Disclaimer: This story is about an alternate universe version of Mark Lucas, in which he never met his wife, Judy. Any actions by the character do not reflect the activities of the real Mark Lucas.
//...// = thoughts
Perched on a bluff overlooking the Straits of Mackinac, Mark Lucas gazed out from the Grand Hotel's porch at the waters below where ferries moved from Michigan's two peninsulas carrying tourists and cargo to the island resort.
He enjoyed the breeze swirling off the straits. The fog had lifted and sunlight drenched the island with its brightness. He was thankful that Michal recommended the island. The cooler climes were much nicer than the torrid heat of a California summer. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, his thoughts returned to the task at hand. //How would I deal with these death threats?//
Mark Lucas was not worried about Death. In fact, it was inevitable for everyone. Indirectly he was the root of all the threats as he had issued a challenge daring people to write about his death. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined someone would actually follow through on such an outlandish idea.
Many people had disagreed with Mark over the years, but would they go to such an extreme to issue death threats? He had alienated close friends with ill-advised comments. Some colleagues had chosen to stop trying to understand him. They chalked up his behavior as "Mark being Mark" and let it go at that.
The visitor kept a wary eye on his surroundings. He chose the opulent Grand Hotel for its location and exclusivity. Mackinac Island was accessible only by boat or plane. There was only one route to the Grand Hotel via a steep hillside road that ran from the business district with its myriad of fudge shops and gift stores. The only available transportation was bicycles, horse-drawn carriage, or by foot. He felt an added sense of security that he wouldn't be a victim of a random drive-by shooting that was a persistent worry back in California.
The man arranged with the concierge for a carriage to go into town. The driver was an elderly man in his fifties, clad in neatly-pressed black jodhpurs, a white dress shirt, red vest, black bowtie, knee-high riding boots, and even a black top hat, certainly a man of style. The driver tipped his hat in greeting and signaled the horses to begin with a gentle tug of the reins.
As the horses clopped along the road, Mark admired the scenery. Seagulls swooped effortlessly over the docks as the ferries disgorged the loads of passengers. The carriage dropped him off outside of the Haunted Theater.
He paused beside a brown-haired man speaking to two teenage girls. The two blonde teens giggled. "Limp Bizkit IS a boy band!" they chorused, trying to persuade the man.
"Not in my book," the man said.
"Girls, you've dug yourself a deep hole this time," the girls' mother said.
Mark chuckled and made his way to Fort Mackinac for the hourly tour. Leaving the fort, he stopped at a lemondade stand outside a historic building that was operated by two young girls for a refreshing drink and began the long trek back to the Grand Hotel. The exercise would be good for him.
Walking along the street, Mark hummed a favorite tune. Images of a lone horseman riding fences on a snowy moonlit night flashed through his mind. Feeling hungry, he entered May's Fudge Shop. He inhaled the aroma of freshly made candy, marveling at the sight of huge bars of fudge cooling on marble slabs in the shop.
"Can I help you?" a clerk asked.
Mark glanced up from the wide variety of flavors and smiled. //She looks familiar.// The clerk was slim, almost waif-like. Onyx-colored eyes sparkled and her raven hair hung loosely nearly to her shoulders. A nametag reading "Deidre" was pinned to her pink blouse.
"Um, yes," he paused and pointed at the display case. "A slice of double chocolate and a half slice of chocolate rum, please."
Deidre wrapped the slices in wax paper and placed them in a small box, handing the fudge to Mark, who charged it on his Visa card.
"Have a nice day," Deidre said.
The hungry customer took a sample of maple fudge from the counter and nibbled on it as he departed.
Mark returned to the Grand Hotel, admiring the bustle of the bicycles and the carriages. He went to his room and showered to rinse off Mackinac's unique fragrance, an overpowering combination of chocolate and manure.
The Californian changed his clothes before going to dinner. Adjusting his tropical motif tie, he smoothed his lavender linen sports coat. He hadn't shaved so he had that scruffy Don Johnson "Miami Vice" look.
After a sumptuous dinner, he waled around the lobby and noticed that it was karaoke night in the Terrace Room. On the stage was a striking young woman attired in a black cocktail dress. She swayed as she sang a rendition of Debbie Gibson's "Lost In Your Eyes". The audience applauded when she finished her song.
Mark approacehd the singer as she sat down at a table near the stage. //Could that be the girl from the fudge shop/ What was her name?// He racked his brain trying to recall the name from her badge.
"Deidre?" he asked cautiously.
The raven-haired woman looked up from the glass of Vernors ginger ale she was sipping. "Yes," she answered.
"I met you earlier today at the fudge shop. You're quite a singer," Mark said.
"Thank you. Not many people recognize me away from the shop," she said, shrugging her shoulders.
"That ankh looks beautiful on you," the admirer said.
"Aren't you the flatterer? This was a gift from my brother," Deidre said, touching the ankh that hung around her neck. "Do you like karaoke? Wanna join me in a duet?"
"Um, yeah. Sounds like fun," Mark replied hesitantly, knowing that he had never sang karaoke before.
Deidre grabbed him by the arm and hustled up to the stage. Before he knew it, Mark was singing the Tom Petty lines from "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around". The duo received applause from the audience.
The pair chatted for the rest of the evening. Deidre told him she was working on the island to earn money for college where she was studying psychology. Her brother was also in the field, studying dream interpretations. The young woman would only be on Mackjnac for another week.
Nearing midnight, she thanked Mark for the wonmderful evening and left since she had to be at the fudge shop early to do some cleaning.
"Would you like to have lunch tomorrow?" Mark asked.
"I can meet you in the hotel lobby at 12:30. I have the afternoon off," she answered.
"I'll see you then."
Strange visions filled Mark's dreams. In every dream Deidre played a pivotal role. She certainly appeared out of the blue. In the visions she remained elusive, the object of a never-ending quest, tantalizing him with those beckoning eyes.
//Those eyes! What mysteries did they hold? I desperately want to find out. Who is she? Why do I feel so helpless when I look into her eyes?// The sleep-deprived man punched the pillow as he struggled to get some restful sleep.
Dawn signaled the start of another busy day on Mackinac Island. Mark took a morning stroll near Fort Mackinac. Listening to Don Henley's greatest hits on his Walkman, he failed to notice the knife that barely missed striking him. The knife embedded itself two feet above the unwitting target's head into the trunk of a tree.
"I'm so sorry," said a woman running up to him. "My hand was slippery when I threw the knife." She had exotic features and her auburn hair was tied in a French braid.
"Huh?" the bewildered tourist said, removing his headphones. Seeing that he had almost been killed, he realized the significance of the situation.
//Could this woman be an assassin? Maybe that was just a warning. I better keep a closer eye out. I don't want to get hit by a runaway carriage or slip on some horse manure and break my neck.//
"I was practicing knife throwing," the woman said, gesturing at a nearby target that had two knives scoring a bull's-eye. Pulling the knife from the tree, she placed it into its sheath. "My name's Katie. I'm a volunteer at the fort. I was practicing for the military exhibition this afternoon."
His tone softened as he discarded the notion that Katie was a would-be assassin. "Those are pretty fancy knives."
"This is an obsidian knife. I get them custom-made," Katie said proudly, holding the obsidiab blade from its antler grip. Sunlight glinted off the red and black bands in the obsidian.
"Good luck at the show. Please be careful," the Californian said. He turned the Walkman back on, singing along with "Boys of Summer" as he resumed his stroll.
The morning passed as he contemplated possible suspects behind the death threats. Could it be those wild-eyed Southern boys, Marson and Mitch, teaming up? He had differnces in the past with both men. Michal was close enough to engineer an wacky caper and not arouse suspicion. Perhaps it was Ivan, who aspired to do anything a spider can?
Looking at his watch, Mark remembered it was time for his lunch meeting with Deidre. He walked to the dining room where the hostess, a brunette with a tie-dyed scarf worn around her neck, led him to a table for two. He ordered some iced tea while he waited for Deidre.
A blonde waitress brought his iced tea. "My neame is Treasure."
"You certainly are a treasure," he said, winking.
"Have you decided on your order?" the waitress asked.
"Not yet. I'm waiting for someone," the customer replied.
"I'll check back in a few minutes."
Mark glanced at the menu, mulling over his selection. //Maybe a Caesar salad?// The hostess approached his table interrupted his thoughts.
"Excuse me, sir. A woman called and asked me to give you a message. She regrets she had to cancel your lunch engagement."
I won't let that spoil my lunch," he sighed. H epoured a heaping spoonful of sugar from the sugar bowl on the table into his iced tea glass and stirred it absently. His mand wandered. His vacation was ending soon and it would be back to the tedious duties of a UCLA administrator with more paperwork and less personnel to deal with it. After finishing the iced itea, the Californian reclined in his chair, stretching out his legs. He waved Treasure away as she approached to take his order.
He felt a discomfort in his stomach. His legs started to twitch involuntarily. A sudden throbbing signaled the onset of a headache. Mark decided to return to his room and lie down. Rushing past the hostess, he whispered, "Put it on my tab."
The ill man staggered to his room, breathing raggedly, clumsily unlocking the door, and collapsed on the bed.
"What's happening to me?" were his gasping words.
Within several minutes, Mark had suffered several more violent convulsions, thrashing wildly on the bed, sending the covers onto the floor.
Thoughts careened wildly in his mind. //Is this THE END? Is this death? I'm sure I'll see Grandma in heaven. I miss her. What will the hereafter be like? That's one thing I've wondered about for years. The prospects of death seem much more inviting than life's drudgery.// His consciousness was slipping into the obsidian depths of what lies beyond.
His breathing grew shallower by the second. Soon respiratory arrest occurred. His body lay still on the disheveled bed. Mark Lucas had expired.
The spirit form floated above the corpse lying on the bed. "AM I DEAD?" the spirit cried.
"Yes, Mark, you are dead," a soft feminine voice said behind him.
"YOU!" he exclaimed, surprised to see his lunch date.
"I told you we'd be together soon," she said, smiling.
"But..." was all Mark could stammer in his state of disbelief.
"My family has known of your endless fascination with mortality. From your delving into studying mummifeid cats and collecting morbid artifacts, we've observed you from afar. Perhaps this death threat business was your own personal death wish, a cry for help? We were glad to oblige to hasten your demise."
"But..."
"I'm surprised you didn't recognize the hostess, my sister Delilah. She switched the sugar bowl with one that contained strychnine. That's what you poured into your iced tea. The end came fairly quickly. That's how you ended up here."
"How ironic," Mark said wryly. "Death was involved with my death."
"True," Deidre observed. "Too bad you missed out on experiencing the swiftness of the Grim Reaper's black blade. That knife thrower almost made my job easeir. Her aim was just a little off. Your demise would have happened much sooner."
"What's next?" the newly deceased asked.
SLAP! The spirit rubbed its cheek where Deidre had struck it. "Why did you do that?" the spirit asked, painfully.
"To give you a reality check. You're dead. Somethnig it seemed you've wanted for a long time. Now that you've achieved it, what do you intend to do? Can you handle the truth? Can you?" Deidre stated, plainly.
The spirit of Mark Lucas was dumbfounded. Silence was the only answer Death received.
You're at a crossroads," Deidre continued. "There is Heaven. There is Hell. And there is Limbo. Whether you ascend to Heaven, descend into the netherworld, or remain in the void has not been determined. The decision is out of your hands." With that, Deidre vanished from the void.
The spirit was lefdt alone in the nothingness.
Gliding aimlessly along the sun=drenched Grand Hotel's porch, a spirit pondered the future. Mark Lucas had often dreamed of death. Now the man was dead and his sp[irit was powerless to shape its future.
"Damn, I should be more careful of what I wish for," the spirit mumbled.
"What a Fool Believes" blared from a nearby boom box. "How true," lamented the sad spirit of Mark Lucas.
THE END
AUTHOR'S NOTES
1.This was my entry into the "Death Fix" contest that appeared in the October issue of the MZS-APA.
2. Death, Dream, and Delirium are c DC. Other minor characters having a resemblence to any living person is strictly coincidental.
3. This story was written prior to September 11, 2001. I am not making light of death. My thoughts and prayers go out to all those who were affected by the tragedies.