eye and saying, “Like paradise,” and then kissing her, as the fire softly popped and crackled nearby. For the remainder of her three–day visit we practically lived at this beach—swimming, sun tanning and participating in impromptu volleyball games with the local teenagers and college kids. At dusk, I would build another fire and we’d talk, snuggle and make out when the coast was clear.
As I vacantly watched the calm water stretched out in front of me, an attractive couple in their early 20s walked past my van. The girl casually glanced in my direction and for a millisecond I saw that new-in-love sparkle in her eye. I prayed it would never diminish for her but knew it would eventually. It always does. Being new-in-love meant you felt giddy all the time. When you’ve decided you’re actually in love however, giddy is replaced by a higher level of comfort and trust with your partner. In time though, even these feelings change.
I know now Linda and I never truly crossed the threshold between new-in-love to being in love. Maybe that’s why I hooked up with Samantha; she was my new-in-love conquest (or was I hers)? Not that it matters anymore. Both are gone because of my involvement with them.
It dawned on me what a shame it was that self-pity was so useless, as it is one of the few things at which I excel in this life.
As I started the van’s engine, I noticed the two cute lovebirds searching the beach for dry pieces of wood to build a fire.
Enjoy it while you can, kids, I thought wistfully.
I returned to my house pleasantly surprised to find it quiet. No SWAT teams. No TV trucks. The answering machine had a few new messages from persistent reporters and there were a couple of hang-ups. Maria hadn’t called or if she had, she hadn’t left a message. I punched the erase button at the same time the phone rang, which gave me a bit of a start.
“Hello,” I said.
“Go outside and check your garbage can.”
CLICK.
I stared at the phone for a second. I couldn’t determine if the caller had been a man or a woman, as the voice sounded like it had been electronically altered. Seven words isn’t a lot to go on in the first place. Figuring I wasn’t in any physical danger— believing someone could have easily offed me at the beach—I went into my backyard and retrieved a sealed manila envelope. Inside I could feel the unmistakable outline of a VHS tape.
“What’s this?” I wondered aloud.
I went back to the living room ripping the package open, finding a video and nothing else. Maybe my mysterious courier would show himself or herself on the tape. I popped it into my VCR, sat in my recliner and pushed PLAY on the remote.
“On with the show,” I commanded.
I honestly didn’t know what to expect but the sight of Samantha and I checking into The Loser’s Love Den on that fateful afternoon, sent a blistering shiver down my spine. There was Samantha, full of life and vitality and myself getting out of the van and walking to the office. Then we were both laughing and smiling like honeymooners, as we made our way to our room without a care in the world. Next were the kisses—I had forgotten about them: one as we strolled across the lot hand in hand and a second longer sweeter one as we crossed the threshold of Room 215.
This wonderful scene however, was just a mirage.
The TV screen’s image switched to a night shot, with the camera operator zooming out from our room’s door to a close-up of Linda’s stoic face. I didn’t recognize the dark-coloured sedan in which she was seated. It was then I realized the footage had been shot from yet another vehicle, far away from Linda’s car in the Tecumseh Motel parking lot.
Did she know about this other vehicle?
Were they working together?
And if not, how did the camera operator know Linda?
As I continued to watch that evening’s events play out like some dramatic film flashback, I felt ill. Moments later, I was again brutally slammed back to reality as I watched Linda’s tears cascade down her cheeks. Her facial expression was a combination of grief, anger and resignation.
What had I done?
I sat transfixed as I saw the bewildered Plymouth plumber exit the room and give Samantha a kiss on the cheek. There were shots of me following the taxi off the lot, only to return a short time later to enter the second level room. Next was a shot of me looking out toward the parking lot, as I placed a Do Not Disturb sign on the outside door handle. Again, Linda’s sobbing face was full frame. I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach.
“Please stop,” I yelled at the television.
But it wouldn’t.
Soon came footage of me exiting the room, freshly showered, with a huge smile plastered on my face, departing the area on a banana split run.
Aside from Linda’s attendance, to this point the video had documented the inauspicious events in a faithful manner. I vividly remembered everything. Yet, as any good filmmaker will attest, the best part of shooting real people in real situations is that something happens—a plot twist—that changes the viewer’s perception. In this case, I assumed the next footage would be of plumber-boy returning to Samantha’s room, then the arrival of the police and finally the shoot-out. This would be followed by my return from the ice cream stand.
Instead, I watched Linda make her way to the second floor of the motel and head to Room 215. My heart was now pounding wildly.
She was coming to confront us. Catch us in the act.
Linda was three doors away from The Loser’s Love Den when she was startled and abruptly stopped in her tracks. An expression of terror could be seen clearly on her face as she jerked her head to the left to look over the balcony railing. It was then the video operator zoomed out and panned the camera to catch the arrival of a dark green Saturn in the parking lot.
The plumber had returned to exact his revenge.
Without warning, the screen went black and I was left stupefied, unsure of what I had viewed. I felt as though I had watched a snuff film, knowing what took place following the plumber’s arrival. Yet I really knew nothing of what happened next; all of my information had come from the police. Watching the tape, however, I now knew the cops’ facts were not only inaccurate—they were possibly completely wrong. There were no reports of a woman near the victim’s door prior to the alleged argument, yet Linda had been there. Had she called 911 about the argument in Room 215 after I left? Had the person in the surveillance vehicle called? Had they been in on it together?
My mind whirled relentlessly. The tape had produced more questions than answers, which I presumed was the sender’s intention.
The ringing of my telephone temporarily put a stop to my confusion.
“Hello!” I snapped, believing my Secret Santa was making a follow-up call.
“Steven? Is that you? Are you all right?”
The genuine concern in Maria’s voice instantly melted away my fear, anguish and anger. She was the one person I’d tried to avoid thinking about today and the only one I wanted—or needed—to talk to now.
“Yes, Maria, it’s me,” I replied apologetically. “Sorry about that, I was expecting another call.”
