The Story of Lansing Lotte Page 2

“No. I’m just saying. I don’t know why I’m saying…” I stopped speaking. My mind had wandered to a place it shouldn’t have gone.

  “So, where’s Arturo? Why are we here and not at a hospital?”

  “That’s the thing. His body’s missing.”

  “What?” I shouted, and we both turned to see Guinie flinch against the couch.

  “What?” I quietly repeated, looking back at Tristan while he continued to watch Guinevere for a moment.

  “His body wasn’t at the scene. We have no idea what happened to him. There was lots of blood, and the bike was almost indistinguishable…but no body. No fucking body.”

  Tristan wiped a hand down his face, his own voice displaying the rising hysteria in him.

  How did a body just disappear?

  “Where’s Perk?” I swallowed hard. I thought Tristan said they had separated.

  “We don’t know, yet. Kaye has been on the phone with everyone he can think of. Guinie put in the calls to all of us, but she said Perk hasn’t answered his phone.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “The girl he left with?”

  “The girl he…shit…I forgot about her.”

  We stared at each other for a moment, uncertain what to say, but each deep in our own thoughts.

  I knew enough about Perkins Vale to know he hadn’t tried to save that girl for any other reason than she must have been something special. Perk was one of the kindest people I knew, if for no other reason than he was greatly naïve. He would have helped an old lady cross the street and not thought twice. The extreme he went through last night, to make a public display with that girl and then whisk her out of The Round Table, could only mean one of two things. Either he was a better man than I ever knew, or she was someone special.

  I didn’t have the brainpower to analyze Perk’s motives, though. I could only think about how I hoped my other best friend was not hurt and was not missing. Suddenly, Tristan and I both heard a loud sob coming from the couch. As if reading each other’s minds, we approached her. When I went to touch her shoulder, she flinched. I pulled back as if I had been shocked. It wasn’t that good feeling of an electric connection; it was more a sense of electric repulsion. Guinie was rejecting me.

  I knew she had guilt over what happened between us. I tried to assure her it was nothing. It was a natural reaction in a stressful situation; it would have happened with anyone. It was relief, I told her; relief that she had been found. Relief that I had found her in Mel Agent’s home after he drugged her with the intention to do who knew what to her. I was her champion, yet she could not live with the guilt.

  I don’t think she ever told Arturo. At first, she begged me not to mention it to him, and then I found myself being the one to tell her not to say anything. It was innocent. It didn’t mean anything to her. But it meant everything to me.

  Guinie let out a sob, and Tristan hopped the couch to envelop her in his arms again. Tristan was a douche with women in my opinion. He went through them like 31 Flavors ice cream: a lick. a sample, and a move on. It was almost ironic to see him being the one to comfort Guinevere. I wanted to comfort her, but I knew it would never be that innocent if I held her. I wouldn’t want to be holding her to soothe her pain. It would be purely selfish.

  I was selfish. For a brief moment, a split second, when Tristan told me it was my bike that Arturo crashed, I wondered if Guinevere would have been as heartbroken, if it had been me. For a nanosecond, I wanted her to hurt if she thought she lost me, like I hurt knowing I had lost her, all those years ago. I was a selfish person because I wanted her to be crying over me, and that just made me all kinds of a bad person.

  By the time Perkins Vale entered the apartment, I had moved as far away as I could get from Guinevere, while still being in the same room. I was staring out the window at nothing in particular. We were too high up to see people walking around below, and I wasn’t looking down, but rather out the floor length glass. My mind wandered to a snapshot of meeting Arturo King for the first time.

  He was only sixteen years old, and I was fourteen. I was in love with Nina Minue. She had that brilliant reddish hair and bright brown eyes, which lured me in when she smiled at me. Of course, she was older, and she wasn’t interested in me. I was thin and lanky at the time, and a bit on the smaller side for my age. We had met at the beach on Lake Avalon, like many of the friends I had during the summer, and she was always friendly to me. She was the first girl to be friendly to me.

  In an effort to build myself up, despite my small frame, I worked out every day. Push ups. Pull ups. Running. Lifting small weights. My thin stature was solid as I hoped to grow bigger muscles. I didn’t think any of it was paying off, until that day with Nina and Arturo.

  I was making my way to the public beach, wandering along a small path made by us kids near the water’s edge, when I stumbled upon Nina. She seemed like she was anxiously waiting for someone, as she paced the pebbly edge of the small private beach enclosure that kids often used as a place to make out. She was biting her fingernail. I felt a strange stir in my pants at the image of her sucking on her finger.

  I wasn’t unfamiliar to that stir; I just hadn’t felt it as fully as when I looked at Nina. She was shapely at sixteen, and I once heard someone say she had a body for sin. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, and I knew I didn’t want to be a sinner. If anything I wanted to be a worshipper. I wanted to worship her.

  I approached the hidden cut out that was enclosed on three sides by shrubbery and open only to the lake beside it. She startled at my presence.

  “Lansing?” She blinked several times as she looked to her right then returned those warm eyes on me. “What are you doing here?”

  Her voice had hints of anger, the first I’d ever heard from her. I was distracted by her mouth that bit her bottom lip, instead of her finger.

  I didn’t respond fast enough.

  “You need to go.”

  “Why?”

  My protectiveness was suddenly piqued. I wasn’t planning on staying, just passing through, but her plea made me pause.

  “I’m meeting someone here and you need to move on.”

  I didn’t budge. My hands went to my hips like an old woman and I stood my ground.

  “Who is it?”

  “No one you know.” Her voice softened and melted over the words, as if she was tasting that boy, right then in her head.

  “I could be with you.”

  “You?” She giggled. “Lansing, you’re too young for me.”

  “I’m fourteen,” I stammered.

  “Yes, fourteen. That’s younger than me.”

  A throat clearing from my left told me, Nina and I were no longer alone. I turned to see a very dangerous looking boy who was older and bigger than me. He didn’t look like he would hurt me, he looked more like he was just plain…cool. He had dark features: eyes, hair, skin, and I knew immediately, I did not compare to him.

  I hardly remember him speaking to me, I only remember throwing myself at him in a full body tackle. I planned to take him down and prove to Nina that I could be as manly as that older guy. He was hesitant at first, as he knew I was smaller than him. He assumed I was weaker, but I got a few good punches into his face and abs, before I pulled a classic girl move and kneed him in the balls. His strength suddenly showed and he had me pinned. I struggled and fought with strength I didn’t know I had, until he finally released me.

  I stood, panting, as I saw Nina slide up to Arturo’s side, as I had learned his name. I watched breathlessly as she wrapped her hand around his bicep, and my heart went cold in my chest. Arturo continued to study my face and eventually made a comment about the girl. I should have stepped up to defend her honor. I would have done it two minutes previously, but the fight had gone out of me over her rejection.

  When Arturo extended his hand saying, “Friends should never fight over a woman,” I knew I’d done more than win a fight or a girl. I had won my first
best friend.

  Arturo had never cared about the age difference. I was younger than him, but he didn’t let that stand in the way, even when most of the band was in college, and I was still back in high school. When he learned that I loved to play the guitar as much as him, he introduced me to Merle Linn, Mure Linn, as he was called. It was a weird thing to call him by his whole name, but it seemed to fit. It was like you couldn’t call him by his first name, you had to say the first and last name together to officially greet him.

  Mure Linn took me under his musical wing, as well. He nurtured Arturo and me to find a rhythm with our ability. The Nights were not formed yet, but we were on our way. Arturo King was a born leader. He was meant to be in control. He not only had the physical presence for it, but he had the charisma for it, too. He was a dominating force, and people, women especially, gravitated to him. I quickly got over Nina and found the pleasure of women in my own right, but I knew I was holding out for one woman. Unfortunately, timing got in the way of that potential relationship, too.

  “Where’s Mure Linn?” I suddenly spoke to no one but the cool window in front of me.

  “He’s not answering his phone,” came the rough voice of Kaye Sirs. He was our band manager and Arturo’s foster brother. Arturo had been raised by Hector Sirs, alongside Kaye in the deep woods of Lake Avalon. Our stories in that aspect were relatively similar, but once I turned eighteen, I learned my story was even closer in similarity to Arturo King’s.

  Arturo discovered he was the illegitimate son of Ingrid Tintagel, a woman from an old money family of New York. She had been assaulted by a powerful older man, Lorde Uther, owner of the Pendragon Empire, a multi-billion dollar real estate company. When Arturo was twenty-one he came into ownership of that company upon the murder of his father, whom he never met. High society recognized Arturo immediately. They had not reciprocated with me.

  Kaye continued to explain that he had trouble locating Mure Linn, Ingrid, Arturo’s mother, and Ana LeFaye. Ana was another side of Arturo, the hidden side. As his stepsister, Arturo had not been aware of her existence when he had a night of full on erotic pleasure that resulted in the unexpected pregnancy and birth of a son. Ana and Arturo met again, several years later to discover the truth of their relations, and their permanent blood bond through a child named Morte. It was a secret few knew, especially high society.

  “It’s like they’ve all disappeared with him,” Kaye said crassly.

  Tristan blurted out, “Dude, fuck off.”

  I didn’t have to turn to see Tristan with his arm around Guinevere. I could watch them through the reflection in the mirror. Guinevere refused to look at me. I wanted to apologize, a hundred times over for that night…and another night years ago, but I couldn’t get into all that at the moment. Right then, the focus was on Arturo. Where was he? How was he? Was he still alive?

  I hadn’t moved, other than to briefly hug Perk when he entered the apartment and drag him to the window to relay what news I knew. My mind was so unfocused. I had to keep it steeled to protect the pain in my heart over the loss of Arturo, added to my loss of Guinevere. Kaye and Perk had left the main room again, to continue making phone calls.

  When Tristan wanted to get into a discussion about the girl with Perk from last night, I didn’t think it was the time. I didn’t care about the girl. We all had girls the night before, I was sure of it. I couldn’t think of Elaine Corbin, then, either. I needed my mind to stay blank, which I was working on, when Ingrid Tintagel finally entered the apartment.

  Ingrid Tintagel was a beautiful forty-something woman who had light red hair, highlighted with her age from the brighter hair of her youth. I’d known her for as long as Arturo; her beauty as she aged surprised me. She had gotten better looking as the years went on. If I was into older women, she would have been on my radar, except she was Arturo’s mother. I wasn’t convinced that had stopped Tristan, who seemed to have an uncanny relationship with Ingrid. He flirted and caressed her openly, but then again, that was part of his nature with women. Kaye Sirs, on the other hand, had nothing but motherly respect for Ingrid, as he had never known his own mother. Ingrid had welcomed Kaye as if he were her own, like she welcomed Arturo, which was returned with a distant acceptance by Arturo.

  A strangled sob from Guinevere brought me to my senses. I turned in time to see a collision of female bodies. Guinevere had launched herself at Ingrid, who couldn’t get a hard enough hold on the younger woman. Perk and Kaye had reentered the room at the sound of Guinevere’s piercing cry. The women were about to topple over when Tristan tugged Ingrid from behind and Perk took over soothing Guinevere. In an uncharacteristic move, Kaye Sirs lit into Ingrid with his mounting stress.

  “Where have you been?

  Ingrid remained silent as she dabbed at her eyes.

  Kaye continued, “What do you know, and where is Mure Linn?”

  “I don’t know anything. Mure did call me. He told me not to worry. He would figure everything out.”

  Tristan barely strangled the grunt coming out his mouth, a true sign of his disbelief in Mure’s abilities.

  “I trust Mure,” Ingrid continued, “I have always trusted him to take care of my boy, and I believe he will, once he finds him.” Her eyes looked guilty, as if she knew more than she was sharing.

  “What else do you know?” Perkins uncharacteristically snapped at her.

  “Nothing.” Her tear-filled eyes closed before drifting to Guinevere, who was huddled again against Perk on the large L-shaped couch. Ingrid was lying. I sensed it from where I stood next to the window. I couldn’t be part of the human mix of bodies. I had no comfort to give Ingrid. I refused to try to touch Guinevere again. I could only stare at her as she huddled into Perk’s large body. Perk’s sympathetic eyes met mine, and he held my gaze for a moment. I felt he knew my secret desires. In my discomfort, I turned my back on the whole scene again to stare out the window.

  I didn’t know Arturo King, personally. I didn’t know any bands lately as I tried to ignore the pop culture scene, most especially the rock music scene. But I still felt sorry for The Nights. I had heard the news that Arturo King had been involved in a tragic motorcycle accident a few evenings ago, and his body had disappeared. It was making all the headlines, and social media was blowing up over the mystery. How did a body vanish after such a dramatic incident?

  An accident was what the NYPD was ruling the situation, of course. An intentional suicide was not an option the police determined after skid marks from another motorcycle were discovered, not to mention the amount of blood smeared across half the pavement underneath the viaduct. I was well aware of the photographs taken prior to the accident. The motorcycle chase, caught on film, shared the thrill of the ride and the mysterious girl with Perkins Vale. The images were artistic in a manner few appreciated. The reflection of the city lights in the backdrop was sleek, graphic and gripping. The angle of the shots was telling. Someone had been rather close to the motorcycle of Arturo King. Before the accident.

  The snapshots were available for all of America, at that point, as were the after shots; taken as further evidence that there was a gruesome accident. I was a bit shocked that they were posted in the photography group I belonged to online. It was evident that the images were taken from two different angles by two different types of photographers. One was an artist, the other a news reporter. Once the images hit the Internet in that manner, there was no protection to the source. Eventually, the guilty would be exposed to the World Wide Web, at large. I was intrigued and displeased with what I saw. I worried that the photographer, who had taken the first shots, might be to blame for the dreadful scene that followed those initial photos.

  As I was an independent photographer, I was concerned about reputation, among other things, while I continued to work my way through school and raise a child. It hadn’t been my plan at twenty-two: to be not-exactly-the-traditional college student. I could only attend classes and nothing else university related, while I was raising a
four-year old. A four-year old who was sweet and precocious, and all mine. I didn’t have anyone else to share the responsibility of her, and it was times like those that I was glad.

  As I scanned the closed photography group’s photos, my heart ached for Arturo King. The accident looked bad, deadly. There was no lesser way to describe it. I couldn’t imagine that he had survived such a collision with the cement embankment. Based on the distance the blood had spread, and the way the motorcycle was twisted and mangled beyond recognition of anything other than a hunk of metal junk, I didn’t think survival was an option. I also felt sorry for his fiancée, Guinevere DeGrance. I didn’t know her, but I’d heard they were newly engaged. I could imagine the heartbreak Guinevere felt at the unknown. I remembered those hours, not knowing what had happened to a loved one.

  My impression of Guinevere was that she was reserved and shy, but she held her head high in the rare photographs taken of her and Arturo King. There was no denying, in my mind, that they were in love. Something I knew little about, as I had only thought I was in love once. Just once. It turned out to be nothing more than hero worship. The man of my dreams turned into a nightmare after his initial heroics. I was a fool to succumb to his charm.

  I knew better than to fall for someone who had charisma like my father: boisterous, jolly and full of shit. That was my dad, and I knew better. But something happens when you feel like you were saved by a man. You begin to think he was a godsend, and you honored him for all the wrong reasons. It happens, I reminded myself, especially when you are young and stupid like I was back then. I didn’t know then that sweet words, soft caresses, and basic kindness didn’t always mean love, but I had learned my lesson. I knew the truth.

  I didn’t have time to worry my brain about such nonsense. I had to use my mind for study. I was taking a history of photography course; it was much harder than it sounded. I had been doing well in all my Gen-Ed classes when I began at Triton College, two years ago, knowing I would transfer to NYU’s Fine Arts program and major in photography, just to say I had a degree. I didn’t know that my life would be detoured in such a way, that it would change the course of everything I had planned, and all because of a little girl.