the evil twin

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 08, 2016

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Submitted: June 08, 2016




One day JP Morgan Chase bank was closing. After a long tiring and restless day, everyone just wants to go home and get some rest. The guard was ready to go home and get to sleeping. So as while they were closing, a man came inside the bank. The guard told him ”Sorry buddy we are closed as of now. Come back tomorrow.” The man, had a big inspector gadget type jacket and it seems like there was something poking out of his jacket. The guard being to tired and hungry, did not see it.

But little did he know what happened after getting knocked out by that mysterious object in his jacket. Now something poking out of the jacket and has a long black barrel. What it could it be? So the man pulled it out and there it was, a semi-automatic gun. The man was there to rob the bank. He went up to the manager and told him to dump all the money into a bag. The man pointed the gun right at his head. The only people in the bank at the time were the manager and the security guard. Note that it was in the evening. After the manager filled the bag full of money, the man hit him with the back of the gun. He wanted leave no traces or leave not even a little speck of hair behind.

This crime was not witnesses by anyone but people did see a man run around the corner with a bag filled with money. That made them become suspicious. So  eventually they call the cops. So the cops pull up to JPMorgan chase bank. When they first walk in they a security guard with a broken nose still moaning in pain. Then they walk over to this counter which seems like where the manager was at the time. When they get there and look over the manager is on the ground with a bloody mouth and only has his back teeth left. All of his front teeth were knocked out by getting hit with the butt of the bank robber’s gun.

pondered the events of those few months so often and so deeply I know if I don't at least commit the experience to paper I'll never move forward. The pure uniqueness of what we did virtually demands that there exist somewhere a record of what transpired and the terrible toll the results exerted on those of us involved. So here I am, with proverbial pen to paper, musing about the final disposition of these scratching if I should crawl my way through to completion of the task.

I'll record the facts from my personal point of view, and my observation of the reactions of the others involved, some of whom are unable to tell their own story. I'll leave judgment to the reader. What I pen about him will be pure speculation. How can any rational person hope to know what thoughts transpire in so evil a mind?

Coincidently, the starting date of our involvement is etched in my memory for an entirely different reason. It's almost ludicrous what ultimately evolved to how it began. It was the joyous weekend my future wife and I made public our marriage plans, with no one listening. We were rolling in euphoria when an old friend from my Amherst, Massachusetts childhood telephoned with an invitation to visit her family cabin in New Hampshire. There began the intimate gathering of five distinctly different individuals, and the unique results of our brief weekend cohabitation.

Betsy and I agreed as we were eager to share our news with someone. It would allow my future wife, who was from Iowa, to view a part of the country she'd never seen. It pleased me doubly; to show off my fiancée and escape the rush of August in New York.

Betsy and I met last fall while jogging in Central Park. Both of us were new to New York City, and had few or no friends. It began with a glance as we passed each other the first time, a smile the next two or three laps, and then a pretend rest stop. We chatted briefly, agreed to have coffee and have been nearly inseparable ever sense. Each of us maintains our own apartment, but when Betsy is in town, we spend most nights together.

For all you gadabouts and tourists used to driving hither and yon, a weekend trip to New England is a piece of cake. But picture Ben and Betsy, two city dwellers, neither owning a car. That's not uncommon for Big Apple young people, living on a modest income in a financially immodest city. So after a cab ride to the airport rental agency, we escaped the fumes of Manhattan on an August Friday noon and joined the city escapees heading north.

Betsy Morganthaw, my fiancée, was employed by a public relations firm at a wage half again as much as her future husband. I, Ben Gustefson, collated boring statistical figures while locked in a cramped cubical of a company that offered me no future potential. Betsy toured the country, staying in plush hotels and dining in fine restaurants, all paid for by a boss who thought she was God's eldest daughter. To this day I wonder why she took a step backwards on the alter steps by marrying me.

Be patient as I identify the other participants in this saga. While my relationship with Martha LeBlanc, nee Rossi, dated back to our play pen years and kindergarten days, lately we've hiked different paths, reducing our contact to Christmas cards and once a month phone calls. Martha is a trauma nurse in a large Boston hospital. Her husband Quinn, a scientist, who attended our childhood school but I know him only later through her. He does something weird with computers, electricity and maybe death rays. Only a handful of human minds can comprehend his work.

The goal of our offered summer sojourn was described as a seasonal cabin on a small lake in near Wolfboro, New Hampshire. Martha inherited the property from her grandfather. According to the hurried phone call Quinn has spent the last three months at this water side retreat writing a paper on some obscure theoretical principal. He tried to explain his project to me on the phone call of his wife's invitation, but I was lost in the first sentence. Quinn is our age but he jumped two school grades on academic excellence. I vaguely remember him as the resident nerd. A dozen years have passed and we're now all pushing thirty, like a scene from an eighties classic movie. Why Quinn wasn't voted the least likely to land the school's prom queen beauty, I'll never know. He was a foster kid and didn't travel in our circles. Never the less he and Martha have four married years under their belts and are expecting their first child. While Martha is my kindred spirit, Quinn and I always got along fairly well the few times we're all gotten together.

She lled Betsy in on our hosts as we maneuvered the country roads of New England. We were directed by a friendly voice on our GPS, a previously unused present from my retired parents.

"Do they live in the cabin?" Betsy asked, probably visualizing Abe Lincoln's birth place, with outside toilet and stream-carried water.

"It's a seasonal place, according to Martha's description," I answered. "Quinn has a sabbatical from teaching and is using it all summer for a college project. Martha commutes weekends a hundred miles from their home."

"Where do they live?" she asked as we rolled up and down low hills by bucolic pastures.

"Outside of Boston, in Peabody. Martha wants to work until she has the baby."

My future bride looked envious. "She sounded thrilled about the baby, on the phone." Betsy and I were in agreement on having a family. It was a matter of timing. All four of us are kissing thirty, swinging on that cusp between frantic singles and life commitments. Good bye good times and good wine; bring on the boxed stuff and bills.

I wondered about the step my friends were taking. For all of Quinn LeBlanc's intellectual abilities, I not sure Martha isn't the main bread winner while Quinn tinkers in the theoretical world of the intellectual elite. Be it as it may, both seem happy as pigeons in a bird bath with their modest lives.

Jane, our GPS, as Betsy named her, didn't let us down and we found our friend's cabin at the end of a dusty road, hungry for dinner after a six hour drive.

"Ben Gustefson, the love of my life!" Martha shouted, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me on the lips while I still clung on to my steering wheel. Hugs, intros and congratulations followed as we emerged from the car.

"Come on up and see the place," Martha called as she strolled up the path to the cabin.

Betsy stopped me as I was about to follow.

"You didn't tell me," Betsy said, hands on her hips, and out of ear shot of the others.

"Tell you what?"

"That Martha LeBlanc is drop dead gorgeous; that's what!"

My Betsy is fine looking woman, beautiful in my mind and in the eyes of most, but even I have to admit she lacks the room-stopping allure of Martha LeBlanc.

"I guess you could say Martha is pretty good looking," I answered.

Betsy didn't buy my toned down assessment but was at least still smiling. "Why were you holding back? Is there some history I should know about?"

I had to laugh. I'd known Martha for all my remembered life. We were cowboy and Indian kids, living in an imagination paradise of rocks and trees and dirt, with her leading the way. She was the first to the top of the monkey bars and the one to suggest strip poker and I was perpetually in awe of everything about her. Martha is stunning by every standard known to man, but acts oblivious to her beauty, as if it's an annoyance while doing her own thing.

"Are you the jilted lover?" Betsy asked.

I thought a moment before answering. "I've kissed Martha exactly twice. The first time I was eight or nine and my action earned me a cracked lip. The second time was when she married Quinn LeBlanc." I looked my lovely future wife in the eye. "Martha and I know each other far too well to ever be lovers." I'd outgrown those feelings, hadn't I?

Betsy nodded, gave me a kiss, and trotted off to follow our hosts.

Martha stopped to grab Betsy's hand, leading the way toward the cabin while Quinn and I unloaded the car. The friendly action was the beginning of a strong relationship between my two favorite women.

"Just leave the stuff on the porch for now," he said as we went in to join the others.

Martha opened the screen door with a flourish "Grandpa built this place in the nineteen thirties and wired it years later. You can still smell the lamp kerosene." She led us into a large room, dominated by a pot belly stove. "In the old days there was a hand pump in the kitchen and no hot water you didn't boil yourself."

"I love it!" Betsy cried. "I feel like a pioneer."

"Even more so when you bathe in the pond," Quinn quipped.

"He's just pulling your leg," Martha answered. "With electricity, we have hot water too." She turned to her husband. "Quinn swims every morning and takes along a cake of soap because he's lazy."

Martha's voice dropped to a whisper as she pointed to a rickety staircase. "There are three small rooms upstairs but we'll explain about them later."

Well-worn furniture populated the homey main room, some no doubt the envy of an antique shop. The most impressive piece was a massive oak table. Large windows framed a picturesque pond, boarded by tall pines. Barely visible a half mile or more across the water were a few other camps. The small kitchen showed signs of its past life, before the addition of a modern sink and electric stove.

"I hope you don't mind mice," Quinn said with a smile as he showed us a small room behind the kitchen.

"This was originally an extra bedroom when I was a kid," Martha said, pointing out a converted bathroom with a metal walk-in shower.

"Time for booze," Quinn announced.

Martha smiled at us. "I'm surprised he waited this long."

Betsy opted for wine which Quinn opened a Merlot ceremoniously, toasting our engagement. Pregnant Martha abstained, content with an iced tea. The two women adjourned to the front porch to cut green beans and shuck corn. I dug in a tub of iced beer and Quinn and I toasted the two cans as we sat back on Adirondack chairs to enjoy the late afternoon.

"I'm glad you got yourself a good woman, Ben."

"Thanks," I answered. "We're very happy together."

Quinn took a long sip on his beer. "I've got to tell you, Ben. Everyone back in high school figured you and Martha we're the pair. You'd been together since diaper days.

, Quinn. Martha and me . . ."

"Don't say it, 'cause I got her. She looked all around, this incredible beauty, and she chose me! I was in heaven; still am. I'm the luckiest guy in the world."

"We're both fortunate, Quinn. I love Betsy, just the way you love Martha."

"I know; I'm not jelouss, but you and Martha have this thing between you that goes so far back I get dizzy thinking about it. My wife loves you; do you know that Ben? Only it's a different kind of love; not the sex kind. I can't even understand it."

"Think of us like sister and brother. . . "

"Bull shit! That's a piss-poor analogy," he said as he opened another can and changed the subject. His remarks made me a tad uncomfortable.

"We didn't show you the upstairs because Howie is taking a nap in our bedroom," he continued.


"He flew in from Santa Barbara, California on a red-eye. He's only here until Sunday night when we drop him off in Boston for his flight back to the west coast." Quinn added, "We didn't want to wake him, or be talking about him while he might overhear. He's napping in our room at the top of the stairs" When I didn't comment, he continued.


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