#dash and rearview are supposed to be the same age but look so different that it’s kinda hard to determine.

[thunderstomm]

To anyone who sees this post- would you rather see the design for Dash or Professor Rearview for HWLR Future next?

[unsettlingshortstories]

Premium Harmony

Stephen King (2009)

They’ve been married for ten years and for a long time everything was O.K.—swell—but now they argue. Now they argue quite a lot. It’s really all the same argument. It has circularity. It is, Ray thinks, like a dog track. When they argue, they’re like greyhounds chasing the mechanical rabbit. You go past the same scenery time after time, but you don’t see it. You see the rabbit.

He thinks it might be different if they’d had kids, but she couldn’t. They finally got tested, and that’s what the doctor said. It was her problem. A year or so after that, he bought her a dog, a Jack Russell she named Biznezz. She’d spell it for people who asked. She loves that dog, but now they argue anyway.

They’re going to Wal-Mart for grass seed. They’ve decided to sell the house—they can’t afford to keep it—but Mary says they won’t get far until they do something about the plumbing and get the lawn fixed. She says those bald patches make it look shanty Irish. It’s because of the drought. It’s been a hot summer and there’s been no rain to speak of. Ray tells her grass seed won’t grow without rain no matter how good it is. He says they should wait.

“Then another year goes by and we’re still there,” she says. “We can’t wait another year, Ray. We’ll be bankrupts.”

When she talks, Biz looks at her from his place in the back seat. Sometimes he looks at Ray when Ray talks, but not always. Mostly he looks at Mary.

“What do you think?” he says. “It’s going to rain just so you don’t have to worry about going bankrupt?”

“We’re in it together, in case you forgot,” she says. They’re driving through Castle Rock now. It’s pretty dead. What Ray calls “the economy” has disappeared from this part of Maine. The Wal-Mart is on the other side of town, near the high school where Ray is a janitor. The Wal-Mart has its own stoplight. People joke about it.

“Penny wise and pound foolish,” he says. “You ever hear that one?”

“A million times, from you.”

He grunts. He can see the dog in the rearview mirror, watching her. He sort of hates the way Biz does that. It occurs to him that neither of them knows what they are talking about.

“And pull in at the Quik-Pik,” she says. “I want to get a kickball for Tallie’s birthday.” Tallie is her brother’s little girl. Ray supposes that makes her his niece, although he’s not sure that’s right, since all the blood is on Mary’s side.

“They have balls at Wal-Mart,” Ray says. “And everything’s cheaper at Wally World.”

“The ones at Quik-Pik are purple. Purple is her favorite color. I can’t be sure there’ll be purple at Wal-Mart.”

“If there aren’t, we’ll stop at the Quik-Pik on the way back.” He feels a great weight pressing down on his head. She’ll get her way. She always does on things like this. He sometimes thinks marriage is like a football game and he’s quarterbacking the underdog team. He has to pick his spots. Make short passes.

“It’ll be on the wrong side coming back,” she says—as if they are caught in a torrent of city traffic instead of rolling through an almost deserted little town where most of the stores are for sale. “I’ll just dash in and get the ball and dash right back out.”

At two hundred pounds, Ray thinks, your dashing days are over.

“They’re only ninety-nine cents,” she says. “Don’t be such a pinchpenny.”

Don’t be so pound foolish, he thinks, but what he says is “Buy me a pack of smokes while you’re in there. I’m out.”

“If you quit, we’d have an extra forty dollars a week. Maybe more.”

He saves up and pays a friend in South Carolina to ship him a dozen cartons at a time. They’re twenty dollars a carton cheaper in South Carolina. That’s a lot of money, even in this day and age. It’s not like he doesn’t try to economize. He has told her this before and will again, but what’s the point? In one ear, out the other.

“I used to smoke two packs a day,” he says. “Now I smoke less than half a pack.” Actually, most days he smokes more. She knows it, and Ray knows she knows it. That’s marriage after a while. The weight on his head gets a little heavier. Also, he can see Biz still looking at her. He feeds the damn dog, and he makes the money that pays for the food, but it’s her he’s looking at. And Jack Russells are supposed to be smart.

He turns into the Quik-Pik.

“You ought to buy them on Indian Island if you’ve got to have them,” she says.

“They haven’t sold tax-free smokes on the rez for ten years,” he says. “I’ve told you that, too. You don’t listen.” He pulls past the gas pumps and parks beside the store. There’s no shade. The sun is directly overhead. The car’s air-conditioner only works a little. They are both sweating. In the back seat, Biz is panting. It makes him look like he’s grinning.

“Well, you ought to quit,” Mary says.

“And you ought to quit those Little Debbies,” he says. He doesn’t want to say this—he knows how sensitive she is about her weight—but out it comes. He can’t hold it back. It’s a mystery.

“I don’t eat those no more,” she says. “Any, I mean. Anymore.”

“Mary, the box is on the top shelf. A twenty-four-pack. Behind the flour.”

“Were you snooping?” A flush rises in her cheeks, and he sees how she looked when she was still beautiful. Good-looking, anyway. Everybody said she was good-looking, even his mother, who didn’t like her otherwise.

“I was hunting for the bottle opener,” he says. “I had a bottle of cream soda. The kind with the old-fashioned cap.”

“Looking for it on the top shelf of the goddam cupboard!”

“Go in and get the ball,” he says. “And get me some smokes. Be a sport.”

“Can’t you wait until we get home? Can’t you even wait that long?”

“You can get the cheap ones,” he says. “That off-brand. Premium Harmony, they’re called.” They taste like homemade shit, but all right. If she’ll only shut up about it.

“Where are you going to smoke, anyway? In the car, I suppose, so I have to breathe it.”

“I’ll open the window. I always do.”

“I’ll get the ball. Then I’ll come back. If you still feel you have to spend four dollars and fifty cents to poison your lungs, you can go in. I’ll sit with the baby.”

Ray hates it when she calls Biz the baby. He’s a dog, and he may be as bright as Mary likes to boast when they have company, but he still shits outside and licks where his balls used to be.

“Buy a few Twinkies while you’re at it,” he tells her. “Or maybe they’re having a special on Ho Hos.”

“You’re so mean,” she says. She gets out of the car and slams the door. He’s parked too close to the concrete cube of a building and she has to sidle until she’s past the trunk of the car, and he knows she knows he’s looking at her, seeing how she’s now so big she has to sidle. He knows she thinks he parked close to the building on purpose, to make her sidle, and maybe he did.

“Well, Biz, old buddy, it’s just you and me.”

Biz lies down on the back seat and closes his eyes. He may stand up on his back paws and shuffle around for a few seconds when Mary puts on a record and tells him to dance, and if she tells him (in a jolly voice) that he’s a bad boy he may go into the corner and sit facing the wall, but he still shits outside.

He sits there and she doesn’t come out. Ray opens the glove compartment. He paws through the rat’s nest of papers, looking for some cigarettes he might have forgotten, but there aren’t any. He does find a Hostess Sno Ball still in its wrapper. He pokes it. It’s as stiff as a corpse. It’s got to be a thousand years old. Maybe older. Maybe it came over on the Ark.

“Everybody has his poison,” he says. He unwraps the Sno Ball and tosses it into the back seat. “Want that, Biz?”

Biz snarks the Sno Ball in two bites. Then he sets to work licking up bits of coconut off the seat. Mary would pitch a bitch, but Mary’s not here.

Ray looks at the gas gauge and sees it’s down to half. He could turn off the motor and roll down the windows, but then he’d really bake. Sitting here in the sun, waiting for her to buy a purple plastic kickball for ninety-nine cents when he knows they could get one for seventy-nine cents at Wal-Mart. Only that one might be yellow or red. Not good enough for Tallie. Only purple for the princess.

He sits there and Mary doesn’t come back. “Christ on a pony!” he says. Cool air trickles from the vents. He thinks again about turning off the engine, saving some gas, then thinks, Fuck it. She won’t weaken and bring him the smokes, either. Not even the cheap off-brand. This he knows. He had to make that remark about the Little Debbies.

He sees a young woman in the rearview mirror. She’s jogging toward the car. She’s even heavier than Mary; great big tits shuffle back and forth under her blue smock. Biz sees her coming and starts to bark.

Ray cracks the window an inch or two.

“Are you with the blond-haired woman who just came in? She your wife?” She puffs the words. Her face shines with sweat.

“Yes. She wanted a ball for our niece.”

“Well, something’s wrong with her. She fell down. She’s unconscious. Mr. Ghosh thinks she might have had a heart attack. He called 911. You better come.”

Ray locks the car and follows her into the store. It’s cold inside. Mary is lying on the floor with her legs spread and her arms at her sides. She’s next to a wire cylinder full of kickballs. The sign over the wire cylinder says “Hot Fun in the Summertime.” Her eyes are closed. She might be sleeping there on the linoleum. Three people are standing over her. One is a dark-skinned man in khaki pants and a white shirt. A nametag on the pocket of his shirt says “mr. ghosh manager.” The other two are customers. One is a thin old man without much hair. He’s in his seventies at least. The other is a fat woman. She’s fatter than Mary. Fatter than the girl in the blue smock, too. Ray thinks by rights she’s the one who should be lying on the floor.

“Sir, are you this lady’s husband?” Mr. Ghosh asks.

“Yes,” Ray says. That doesn’t seem to be enough. “Yes, I am.”

“I am sorry to say, but I think she might be dead,” Mr. Ghosh says. “I gave the artificial respiration and the mouth-to-mouth, but . . .”

Ray thinks of the dark-skinned man putting his mouth on Mary’s. French-kissing her, sort of. Breathing down her throat right next to the wire cylinder full of plastic kickballs. Then he kneels down.

“Mary,” he says. “Mary!” Like he’s trying to wake her up after a hard night.

She doesn’t appear to be breathing, but you can’t always tell. He puts his ear by her mouth and hears nothing. He feels air on his skin, but that’s probably just the air-conditioning.

“This gentleman called 911,” the fat woman says. She’s holding a bag of Bugles.

“Mary!” Ray says. Louder this time, but he can’t quite bring himself to shout, not down on his knees with people standing around. He looks up and says, apologetically, “She never gets sick. She’s healthy as a horse.”

“You never know,” the old man says. He shakes his head.

“She just fell down,” the young woman in the blue smock says. “Not a word.”

“Did she grab her chest?” the fat woman with the Bugles asks.

“I don’t know,” the young woman says. “I guess not. Not that I saw. She just fell down.”

There’s a rack of souvenir T-shirts near the kickballs. They say things like “My Parents Were Treated Like Royalty in Castle Rock and All I Got Was This Lousy Tee-Shirt.” Mr. Ghosh takes one and says, “Would you like me to cover her face, sir?”

“God, no!” Ray says, startled. “She might only be unconscious. We’re not doctors.” Past Mr. Ghosh, he sees three kids, teen-agers, looking in the window. One has a cell phone. He’s using it to take a picture.

Mr. Ghosh follows Ray’s look and rushes at the door, flapping his hands. “You kids get out of here! You kids get out!”

Laughing, the teen-agers shuffle backward, then turn and jog past the gas pumps to the sidewalk. Beyond them, the nearly deserted downtown shimmers. A car goes by pulsing rap. To Ray, the bass sounds like Mary’s stolen heartbeat.

“Where’s the ambulance?” the old man says. “How come it’s not here yet?”

Ray kneels by his wife while the time goes by. His back hurts and his knees hurt, but if he gets up he’ll look like a spectator.

The ambulance turns out to be a Chevy Suburban painted white with orange stripes. The red jackpot lights are flashing. “castle county rescue” is printed across the front, only backward, so you can read it in your rearview mirror.

The two men who come in are dressed in white. They look like waiters. One pushes an oxygen tank on a dolly. It’s a green tank with an American-flag decal on it. “Sorry,” he says. “Just cleared a car accident over in Oxford.”

The other one sees Mary lying on the floor. “Aw, gee,” he says.

Ray can’t believe it. “Is she still alive?” he asks. “Is she just unconscious? If she is, you better give her oxygen or she’ll have brain damage.”

Mr. Ghosh shakes his head. The young woman in the blue smock starts to cry. Ray wants to ask her what she’s crying about, then knows. She has made up a whole story about him from what he just said. Why, if he came back in a week or so and played his cards right, she might toss him a mercy fuck. Not that he would, but he sees that maybe he could. If he wanted to.

Mary’s eyes don’t react to the ophthalmoscope. One E.M.T. listens to her nonexistent heartbeat, and the other takes her nonexistent blood pressure. It goes on like that for a while. The teen-agers come back with some of their friends. Other people, too. Ray guesses they’re being drawn by the flashing red lights on top of the Suburban the way bugs are drawn to a porch light. Mr. Ghosh takes another run at them, flapping his arms. They back away again. Then, when Mr. Ghosh returns to the circle around Mary and Ray, they come back.

One of the E.M.T.s says to Ray, “She was your wife?”

“Right.”

“Well, sir, I’m sorry to say that she’s dead.”

“Mary, Mother of God,” the fat lady with the Bugles says. She crosses herself.

“Oh.” Ray stands up. His knees crack. “They told me she was.”

Mr. Ghosh offers one of the E.M.T.s the souvenir T-shirt to put over Mary’s face, but the E.M.T. shakes his head and goes outside. He tells the little crowd that there’s nothing to see, as if anyone’s going to believe a dead woman on the Quik-Pik floor isn’t interesting.

The E.M.T. yanks a gurney from the back of the rescue vehicle. He does it with a single flip of the wrist. The legs fold down all by themselves. The old man with the thinning hair holds the door open and the E.M.T. pulls his rolling deathbed inside.

“Whoo, hot,” the E.M.T. says, wiping his forehead.

“You may want to turn away for this part, sir,” the other one says, but Ray watches as they lift her onto the gurney. A sheet has been tucked down at the end of it. They pull it up all the way, until it’s over her face. Now Mary looks like a corpse in a movie. They roll her out into the heat. This time, the fat woman with the Bugles holds the door for them. The crowd has retreated to the sidewalk. There must be three dozen people standing in the unrelieved August sunshine.

When Mary is stored, the E.M.T.s come back. One is holding a clipboard. He asks Ray about twenty-five questions. Ray can answer all but the one about her age. Then he remembers she’s three years younger than he is and tells them thirty-five.

“We’re going to take her to St. Stevie’s,” the E.M.T. with the clipboard says. “You can follow us if you don’t know where that is.”

“I know,” Ray says. “What? Do you want to do an autopsy? Cut her up?”

The girl in the blue smock gives a gasp. Mr. Ghosh puts his arm around her, and she puts her face against his white shirt. Ray wonders if Mr. Ghosh is fucking her. He hopes not. Not because of Mr. Ghosh’s brown skin but because he’s got to be twice her age.

“Well, that’s not our decision,” the E.M.T. says, “but probably not. She didn’t die unattended—”

“I’ll say,” the woman with the Bugles interjects.

“—and it’s pretty clearly a heart attack. You can probably have her released to the mortuary almost immediately.”

Mortuary? An hour ago they were in the car, arguing. “I don’t have a mortuary,” Ray says. “Not a mortuary, a burial plot, nothing. What the hell? She’s thirty-five.”

The two E.M.T.s exchange a look. “Mr. Burkett, there’ll be someone to help you with all that at St. Stevie’s. Don’t worry about it.”

The E.M.T. wagon pulls out with the lights still flashing but the siren off. The crowd on the sidewalk starts to break up. The countergirl, the old man, the fat woman, and Mr. Ghosh look at Ray as though he’s someone special. A celebrity.

“She wanted a purple kickball for our niece,” he says. “She’s having a birthday. She’ll be eight. Her name is Talia. Tallie for short. She was named for an actress.”

Mr. Ghosh takes a purple kickball from the wire rack and holds it out to Ray in both hands. “On the house,” he says.

“Thank you, sir,” Ray says, trying to sound equally solemn, and the woman with the Bugles bursts into tears. “Mary, Mother of God,” she says. She likes that one.

They stand around for a while, talking. Mr. Ghosh gets sodas from the cooler. These are also on the house. They drink their sodas and Ray tells them a few things about Mary. He tells them how she made a quilt that took third prize at the Castle County fair. That was in ’02. Or maybe ’03.

“That’s so sad,” the woman with the Bugles says. She has opened them and shared them around. They eat and drink.

“My wife went in her sleep,” the old man with the thinning hair says. “She just laid down on the sofa and never woke up. We were married thirty-seven years. I always expected I’d go first, but that’s not the way the good Lord wanted it. I can still see her laying there on the sofa.”

Finally, Ray runs out of things to tell them, and they run out of things to tell him. Customers are coming in again. Mr. Ghosh waits on some, and the woman in the blue smock waits on others. Then the fat woman says she really has to go. She gives Ray a kiss on the cheek before she does.

“Now you need to see to your business, Mr. Burkett,” she tells him. Her tone is both reprimanding and flirtatious.

He looks at the clock over the counter. It’s the kind with a beer advertisement on it. Almost two hours have gone by since Mary went sidling between the car and the cinder-block side of the Quik-Pik. And for the first time he thinks of Biz.

When he opens the door, heat rushes out at him, and when he puts his hand on the steering wheel to lean in he pulls it back with a cry. It’s got to be a hundred and thirty in there. Biz is dead on his back. His eyes are milky. His tongue is protruding from the side of his mouth. Ray can see the wink of his teeth. There are little bits of coconut caught in his whiskers. That shouldn’t be funny, but it is. Not funny enough to laugh at, but funny.

“Biz, old buddy,” he says. “I’m sorry. I forgot you were in here.”

Great sadness and amusement sweep over him as he looks at the baked Jack Russell. That anything so sad should be funny is just a crying shame.

“Well, you’re with her now, ain’t you?” he says, and this is so sad that he begins to cry. It’s a hard storm. While he’s crying, it comes to him that now he can smoke all he wants, and anywhere in the house. He can smoke right there at her dining-room table.

“You’re with her now, Biz,” he says again through his tears. His voice is clogged and thick. It’s a relief to sound just right for the situation. “Poor old Mary, poor old Biz. Damn it all!”

Still crying, and with the purple kickball still tucked under his arm, he goes back into the Quik-Pik. He tells Mr. Ghosh he forgot to get cigarettes. He thinks maybe Mr. Ghosh will give him a pack of Premium Harmonys on the house as well, but Mr. Ghosh’s generosity doesn’t stretch that far. Ray smokes all the way to the hospital with the windows shut and the air-conditioning on. 

[aivaehdaevis]

The More Things Change: Ch 11

The More Things Change

by Aivaeh

Disclaimer: Familiar characters, plot elements, and settings belong to L.J. Smith, Julie Plec, and the CW. The author of this work of fanfiction has made no money from it. Summary: I have no idea how it happened, but one morning I woke up in the world of The Vampire Diaries. Which, aside from the insanity of waking up inside a television show made real, might not be so bad—if I weren't stuck in the body of vampire magnet and doppelgänger herself, Elena Gilbert. Pairing(s): OFC x Damon, OFC x Stefan, OFC x Elijah, OFC x Klaus Rating: M Warning(s): Graphic descriptions of violence on par with the show itself. References to sex and drug use. Mind control and all the issues of consent that go along with it. Character death. Master List External Links: AO3 | FF.Net | Wattpad

Chapter Eleven

Warning for mutilation. Please skip this chapter if such a subject bothers you.

Cheer practice was a disaster.

Not that this surprised me. Between my nerves being shot from the night before, the circle’s under Bonnie’s eyes and her continued avoidance—made worse by my avoiding her, and Caroline’s transformation into a drill sergeant from hell, it was the embodiment of misery. I’d tried to quit before we’d even started, but one stern glare from Caroline made the words die in my throat. I figured it was better for ‘Elena’ to perform so badly, Caroline might toss me off the squad herself. Hopefully not from the top of a pyramid.

Not that I could’ve balanced well enough to make it to the top in the first place.

Stefan wasn’t with the other guys on the field. I thought he wasn’t around at all when, during a water break, I spied him up on the bleachers, watching. The knowledge I had him as an audience to my failure made everything that much more humiliating.

As soon as Caroline declared the day finished, glaring at me in a way that made me happy she wasn’t a vampire, Bonnie hurried off. If I remembered the episode right, she should’ve gone to dinner with me and Stefan. And then Damon and Caroline show up.

Guess that was off the agenda.

Instead of heading straight off to my bag, I shuffled to the stands. Stefan met me halfway down, folded arms resting on the railing as he leaned over. “Hope you enjoyed the show,” I said, sour.

He smiled. “I take it you weren’t a cheerleader?”

The night before, we hadn’t had time to talk about me at all. Which I was thankful for. Thinking of my life reminded me that I no longer had it. Family. Friends. Job. Everything I’d worked for. If I started down that road, I’d fixate. I doubt I’d be able to function. “No.” I bit my lip before admitting, “Soccer.” Before he could comment, I hurried to add, “I was terrible. I was only allowed on the team so they’d have enough players.” I grimaced. “I can kick well enough, but only so long as the ball isn’t moving. And no one’s running at me. And I’m not running.”

Stefan dipped his head to try and hide his grin. I found a patch of dirt fascinating. I dug a toe in. “Anyway,” I nodded to the team. “I see you’re not on the field.”

“Too big a chance I’d be revealed.” Stefan watched the team practicing for a moment before adding, “I’m surprised I’d even consider it, let alone try out.”

“I think you wanted to impress Elena. Make her happy.” I remembered. “And you ended up bonding with Matt.”

He glanced aside, towards the figures hustling across the field. “Elena’s ex?”

“He’s a good guy,” I defended.

Stefan looked back. “There’s other ways to make friends.”

Sure, but none so quick as bonding on a team. Ah, well. I wasn’t going to worry about Stefan socializing enough.

“I didn’t come just to watch you at practice,” Stefan said, pulling me from my thoughts. “I thought we could go back to my place.” He held up a familiar leather-bound journal. “Figure a few things out.”

I swept the back of my hand over my slick brow. “I don’t know, Stefan,” I said, nose crinkling. “Jenna probably noticed that I never came home last night.”

“I’ll have you back before late afternoon,” Stefan assured.

I considered it. Eventually, I nodded. “Okay.” I glanced in the direction of the parking lot, blowing a piece of loose hair out of my mouth as the breeze kicked up. “Did you come in a car or…?”

“Or,” Stefan said with a self-effacing grin. “Mind giving me a ride?”

I shook my head. “Let me get changed.” I would’ve liked a shower, but that would have to wait.

Standing, Stefan slid his hands into his pockets. “I’ll be outside the dressing room.”

Changing didn’t take long. Stefan was leaning back against the wall outside the locker rooms. We fell into step, his longer legs adjusting their pace to accommodate Elena’s shorter stride.

“Will you talk to Damon?” I asked, stepping from the sidewalk onto the parking lot’s blacktop with a tap of my sneakers.

Stefan rolled his shoulders high. “I can try.” His tone suggested he didn’t have much hope of getting very far.

“I suppose I’ll have to go over it all again,” I sighed.

He kept his eyes on the pavement. “Damon’s in denial.”

We reached the SUV. I unlocked the door and climbed in. Stefan followed a moment after. Placing my bag in the back, I paused before settling in my seat. “Why aren’t you?”

Stefan met my stare. “Why should I be?”

I arched a brow. “It’s nuts?”

“Exactly,” he agreed, lip curling every-so-slightly upward.

I held his gaze for another moment. Facing forward, I started the car. “Maybe I’m an outrageous liar.”

“Those stories you told me. About growing up.”

Foot on the brake, I paused.

“Were they true?”

I stared out the window before forcing myself to check the rearview mirror. “Yes.” I eased out, shifting into drive. “Different names. Caroline and Bonnie wouldn’t know about anything I told you.”

“I’m sorry.”

I focused on cruising down the lane and turning into traffic. “What’s done is done.”

“That doesn’t make it any less unfair.” I felt him watching. For what, I wasn’t sure.

I exhaled. “I can’t think about that, Stefan,” I admitted, grip tightening on the wheel. “If I start, I won’t stop.”

“Okay.”

An uneasy silence filled the car. Flashes of my life kept creeping up on me. I tried to focus on the road.

Still, I felt I owed him something for his faith. “Heather and Erica.”

“Hm?”

“My best friends. Their names.” I cleared my throat, blinking back the tears that threatened to blur my vision.

The quiet became a little lighter.

“Charles,” Stefan said a little later.

I glanced at him. “A friend?”

He nodded. “His parents were sharecroppers. They farmed a section of land a few miles from the main house. We were about the same age, so his mother tutored us together.”

“What happened to him?”

Stefan traced his hand along the dash. “I don’t know. After I turned, I stayed far away from him.” He looked out the window.

“I bet City Hall has records.”

“Death certificates.”

I realized his point and made a non-committal hum. Thinking of the friends and family I left behind, I wondered, “How do you do it? Live on past everyone you know?”

Stefan’s brow furrowed. “Honestly?” At my nod, he said, “Don’t get attached.” He looked at me. “Otherwise, you move forward, one day at a time. Until you learn how to live without them.” He stared back out the window. “No other choice."

If that wasn’t the loneliest thing I’d ever heard, I wasn’t sure what was.

We passed through the rest of Mystic Falls in silence.

The boarding house was quiet as Stefan led me through the front door to the library. I shrugged off my jacket, mildly startled when Stefan took it. I ignored the buzz of pleasure the old-fashioned move engendered in me. “Where’s Zach?”

Hands still holding onto my jacket, Stefan paused by the coatrack in the hall. “Downstairs,” he said, a frown in his voice. Before I could ask what he was doing in the basement, Stefan had left.

I wandered down the steps further into the room. Several pictures sat on the various tables spread out across the room. I took up one beside the sofa nearest the fireplace. The picture was old, early nineteen hundreds, at least. A portrait of a man stared back at me. He was clean shaven, dark hair arrayed in the style of the day. His eyes looked lightly colored, possibly blue, though the photograph was sepia toned and impossible to say for sure. There was something in the shape of his jaw and eyes that reminded me vaguely of Damon.

A pair of footsteps sounded outside the still-open door. Setting the photo down, I wandered towards the entrance.

“—going down there,” Stefan said.

“He needs food. Water. Changing the bucket.” My nose crinkled as I realized why Zach would have to change a bucket. “We can’t lock him up and ignore him.”

“I’m not suggesting that.” A touch of impatience entered Stefan’s voice. “I told you. I’d take care of it.” There was a beat of silence before he added, “Or don’t you trust me?”

Another poignant moment passed. “Of course, Uncle Stefan.”

A wry Stefan replied, “It’s fine, Zach. Probably wise not to. But do me a favor and stay away from the cells.”

“Whatever you say.” Zach wasn’t pleased.

“It’s only for another day or two,” Stefan assured him.

As their voices drew nearer, I returned to the side table with the mystery descendant’s photo. I sat on the end of the sofa as Stefan appeared. Zach wasn’t with him.

“Sorry.” Stefan jogged down the steps and joined me at the couch.

“Something wrong?”

Stefan sat on the edge of the opposite end. “I found Zach speaking with John.”

“What about?”

“I’m not sure. They quieted when I reached the stairs.” He frowned. “Actually, Zach did. John said hello.”

That didn’t sound like John. “Weird.”

Stefan twisted slightly to face me. “The vervain should be out of his system in a few days.”

“Then we’ll have one less thing to worry about.”

“Speaking of,” Stefan said, leaning forward. “Do we have the time to be worrying about Katherine?”

The question startled the huff of a laugh from me. “Stefan, we’re way ahead of schedule.”

His frown deepened.

“We have the time to reassure Damon.” I reached down and undid the laces on my sneakers. “The sooner he accepts Katherine left him long ago, the sooner he’ll start looking for a new purpose. This town,” I finished as I slipped my feet free. I would have been worried about the smell after practice, but was too enamored with the idea of getting off my feet altogether.

“The town,” Stefan repeated, doubt slowing his words. The same doubt made his stare all the weightier.

“Yes. The town.” I wasn’t Elena. I was under no illusions of that. “What we need to be ready for is Esther.”

Pulling my feet up until I was sitting cross legged, I reclined against the arm of the sofa. Stefan was still leaning forward, elbows planted on his knees, hands folded. “It doesn’t sound as if the Original family is safe to deal with.”

“So long as we give them what they want, they’ll be reasonable.” I thought for a second before amending, “Well, Kol and Rebekah might be problems. But they don’t have to be involved."

Stefan’s gaze hardened. “What they want leads to your death.”

I was already dead—but pointing it out wouldn’t help my cause. “Elijah has a way around that.” Maybe. I left that part out, too. Stefan had a real save-the-damsel complex. “And Klaus will have a powerful reason to make sure I survive.”

“Turning you into his human blood bag.”

“I’m more worried about you,” I said, hoping to change the subject. “Klaus wants the Ripper back.”

Stefan peered across the room towards the bookshelves. I doubt he really saw any of the titles, though. “It sounds like I don’t have much choice.”

“Then you know where I’m coming from.”

I found myself fixed in his sights before Stefan rubbed his brow. “You have no idea when Katherine comes back.”

“No. Isobel and John were her agents. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she pops up sooner rather than later.” It seemed to be the way things were going lately.

He nodded. “She might send more to test the waters.” He leaned back. “You’re sure an alliance with the Originals is feasible?”

“One with Elijah is. So long as it doesn’t threaten his family. Since we’re offering to help protect it, it’s all but a guarantee.” That much I was sure of, at least. “Klaus is a wildcard. I think he can be persuaded. My compliance and knowledge in exchange for his help—it’s a good bargain.” I was prepared to tell him my name if it came down to it. Klaus would like to have that extra bit of insurance hanging like the sword of Damocles over my neck. He had to feel in control. “We need their near invulnerability and strength.”

“Near,” Stefan muttered, mouth thinning.

“Let’s just focus on the tomb for now.”

“One thing at a time?”

I didn’t think, with all that was coming, we could afford to do it any other way. Too many chances for something to go wrong. Too large a chance I’d forget some detail. “Getting your brother to stop plotting against you will go a long way towards helping.”

We spent another hour sketching out ideas. Solidifying our plans for opening the tomb. Who to contact first between Elijah and Klaus. How to get word to them. How much to reveal. We tried to come up with ways Esther might interfere.

As supper time neared, I said goodbye to Stefan and—after collecting my jacket and being escorted to the door—returned to Elena’s.

I managed to beat Jenna and Jeremy, which I supposed meant it was my turn to cook. Thanks to a seasoning packet and shells I found tucked in a cupboard, I ended up making tacos using the vegetables John had prepped that morning. Eating a lone dinner, all the leftovers went back in the fridge.

I was vegging in front of the television when the front door opened. Following after the clomping footsteps, I found Jeremy in the kitchen grabbing a box of cereal. “Tacos in the fridge.”

Jeremy rerouted. He didn’t bother with the microwave, just shoved the meat straight in the shell and loaded it with hot sauce. My nose wrinkled as he bit in. I caught a glimpse of his eyes as he fixed his second. Red, glazed, and half-closed. I had a feeling I’d smell something distinctly herbal if I were to get close enough to catch a whiff of his hoodie.

“Uncle John left.”

Jeremy frowned but shoved the last of his second taco in his mouth rather than answer. He immediately started making his third.

“Leave some for Jenna,” I said.

Jeremy gave a thumbs up. I left him to it.

I filled the rest of my evening with homework until fatigue dragged my concentration too far down to focus.

That afternoon was the first time since appearing in this crazy world that I hadn’t woken up drenched in sweat and terrorized from some forgotten nightmare. I hoped this was a new trend to be repeated.

And then the light died.

I jolted awake to find a man leaning over the bed.

I gasped and drew in a breath to scream. The bedside lamp clicked on. “Damon!”

“Hello Not-Elena,” he said, belly flopping down at the foot of the bed.

My stomach plunged. “What are you doing?” I hissed.

“Mm,” Damon hummed, grabbing hold of a pillow and making himself at home. “Charm. In pocket.”

I eyed him with naked skepticism.

He huffed before pulling something out of his front jean pocket and tossing it towards me. “There,” he muttered before burying his head in the pillow.

It was a small bracelet of woven leather. I caught a glimpse of writing on the inside of the leather strips with what looked like a sharpie. Literal charms had been woven into the twining straps. Beads that I realized were carved from different crystals. Lavender amethysts, sea green turquoise, rose quartz, and tiger’s eye. Interspersed were small metal discs, each one etched with a different symbol inside of it.

It was beautiful.

“It’s acts as some kind of restraining order for ghosts,” Damon said as I fastened it around my wrist, turning it this way and that to see the light gleam off the beads. “Smaller range,” he amended. “‘Round a few hundred feet.”

“And there were no… issues?”

One of Damon’s eyes cracked open. “Like what?”

I guessed Bree was still alive. Good. “Nothing.” Damon’s one-eyed stare narrowed, but he shut his eye again before questioning me about it. “What are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” he mumbled.

“You can’t sleep here, Damon.” I was about to push him off the bed with my feet, then thought better of it.

“Mph,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Long drive. Tired.” He started shucking his jacket. Twin thumps hitting the floor said he’d toed off his shoes.

“Damon,” I began, using my most commanding tone, “I mean it.”

“Fake-lena,” he sighed, “I drove fourteen hours to ensure your spirit stalker couldn’t haunt you.” He tossed his jacket off the side of the bed. “At least let me get in a few hours before I fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Do vampires even need sleep?”

“If this show of yours followed my life, I know you saw a bed.” Damon snuggled down. “Now shhh. Sleeping.”

“It wasn’t just your life.” He didn’t respond. With a disgusted sigh, I threw back the covers and grabbed my pillow, marching to the door.

He turned his head to follow me. “Where are you going?”

“To the guest bedroom.” I realized its bed probably already had a pillow. I kept hold of mine anyway.

Damon muttered, “Don’t be a child.” His eye opened. “You’re not a child, are you?”

“I’m tempted to say yes so you’ll leave me alone.”

He nodded to himself. “Didn’t think so.”

“First of all, I don’t sleep with men who threaten others get my compliance.” Damon shut his eye and flopped a hand against the mattress. “Second, I don’t get involved with men who are in love with other women.” Damon shrugged. I ground my teeth. “Third, and most importantly, this isn’t my body.”

“Finders keepers,” Damon replied into the pillow.

“Okay, that’s a five-year-old’s logic.” I opened the door.

A large pale hand pushed it shut. An annoyed vampire stared down with tired eyes. “Fine. I’ll go.” His brows rose. “But if something terrible happens on the way, I want you to know—” he leaned in, “you are completely responsible for it.”

I pushed him in the direction of the window. “Good night, Damon.”

“Good night, Not-Elena. And you’re welcome.” He was gone in a flutter of curtains.

Walking back around to my bed, I saw his shoes and jacket gone, too. I shivered and went to back to bed wondering just how fast he could move.

The next morning, I felt better than I had in days. No pulse pounding terror or sweat-soaked sheets. Then I remembered it was game day.

I didn’t bother with the cheer uniform. Thankfully, Damon didn’t know anything about it when he picked me up that morning. I was certain I’d never hear the end of it if he did.

At school, I could see the relief on Caroline’s face all the way from the parking lot. “Oh, thank god,” she said as I approached.

I went straight to the point. “I’m quitting.”

Caroline didn’t even bother to put on a show of disappointment. “I had no idea how I was going to drop you from the squad.”

I hiked my bag further up my shoulder. “Problem solved.”

“Who would’ve thought missing one summer of cheer camp would make you so bad,” Caroline went on.

“Yeah. Go figure.” I spotted a familiar figure with his stupidly handsome little smile sitting on his favorite table. “Oh, look. There’s Stefan. I’m going to go say hi.”

Caroline looked as if she had more to say about my suddenly abysmal cheer abilities, but I rushed off as fast as I dared without making it look like I was running away. I mean, I was, but I didn’t want her to know that. Stefan’s small smile unfurled into a full grin as I neared him.

“Morning,” he greeted, eyes gleaming.

I huffed. “You heard that.” Despite being too far away. For a human, I supposed.

Stefan lowered his head a bit. “I did.” He glanced over. “I think you made a wise decision.”

“Uh huh.”

“There are lots of alternative after school activities.” The gleam in his eyes took on an amused tint. “Maybe Mystic Falls can start a soccer team.”

I scowled. “I know where you sleep, Salvatore.”

I felt ridiculously proud when he chuckled. The sound of it made my skin tingle and grow warm all at once.

The rest of the day passed like the others. Bonnie was definitely avoiding me, but the memory of Sheila’s face just before Stefan killed her made me grateful for the fact. I had no idea how to talk to her as if everything was normal. Had Sheila’s absence had been noted by now? I wondered what Damon had done with her, and then decided I was better off not knowing.

The murmurs of the other students were, weirdly, becoming familiar as well. Now the topic was Elena quitting the squad. I was learning how to tune it out. Why these people cared so much about what one girl was up to baffled me.

What’s more, I began to suspect the rest of Elena’s friends at lunch were beginning to freeze her out. They asked less questions, didn’t bother trying to include me in conversation. I couldn’t really blame them. I’d been so worried about saying the wrong thing, I’d been saying very little at all. They were learning to ignore me.

It was enough to make me glad to hear Damon’s camaro for once. I hurried into the passenger seat without even token resistance.

Head down as I buckled the seat belt, I didn’t realize anyone else had approached until the back door creaked open.

“What are you doing?” Damon drawled.

My head was up and around in time to see Stefan slide into the back seat. “Getting a ride from my brother.”

“Get out,” he said with a perfectly pleasant tone while grinning. There was an edge to the way he held himself, though, that made my stomach drop. He was too still, like a panther getting ready to pounce.

“We need to plan, Damon,” Stefan said, tone staying reasonable. He nodded to me. “We can do that back at the house.”

“What’s to plan?” Damon asked, still in his faux pleasant mien. “We get the crystal, I call the witch, we open the tomb.” His sunglasses tilted down as he lowered his chin. “Besides, haven’t you been feeding on Bambi blood? You can run home.”

“Just drive,” Stefan replied archly, settling back in the seat.

Damon stared for several more seconds before another fake smile flickered on his face as he turned back around. “You really ought to get that engine looked at, brother.”

Stefan hummed as he watched the other cars glide by.

An awkward silence brewed under the rush of wind as the camaro sped through the streets. With my hair down, it fluttered and whipped all over. The sky was clear and bright, the trees sparkled as sunlight peeked between their leaves. The further towards Wickery Bridge, the fewer houses we passed, until it was just woodland.

It was a beautiful Virginia day.

If it weren’t for the two vampires determined not to interact in close quarters, it’d been a lovely ride. As it was, by the time Damon pulled into the garage, I swept the hair out of my face and exited as soon as the car stilled. Shutting the door with my hip, I attempted to tame Elena’s hair with my fingers, using the side mirror to judge my success.

Thankfully, Elena lacked the naturally wavy hair I’d had. It was far more forgiving and fell more or less back into place with a minimum of fuss. As a lifelong owner of a certifiable tangled mess whenever the slightest breeze kicked up, I hated her. Staring at the big brown eyes in the reflection, I wondered if I’d ever get used to seeing her face staring back at me. Or how long I’d have before Elena found a way to kick me out for good.

Hopefully not before Esther lost the means to cast her spell and kill the Originals.

Assuring myself that’s what I was here to figure out how to stop, I straightened up and found the brothers waiting for me to finish primping. Fighting to keep the slight flush at the back of my neck from spreading any higher, I forced a tight-lipped smile and hurried over.

While Stefan immediately took my jacket at the door, Damon strode straight the library. I waited while Stefan finished hanging our jackets up and dropped his bag off on a small bench pressed against the entryway wall before following Damon.

“What’s amazing,” Damon started from the wet bar as he poured himself a generous drink, “is that you think I care about any of this.”

Stefan folded his arms, his dark t-shirt giving an impressive view of his biceps. “You should. You’re involved.”

“I’m not convinced Fake-lena is on the level.”

I hesitated next to the sofa. “I’m right here.”

Damon’s eyes flashed towards me as he picked up his drink. “What? Would you prefer I talk about you behind your back?” he asked as he wandered around the bar. “I want in the tomb. That’s it. The rest,” he waved his glass between the Stefan and I, “you two can figure out.”

Brows pinched low, Stefan ambled down the steps. “You don’t want to know anything about what’s coming?”

“Big nasty witch who wants to do some spell on the first vampires and kill us all,” Damon replied as he sat on the arm of the sofa. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”

“It’s true,” I insisted.

“We’ll see,” Damon replied, lifting his drink and taking a sip. Before Stefan or I could get in another word, his attention flitted to the door. “Hello, Zach.”

The front door drifted closed with a click. The rustle of plastic announced Zach before the tallest Salvatore appeared in the doorway holding several grocery bags. “I was about to make dinner.”

“Thank you, Zach,” Stefan replied, still staring with furrowed brows at a smirking Damon.

“Will Elena be staying over?”

“Oh, um—”

“Of course.” Damon’s smirk twisted higher.

Lips thinning, I fixed Damon with an unamused side-eye. “Only if it isn’t any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble, is it, Zach?” Damon was the picture of pleasant courtesy. I didn’t buy it for a second.

But Zach shook his head. “No.” He lifted the bags a little higher. “But I’d better get started.”

“You’re not going to take any of this seriously, are you?” Stefan immediately asked as soon as Zach left, diving back in headfirst.

“Nope.”

Feeling a familiar pressure, I stood up. “Mind if I use your restroom?”

The way the conversation was going, I doubt I’d miss anything important, anyway.

“No. Of course not.” Stefan moved off the stairs. “Down the hall, third door on the right.”

“Thanks.”

Stefan nodded as I passed.

Back in the main hall, I could hear the sound of rustling plastic from the kitchen across the way. Passing it and the main staircase, my sights roamed over the artwork on the paneled walls. The old-fashioned light fixtures that had probably once been set up for candles before being converted to electric lights.

The bathroom was as sumptuously decorated. Ornate mirror over a standing sink. A toilet that looked like it was from an earlier century. No tub or shower. Those must have been kept to the rooms upstairs.

After washing my hands, I was about to join the brothers back in the sitting room when the sight of a door near the staircase caught my eye. I thought it looked somewhat familiar from the show. Curiosity overcoming my manners, I slowly pulled it open and found stairs leading down. It must have been the way to the basement.

John was down there.

I thought of his odd behavior the day before. Why had he taken off the family ring? Or didn’t seem at all disappointed to see me and not his daughter? And with Damon here, was he being treated humanely?

The questions nagged at me enough that I found myself sneaking down the first step, and then the second, so on and so forth until I reached the bottom.

The basement didn’t start out looking like a dungeon, not with normal finished walls and a concrete floor. It was a large space, but one stuffed with furniture and antiquities. Following the room to a door across from the staircase, going through finally led me to the more… iffy portion of the basement.

Here the older foundation of the boarding house could be found in the exposed brickwork and a narrower hall. The cells were immediately visible. Huge wooden doors with barred windows, like something out of an old movie.

Mindful that Damon and Stefan would probably discover what I was up to within minutes, I stepped up to the first cell door and peeked through the bars.

Pressed into the corner of the cell, John’s head leaned all the way back as both eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was dressed in a plain button-down shirt and pair of dark slacks, the same clothes from the day before. Every muscle was relaxed. If it weren’t for the brick walls and dirt floor, I wouldn’t have guessed he was a prisoner.

I was about to slip away when his eyes rolled down. “Elena.” He smiled, sat straighter. That stare fixed itself on me, now. “E-lay-nah.” He folded his hands. His ring was still missing. “Pretty name, isn’t it? Do you like it?”

I looked back towards the open door and the storage room beyond. “I guess.”

“That’s good. Since it’ll be yours from now on.” The tap of shoes scraping against the dirt drew my gaze. “I’m glad you came to see me.”

I moved back a step. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

His grin widened. “For a man who tried to banish you?”

Yeah. It sounded stupid when put like that. I grimaced. “I guess it’s a perfect duty.”

“Mills,” he said, delighted. For some odd reason. “You know philosophy.”

“A semester of it.” I’d taken the intro course mostly out of vague curiosity. Well, that, and as a freshman having felt insecure enough to want the intellectual bragging rights. Which turned out to be incredibly ironic, because all philosophy did was make me feel like an idiot. Long dead white men pontificating on the nature of things does not make for an easy or entertaining read.

“So, tell me,” he shifted his weight, leaned nearer the door, “what did you learn about Hell?”

Okay. Talk about your light conversation topics.

“It was introductory philosophy. We didn’t delve deep into the theological stuff.” And I was done with it by then.

“You must have thoughts. An interpretation,” he insisted.

I guess it was a subject I should give graver consideration. Considering. “I don’t know. I suppose there’s the classic lake of fire. A realm made of your worst nightmares. Dante’s circles.” I thought for a moment. “I guess the one I’ve always gone with is the absence of God.”

John’s face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Yes! For what is God, if not everything? And in the absence, nothing.” A fervor entered his eyes. “No up or down. No hot or cold. Long or short. Never or always. Not even pleasure or pain. Just-“ he gestured all around the cell with his hands, “being. And nothing.”

I eyed him. “That would—qualify. Sure.”

He stood, strode to the door. A hand curled around the bar. “Now, imagine this. Existing in nothing. Not even time, because there’s no way to mark it. It’s eternal and yet never was.”

“I don’t think I can,” I said slowly.

“No, I suppose not.” His head tilted. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

I’d say so. What he described sounded like a sensory deprivation chamber, and those were supposed to drive people to hallucinate if left in long enough. Who knows what being stuck in one ‘without time’ might do.

“But what would such a pitiful being think when, out of nothing, comes something.” He turned rapturous in his intensity. “Something wonderous. So bright that, for the first instant in an existence that never knew time, the darkness was chased away by this—this star.”

Unable to imagine it, I stuck to reason. “It’d probably be overwhelming.”

“Inadequate,” he insisted, fervent as a snake handling preacher. “It’d be everything, wouldn’t it, Elena? Everything it had ever known, and for the first moment, would ever know.”

Yeah. He was nuts. “Uh huh.”

Some of the brightness dimmed. Shoulders slumping, John looked aside with a bitter smile. “This… is…” he shut his eyes. He swallowed hard, smile turning euphoric. His neck began to flush, while his hand squeezed the bar.

My stomach turned. Feeling oddly voyeuristic, I stepped aside. “I’m… going to go.”

“NO!”

His hand shot out. I jumped back, startled. I needn’t have. I’d been far enough from the bars that I was well out of his reach, but seeing his hand appear before my face… not fun. I eyed him again, taking another step back.

“Don’t go, Elena,” he pleaded, eyes wide and beseeching. “Please. Please don’t go.”

“But visiting hours are over.” For once, the sound of Damon’s voice brought relief. He draped an arm over my shoulders. “She’ll have to come back, oh,” his eyes narrowed, “never.”

John’s hand retracted, slow and steady. A grin filled his face. “We’ll see.”

“Hmm.” Damon gave a crinkled eye smile back. He then guided me down the hall and towards the stairs. “Say bye-bye to Uncle John.”

I shot an uneasy gaze behind me. “I’m not sure that was Johnathan Gilbert.”

Back through the antique room, he dropped his arm as we reached the stairs. He fell behind to let me go up first. “Well, if not dear ol�� Uncle John, who do we have locked in our basement, Not-Elena.”

“Not-John.”

He snorted. “How many of you body snatchers from outer space are there?”

I glared at the top of the stairs, only to be met by that stupid smirking face. “I’m not from outer space. I’m from another dimension.”

“Yeah, because that’s so much better,” Damon shot back as he passed. “Come on then. Before Stefan spontaneously combusts from worry.”

I blew out a breath and followed Damon towards the sitting room.

A scream halted us both in our tracks.

Damon disappeared. Left gaping in the middle of the hallway, I hurried off in the direction I thought I heard the shout come from. The kitchen.

I didn’t have time to take in details beyond the impression of a large dining room table off to one side and a long counter to the other. I did notice the small island stove to separate it from the rest of the room. Mostly because it was lit, with a pot and several pans on top.

Zach was over a sink in the center of the counter, Stefan and Damon to either side of him, supporting him. Several blood-soaked towels hung off the sink’s edge. Another was wrapped up to Zach’s elbow.

“Elena, stay back,” Stefan half-called half-snarled, veins bulging around his eyes.

Zach had more blood smeared over his mouth, the two holding his hand over the sink. “It hurts,” he said, voice airy and weak.

Damon carefully unwrapped the towel. What he saw made his eyes narrow and his nose wrinkle. “Mm. Yeah. He’s going to need a doctor.”

“I fed him my blood.”

“Don’t think that’s gonna grow them back, Stef,” Damon countered.

I walked further into the room, over to a pan that was starting to smoke. Grabbing an oven mitt, I made to pick it off the flame and turn the rest off. Then I glanced down.

At first, all I noticed was a mix of sautéed vegetables and chopped meats. Then I saw them. Small and round, burnt on one side, they looked a bit like mini sausages. Except for the nails. “Oh my god,” I breathed, recoiling back into Damon. At the sour taste and the pressure in my throat, I hastened to cover my mouth.

Damon twisted to look over my shoulder. “Huh. Never seen that before.”

Stefan glanced at us and asked, “What?” but from the wary look on his face, he probably already suspected.

Damon said it anyway. “Three guesses as to tonight’s mystery meat, Stefan.”

I couldn’t swallow it back anymore. I raced to the wastebasket at the end of the counter and discovered Elena’s body experienced the same lightheadedness that I’d always felt when vomiting.

I heard Damon click his tongue.

“What the hell, Zach?” Stefan asked.

“I wanted to see if it would hurt.”

Despite still feeling sick, I was so taken aback I had to look up through watery eyes at Zach. We all stared, dumbstruck. Even Damon.

Though he didn’t stay speechless for long. “Right.” Damon moved the pan off the stove. “Cooking privileges revoked. Forever.” He let the pan fall onto the countertop with a clatter.

Stefan shook his head. His veins had at least started to recede at the shock. He wrapped another towel around Zach’s hand.

Dinner was forgotten by everyone without ever needing to discuss it. Damon and I spent the rest of the afternoon into early evening cleaning the kitchen while Stefan saw to Zach. Damon offered to take me home, but I didn’t want to leave when things got tough and bloody. I’d be running regularly from the Salvatore house—and the Gilbert house, and the high school, and the town—if I did that.

Instead, while he took care of the pan from hell, I did my best to wipe up the blood. And I had to clean it up well enough that Stefan wouldn’t smell it whenever he got near the kitchen. I used a lot of bleach.

I’d just finished up and moved back to the library with Damon for a much-needed glass of his five-hundred-dollar tequila when the front bell chimed. He pushed himself off the sofa with a, “Be a minute,” to me before hurrying to answer. I reclined, looking into the lit fire. Glass rubbing back and forth against my forehead, I wondered what the hell had happened to Zach. Damon and Stefan both thought he’d been compelled by Anna as a warning, but I couldn’t figure out why Anna would do that. I was mulling it over when footsteps approached.

“Elena.”

“Jenna?” Hastily lowering my glass, I turned to stare over the sofa and found Jenna in the doorway, Damon lingering behind her. Lips pressed into a thin frown, she wore the most serious expression I’d ever seen on her face. In person, at least. I immediately wondered if she knew that John was here. From Damon’s crazy eyes just behind her, I realized he was thinking the same thing. Not good for Jenna. Frantic, I blurted, “Stefan and I were just studying—”

She interrupted with, “Tyler Lockwood’s in the hospital and Jeremy’s been arrested. For assault.”

[itsworn]

Greetings from the Grave with Mark Worman

Living the Dream

Greetings to you, my ghoulish Mopar-loving friends …

I want to start, as always, by thanking all of you for your support of Mopar Muscle magazine, Graveyard Carz, and Motor Trend. I wouldn’t be living the dream without the help, support, and feedback from each and every one of you. Yes, even negative feedback can be put to good use. My mom always said, “Truth bears investigation.” When I read something that isn’t positive, I try to be optimistic and consider it feedback. I don’t take personal offense; I use it as a constructive tool to assist me in improving the show and my articles.

Now, not all “non-positive” feedback is helpful. For example, last month MoparRick55 wrote me a direct email. This is an excerpt: “You have a huge nose and your stupid. You can’t dance and your not funny. You look like a Tucan Sam.” There’s more, but I won’t bore you. Normally, this wouldn’t bother me except that he misspelled “your.” I hate that. “Assman1970” tweeted me just before Christmas: “Since you dance so great, why don’t you dance your ass off TV and do us all a favor. Oh yeah, I hope you get canceled.” OK, just one more. “Nutsack4u” sent me a private message on Facebook that read, and I quote: “I have been a Mopar fan my entire life. I’ve owned lots of them and one thing is for sure, YOU SUCK! Your level of SUCK is only exceeded by your ability and desire to SUCK.” So you see, there’s really nothing I can do with that type of feedback — other than veer into oncoming traffic.

OK, let’s get this show on the road …

In recent years, I’ve noticed I’ve become more reflective, more nostalgic, perhaps even more sappy, as mom would always say. I don’t mean that in a self-deprecating way; it’s not meant like that, it’s just an observation forced on me. I find myself putting more thought into things of yesterday, rather than things of today. We build memories every day, no question, but without the advantage of reflection, we don’t always see details. I suppose it’s meant to be that way, kind of a cerebral filing system, I suppose. Whatever the purpose or intent, I’m here to say it works. Not only does it work in my case, but I’ve been fortunate enough to create a lot of files and so far, knock on wood, remember where they’re kept.

A special fish …

For those of you who’ve been avid watchers of the show over the years, you might remember a certain, adorable, little 1970 Barracuda convertible that we restored and unveiled in Season 4. It was EF8, Ivy Green Metallic, with a black manual convertible top, and black bucket seat interior. It may not have been the most expensive Mopar we’ve restored in our tenure on the show, but it certainly is one of my most memorable — not only for me, but the owners as well.

Tommy and Kimberly reached out to me in August of 2012, just two months after our series premiere on Velocity. They had seen the show and had a special car that needed to be helped along. The car had belonged to Kimberly’s father, Stan, who had bought it in the ’70s. He loved the car, which we all do to a degree if we’re pure-hearted car folks, but this car meant more to Stan. So since it meant so much to him, inherently, it meant the world to Kimberly.

During our hour-long phone call I learned about the car and Stan. He had just lost his battle with prostate cancer on August 31, 2011. His Barracuda had been parked for a long time and wasn’t driveable. As his illness progressed, Kimberly thought it was important for Stan to drive his beauty again, before time ran out. So she quickly found a local shop that could rebuild the engine and get the car roadworthy for him. And that’s precisely what happened.

Approximately a month or so before he died, Kimberly was able to take her father for his last ride in his beloved Barracuda. He was too sick to drive the car himself, so Kimberly drove him. He loved that car, and I can’t think of a more wonderful gift he could have received from his daughter and son-in-law — a memory that’s sure to last for lifetimes to come.

It wasn’t long after that we had our first telephone call. I know that in a world of “money matters,” the restoration needed on the car would’ve been, in truth, possibly more than that car’s value. That didn’t matter! It didn’t matter to Tommy and Kimberly, and it didn’t matter to me. Believing in their story and the dream, I made the necessary concessions to keep the restoration cost affordable. I asked for help on parts and materials, and our amazing vendors came through for us.

Big-hearted companies like Auto Metal Direct, PPG, Legendary Interiors, Instrument Specialties, and Tony’s Mopar Parts helped make this dream a reality. There was much more work ahead of us, but in the rearview mirror, I wouldn’t have traded the experience for gold.

The car itself was in pretty darn decent shape. It did have some rust that needed to be addressed, but not bad for its age or being a convertible (BH27). AMD supplied us with right and left foot wells, left and right quarter-panels, trunk floor, trunk floor extensions, and rear body panel. Tommy and Kimberly also wanted to upgrade the hood to the performance sport hood (J54); it was a standard flat hood car originally. The convertible top is a manual unit; yes, you read that right, no power top here. Although, power top (P37) was an option on the Barracuda. The top was in pretty dire straights, which isn’t unusual for the drop-tops. We disassembled the unit, cleaned, lubricated, and adjusted it, then installed a new top, compliments of Legendary Interiors.

This was an air conditioning car as well (H51), so we had our friends at Original Air Group help with restoring the components. New interior, rebuilt and restored original 383 2bbl engine, rebuilt and detailed transmission and rear axle — all just part of the job. One of the most notable items we had restored was the dash assembly. Our friends at Instrument Specialties outdid themselves. This was a standard, non-Rallye dash but air-condition style. The work was impeccable and truly a work of art. I could go on for hours about what’s involved in a restoration of this level, but I’ll let the pictures and our reputation speak for itself.

In the end, the dream was fulfilled. We revealed the car to Kimberly and Tommy in a very special episode of Graveyard Carz that aired on the Velocity channel during Dream Car Week. We thought it was appropriate to make a special episode to air during a special event on the network, because of the backstory of the car and the love Stan had for it. To date, it’s one of our highest-rated episodes of our 10 seasons and counting.

I lost my mother in April of 2018 after a five-month battle with the same selfish, heartless, soulless, effing disease: cancer. There are no words, no condolences, nor empathy to ease the pain or help cope with the loss. The death of a parent is monumental, and it changes us. We may not recognize the change because our gut-level value system is obdurate; nonetheless, we change. The good news is we have those wonderful memories that we carry close to our hearts, always.

Perhaps our present is different now, but our past will always be the same. For Kimberly and Tommy, they’ll always have the fond memories of a wonderful father and the years they had together. And equally important, the ability to forge new memories, as the three of them set off every summer for new adventures in the family car.

Fender Tag read left to right, bottom to top:

E61 383-2 290hp D32 727 3-speed A/Trans BH27 Barracuda Convertible L0B 383 2bbl-1970-Hamtramck Michigan 194905 VIN Sequence EF8 Ivy Green Metallic H6X9 Vinyl Bucket Seats Black 000 Full Door Panels B19 Scheduled Production Date November 19, 1969 011375 Vehicle Order Number V3X Convertible Top Black B51 Power Brakes C16 Center Console C55 Bucket Seats G33 LH Outside Chrome Racing Mirror Remote H51 Air Conditioning M91 Luggage Rack R11 AM Radio-AM Music Master Y05 Build to specifications for the U.S. 26 26-inch radiator EN1 End of sales code

  The post Greetings from the Grave with Mark Worman appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[robertkstone]

Checking Out the Thinkware F800 Pro Dash Cam

Once known primarily as a source for hilarious and bizarre slice-of-life videos from Russia, dash cams have become a popular aftermarket accessory for drivers in the U.S. in recent years. Not only can these devices provide key evidence if you get into an accident, but they can record your in-car adventures, serve as round-the-clock surveillance, and much more. We were offered the chance to check out one of the latest cameras on the market, the Thinkware F800 Pro, and jumped at the opportunity for some hands-on experience.

What it is

Introduced late last year, the F800 Pro builds on the original F800 with new features such as cloud connectivity, an enhanced parking mode, and 128-gigabyte micro SD card compatibility (the F800 can take up to a 64-GB card). The Pro model continues to sport a low-profile design that mounts discreetly on your windshield, and it gets the same extra-sharp Sony Starvis sensor with 1080p HD resolution. The camera also has what Thinkware calls Super Night Vision 2.0, which really makes a difference in low-light situations. Nighttime footage from the F800 Pro always looked much sharper and brighter than I expected.

The F800 Pro is Wi-Fi-enabled, allowing the unit to connect to a free Thinkware Cloud app on your smartphone. Through the app, you can access videos, change settings, and view a live feed from the camera—though only when your phone is within range. What caught my attention when I started reading about the F800 Pro were the advanced safety features it offers. Though such features as forward collision alert and lane departure warning are commonplace on modern cars, the potential to add them on an older vehicle piqued my interest. More on how they work later.

Installation

The F800 Pro came with everything needed to install in our test car, Motor Trend’s long-term Kia Stinger. First, I needed to position the rectangular plastic mount, which is where the unit attaches. California law allows windshield-mounted dash cams to be placed within a 5-inch-square area in the upper middle portion of the windshield (check your own state’s laws before installing). The mount is backed by 3M VHB tape, which holds the lightweight camera securely to the glass. Once in place, the camera wasn’t visible from my driving position, as it was hidden by the rearview mirror. The camera easily unclips from the mount to better access the SD card slot or if you want to use it in multiple vehicles.

Thinkware provides a 12-volt cigarette lighter adapter with a long cord, but you can also hardwire the dash cam with an optional kit. The latter method is the only way to use the F800 Pro’s parking mode surveillance features. We went with the plug-and-play option as we didn’t want to make any permanent modifications to a press car. The cord is several feet long. In my case, that was more than long enough to run along the headliner, tuck in under the B-pillar trim, route behind the glove box, and plug into the 12-volt socket in the center console. Apart from the excess cable, which I bundled together with a twist tie and hid in the cubby where the cigarette lighter resides, the installation is pretty stealth. There is one section of cord showing by the passenger-side B-pillar that gives it away, but with more effort I’m sure I could find a way to hide that as well. It took one staffer who drove the Stinger for the weekend a couple of days to notice the dash cam was in there. From outside the car, you won’t immediately notice the device on the windshield thanks to its all-black housing, slim design, and the relatively small footprint of its mount. Not bad for half an hour’s worth of work. The F800 Pro is a two-channel system, meaning you can pair it with the optional rear-facing camera. Naturally, a second camera would add time to the installation process.

Living with the F800 Pro

Because the camera installs so discreetly, I hardly ever noticed it was there. That is, after I disabled the welcome message that would play every time I started the car. That message prompts you to connect the device to your smartphone and gives you instructions on how to do so. That’s useful information the first time you need to connect, but it’s unnecessary and annoying every time after. The camera records continuously from the moment you start the car (or click the ignition to accessory mode), breaking up your trip into 1-minute clips that are automatically overwritten based on age when the memory card is full. If the device detects an impact, it flags that part of the recording and saves it to a separate folder as a 20-second clip. You can adjust the sensitivity of the built-in G-sensor through the app, which I opted to do because even speed bumps and potholes would trigger the sensor and sound an alert.

To view the footage from the day without removing the SD card, I could simply connect my phone to the camera and wade through the many files in the continuous recording folder. This could make finding a specific moment tedious, as most of the thumbnail images will look similar. Luckily, the camera has a manual record button that makes it much easier to capture the plate number of the truck that cut you off or a road rage incident with viral potential. When you record manually, the camera creates a file in a separate folder that begins 10 seconds before you hit the button and records for another minute. So you can hit the record button after the fact and still catch whatever it is you wanted to film. It helps, too, that the button is the largest on the camera, making it easy to find without looking.

About those safety features

Thinkware’s safety features, including lane departure warning and forward collision warning, have been available on past models, and the F800 Pro represents the latest application of the technology. In order to use the features, you must first align the camera so that the lens points dead center down the hood. The live viewer in the smartphone app has grid lines to help you position the camera. Once it’s in place, you only need to enable the features in the app to start using them.

How do they work? Well, if you’re expecting the same performance as radar-based OEM systems, you’ll be disappointed. After about a month of driving with it on, the forward collision warning rarely proved useful. Thinkware says the camera calculates following distance in real time and issues up to three audible warnings if it thinks you’re getting too close. The F800 Pro has both regular forward collision warning, which operates at speeds above 30 kph (roughly 18 mph), and an urban forward collision warning that works below that speed. Each can be adjusted through the app via three levels of sensitivity. But no matter which settings I chose, the feature never worked well. On the lowest sensitivity, the low-speed warning would rarely trigger during my one-hour, all-traffic commute. The same was true for the high-speed warning without traffic. Even at the highest sensitivity, the warnings would always sound after I was already on the brakes—too late to be of any use in a real emergency.

The lane departure warning feature works well, sounding a subtle alert when you cross the lane markers. However, because the system isn’t integrated with the car, there’s no cancelling the warning automatically when you use your turn signals. So every time you change lanes, you’ll get an alert. It might be best to reserve this feature for long drives, particularly at night when you’re more likely to get drowsy and drift out of your lane. Setting the alert to only go off above 45 kph (roughly 28 mph) would also help avoid unnecessary warnings.

The last safety feature works very well, but its usefulness is debatable. Front vehicle departure warning monitors the car ahead of you when stopped. As soon as it moves, an alert sounds to tell you to move, too. The feature worked flawlessly every time, issuing a faint chime as soon as the car in front started to roll forward. In traffic, the warning was more annoying than it was helpful, as I’m always watching the car in front of me anyway. The only time it did come in handy was at stop lights, when my gaze would occasionally wander from the vehicle ahead. Having the dash cam gently nudge you is better than getting honked at from behind, I suppose. In this phone-addicted age, perhaps some drivers will find this feature useful, though keeping your eyes on the road is still the best policy.

What else can it do?

The F800 Pro has many more features that I didn’t get a chance to experience. Parking mode, which requires hardwiring, acts as a security camera when parked. The dash cam will normally record whenever it detects motion, but you can also select time lapse mode, which records constantly at two frames per second rather than the usual 30 fps to reduce file size, or energy saving mode, which records only when an impact is felt so the device won’t drain your battery if you leave your car parked for long periods of time.

Despite the extensive use of the term “cloud” in Thinkware’s marketing, you cannot upload videos to or stream videos remotely from a cloud service like you can with a few other high-end dash cams. But if you have a portable Wi-Fi hotspot, a hotspot on your phone, or one built in to your car, you can take advantage of some other potentially useful features.

The Driving Impact Notification feature will send push notifications through the Thinkware Cloud app when the cam detects a strong impact while the car is moving, also providing its location. Geofencing lets you set a driving radius for your vehicle. That way if you let your teenager borrow your car, you’ll get an alert if they venture outside the predefined area. The Locate Vehicle feature lets you track your car almost in real time. The vehicle’s location on the map is updated every 10 seconds along with its speed and direction of travel. But not all of the camera’s GPS features require an internet connection. The Safety Camera Alert feature will warn you if you’re approaching a speed camera or red light camera, so long as your unit’s software is up to date and it knows where they are.

Verdict

The Thinkware F800 Pro offers excellent picture quality (especially at night) and an abundance of features—most of which work as intended. However, with the front-facing camera selling for around $330 and the rear-facing camera costing another $100, it’s far from being the cheapest setup on the market. If all you want in a dash cam is the ability to record your daily drive just in case something happens, there’s a wide selection of products that fit the bill for $200 or less. But if you like bells and whistles, you may find comfort in the F800 Pro’s long list of additional capabilities.

The post Checking Out the Thinkware F800 Pro Dash Cam appeared first on Motor Trend.

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[jjaywmac]

What’s in a Name?

My father was born Vito Anthony Orlandella, and he didn’t much care for his name. “Vito” was all right, and in fact, he named his principal business The Vito Fruit Company. No real problem with the benign Anthony, it was the last name he saw as problematic. His one foray into show business as a record producer was done under the name “Tony Vito”. I’m not certain, but I believe he thought that Orlandella was too long and clumsy for a billboard. He had another name ready but never got the chance to use it. A clever anagram made by dropping the first two and the last letters of his name. Thus was born “Vic Landell”. When it came time to name my ballplayer-turned-detective, the choice was an easy one. Call it a homage to my father.

1

Genesis

If you reside in Florida near the Ocean, you qualify as a resident of a “Coast.” If you live between Palm Beach and Miami, you are on the Gold Coast. Between Port St. Lucie and the Indian River? That would be the Treasure Coast. While the area around Cape Canaveral is, no surprise, the Space Coast. Over here on the Gulf of Mexico, we limit ourselves to just one. The stretch that runs from above Tarpon Springs all the way down to Naples is known as the Sun Coast. Now in the dead of a Florida winter, which means that the temperature has plummeted to a mere eighty degrees, I am constantly reminded of Sarah Miles’ languid portrayal of “Alice” in the film “White Mischief” and her line for the ages, “Oh, God, not another fucking beautiful day.”

As my Lotus Elise SC makes the left off Bee Ridge and merges into traffic on Interstate 75 Northbound, I am about an hour away from my destination. Here is your chance to “vet” me. I was born Victor Anthony Landell, on August 22, 1979, at the Massachusetts General Hospital. From day one, everybody called me “Vic.” My father Peter, “Pete,” was a Captain of Detectives for the Boston Police Department, and recently retired to Falmouth on Cape Cod. My mother Katherine, better known as “Kate,” was Chief Nurse at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute right up until the day a cerebral hemorrhage took her life four years ago. Her death devastated my father. My older brother by eighteen months, Thomas, or “Tommie”, is a Commander in the Navy and living out my dream, flying fighter jets off a Nimitz-class carrier.

My IQ score says I should have been a great student, but my interest level begged to differ. I was more concerned with the Red Sox and girls, though not in that order. If you look across the Charles River from Storrow Drive you can see Harvard and M.I.T. “So near and yet so far.” Let’s just say I wasn’t ticketed for either, more likely some State college or, with luck, UMass.

I didn’t get to UMass, and for one good reason, my left arm. I played baseball in high school gifted with a decent fastball and not much else. During my junior year, a coach took me aside and said, “You have the longest fingers I have ever seen. Why aren’t you throwing curve balls?” Good question. So I worked and worked to develop what ballplayers call “the deuce.” Lo and behold, by senior year my curve and I were unhittable.

Then the phone started to ring, and suddenly, college coaches who a year before wouldn’t have given me the time of day were begging me to play for them. Being a Catholic, wanting my parents to see me play, and have the chance for a quality education, I chose Boston College.

The Society of Jesus expected me to do more than just pitch. Things like go to class, study, pass, and oh yeah, graduate – concepts that USC and Texas didn’t bother to mention. A major in history was coupled with a minor in philosophy. Philosophy? Once the Jesuits have you, they never let you go. Of course, neither discipline would get me a job since philosophers are always the last ones hired. Meanwhile, my hurling was coming along nicely, and after four years, I graduated – with honors.

Now, Boston College is no one’s idea of a baseball or for that matter a football factory. If you want a centerman or a lawyer, you look here. If you want a shortstop you look elsewhere. Most scouts couldn’t find Chestnut Hill with both hands and a map. Wonder of wonders, midway through my senior year, I was being scouted by the Pittsburgh Pirates. Miracle of miracles, they drafted me. OK, so it was in the 30th round, but I was in no position to quibble. My philosophy career would have to be postponed. Game called on account of the National Pastime.

Continuing up I-75, a town appears on our left. Not just any town, it is Bradenton aka Sarasota’s ugly stepsister. Bradenton has precisely two claims to fame. It is the home of Tropicana Orange Juice, and for six weeks every winter, the home of the Pirates. This is where it all began for me, February 2000, spring training with Pittsburgh. I arrived on the afternoon of the 15th – bringing with me a glove and a dream. When a Major League team drafts you in the 30th round, your signing bonus will just about pay for a baloney and cheese sandwich. I couldn’t care less. I was a Professional Baseball player.

In all, three summers would pass toiling in the Pirates minor league system. I started playing “A” ball in Lynchburg, Virginia; the year after “AA” in Altoona, Pennsylvania; and finally, “AAA” in Nashville. While down on the farm, I played with guys on the way up, some others on the way down, and a few on the way out – has-beens and never-wases, prospects and suspects. The Pirates told me I was a prospect. So I rode the buses, slept in team motels, ate a lot of fast food, and waited. In the spring of 2003, my time finally arrived.

With Bradenton in the rearview mirror, we now transition to the I-275. The high-strung Elise is loafing along in 6th gear at 80 mph and goading me on as the road bends right. Coming into view is our local “Jewel in the Crown,” the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, according to some expert the third greatest bridge in the world. It’s the gateway to St. Petersburg, the back way to Tampa.

At the end of spring training, I was called into the manager’s office. There would be no going back to Nashville, I had made the team and would go north with the Pirates. The word I was looking for was incredulous, because some way somehow, I was headed to “the show.”

The end of the Bridge is the start of St. Petersburg. A city of two hundred and fifty thousand, it sits across the bay from Tampa and faces the Gulf of Mexico. If you are poor, you live in Tampa. Rich? St. Pete.

Further up the 275, accompanied by the wind noise around my open car and the whine from the supercharger a foot behind my head, I decide to fight back. Up comes the volume on the Lotus’ CD player. A note about my music – I was educated by parents who explained to me that modern music sucked and rap is crap – ‘60s rock and roll is the only real music. Thus, the CD changer has everything from the Beatles covering “Ain’t She Sweet” to the Rivingtons and their immortal “Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow.” Then mix in a dash of Francis Albert Sinatra, and since this is Florida, a dollop of James William Buffett, and presto – music.

When we arrived in Pittsburgh, I was told that my starting days were over and I was now a short reliever. In the lexicon of Baseball, a left-handed “short reliever” is the guy who arrives in the 8th inning, with the game hanging in the balance, for the sole purpose of getting out the other team’s best left-handed hitter. So, I had a role to play.

That first year in a Major League clubhouse was an education. I learned the official language of Baseball – profanity. Players are quite skilled at using modifiers: “That frigin’ ball went so frigin’ far and so frigin’ high!” They also like adding the word “mother” for emphasis. The boys are also adept at coming up with phrases to describe particular situations. If a pitcher goes nine innings and allows two hits, a player might be apt to say he “stuck the bat up your butt.” Conversely, if a reliever comes in, faces four batters, gives up four hits and allows four runs to score, he has just “shit all over the place.” Then there are the ladies. What to a rock guitarist is a groupie, to an outfielder is an Annie. Baseball Annies, like groupies, come in various sizes and shapes, some rather good, some with lots of “personality.” They have one thing – all right, two things in common. They want to meet a ballplayer, and they know the exact location of every team’s road hotel. Some players will always choose quality over quantity, but for others, “a ten o’clock two is a two o’clock ten.” And, of course, there are the bird-watchers, those drawn to the mating call of the double-breasted mattress thrasher.

The year before, Pittsburgh had opened a glorious new ballpark right on the river with a view of downtown. Unfortunately, their silk purse came with a sow’s ear – the Pirates. That summer, the team mustered just seventy-five wins to finish fourth. We outdid ourselves the following season, seventy-two victories. Ta Da!

For two years, I did my job, did it pretty well, and then awoke one morning to learn I had been traded to the St. Louis Cardinals. The Pirates had started yet another urban renewal project. Rebuilding was the one thing they led the league in. Desirable assets, me I suppose, were being exchanged for still more prospects. I was headed for my second team, having been swapped for the legendary “player-to-be-named-later.”

At least I was going to a winning team with a great manager in Tony La Russa. In 2004, the Cards won a stupefying 105 games to take the pennant before having their lunch handed to them by the Red Sox in the Series. The team had front row seats for the death of the Curse. 2005 looked to be more of the same as we won 100 games and swept the Padres in the first round. In the next round, however, we got swarmed by the Astros’ killer B’s. Bagwell, Berkman and Biggio sent us packing in six games.

I enjoyed my season – notice I used the singular and not the plural – in St. Louis because the fans were arguably the best in Baseball. Soon, it was moving day again. The Cardinals had some young arms ready to come up from the minors. “Young arms” is a euphemism for rookies who play for the minimum, and I was a highly paid veteran – as a result of arbitration – at over $1,000,000 a year.

There is a dirty word for what I had become, a “journeyman.”

And while we are on the subject of dirty words, now appearing on your right is Tropicana Field, by unanimous consent the worst ballpark in the world. To me, it’s the box St. Petersburg came in, a domed monstrosity full of girders, cables, catwalks, and about a million-and-a half-ground rules. All of which begs the question, what genius decided that on a summer evening Floridians wanted to be indoors?” Happily, I had the displeasure of playing there on precious few occasions.

So, the Cards shipped me off to the Atlanta Braves. Talk about your boomtown, you can feel it growing around you. In Buckhead alone, there is enough nightlife for five cities, and, per square foot, more beautiful women than anywhere else in the world. You can’t swing a fungo bat without hitting a major babe. Needless to say, my three years in Atlanta were a lot of fun, thanks in large part to a new, lucrative three-year contract.

While there, I got to play for another big-time manager, Bobby Cox. There is a problem with playing for the likes of Cox and La Russa – they are used to winning. For fifteen straight years, the Braves had made the playoffs. Well, we put a stop to that.

Not only did we not make the playoffs, we chalked up the first losing season in fifteen years.

“Oh Lord, I hope they are not rebuilding.”

The Braves were a team in transition, learning to cope without future hall-of-famers Greg Maddux and Tom Glavine. The next season, we somewhat righted the ship – 84 wins left us five games behind the Phillies.

In reality, all we did was rearrange the deck chairs on the Titanic. The win total dropped to 72 the following year. Then we were 20 games adrift of the Phils. It was time to rebuild in Atlanta and time for me to go. During the winter, I was traded again, this time to Philadelphia, and in February 2009, I reported for spring training with the Phillies in Clearwater.

“Would it have killed somebody to trade me to the Red Sox?”

Clearwater is precisely where we are now. Having exited the 275, we are now northbound on U. S. Highway 19. First stop is the Lotus Dealer where I am leaving the Elise to be serviced. Note to anyone who plans on buying a high performance British sports car – make sure you know where the dealer is. Mine is fifty-five miles from home.

I am fortunate that the appointment only takes about three hours, and the service manager gives me a loaner car lest I miss an appointment and wind-up with parts stamped “Made in England” littering the Interstate. Ten minutes later, we are back on the Highway.

Spring with the Phillies did not start well. The Club already had left-handed relievers, so, why did they trade for me? There was talk about my going back to the minors, hardly music to my ears.

After six years in the show, the thought of playing out the summer in Allentown, PA, toiling in AAA for the Lehigh Valley IronPigs – whatever they are, was almost too much to bear. Now, for the first time ever, the “R” work crept through my mind. Retirement.

That said, pitchers can be notoriously fragile. Sure enough, a ligament tear here, a pulled muscle there, some tendinitis, and surprise – once again I was invaluable. That summer, the Phillies used twenty-two different pitchers.

I hated Philadelphia – didn’t like the town or the people, and the cheese steak will never replace the sub sandwich or a slice of Regina’s pizza. The poor man’s Cradle of Liberty held no allure for me since I grew up in the real one. The Phillies had moved into a new stadium in 2004, a big upgrade over the dump they used to play in. Citizens Bank Park is many things – pitcher friendly is not one of them. It wasn’t so much a ballpark as it was a launching pad – Canaveral, without the alligators. There were precisely three saving graces. The first, the Phillies were winners. Second, thanks to my now being eligible for free agency, they were paying me over $6,000,ooo a year on a three-year deal.

The third came in June of 1910, when a Delta charter landed at Logan Airport. As a result of inter-league play, the Phillies came to Boston. The next day, I walked on the grass at Fenway Park. You can change grass to sacred soil because, to any true New Englander, this is hallowed ground as surely as the sod on Lexington Green. I got to pitch in Baseball’s Basilica.

A month later, it was well past midnight when we checked-in at San Francisco. I got to my room, and the message light on the phone was blinking. My dad had called and said it was urgent. I called his cell phone and barely recognized the voice on the other end. Through his trembling lips came two words, “She’s gone.” My mother was dead. Four hours later, I was in a cab back to SFO, with a reservation on the first flight home. I arranged for a high school buddy to pick me up at Logan, and we drove to Newton.

The view of our classic New England brick and wood home off Commonwealth Avenue was a sight for these sore eyes. My father was crushed. High school sweethearts, they had been married for thirty-seven years. Two days later, we buried her in Holy Cross Cemetery in Malden.

The Navy was able to get word to Tommie, somewhere in the Med. As for my dad, my only hope was that he would throw himself into his work, which he did. As for me, heartbroken, I went back to helping the Phillies win ballgames. And we kept on winning. Like every team, we had injuries, and like every good team, we fought through them.

We put together a solid 93-win season and in September, clinched the Club’s third straight Division Title. We rolled through the playoffs, making short work of the Rockies and the Dodgers, and landed a spot in the Fall Classic. I now had a shot at a ring, but looming in the other dugout was the team every Bostonian loathes, none other than the Evil Empire. Swear to God – I’d root for the plague if it were playing the Yankees.

The bastards had won the Series twenty-six times, and far be it from us to stand in the way of number twenty-seven. So, the Bronx Bombers took us out, four games to two. No title for the City of Brotherly Love, and sadly, no ring for moi.

Midway through the next season, while warming up, I felt a sharp pain in my elbow. There are two places a pitcher never wants to feel discomfort – in the shoulder, which usually means a torn rotator cuff, and the elbow, most likely ligament damage. I wanted a second opinion. It took one trip to the Kerlan-Jobe Clinic in Los Angeles and one exam by the great Doctor Jobe himself to confirm my own diagnosis, my elbow needed work. In the lingo of medicine, it’s known as an “Ulnar collateral ligament reconstruction.” For a pitcher who didn’t quite make medical school, it’s called “Tommy John Surgery.” On July 23, I went under the knife. The surgeons were pleased with the procedure, and two weeks later I began rehab.

I was three months into rehabilitation before I was allowed to simulate a throwing motion. One month later, they let me swing a golf club. By February, I was throwing off a mound with little discomfort. I then joined the Phillies in Clearwater to do more throwing and increase my arm strength. In April, I started throwing my bread and butter pitch – the curve ball. For whatever reason, it wasn’t breaking, or as players would say, “biting.” During August, there was a traditional rehab tour of the minors, and left-handed batters who I used to have for lunch were lining shots over me, under me, and through me. In September, when Major League Baseball teams expand their rosters to forty players, the Phillies didn’t even bother call me up. In their minds and mine, I was done.

No sad songs for me. I had put in nine seasons in the bigs and earned what in clubhouse-ese was a “shit load” of money, and in time, will receive a very generous pension. While no one’s idea of a miser, I was somewhat careful with my Benjamins. Teammates would pony up $250,000 for a Ferrari, whereas your humble servant would plunk down 50 large for a Lotus. A $100,000,000 contract usually carries with it a 10,000 square foot mansion. As you will see, I settled for less. And for good measure, I bought a ton of Apple at 100 and sold it at 600. In short, I’m loaded.

Ahead is the Florida Highway 60 exit, then a quarter-mile down the State Road, followed by a right onto Old Coachman Road. Our destination is in sight – Bright House Field, spring home of the Phillies. It is part of the new wave of Florida ballparks, with seats for 7,500 and a berm to accommodate an additional 1,500 freeloaders.

I’m here to have lunch with a good buddy, David Murdoch. Davy was the chief nuclear engineer on what is known in the Navy as a “boomer,” a ballistic missile submarine. As with so many before him, two months without seeing the sun got to be a little old. Having retired from the service, now divorced, and grossly overqualified, the Phillies hired him to be of all things their groundskeeper at Bright House.

We pitchers all loved him because he tailored the field to our liking. Ground ball pitchers got taller grass, and the foul lines were slopped away so a bunt would not stay fair. The bulb finally went on over someone’s head, and he was named chief electrician. He is a stand-up guy, an above average golfer, and one of my best friends.

Lunch is at the Clearwater Wine Bar & Bistro, a popular spot on the water. While we wait for our food, Davy brings me up to speed on what he has been doing.

“The Stadium has decided to update the lighting system.”

Good lights are crucial in Florida for an obvious reason – in the summer, virtually every game is a night game. Davy drew up plans for a new, million dollar system. He got the Phillies to go for it based on the fact that it was more energy efficient and would pay for itself…in just a hundred years.

“You’re going to do that job? I realize that you can take a reactor apart in your sleep, but this sounds like trouble.”

“Do you think I’m going up those towers and handle all that high voltage? How dumb do I look? An outside firm does all the installation work. Design? Yes. Touch? No.”

“Consider me greatly relieved. I have plans to clean your clock at Prestancia. When can you come down?”

“We’ll be on the first tee just as soon as I put baby to bed.”

Two ginger ales, a club sandwich, and a fight over the check later – which I won, I drop him off at the ballpark.

Now back to the narrative. One morning during that first spring with the Pirates, I finished my work out early, borrowed a friend’s car, and went exploring. Seven miles south on U. S. Highway 41, I was stopped dead in my tracks. This was it. The sign said “Sarasota”; it might as easily said Paradise. The town’s motto could have been: “aqua, aqua, ubique.” Latin? Seriously? In English, that translates “water, water, everywhere.” Remember, I’m the product of a Catholic education. The area includes two bays, one intra-coastal waterway, inlets, outlets, canals, a bayou, a river and one Gulf of Mexico. If you love the water, and I do, this is the place.

The little town seemed to have everything – theatre, opera, ballet, excellent restaurants although the search for someone who can make lasagna like my mother goes on, and massive snob appeal, which we call sophistication. How could I not love a place whose symbol is Michelangelo’s David? I heard a voice saying,

“Someday I’m going to live here.”

It was my voice.

After three years in the relative squalor of a Pittsburgh apartment, I was ready to make my move.

Siesta Key is a special place, a barrier island with the Intracoastal Waterway on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other. Its signature feature, however, is the beach. By acclamation, the beach at Siesta Key is one of the ten best in the world. The reason? It’s the sand, which is pure white with the consistency of baby powder. It’s mostly borax, and one can walk barefoot on the hottest day of the year and not feel it. If a pitcher isn’t pitching, he’s running. What better place to do my miles than right here?

I knew what I wanted. The Key is crisscrossed with canals that feed into the Gulf. The search was on for a home that sits by a canal. My realtor lined up a couple of choices, and number two was the winner, a three-and-a-den fixer, complete with a pool/Jacuzzi combination, and – drum roll please – a dock.

The combination of needs, work, and the bursting Florida real estate bubble made it a steal. A renovation included Alabaster walls, French doors, and a large island in the kitchen since, to an Italian, the cucina is the center of the universe. It took a month, but one day I woke up and was living a five iron from the Gulf. OK, I’ve told you who I am, where I’m from, and what I used to do. The remaining question is,

“What do I do now?”

Well, for starters, I’m a Florida first responder. I signed on as a member of the shock troops when the inevitable big one, Hurricane “fill-in-the-blank”, comes roaring up I-75. In addition, I do some charity fundraising, help coach a little league team, and in my spare time, I am something of a golfer, thanks to a membership at TPC Prestancia. The membership committee was obviously drunk when they voted me in. Oh yes, there is one more thing. I am quite possibly the first ex-ballplayer ever to become a P.I. That is correct. Vic Landell, former big league pitcher, is now Vic Landell, private investigator. Why and how I got this job in a bit, right now I’m just trying to get home.

U.S. Highway 41 is also the Tamiami Trail, or better known to the locals, “The Trail.” It is the main drag through Sarasota, Bradenton, and miles beyond. Outsiders believe the summer is the worst time to be in Florida, and they would be wrong. The winter is the worst time. Why? I can answer that with one word: snowbirds. The Trail, almost desolate in August, is our version of a California Freeway in January. Ohio and Indiana license plates outnumber those that read Florida. It took all of three weeks before I grew to loathe the interlopers.

“Bastards, why don’t they just go home and leave us alone?”

I was an official resident. Normally they are a fact of life and you just put up with them. Tonight is different – I have a date.

    “BURDEN OF PROOF” – Chapter 1 What’s in a Name? My father was born Vito Anthony Orlandella, and he didn’t much care for his name.