Two Feet Below

"I guess," she said, unconvinced. "I think you're wrong about Theo, but as I said, I don't want to fight over this."

All day at work I tossed the situation around. I was very unproductive filling out my reports. I could even see, from Becca's point of view, how my feelings seemed unfounded. But the more I rehashed the previous day, the more I was sure that Theodore was a shady individual. I knew what I'd seen. Something untold already happened or was about to. I decided to order, and place a few small surveillance cameras in our home.

Then it dawned on me that I didn't much care if they conversed outdoors, and since the bookshelf in our living room provided a side view of our front entrance and a straight-on view of our kitchen slider, I only needed one device. I went online and found one that was motion activated, and would upload to the cloud, so I could view the recordings anywhere.

Becca and I were back to normal by the week's end. We made love on Saturday night and it was a scorcher. After our first interlude, Becca used all her tricks to get me revved up for a second, and a third round. We were at it for nearly two hours.

Four days later, and only a day after I'd placed the camera into the binding of one of my least favorite books, I came home to a card addressed to me and a clean, folded kitchen towel. Despite my curiosity, I held off until after dinner to read it. Becca said nothing, although it was obvious that she had set it in the bowl by our front door, she also seemed amused.

She was even more so after we watched TV together and I announced I was heading to bed. I waited until Becca was asleep and then went into our spare room, which doubled as my office, to watch the first day's recording.

It showed who I supposed was Theodore talking to my wife at the doorway, for five minutes and ten seconds. I never saw him because he didn't enter our home.

That was a relief. Becca seemed to be considering where to put the card for a minute after he left, and then set it where I'd found it.

The card itself had only my first name on the front and was handwritten.

Marshall,

Please accept my humble apologies for crossing any neighborly lines. While not a viable excuse, I am lonely and alone, so occasionally my strong need to interact with another person, has caused a slight lapse in my judgment. I shouldn't have violated your inner sanctum - your home - without an invitation from the man of the house. I did eagerly accept Rebecca's, but only for conversation, and nothing else. That said, I completely understand your concerns and your wishes. Besides having age and wisdom on my side, I understand them because I was married to a woman long ago who put herself into suspect situations until eventually, she was unfaithful to me. You see, I've lived for a time with deception, constant worry, and mistrust. I don't wish those feelings on anyone. As an outsider, I can see Rebecca as an honest person with a wonderful heart - a heart that completely belongs to you, Marshall, if I read her correctly. Your message was received loud and clear and I have every intention of respecting your wishes. It is my hope that we can still be good, friendly neighbors when given the chance to interact.

Sincerely,

Theodore Rasmussen.

And that was that.

Becca was pleased that I accepted Theodore's apology. Of course, she had no idea of my level of trust but verify. I was even suspicious because Becca had used the exact phrase that Theodore put in his note: lonely and alone.

The camera provided a detailed account of my wife coming and going. Everything checked out. She'd leave and return with groceries in roughly the time she would normally take to complete that task. Her routine remained the same too. She'd visit her sister on Tuesday late morning. Shopping on Friday afternoon.

Errands on Monday midday and I guessed a visit to her favorite coffee kiosk. She always came home with one of their logoed cups. Those all happened around her part-time job, and she wore a uniform for that. All the other times Becca left, she returned in a timely manner.

After two months, I checked the recordings only once per week. That lessened to twice per month. Two months further down the road, Becca and I had another discussion about starting a family. We agreed to start trying right away. Yet another two months and Rebecca jumped into my arms as I came through our door, shouting excitedly, "I'm pregnant! I'm pregnant!"

It was a very busy and happy time for us. Both my parents and her dad lived out of state but were making plans to be there when the baby was born. I was giddy when we learned the baby was a girl. Unlike a lot of dads, I'd always dreamed of having a daughter. We did all the things that young new parents do, I supposed. We read all the self-help books and articles. I moved my office, with a much smaller desk, to a corner of our master bedroom, and then painted and decorated the new nursery.

In Becca's seventh month, on a Wednesday, she called me on my cell at about ten-thirty in the morning, crying hysterically. I rushed home thinking something was wrong with her or the baby, or both. When I pulled onto our street, there was an ambulance and a police car. My heart almost stopped, until I realized that both were parked in Theodore's driveway.

From what police found, it was likely that the old guy's heart simply quit while he was pulling weeds in his backyard. My wife was visibly shaken for several days. I could understand to a point.

I comforted my wife the best I could. She was broken up about his death, which renewed some of my old feelings and suspicions. I never said anything about that week, when I thought our marriage was in real trouble. My sister, Amy, drove the one hundred-twenty miles to stay with us for a week, helping to soothe Becca when I was working, and keep her stress level down. Amy agreed to go to the funeral with Becca and me, before heading home.

Very few people attended Theodore's service. From all the incredible tales my wife had alluded to, I found it odd. We did meet Margaret Bachman, Rasmussen's younger sister there, and spoke our condolences to her for about fifteen minutes. She seemed very interested in how we knew her brother. I didn't think it necessary to talk about my feelings for Theodore with her, at his own funeral. After the service, Becca said she wanted to go to the wake with Margaret. That too, was odd, considering only four people remained at the end. I told my wife that I wasn't comfortable since we didn't know him that well. She looked at me like I was crazy.

"You didn't, Marsh," she carefully reminded me, "but I did. It's okay, why don't you go home with Amy, and I'll call you when I'm ready to come home."

The cemetery and Margaret's home were thirty-five miles from our town. That request was also strange, but I didn't push it. My wife was in a fragile state, and I didn't want to risk her health or the baby's. I did tell Amy the story of Theodore and the outcome. She listened intently, but by the time we arrived home, I realized she'd asked very few questions. Margaret ended up driving my wife home, saying she wanted to see her brother's home one last time.

Six weeks after the funeral, Becca and I were on our way to the hospital. Her water broke while taking her morning shower, and I was glad I hadn't left for work yet. Nine hours later, Trinity, our daughter was born. She was two weeks early, but was very healthy, including being within normal weight ranges.

I'd been given a week off including Saturday and Sunday on the tail-end so I was home with Becca and Trinity for ten days. I was on cloud nine those days and mesmerized by the little life before me.

One of the happiest experiences of my life was when she smiled at me for the first time. It made me cry, and then Becca told me her smile was likely due to gas.

My life had never been in such a state of euphoria as it was for the three months after our daughter's birth, but that kind of happiness is known not to last.

Three months to the day of Trinity's birth, I received a FedEx package at work. It was nearly three-thirty, and I got off at four.

Inside, there was a smaller FedEx envelope and a handwritten message.

Wait for the courier before opening. To what courier the note referred, I did not know. At least for fifteen minutes, I didn't. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a co-worker directing a well-dressed woman toward my semi-private office. It was semi-private because it was fully open into the office, but was an oversized cubicle. It wasn't until the woman spoke my name, that I recognized her as Margaret Bachman.

"Margaret... hello," I said.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She ignored my question.

"Marshall." It wasn't a greeting - it was a statement. "I see you've received the package?"

I simply nodded; gobsmacked at how her visit might be related.

She sat in the chair across from my desk. "Marshall," she began sadly and seriously. "You and I have a lot to discuss. None of it is pretty, and I'm afraid it isn't only going to hurt you, but test the very limits of your understanding. I can't overstate that. I'll go over everything and answer all your questions honestly, but we can't do it here at your place of work. I have a suite at the Hilton, just down the road. Can you please come with me there?"

I sat, stunned. Momentarily, I wondered if she was just as weird as her brother. But he was dead. She had a sad look about her as if to exclaim just how serious she was concerning the package.

There was another expression there, too. It was pity.

Whatever she knew, and wanted me to know, she felt a great deal of pity for me. I shivered involuntarily.

"Alright," I said, mostly running on... something. "Let me shut down my computer and grab my coat."

We walked towards the exit together. It felt like all eyes were on me, although that wasn't likely. "Oh," I said, thinking about my family, "I need to call Becca and let her know I'll be late and... oh my God! Is Becca alright?"

"She's fine, and she already knows," Dr. Bachman interrupted. "I took the liberty."

What the fuck was going on? I clearly remember thinking. "What the hell is this Ms. Bachman? I'm not going anywhere with you until you explain."

Margaret gave a heavy sigh. "Alright, Marshall," she said. "This is about my brother. It's about what kind of man he is... was, and how that ties to you and your wife. I'm here in a professional sense, but also because he and his attorney dragged me into it. That's all I can tell you right now. I took the liberty of explaining to Rebecca because I didn't want her to worry about you."

I agreed to go with her, against my better judgment. I have to admit my curiosity was through the roof, due to my hatred of Theodore. I went to get in my car, and she immediately directed me to hers.

"I'll bring you back." She stated.

In the suite, I noticed a kitchenette, and a sitting room in the middle, with two large bedrooms on either side. The sitting area seemed to have been arranged. There was a pitcher of water on the glass coffee table, along with a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch, and a bottle of Maker's Mark, with several glasses.

Sitting off to the left side of the large plush sofa was a small waste basket. Next to the water were two white hand towels from the bathroom.

"Alright, Margaret," I told her. "Let's get to it, shall we?"

She took a seat across from me, with the package still in her hand. "Marshall," she began, "this is probably the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm going to tell you my brother's background first, so the things I explain later make more sense. In my profession, I'd usually ask my patient to let me finish and then pose any questions. But this is going to be as hard for me to say, as it will be for you to hear. I'm probably not going to articulate as well as I usually do, therefore, If you have questions while I'm explaining, please interrupt me. I'd rather you asked and I answered, than for you to forget something important. You okay with that so far?"

I nodded. My curiosity quickly turned to anxiety. I poured a glass of water and sipped it to calm myself down. "What exactly is your profession Ms. Bachman?"

"I'm a psychologist," she replied. "That was my career for thirty-seven years." Margaret took a deep breath.

"My brother," she said, "had a storied life. He went to law school, although he never took the Bar. He was a commercial small aircraft pilot for a dozen or so years.

At an early age, he developed a fancy for magic, and that led him to study a craft that would end up being his job until he was forced to retire."

She was clearly shaken; I guessed knowing what was to come. I waved my open hand for her to continue.

"Ted went on to be a professional entertainer with the cruise lines. He did nightly shows for the passengers, as a hypnotist and ventriloquist, and he was quite good. That gig lasted fourteen years until he was forced to resign, under a cloud of suspicion.

Not many know the story, but I do. My brother was using his stage show to plant suggestions with the female passengers for sex."

She paused again, so I took the opportunity. "Do you mean he hypnotized them and then raped them?" I asked.

"Not exactly," she went on.

"He was very careful until he wasn't. Passengers were to volunteer for his show prior to the evening. Since one of the questions asked for the passengers' cabin numbers, he could surveil them ahead of time, during the day. He had to ensure they fit a certain criteria. One of those was that the female participant was almost always married."

"So he was a predator," I stated.

"Not quite," she countered. "Not in psychological terms. "He was a fetishist. You'll understand that more in a bit. Anyway, in his fourteenth year with the cruise lines, he made a mistake. A couple he hypnotized were married; a footballer and his wife. The athlete thought it was all fun and games, so he went along with the show, even though he was not affected by the hypnosis. Later when Ted came to their room to do the deed, the husband continued going along, thinking some aspect of the game would be revealed. That was until my brother used his trigger to put the wife back under, and ordered her to remove her clothing. He barely got out of the room before the husband could assault him, but the damage was done. The athlete filed a complaint with the ship's captain, and my brother was quarantined to his cabin until they could drop him at the next port."

Some of the dots were connecting and I didn't like where this was going. Then something Margaret had just said crossed my mind. "You sound like you're sticking up for your brother," I accused. "Do you condone what he did?"

"No," she said unequivocally. "I'm trying to describe things in a non-partisan way. There's a reason for that. Not much later, Ted was back in the states, and he moved into a house on Elm Street, in your wife's old neighborhood."

Elm was where my wife grew up in her parent's home. Had she known Theodore since then and not told me? My brain was scrambling.

"Get to it," I half-yelled.

"Ted lived down the street from Rebecca for three years. He began lusting after her almost immediately. But Rebecca was only sixteen, so he kept his obsession to himself, having narrowly escaped real trouble with the cruise line and the well-known football star.

Still, he laid the groundwork, talking kindly to her in passing and asking her specific questions. At that age, your wife was an easy mark. His obsession manifested when Rebecca turned eighteen. For the better part of a year, Ted used his mind-control techniques on your wife and a neighborhood friend of hers."

I was about to be sick and suddenly realized what the wastebasket was there for. Margaret understood too, and quickly stated, "He didn't have sex with her."

Quickly, I was able to reject the bile in my throat but held on to the basket. "You said for the better part of the year, he did stuff to her.

What stuff?"

"Another fetish of his was..." she paused, "feet." She paused even longer, looking extremely uncomfortable. I could see clearly that she didn't want to be telling me this.

"He would put the girls under with a suggestion," she went on painfully. "Then he'd have them remove their shoes, while he... masturbated on them - - on their feet."

I threw up immediately. All I could think of was Becca lying to me, and how many times she'd allowed that bastard to do it before the day I caught them. I started to get myself under control. I hadn't even noticed Margaret leave the room until she came back with a warm, wet towel to go with the dry ones on the table.

"I caught them," I told her.

"One day I came home when he must have just... finished. I didn't know what I walked into, but I knew it was something. We had it out. I forbade him to come into our home. I put a camera in our living room to make sure she didn't let him in."

The look on Margaret's face wasn't one of surprise or understanding. It was pure pity and revulsion.

"What the fuck is this?" I screamed. "Why are we here and why are you telling me all of this? How did you find out?"

"You'll know the answer to that," she replied, "in just a few minutes. In short, I'm here for you. To help you deal with what my brother has done."

She took a sip of water.

She was clearly shaken, knowing what was to come. "Ted hired a separate attorney for this. It wasn't part of his estate. The lawyer, very concerned about the nature of the request, had Ted sign all sorts of paperwork, protecting him from any criminality in the issuance of this directive. I was sent a letter from the attorney, outlining my brother's strange request.

There was also a letter from my brother.

"He stated in that letter, that he needed my professional help. He explained what a loathsome creature he'd become in his obsession.

Said that he never intended to hurt anyone. A life without consequences, he called it.

Until he got caught on that ship. He fled, and by chance, ended up on Rebecca's street. He claimed to fall in love with her. In my line of work, I know that's not true, but it was his twisted reality. He got caught with Rebecca and her friend, at the friend's house, by an older sister. At the time, the city prosecutor was only looking to charge lewd behavior, with the pressure applied by the girlfriend's family. So my brother took a deal to mandatory counseling and to leave the state. That was very wrong on the prosecutors' part, in my opinion. That's because he found ways to keep track of Rebecca on social media. In the letter, he tells how much he hated you for taking the 'love of his life.' He was extremely jealous of you."

"Okay," I said, really unsure what to say. "You didn't answer my question."

"The answer comes from his own lips." She answered, and then she stood and put the DVD into the player and started it. As she returned to her chair, she told me, "You aren't going to like any of this."

The screen came to life.

There was Theodore, sitting at a desk, I presumed in his home. He was looking and speaking into a camera positioned on the desk, possibly from a laptop.

"Hello, Marshall," he began.

He looked confident, cocky almost.

"By now, my sister has probably given you a little background." He looked away momentarily, then back. "I want to apologize in my own words to you Margaret, for putting you through this. I'm sure you read and understood my letter, but I want you to see my face, and hear me say it."

Theodore seemed shaken, but he rallied. "Marshall, we have a lot to discuss," he said, staring into the camera. "So much so, that I've decided to do this in a few parts. I won't say how many. You'll need time to digest, and I don't want you to miss a thing.