

They walked to a nearby parking garage, climbed the stairs to the fourth level and Deck pointed to a shiny new Triumph motorcycle. It was a Triumph Daytona 600 done in what was dubbed Tornado Red by the motorcycle company. It looked like it was going a hundred miles an hour when it was standing still. It was parked next to a blood red Jaguar. The colors weren’t an exact match, but close. “I made sure to put it right next to this scrap heap you rented.”

The two men stood admiring the motorcycle, fresh from the factory. Deck stretched for a moment. “Whooo-ee, buddy. Fifteen million bucks. I sure like payday.”

“Got that right.”

Deck cocked his head. “Celebration tonight? Gramercy Grille?”

“Absolutely.”

Deck said, “Want a ride?”

“Where to?”

Deck grinned and straddled the bike. “Do you care?”

“No. This thing got any speed?”

“Climb on and see.”

Peters straddled the Triumph behind his partner.

Deck kicked the bike into a throaty roar and shouted, “Gonna wreck that nifty new suit of yours?”

“Fifteen million bucks? I’ll buy a new one tomorrow.”

With a shriek of rubber on pavement they blasted out of the parking garage and into London traffic.

* * *

“You guys are business partners?” The speaker was a pretty blonde in a little black party dress. She had attached herself to Deck.

Mike Peters smiled at the attractive redhead who was seated next to him at their table at the Gramercy Grille. After returning to their hotel, showering and changing into “dining attire,” they had found the Gramercy Grille, an expensive and popular London restaurant. It was mobbed and without reservations there had been a two-hour wait. Deck said it sounded like a decent amount of time to spend in the bar, which is where they had discovered the two attractive and single ladies also waiting for a table. Deck told them they had just inked a terrific business deal, didn’t know anybody in London, how about they join them. The ladies, to Peters’ surprise, had agreed.

“We’re business partners,” Peters said. “Hard to believe?”

“You’re so ... different.”

Deck laughed, a big boomer that echoed around the bar. It was a good place for Deck: loud, relaxed and not too British. Plenty of mock outdoors–stuffed elk heads and bison–positively American west, right here in Jolly Ol’ England. They had ordered their food and settled back with drinks. “We’re not so different, darlin’. Really.”

Hmmm, thought Peters. “We own a company together,” he explained. “Really more of a partnership. Exotic Worlds, Inc.”

“Michael here’s an anthropologist,” said Deck, one arm around Pamela, the blonde. “An expert on native and traditional medicines. I’m a biologist. Michael reads about some witch doctor who treats syphilis with snail slime in the Amazon and we go there, check it out, take samples, then I do an analysis and we sell our results to pharmaceutical companies.”

“You really go into the jungle and talk to witch doctors?” The blonde again. Pamela.

Peters couldn’t decide if her wide-eyed innocence was an act to cozy up to Deck or if it came natural. He was afraid it came natural.

“Medicine men, shamans, traditional healers, whatever.” Peters shrugged.

Jessica, the redhead, was staring at him. She’d told them she was a nanny. “All over the world?”

“Pretty much.”

She reached over and tugged on his right hand, turning it palm up. “Is that how you got this scar?”

It was a wicked white line that zigzagged from one side of his hand to the other.

“That,” Deck said, “Michael received from a pygmy crocodile in the Nile delta. Little mutt wanted the whole hand, but Michael was only willing to give ‘em a taste.”

“Actually,” said Peters, “he would have had it all if Deck hadn’t jumped into the river and jammed a knife through its skull.”

Pamela brushed her hair off her shoulders and pulled down on Deck’s collar, revealing a three-inch long scar that started on his neck and ran to his collar bone. “What’s this from?”

“Got a little too close to a condor in the Andes,” Deck said with a grin. “Filthy animals. Piss on their feet to cool themselves off, but fascinating. Michael found record of a Peruvian medicine man who used the moss that grew on condor guano as part of a treatment for dysentery.”

“We were hanging off a cliff when a family of condors went after him,” Peters said. “It got a little tense for a moment or two.”

Both women showed amazement–and a little healthy skepticism. They didn’t seem to notice the look in the men’s eyes when they looked at each other across the table.

Pamela, one eyebrow arched in skepticism,said, “You’re ... surely you’re joking.”

“Show them your leg,” Peters said. He wondered if he’d had too much to drink. Stop encouraging this, he thought.

Deck waggled his eyebrows and put his foot up on the tabletop, shoving aside the place setting. Diners at nearby tables looked on with a mix of disgust and amusement. Look at those obnoxious Americans. He pulled up his pant leg. A jagged scar zig-zagged halfway down his calf. “The only fresh water sharks in the world are in Lake Nicaragua. One of them wanted my foot for an hors d’oeuvre. Got lucky on that one. Had to poke him in the eye to make ‘im let go.”

A tall, swarthy man dressed in black boots, slacks and turtleneck got up from a lone table in the corner and crossed from the opposite side of the Gramercy Grille. He stopped at their table and said, “Showing off their scars, are they?”

Deck lurched to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. Hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, he snarled, “Bellock!”

Peters reached out and wrapped his hand around one of the steak knives. Jessica, eyes wide, looked at him in alarm.

Bellock took a gulp of his scotch. “See ladies, they look like nice guys, especially Peters there ... that fuckin’ Peters. You can set the knife aside, Michael. I’m just here to congratulate you boys on your contract. Fifteen million up front, eh? Very nice.”

Through clenched teeth, Deck said, “Time for you to leave.”

“Oh calm down,” Bellock said. He had a long, narrow face, thick wavy dark hair and long sideburns. His dark eyes burned like coals. He winked at Jessica. With his free hand he pulled down his turtleneck to reveal a neat white scar that slashed across his throat. “Pretty, uh?” He pointed at Peters. “Your date, that fuckin’ Peters, gave me this. Just remember, he’s not as harmless as he looks.”

With a strangled growl Deck launched himself at Bellock. Peters was out of his chair in a flash, restraining Deck with a half-nelson, whispering urgently in his ear.

Bellock grinned. “Impulse control problems, Billy? You should do something about that. You really should.” His eyes met Peters’. “Goodbye, boys. See you later.”

With a nod to the women Martin Bellock sauntered out of the Gramercy Grille.

* * *

Michael Peters stood naked in front of the glass wall of his hotel suite and watched the sun rise over London. It had been a night of partying, hitting the London nightlife. Not really his kind of fun, but the occasion had demanded it, although both he and Deck felt Bellock’s visit had nearly destroyed it. But count on Deck to rally to the occasion.

As he watched, the scarlet light of the sunrise arced off the Eye of London and slowly lit the Thames...

Jessica, wearing his shirt, found him there, watching. She wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek on his back. “Come back to bed.”

“In a minute.”

Her hands roam over his hard body as he watched another day begin. So many scars. She had explored them, asking him what made this one, what about this? He thought about that, about the implied intimacy.

Her fingers now rested on an ugly puckered scar on his chest. On his back was a similar, neater scar at exactly the same spot, front and back. The one he wouldn’t talk about. Not to her.

“Nice sunset,” she said.

“Mmmm,” he said.

The sun leapt up, a crimson orb, and for a brief moment, only a flicker, the Thames became a river of blood, and then it was gone, an illusion. Peters turned and put his arms around her. She looked up into his brilliant blue eyes. Her fingers traced across his throat. “That man,” she said, voice hesitant. “Did you really give him that scar? It looked like someone tried to slit his throat.”

“Don’t worry about the scars you can see when it comes to Martin,” Peters said. “It’s the ones you can’t see that you have to worry about.”

Without explaining he picked her up and carried her back to bed.