The fog deepened; the shadows lengthened; the streets gleamed in the misty dusk of a rainy twilight. Paul Winslow turned up the collar on his trench coat and shivered slightly. A tall, handsome man of thirty-five, he was unusually agitated on this murky evening. Leaning against the corner streetlamp, he reached in his pocket and took out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply.
He saw her coming, and it seemed the fog parted beneath the golden haze of streetlamps when Miranda appeared, as if from the distant land of yesterday. She had not changed; if anything, he could see she was even more beautiful the closer she got to him.
Paul dropped the cigarette, stepped on it, and watched as Miranda approached. Her long blond hair fell below her slender shoulders, and the nearer she got, the more vivid her facial features became: the same lavender eyes, the same pouty lips, the same patrician nose - all set in a perfect oval face with flawless pale skin. The silky dress of pink floated closely to her exquisitely feminine hourglass figure; only her umbrella shielded the misty rain from drenching her lovely ghostlike appearance.
Paul steadied himself and cleared his throat gruffly, reaching out to take Miranda's arm gently, saying, "Mandy, you came after all."
Her face flushed. She sighed and avoided his adoring gaze. "Yes."
Paul touched her face, lifting her chin and looking into her big lavender eyes. "Mandy, I have to know. Are you happy...with him?"
Her long pause was filled with street noises, cars slipping past, people moving slowly along, a bus looming beyond the curb, everything seeming to Paul as if it were taking place in slow motion as he breathlessly waited Miranda's reply. He looked around downtown Birmingham, realizing the fog gave an eerie glow to Sodium-vapor streetlamps, but he felt like a soft warmth suffused them as they stood silently together, oblivious to the noises, wrapped in private memories of past togetherness.
Miranda's eyes lowered at last, the long lashes lay tenderly against her creamy complexion. "Don't, please don't Paul. I...I told you on the phone, I'm happy."
"Yes, but I had to see you. I had to find out face-to-face, look at you, know for certain."
He let his fingers trace her lips delicately, and she flinched, pulling away. "Please don't do that. Paul, I love Jack now. I...we're married. Won't you just let me go now?"
Paul's broad shoulders slumped with defeat and he carefully removed his hand from her face. "Yes. Of course. I'm sorry, I just had to see you once more, one final time."
Miranda still clutched the umbrella, but suddenly snapped it shut. The streetlamp illuminated her face and she grimaced, then said kindly, "What we had -- it was a long time ago. I did love you. But I am in love with Jack now, and I told you that when I came back here. There is no future for us."
Paul looked off at the headlights of cars, the dull red, yellow and green of traffic lights mingling in a diffused glow through misty fog. "I know, I know Mandy. Guess I just had to hear you say that in person. Can't blame me for that, not after what we meant to each other once..."
"Paul, let it rest. We had a good thing, but it's over. I want you to find someone new, go on with your life."
"Yes, and I will. Now that I know for sure you are happy." Paul leaned forward, suddenly taking Miranda in his arms for one last time. Gently, his lips found hers, and they lingered over a tender, long goodbye kiss - a kiss that was the end of their lost love.
At last Miranda pulled away, murmuring, "Goodbye, Paul. I wish you well, always."
"Yes, goodbye Mandy."
She turned and walked slowly away, lifting the umbrella and opening it, her image soon lost in the fog again, melting into the jostling crowd of pedestrians.
* * * *
Paul stepped to the curbside and slipped inside his old black Porsche. He revved up the engine and then slowly merged with the oncoming traffic. At the first traffic light, he swung right and headed for Interstate 65 south.
The fog was still thick, and he had to use his fog lights; the night seemed ominously gloomy. A suitable match for his mood, he thought with brooding despair.
Soon he was streaking along I-65 south, melting into the stream of traffic. But in his rear-view mirror he noticed a car that seemed to stick close behind him, a gray Mercedes with one headlight out - making the car obvious. Paul watched as the Mercedes stuck close even when he passed several cars. Strange, he mused.
Brooding on Miranda, he grew sad, recalling her as she'd been when they'd first met ten years ago. She was his ideal woman, the dream come true, a once-in-a-lifetime love. He'd been a greenhorn then, a cub reporter for a small town newspaper. Miranda was the big city girl; she worked on the staff of a national magazine based in Birmingham.
Paul remembered how they'd met: He'd been assigned to a story -- an interview with a big league football pro who lived in Birmingham. After a long frustrating day of trying to locate the famous celebrity player, Paul had stopped in at a popular nightspot to find Miranda dancing with the man himself.
Paul had hedged his bets, managed to wrangle an interview with the arrogant jock, and they'd had a round of drinks. A debate had ignited between Miranda and himself; they'd bantered good-naturedly - and she'd seemed to dislike him intensely, while he had been irked by her high-and-mighty independence. But before the night was over, they'd made a date to continue their unsettled argument - an excuse, he knew, to get together in private. There was a mutual, wild sexual attraction between them, and Paul had been unable to stop thinking of her until the next time they met.
Reflecting, he chuckled at the memory of their fiery fight which ended in the sack, both of them like wild-cats in a jungle match for dominate position. The months that followed were intense and passionate, a lingering argument always existing, never resolved just postponed while their love conquered their differing viewpoints. They'd finally moved into an apartment together, which they shared for five wonderful years of love, although their philosophical differences never quite got resolved and came between them eventually.
He frowned, thinking of how it went sour: Miranda had wanted to move on and up, so she went to New York, and he stayed down South, still with the small town newspaper, although he'd been promoted to editor. He'd never known how badly he could miss someone...
Miranda returned to Birmingham after several years as a TV news anchor, and by then had married a prominent, wealthy older businessman. Paul remained single, knowing he'd hoped against all hope that Miranda would come back to him when she wanted to settle down.
But now, he realized that their earlier meeting was the last time he'd ever see her, that he had to let her go and get on with his life. And amazingly, Paul felt relief; he could get over this past hurt, put it behind him and move on, maybe even find another special lady.
Coming out of his reverie, he looked up in the rear view mirror to see the car with one headlight still behind him. It was conspicuous, no way to misjudge that he was being tailed...and it bugged him. Or was he jumping to an impulsive conclusion?
As he approached the turnoff for his home town, he noticed the car tagged along, staying close as they wound down off the interstate and hit a two-lane blacktop that snaked through a fertile valley. The glaring headlights of the interstate were left behind, and the road ahead was pitch-black, the fog deep and impenetrable, moisture blotting the windshield as he flicked on the wipers.
Looking into the rear view mirror, he saw that the car with a busted headlight was hanging tight, clinging almost to his bumper. He felt a flash of anger and tried to tell himself this was merely coincidence, that the driver might be headed in his same direction - but somehow, he knew that wasn't the case.
The miles unfolded, and Paul kept an eye on the trailing car; it stuck with him, whether he sped up or slowed down. And the rural highway was virtually deserted, only an occasional car or truck going in the opposite direction. When he was ten miles from town, on a lonely, desolate stretch of highway and thinking of flooring the Porsche, outrunning the bastard back there, the car suddenly accelerated and zoomed past him.
Before he realized what was happening, the car darted in front of him, cutting sharply close to his Porsche, forcing him to gear down, cursing and feeling his anger surface. He pounded the steering wheel as he realized the bastard was forcing him off the road, angling sideways and if he didn't pull off, they'd both wreck.
Once he was stopped, Paul saw a man immediately emerge from the Mercedes, come striding purposefully toward him. He saw the tight, angry clench of the man's jawline, and knew something was about to happen, something he might not be able to avoid, so he leaned over, jerked open the glove compartment and took out a small handgun he kept for protection when traveling.
By now the man was nearly to his window, and Paul decided to surprise him by shoving open his door, getting out, quickly concealing the gun underneath his coat. He confronted the man, who he now saw was older, probably in his sixties, wearing an expensive overcoat, a cold, flat expression on his face as he asked, "Paul Winslow?"
Confused as to how the man knew him, knew his name, Paul was surprised and stood staring at him, trying to see if he recognized the older man - but no, he was a complete stranger. "Yeah, I'm Paul Winslow and who in hell are you? Why you been trailing me, why'd you run me off the road! You trying to get us killed?"
Paul didn't understand the quick movement, the man's hand swiftly coming up from his overcoat pocket, a flash of brilliant glare, the loud blast shattering the dark silence of a foggy night...but he felt the piercing hot pain as a bullet hit his chest, the impact knocking him backward, staggering and gasping, that searing pain exploding again in his chest as he mumbled, "What...what..."
The man stood looking on as Paul stumbled, staggered a few steps backward, then fell to the ground, crumpling into a twisted form, grunting, panting, blood gushing from his chest wound, his gaze disbelieving as the very life seeped slowly from his body.
The man's face held nothing but contempt, his voice as cold as his eyes as he stated flatly, "I never trusted Miranda. I always knew she wasn't over you. When I saw you kiss her, well...it was just as I suspected."
He kicked the lifeless form of Paul Winslow, said, "Too bad. You two shouldn't have taken the risk of meeting on a public street. When I saw you kiss her, I knew you both deserved to die."
As he got back in his car, he looked around at the overhanging trees, the deep forest surrounding the desolate highway, and shuddered. Then he drove away, determined to finish his unfinished business - a husband avenging his unfaithful wife's betrayal.