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Dana waited impatiently as the clunk of the broken doorbell echoed through the house. There were lights on inside and she could hear a tv playing in the living room. Still, she had rung the bell four times now and seen no sign of movement inside.
"Mr. Eckes, Mrs. Eckes, are you in there?" she called, "It's Mrs. Tedesko." There was still no answer. She tried again, "I need to talk to your son." She paused now. What was the little bastard's real name? "Derek."
Still receiving no answer, she walked around the side of the house, looking for a back or side door. She hated this neighborhood. Constant Bay was becoming a lovely little cottage community, postcard pretty and tourist-friendly, at least down at the waterfront. But, up here in the wooded hills, it still showed its origins as a fishing village. Ramshackle little houses and rotting boats were the overwhelming element of decor.
When her husband Grant had been in charge of the zoning board, he'd tried to zone these neighborhoods out of existence. But the homeowners, if such a term could be applied here, had fought the retroactive zoning. The judge had really dressed Grant down on that one, saying he had, "grossly overstepped his authority." He'd gotten around it brilliantly, however, by zoning the area around it for heavy industry and landfill. Already the plastics factory and used tire lot had driven away a half dozen families. Their houses now stood vacant, awaiting condemnation and destruction. In a decade, this town would be rid of its most embarassing element.
No one answered her knocking on the back door, either. She was about to give up and head back to her car when she heard a loud gunshot come from the woods behind the house. She started, putting a tree between herself and the woods, her heart racing. A few more shots rang out in rapid succession. It was now obvious to Dana that they were not aimed at her.
"Hello," she called out, as loudly as she dared. In the gathering twilight, her voice seemed to carry a long way. Another shot followed immediately after her call, cutting off her echoes with its own. She called again.
"Jenny?" called a decidely uncultured voice from the woods. Even with the one word, the rural New England accent was obvious.
"No," called Dana, careful to enunciate, "This is her mother. Mr. Eckes, could you come here, please?"
There was a rustling from the woods as the speaker approached. As Derek emerged, Dana noted coolly that she could understand what her daughter saw in him. Tall and rangy, he wore only a pair of blue jeans and some sort of harness around his chest, the musculature on his chest and back obvious even from a distance. The only surprising feature was his hair. Most of the yokels who lived up in the hills seemed to favor mullets or hair that ran to should-length or longer. Derek's was neatly shorn. Dana suspected that it was probably from a recent delousing.
For some odd reason, she was surprised to see that he was carrying a pistol. He held it down at his side with casual menace. Dana didn't think he'd actually be foolish enough to threaten her with it, but he did seem awfully comfortable with it.
As he approached, Derek holstered the pistol. The harness Dana had seen was a shoulder holster like police officers wore on television. When he saw Dana, his face split into a wide grin, "Mrs. Tedesko," he said, "You don't make it out this way very often. Would you like to come inside?"
Dana noticed that it was getting rather chilly as the sun set. She nodded, "Yes. Thank you."
Derek led her in through the back door. The kitchen was done in late twentieth century white trash, the linoleum faded and peeling, the countertops burned and stained in numerous spots. Other than that, it was surprisingly clean.
Derek disappeared through another doorway and came back, toweling sweat off of his torso, "Can I offer you something to drink, Mrs. Tedesko?"
"Water, please," Dana said, noting the water filter on the tap. She was relieved to see Derek take a clean glass from the cabinet and fill it. He placed it on the kitchen table. She sat down in front of it, taking a sip. Now that she was actually planning on confronting this young man, her mouth had gone a bit dry.
Opening the refrigerator, Derek pulled out a long-necked bottle of domestic beer, popped off the top, then hopped up onto the edge of the high counter that ran through the center of the room. Dana realized that she'd been outmanouvered. Derek's head was now about three feet above hers, forcing her to crane to speak to him. Even if she stood, she was not a tall woman. He would still overtop her by three or four inches from his current vantage point.
He didn't speak, seeming content to watch her. Dana didn't know where to begin. When he took a sip from the beer, she said automatically, "You shouldn't be drinking that."
Derek put the bottle down next to him and grinned at her. In spite of everything, the grin was disarming, particularly when topped with those piercing, blue eyes. When he got older, he'd be a real ladykiller.
"Did you come all this way to check up on my alcohol consumption?" The regional accent was gone now. Dana wondered if he was mocking her, by imitating her more cultured tones. It was hard to say. Mockery seemed to dance in those wintery, blue eyes and had from the moment they'd come into view. She decided to ignore it if he was.
"I came here to talk to you about my daughter," said Dana. There. It was out.
"Jenny," he said.
"Jennifer," Dana corrected him.
"Lovely girl," said Derek, "She prefers that I call her Jenny."
Dana shuddered a little at the easy familiarity. She wondered if Derek was lying. Still, she pressed forward, "I don't want you seeing her anymore."
"Why not?" Derek asked, his eyes serious. He didn't sound surprised or defensive. It was a simple query for information.
"You're too old for her," said Dana, "and you drink."
"I'm only a couple of years older than her," shot back Derek, "And you certainly didn't hear from Jenny that I drank. She's never seen me do it. I've never talked to her about it. So, you didn't know it when you came up here." He was more intense now.
Dana felt flustered. She had thrown that it at the last minute. Still, she rallied enough to play her trump card, "You're old enough that what you're doing is illegal."
Derek seemed unfazed. He even chuckled, "If it's legality you're worried about, why am I talking to you and not a cop?"
Dana hadn't prepared for this line of questioning. She stammered out, "I thought we could resolve this without resorting to that."
Derek's laugh was a lot heartier this time, "Really? And here I thought it was because you wouldn't want the embarassment, what with your husband running for state senator."
Dana stiffened in her seat, "Mr. Tedesko is already a state senator. He's running for the real senate this year."
Now, the mockery was blatant, "You can be sure he has my vote," Derek said.
"I want you to leave my daughter alone," said Dana again.
"You said that already," said Derek, "I have yet to hear any compelling reason why I should."
Dana felt her anger rising, but choked it back, "I told you," she said icily, "she's too young for you."
Derek jumped down from the counter. He walked behind her chair, where she couldn't see him, "Do you have someone older in mind for me?" he asked. Then, in case his implication weren't obvious, he added, "I do see where Jenny gets her good looks, Dana. It's clearly not from your husband."
To her own amazement, Dana considered the prospect for a second. Derek was an attractive young man and Grant's campaigning had kept him away from her bed for a long time now. The idea was, of course, patently absurd. Derek was only a few years older than her daughter... and two or three years younger than Grant's overly-friendly campaign assistant, the blonde one with the perfect tits and the German-sounding name.
Dana dismissed that idea as quickly as it rose in her mind. She had to stay on subject. This young man was unexpectedly dangerous. She cleared her throat, "You're right that we'd like to avoid even a whiff of scandal," she said more calmly than she felt, "My husband is a powerful man. I'm sure we could find something you want in return for your understanding."
"I want," said Derek, leaning in so close that she could smell a slight whiff of perspiration and gun oil, "to fuck your daughter."
Dana closed her eyes. If the carrot wouldn't work, maybe the stick would. She stood to face him, rising so quickly that Derek had to step back or they would have collided. He still stood almost a foot taller than her and far closer than she would have liked. Still, she tried her best to stare him down, "As I said," her voice was icy, "my husband is a very powerful man. We could make your life very difficult if you insisted on seeing our daughter."
Derek took a half step, his eyes widening a little. Dana smiled triumphantly, feeling she'd gotten through to him. He crossed his arms, looking down at her, "I bet you could," he answered, "You and your husband could make my life a real living hell."
Dana nodded, "If we had to," she said evenly.
"Make me wish I'd never been born?" Derek asked.
Dana shrugged, "I prefer not to be so dramatic."
"Then I suppose," Derek said, stepping back into her personal space, "I've got nothing to lose." His eyes raked up and down her body, settling on the deep crevasse of her cleavage. Suddenly, the sensible navy blue blazer and skirt she'd worn didn't seem like anywhere near enough clothing for this meeting.
His hand moved, maybe towards her, maybe not. Panicking, she slapped him hard, across his face. While he was stunned, she grabbed for the gun holstered under his arm. He reached to stop her, but a second too late. She backed up against the table, holding the gun out, shaking, with both hands.
Derek raised his hands in a show of surrender, "Easy there, Dana," he said evenly. His eyes danced, "Think of the scandal."
"There won't be any scandal," Dana growled, "Just some local, drunken dirtbag who accidentally shot himself while cleaning his gun."
Derek smiled, "You've done this before, haven't you?"
"Shut up," Dana growled viciously, waving the gun towards the door, "Go outside."
"Dana, don't be stupid," said Derek, "You're not going to shoot me. How would you explain the blood under your nails to the manicurist?" He reached out one hand, "Give me the gun."
She almost shot him for his insolence. She had him at gunpoint and he was using her first name? What gall this boy had.
"Go outside," Dana said again, more evenly this time.
Instead, Derek took a step forward, "The gun, Dana." His voice was more demanding now. Even though she knew he'd be dead in a few minutes, Dana still found his eyes oddly hypnotic. She glanced at them a half-second too long and he lunged forward, grasping the gun by the barrel. Dana squeezed the trigger.
It didn't fire. The safety was still engaged. One hand caught her wrists, pushing them up over her head. The other drove into her gut, knocking the wind out of her. They struggled for a few seconds, but he was taller and stronger and she was bent backwards over the table. She tried to kick out at his groin, but he sidestepped, catching it in the knee. He kicked out her other foot and she fell backwards on the table. He grabbed one shoulder and flipped her face down, easily. His hand pressed between her shoulderblades so that her struggles, fierce as they were, could not touch him. After a few seconds, she felt the muzzle pressed against the back of her head and heard the safety click off.
"Hold still, Mrs. Tedesko," Derek said, his voice ragged.
Dana kept struggling, kicking and scratching feebly at thing air.
"Hold still, goddammit," said Derek, "Or I will blow your fucking head off."
Dana stopped struggling. It sounded like he meant it.
"Goddamnit, you fight like a wildcat," said Derek, "By the way you dress, act, and talk, I sure wouldn't guess it."
"Let me up," Dana hissed. Half of her long, strawberry blonde hair had escaped the tight braid she'd tied it back into and fallen into her face and was tickling her nose.
He dragged her roughly to her feet, one hand digging into her shoulder. She tried to turn to face him, but he held her firm, placing the gun to the back of her head again.
"Do exactly what I say," he said evenly, "And I might not kill you."
"Derek," Dana said, as reasonably as possible, "you're not going to shoot me. Put the gun down."
"Why not?" asked Derek, "There's a lot of woods up here. They'd never find you."
"Please, Derek," Dana knew she was begging now, but couldn't stop herself, "They'd find me. Don't kill me."
"I should," he said, "You were about to kill me."
"Please," she begged, "Let me go. I won't tell anyone."
"Shut up," Derek said, giving her shoulders a push, "Walk. In there."
As she approached the door, Dana realized she was walking into his bedroom. She turned to face him, the gun now pointed at the center of her forehead, "You have got--"
Derek hit her in the gut again. She collapsed like a cheap lawnchair. His knee was on her sternum before she could move, crushing the breath out of her. She cried out. The gun was at her temple again.
"I don't trust you," said Derek evenly, "You will do what you're told. If you make any sudden movements, I will hit you or shoot you."
"Please," Dana begged, "Think of what you're doing."
"I know what I'm doing," said Derek, "I'm teaching a stuck-up bitch a lesson about what it really means to be a powerful man."
"You'll go to jail for this," Dana threatened.
Derek lifted his knee off of her, "You already promised to make me wish I was never born, Mrs. Tedesko. You can't threaten any worse than that. Stand up."
Dana stood. Derek stood a step and a half away, the gun trained on her, "Go in the room," he said, "And take off your hose and your jacket."
Dana started to argue again, but before she could speak, Derek had covered the distance between them and wrapped one hand around her throat, lifting her clear off of the ground. She clawed feebly at his wrist with both hands. He strode forward and dumped her backwards on the big double bed.
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