Objects in the Mirror Aka Vulture Culture

OBJECTS

IN THE

MIRROR

MONTGOMERY TREVOUR HALLE - BOUERN

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR

Copyright © 2013 Montgomery Trevour Halle - Bouern.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-7695-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7696-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013902868

iUniverse rev. date: 2/19/2013

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Epilogue

Dedication

In years past, I thought I had found the girl of my dreams (all those meaningless encounters in between were nothing but a proving ground, just names to be forgotten, left on the doorstep of infinity). I could not have been further from the truth. I love you more than I could have ever conceived possible. I know the innermost recesses of you—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and peering into that looking glass makes me love you even more. At this stage of my life, I can finally say I know what love is: it’s like gazing into your rearview mirror and liking that you see life as closer than it appears, knowing you have the person beside you who you want to complete life’s journey with.

Preface

Lake First Acres, Early 1970s

THE CHILD WAS BUT two years old, having the time of his life splashing his chunky legs in the frigid water of the lake where his family was spending the summer. It was a lake in close proximity to James Bay. His four sisters were already complaining about the inclement weather. It was like nothing ever pleased them. Were all quartets of sisters like them? He would be forever wary of any social situations in which four sisters were involved. The one redeeming factor in his life was his mother; he loved her dearly. His dad … well, that was a different story. He was terrified of the man, having been subjected to merciless shaking and abrasive beatings at various intervals. He was forever wary because of the time the man struck him for no apparent reason, sending him across the floor of the den.

It didn’t help Robert overcome his basic distrust of mankind when a few years later, he was ridiculed by a complete stranger. This obtuse cretin had let his own insecurities overwhelm him. In his condescension, he didn’t know that this kid was one of the half-dozen people with hyperthymesia, the same affliction that beset actress Marilu Henner. That is, he had a photographic memory—and not just any photographic memory. Every single incident of his life would forever be ensconced in his brain. There would be a day of reckoning for this intruder into his safe haven. It would come, and it would come big time. The tables would turn, and the man would rue the day he mocked this child.

Prologue

Vulture Culture

THE MOVIE WAS OUT of Africa, the star was Meryl Streep, and the song came to her out of nowhere as she sat in the darkened ramshackle cinema—isolated but not lonely, like the Kelly Clarkson song with the lyrics What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. As she thought of that song, inspiration came to her. Reflections of her own life came to mind as she penned the words vulture culture on a scrap of paper yanked from the breast pocket of her American-made Levi’s jacket. Damn Yankees briefly and rudely interrupted her train of thought. She quickly recovered. Vulture Culture—that would be her autobiography’s title. The words flowed oh so naturally. I grew up with a miscreant nature, thinking the world owed me a favor, thought the world owed me a living, interested in taking, never giving. Yes, that’s how it was to be. She could not, would not deviate from her destiny. People would have to pay—her sisters, whoever stood in her way. The first loyal subject to pay his taxes would be the piano player/writer who was so in love with her. Such a plonker—a plonker who thought with his dobber made her want to pavement pizza on top of yesterday’s news that was already so callously tossed in the waste basket. How ironic, she ruminated. Kyle, like the newspaper, yesterday’s news! Bloody hell—bollocks to all of them, she blurted, her cockney heritage slipping out surreptitiously. Well, she said in a much more refined manner, minus the vituperation, as she calmly addressed the situation. Poor little Kyle is going to realize that objects in the mirror—the knife in his back, so to speak—are oh so much closer than they appear. What better way to tell the tosser to sod off?

Chapter 1

Southern California, 2012

IT WAS AN OLD story—one for the ages, the grand delusion. Kyle had aspirations of making it in the entertainment industry. He sat isolated at the piano, ruminating over the tune Objects in the Mirror. He had Melody to thank for the inspiration; words just came so easily to her. He wondered what other talents she possessed. Her parents had certainly come up with the right name for her. He thought it charming how she was so intent on not speaking the King’s English, but at odd times she would let slip—describing a meal she just consumed as scrummy, for example. He thought of Vincent, his beloved German shepherd, who suffered the most debilitating fate after being hit by a motorist who didn’t even have the decency to stop. He’d named the dog after Vincent Van Gogh, the subject of one of his favorite songs, by the renowned singer-songwriter Don McLean. He ruminated over the tune Vincent (Starry Starry Night) and thought about how the world was never meant for someone as beautiful as Melody. However, time dictated that he quickly return to reality. The words on the paper glared at him in a most offensive manner. As hard as he might have tried, they could never be mistaken for phrases that promoted fulfillment or love, like the soulful music of The City by Vangelis that Melody so graciously loaned to him out of her own prized personal collection. At times it had an adverse effect on him, exposing his vulnerable desperation. He was quietly tormented. Would his songs have the same painful effect on his audience? Had he been paying too much attention to the man he used to be? Was the new Kyle no longer in control? He drifted off to sleep, the words from the song pounding in his head: Fling back the sheets, there’s no one beside me, no lipstick on the pillow, really nothing to see. Objects in the mirror, closer than …

Chapter 2

IT WAS EARLY THE next morning. The words of the song kept reverberating in his head. There was a line about being lost that seemed to resonate with him. He thought back to the first time he was inspired to write music, sitting alone in a dark, isolated ramshackle of a theater, watching Out of Africa. How he despised that snooty Meryl Streep; he begrudgingly admitted she was a fine actress, but it was her that gave him the fire to write Good-Bye Dubai, and the rest was history, or so they would have you believe. There was a minuscule hope that he would make it to the big screen. He had the calm assurance that he could thank God for small miracles. Here it was only ten o’clock in the morning, and already there was a Bloody Mary waiting for him. It was just what the doctor ordered. Ensconced at the piano, he was aided and abetted by two shots of tequila. They marred the semigloss finish of the baby grand Melody had bought for him. Melody Ridleton … she so reminded him of past lives, past acquaintances, but he couldn’t quite remember where or when. She was the most consummate, in his opinion, pianist from the Emerald Isle. That fact only gave his cake an extra layer of icing. The saying that you can’t have your cake and eat it too didn’t apply with her, especially since she wasn’t one to follow anyone else’s rules. It was her dad’s inheritance. He especially liked her on St. Patty’s Day, a holiday observance that allowed her some frivolity. It was an extravagance her three sisters deeply resented. What the hell did she care? After all, she was on the leading edge of creative excellence. She really did him in with her attitude. She had fiery auburn hair and green eyes that exemplified her strength of mind. Sorry, baby, he said aloud, this is no way to treat a lady. The wind outside his studio window rustled through the trees, and the knowledge that it was all about the music for him was reinforced by the imagery that cascaded through his mind. He was remembering Helen Reddy in a concert singing Ain’t No Way to Treat a Lady. It was a somber time for Kyle, as somber as remembering the leaves turning color in his native West Virginia.

John Denver, we salute you. You were taken much too early, he thought as he reflected on hiking the Appalachian Trail, a trail that traversed more than two thousand miles from Springer Mountain in Georgia to Mount Katahdin in Maine. Kyle had even recently learned that there was now an extension that led into Canada and ended up at the Atlantic. He would have to complete the journey. That was for sure. He was very ambivalent, knowing he was a long way from home and his loved ones. The winds of El Niño spoke, reminding him of the Bob Seger song Hollywood Nights. Ambivalence turned into melancholy as he remembered the bittersweet song Aubrey from Bread and David Gates. It reminded him of a love from yesteryear, the unique, ubiquitous Klarna with her braided hair, how he loved the girl—in such a different way from what he felt for Melody. He quickly knocked off the tomato concoction and chased it with the two shots of tequila. He had a Mercedes SLS-AMG perched out in the driveway that was calling his name, like a forbidden temptress. Wondering what skeletons Melody had in her closet, he locked up the condo and headed out to the car. He flipped on the radio to hear Frankenstein by the Edgar Winter Group and mused, I always thought they should have followed up that tune with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

On the way out of Santa Paula, he headed to Ojai, planning to meet up with Melody. He had some things to discuss with her. He continued to listen to ’70s on 7 and caught the vibes of Last Song by Edward Bear and I Feel Love by Donna Summer. How ironic that this was to be his last song, and the last time he ever felt anything at all. He was descending the steep hills that separated the two communities and his brakes were suddenly nonexistent. He looked over to the passenger-side mirror and, reading the words Objects in the mirror, closer than they appear, he thought he saw a fleeting glimpse of someone he used to know. As he careened out into the wild blue yonder, the last thought he had was of Christopher Cross’s tune Sailing. He always thought he would go out in high style, but never quite like this. Cue Goodbye Stranger by Supertramp.

Out from the shelter of a crag of rocks, there stepped the person responsible for the accident that now lay at the bottom of the gorge. A shake of the head, commiserating for the fallen innocence, the slightest bit of empathy oozing through icy veins. The words the sins of the father passed onto the son could be heard before they wafted downward, just like the vehicle that lay dormant in the bosom of the gorge below. So sorry that you had to pay the price for the malfeasance of your forefather. The eyes turned to look out to where they perceived the ocean to be. Before I bring down the gavel, say justice served, does the jury have any final comments? I bet your mother never ever mentioned to you that one of her ancestors was none other than that Gutenberg guy. Yeah, that’s right, the guy who first used a printing press to print out the Bible. That’s a bit of information that sure isn’t going to help you now.

Chapter 3

Federal Bureau of Investigation Regional Office, San Francisco, 2012

SO BERKSIE, YOU WANT one of your patented triple-triple mocha cappuccinos?

Robert Peterson Berkshire, deep in thought, was resting in his favorite leather lounger. He was fixated, not paying the least little heed to Harm Baxter, the partner who had become a fixture—a partner who had come to grow on him. They had been dubbed The Odd Couple, not because one was a slob and the other the polar opposite, but because nobody could keep up with their inordinately swift pace. It was like they were one mind in two different entities. Each had the habit of finishing the other’s punch line. They were the Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson of the Bay Area detachment of the Federal Bureau. Which one was Sherlock and which one was Watson had yet to be determined.

Berkshire sat mesmerized as he looked out over the bay toward Alcatraz, the rugged landscape, the majestic Golden Gate that led up to Sausalito, Tiburon,