The Aftermath

25

Tom took the cards dealt by the dealer into his hand and then tossed them away. His chip stack started at $1000.00 and was now two hundred down. Most of this loss was from paying blinds, with a few calls to bad flops. It didn't matter how good your hole cards were if the flop didn't back them up.

It wasn't his night for poker and he knew better to stay at the table but remained anyway, not wanting to go back to the room. Not wanting to sleep. Not wanting to dream. So he sat at the poker table, paying to $50.00 an hour to hide from his dreams. It was a bargain. Even without the dreams he could feel the insects moving around in his guts, and hear the thump of choppers coming in –– always coming in, but never landing. Cards were dealt to him and he tossed them back, while watching chips pile up and then get raked back in; like watching pebbles washing in the tide.

He barely noticed the other players. He was playing strictly by the numbers, with no feel to the play at all. It didn't matter to him if he thought they were bluffing or pushing, or simply bending the truth. He played by the numbers and the percentages, while his mind circled and worried the same run of monkey mind chattering in his skull.

What could Kemp really do? He was a warrior, and a really scary man on the battle field, but was he a detective? No. He wasn't. So what could he really do?

Run.

That's what he should do. Get his family and run to Europe, or Australia or both. Let the madmen howl and curse, let the dogs of war bark. Let them tear each other to bits. This was nothing to him. He had nothing to prove. He was not guilty.

Just leave.

His phone rang and he backed away from the table, answering it without looking, hoping it was his wife. She could talk him down, make the insects go away. "Yes?"

"Evening Blake, this is Detective Roads. I want you in my office by noon tomorrow or I'll put a warrant out for questioning on you." Roads told him.

"This is harassment Roads," Tom told him. "Even for you."

"No, this is a murder investigation. The blood on your walls is Beth Blake's. She was murdered. You are going to answer questions or you will be obstructing justice. So, bring your attorney down to my office by noon or you will be arrested for the same. Good night."

Roads broke the connection. Tom looked at the time on his phone. It was almost mid-night. "Asshole."

Just run. Fuck him, and fuck his warrant.

That wasn't possible. Not until this mess with his mother was cleared up.

Friday. Friday he would run. Pack it in and take his chances. Europe, Australia, and then maybe Hawaii, or Puerto Rico, or someplace out on the edges. Three month's pay in his hand and three months coming six months from now. That was a good start. Anywhere in the world that would be a good start. He could have Charlie sell the house, and settle up the mortgages.

Just go.

Friday it was then. He would call Samantha after his meeting with Roads and tell her they were going. She would be happy to go.

A new start.

It was obvious that he wasn't going to get his life back. His life was ruined, just like all the others Teri talked about. He would be the same as them. Didn't matter that he was not guilty. Didn't matter to the media, didn't matter to the law, and it didn't matter to the girls who were dead. They were still dead and his life was still over. Time to accept the facts.

Was it facts? Part of him was still aware that he was under the influence of a mental attack. Part of him diagnosed this attack as being PTSD related. He wasn't thinking right. He could not rely on himself to make good decisions right now. What he needed was sleep -- even sleep that might result in dreams.