Sneak Previews of the Writing in "When Only the Moon Rages"

Pentothal Dreams

It ends with the state.

My appeals have run out. I've had my last meal, my last chance to make peace with whatever god exists. But before I sleep the big sleep, dream those pentothal dreams I'll have my say.

Yes, I did it--all of it, all those terrible things they say I did. It's a matter of public record, proven in court, splattered over television screens and front pages. They know the when, the where, and the who. But the one thing they don't know--a question they've all asked, yet are unable to answer--is why? Why does a man with everything going for him commit such crimes? And that is another matter indeed.

It started with a woman.

Her name was Sherry and I saw her the first time at a party at my boss's home. He lived in Houston's River Oaks--an area of sprawling estates, oak draped streets, and genteel southern living. And on that night in early spring, the fragrances of money and power that mingled in air seemed symbols of my success. Being invited to that party was the culmination of twelve years of work--six spent working my way through college and earning my MBA, then six at the firm slaving seventy, eighty, ninety hours a week coddling clients, analyzing and studying the markets. But from the moment I gazed across half an acre of manicured lawn and saw her, none of that mattered.

She was standing next to the pool. The water lay blue and deep at her feet, and the light flashing off its surface made her seem illusory, but somehow more rather than less real. Tall and voluptuous she wore a black strapless evening gown of a type I had seen on a thousand women a thousand times before but never the way it looked on her. A savage auburn mane spilled over her shoulders and down her back to hang swaying at her waist.

I worked my way through the crowd for a closer look. I was not disappointed. Her eyes were almond shaped and tilted Just enough to hint exotic origins, their emerald irises embedded with flecks of amber that glinted when she smiled. Her skin was smooth as a salesman's promise. And she smelled of Sandalwood.

I noticed one other thing about her, though--she seemed out place somehow. The rich have a certain air about them. Part pretension, part the confidence money brings, it surrounds them. She didn�t have it. Not to say she looked cheap, because she didn't. She just didn't have that air about her.

She was engaged in conversation with Ed Martin, one of the firm�s Junior VPs. Her voice sounded like falling silk and I--hesitant to approach for fear of irking my superior--lingered at their periphery listening to it. But when she saw me watching, she flashed an encouraging smile and I lost all fear.

"Hi, Ed, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" I said, stepping into their circle.

He looked at me and frowned but only for an instant. "No, Randall, not at a11. I�d like you to meet Sherry--" He searched for a last name, found none. Then, turning to her, continued, "Sherry, this is Randall Williams--the firm�s latest hotshot."

She smiled and held out her hand. Her nails, tinted pale pink, were perfect. "Hello, Ran, it's so nice to meet you,"

No one had called me Ran since my mother died, It was so familiar, so intimate, And the sound of it echoing through my mind filled me with warmth,

Then I heard Ed clearing his throat. "Look," he said, "ya11 have fun. I'm going to see if I can round Alice up and get out of here." And he set off in search of his wife.

"So," I said, "what brings you here?" Not very original, but it beat standing there with my mouth hanging open.

She laughed. "Me, I brought me here. It's a hobby I have--crashing posh parties. It adds a little excitement to my life, and sometimes I meet someone interesting." She searched my eyes. "Are you someone interesting?"

I knew then she was unlike anyone I had ever known and I wanted to know her better. We talked until late in the evening or morning rather. And though she refused my offer of a ride home, she gave me her number and promised to see me the following weekend.

The streets being deserted, I was driving home in quiet reflection when wave of emotion swept over me and I realized I had made an important and serendipitous discovery: I had found that which I had sought without knowing so long.

I spent the next day, Sunday, puttering around the house, dreaming of Sherry, impatient for the day to end so I could bury myself in work till the week passed. But when Monday came, thoughts of her were still with me. I wandered around the office in a haze, botched opportunities to land new clients, and couldn�t think straight. In fact I couldn�t think at a11.

I called her Wednesday and she agreed to see me Friday evening. The next two days passed in a blur of ecstatic anticipation...

You'll find the conclusion of Pentothal Dreams and more in "When Only the Moon Rages."