Standing On Top

Chapter 13a

Los Angeles, California

June 12, 1989

10:48 PM

Jake and Helen emerged from the main door of the Century theatre complex in Westwood, two people in a crowd of around fifty who had just watched the 8:45 showing of Driving Miss Daisy. They walked hand in hand out into the parking lot of the multi-plex, heading for Jake's car, which he'd parked out toward the back, away from other vehicles to prevent dings, and beneath a light pole to discourage break-ins. Gradually, the crowd thinned out as those in it headed off in different directions. By the time Jake unlocked the BMW with the remote control on his keychain and opened the passenger door for Helen, they were alone. She sat in her seat and Jake went around to the driver's side and sat in his.

As soon as Jake's door was shut and he started the engine, Helen sighed contentedly. "That was absolutely wonderful," she said.

"The movie?" Jake replied. "Yeah, it was pretty good. They say it's a shoe-in for the best picture Oscar next year."

"Oh... yeah," Helen said. "The movie was good too. I was talking about the fact that we made it through a complete dinner and a movie date and not one person made reference to the fact that you're Jake Kingsley. It was almost like we were normal people on a normal date."

"You see?" Jake said. "It can happen."

"Well, it wasn't quite like normal," Helen qualified. "All those people at the steakhouse were staring at us."

"Yeah," Jake agreed. "Flamers is where people go to see celebrities. That's why they seated us in the middle of the room. There is an unwritten rule there that they're not allowed to talk to us, though. That's why they left us alone."

"So that's why we went there," Helen said. "You knew no one would bother us."

"Yep," he said. "And the food's pretty good too."

"What about the movie?" she asked. "The counter girl recognized us. That's for sure."

"Yeah," Jake said. "It would seem so." The girl who had sold them their movie tickets had indeed recognized them. She had stared, awestruck, at Jake for almost thirty seconds from behind her wall of bulletproof glass, and then she had been so tongue-tied it had taken another two minutes or so to complete the transaction. Her hands had been shaking as she'd passed the two tickets and Jake's change through the little slot.

"But other than her," Helen said, "no one seemed to know who we were. It was almost weird."

Jake knew that the counter girl was not the only person who had recognized them at the movie theater. He was quite attuned to being the center of attention and, as such, had been able to see things that Helen had missed. Several groups of people had been pointing at them and whispering to each other as they'd made their way across the crowded lobby. He had even been able to lip read one person saying, "That's Jake Kingsley and his girlfriend." But, for whatever odd reason, everyone had chosen to keep his or her distance from them. Not a single person that night asked for an autograph, or volunteered domestic violence hotline numbers to Helen, or told Jake he was a hell-bound sinner, or even told him that he fuckin' rocked, man.

"Sometimes it happens that way," Jake said. "I've learned not to question it, not to try to figure out why it happened, just to enjoy it."

"It was heaven," Helen said. "The perfect date. No WEAVE pamphlets shoved in my hands, no boobs belonging to nymphomaniac sluts shoved in your hands."

"I only wish it could always be that way," Jake said sincerely.

"I'll take it when I can get it," Helen replied.

"That's pretty much my motto in all things," Jake said, earning himself a playful punch on the arm.

"That's domestic violence," he told her. "What was that number those women are always yelling at you? I think I need to call them."

"Oh shut your ass," she said. "I'm going home with you tonight, ain't I? What more do you want?"

Jake laughed and squeezed her leg with his free hand. He was indeed heading for his own house instead of traversing the onramp that would point him in the direction of Ventura. The reason Helen was staying at his house tonight was not simply for sex, but for practicality. Celia's wedding was in two days and they were flying out of LAX the next morning at 7:35, their destination: Boston. From Logan International, they were renting a Cessna 172 and flying it to Martha's Vineyard where the ceremony was to take place at 1:00 PM on Thursday, the 15^th of June. They were arriving early because Jake was part of the wedding ceremony and needed to be present for the rehearsal on the 14^th.

"I want it all, baby," he told her. "I want it all."

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Are you trying to circumspectly bring up the subject of me moving in with you again?" she asked. "Because if you are... we've been over this a dozen times. I've told you, Jake. I'm not ready for that yet."

"Actually... I was just making a joke," he said.

"Oh... sorry," she said, mistrust evident in her eyes. "Are you sure you weren't hinting just a little bit?"

"Not even a little bit," he told her.

Jake had asked her several times to move in with him over the past month, not because he thought it was time to take their relationship to that level — he was just as uncertain about that as she was — but because of the frightening letter he'd received from Jenny Johansen, a.k.a, the woman who dreamed of stabbing Helen over and over again in that "ugly, slutty face." He was terrified for Helen's safety. She lived in a fairly rural part of Ventura, an area where houses were situated on two to three acre lots and neighbors would not be able to hear one's scream for help. And her address was public record. It would be absurdly easy for Jenny Johansen to drive from her house in the Canoga Park section of LA, stroll up Bennington Lane in the middle of the night, break into Helen's house, and "burn the flesh right off her body" as she threatened to do in her letter.

Unfortunately, Helen didn't seem to take the threat of the letter as seriously as Jake did. He had called her up immediately after reading it for the first time and tried to get her to drive out to his house and stay with him. She had refused, telling him that she didn't want to have to drive forty miles to get to work in the morning. She had similarly refused every further offer to move in with him on the same basis — the commute would be horrible — and because she wasn't sure they were quite ready to "cohabitate in a non-legally sanctioned manner".

"Helen, this woman is dangerous," Jake had told her time and time again. "She could show up on your doorstep any time with a pair of handcuffs and a blowtorch."

"She's just a whacko," Helen insisted whenever the subject was brought up. "You have all that information on her, don't you? Does she seem like she's bright enough to figure out how to look up my address?"

Helen did have somewhat of a point there. The day after receiving the letter, Jake had shown it to Pauline, who had, in turn, showed it to her friend Steve Marshall, head of investigations for Standforth and Breckman, the corporate law firm Pauline had worked for before signing on as Intemperance manager. Steve, using a variety of methods, legal, quasi-legal, and downright illegal, had performed a complete background check on Jenny Johansen and provided Jake with a dossier on her within two days. Johansen was twenty-eight years old, five feet, eight inches in height, and weighed two hundred and sixteen pounds. She worked as a certified nurse's assistant, or CNA, at a skuzzy Los Angeles convalescent home. She had never been married and lived in a rented house in one of the declining LA neighborhoods. She was a high school drop-out with a tested IQ of 87. She had been diagnosed as bi-polar two years before but had never been suspected of being schizophrenic. Her only trouble with the law had been a speeding ticket two years before, which she had promptly paid. She was habitually late with many of her bills but eventually paid them all. She had five credit cards in her name, all of which were either maxed out or close to maxed out. She had never filed for bankruptcy and had never been in jail or in a mental institution. It was true that she did not seem to be the brightest bunny in the forest, but it was also true that in matters of one's life, one could not be too careful.

So far, the only precaution Jake had succeeded in getting Helen to take had been to lock her doors when she was at home — something that the rural setting of her home had never encouraged her to do in the past. And even in this, Jake wasn't quite sure she was one hundred percent faithful. More than once he had gone over to visit and had found her front door standing wide open, with only the unlocked screen door barring entry.

Jake suspected that her attitude might become a little more serious regarding the Jenny Johansen matter tonight. He had received another letter from Jenny the day before. He intended to show the letter to Helen when they got back to his house. But for now, he wanted to keep the discussion on more pleasant things.

"Now that I'm done with my instrument rating," he told her. "I need to start working on something else." He had, in fact, finished up his instrument rating the week before. Though Helen had not been his instructor due to their relationship, he had still been able to take the classes and fly the required hours with Brent Cassidy, one of the new instructor pilots Helen's dad had hired to help fill the increased demand for his school.

"What else is there to work on?" Helen asked. "You can fly your plane day or night, good weather or bad now. Unless you're planning to get your commercial license, you're pretty much done."

"Actually, I'm not," he said. "I need to get certified in multi-engine aircraft and pressurized aircraft."

She looked at him strangely. "Why?" she asked.

"I love the 172," Jake said, "but it's not big enough and it's not fast enough for my needs. I'm looking into purchasing a 414."

Her mouth dropped open. "You want a 414? Are you serious? Do you know how much those things cost?"

The Cessna 414 was a twin engine, propeller driven aircraft that could hold up to eight people, cruised at 200 miles per hour, could be pressurized, and could fly as high as 30,000 feet above sea level. "Yes," Jake said. "I've had Jill looking into it for me — much to her disgust. A mid-seventies model in good condition goes for around $150,000. I think I'd want a newer one though, something early 80's. The 1982 model is particularly nice. With all the avionics I want, they go for around $220,000."

"That's pretty steep, Jake," she said.

He shrugged. "It's only money," he said. "I could finance it on a fifteen year loan. Payments would be around two grand a month. Insurance, storage, maintenance, and other upkeep would run another thousand a month. What's three grand?"

"Three grand is what dad and I clear in about two weeks these days," Helen said. "And we think we're rich."

"I'm not trying to come down on anyone," Jake said. "I make enough money to support this, so why shouldn't I have a 414 if I can afford it?"

"Why should you is a better question," she said. "Our school isn't able to certify you in multi-engine or pressurization. You'd have to go elsewhere for that. You're talking at least five grand, not including plane rental or fuel during the process. Is it really worth it, Jake? You have a very nice plane right now."

"Yes," Jake said. "Like I said, I love the 172. It's just too small for my needs. Take tomorrow, for instance. We're renting one in Martha's Vineyard and because of that, we're limited in how much luggage we can take."

"I don't think two hundred pounds of luggage apiece is all that limited."

"Okay," he admitted. "Bad example. But remember when we went to Bodega Bay with Matt and Kim? Since we had the weight of two other people to deal with, we were only allowed to have twelve pounds of luggage apiece. That's not enough for any sort of trip that involves dressing up."

"So you want to spend a quarter million dollars on a plane just so you can carry enough luggage?" she asked. "Wouldn't it be easier and cheaper to just fly commercial for those situations?"

"Probably," Jake admitted. "But I don't want to have to fly commercial. I like flying myself and my friends wherever we want to go. With a 414 I can fly home to Heritage in about two hours. And I can take you, Nerdly, Sharon, Pauline, and all of our luggage with us. But even that's not the most important reason."

"What is?" she asked.

"I need to get out of LA," he said. "I can't stand it here. I hate living here. I hate everything about it. I hate the smog, I hate my pious, hypocrite neighbors, I hate the traffic, I hate the crowding, I hate the tiny little lot I live on."

"Tiny little lot? Jake, you live in a damn mansion!"

"With other mansions all around me," he said. "I want a nice chunk of land on the ocean somewhere, at least ten acres, somewhere where my neighbors are just vague concepts. I want my own airstrip on that land to fly my plane in and out of. I can't afford anything like that within range of my 172. With the 414, however, I could potentially live up to three hundred miles away and still do a daily commute when we're recording or mixing. If I keep an apartment of some kind in LA and stay there during the workweek, virtually all of California and a good chunk of both Nevada and Arizona are within reach. That's why I want a new plane."

She was looking at him now with understanding. "Do you really hate LA that much?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "I really do."

"And what about me?" she asked. "How do I fit into this plan of yours? I like being a flight instructor. I'm eventually going to take over my dad's business. It's what I plan to do until I retire."

"You work in an airport, Helen," he reminded her. "And you're a pilot. Assuming that we move in together at some point, you could just fly a plane to work every morning."

"Wouldn't that decrease your range back to the unaffordable range?" she asked.

"Maybe," he said. "And maybe not. It's something we can work out when the time comes, isn't it?"

"I suppose," she said.

"The first step is getting me certified in multi-engine and pressurization. Are you gonna set me up with someone, or what?"

"You know I will," she said. "But I want to take the classes and get certified with you."

"You do?"

"Bet your ass," she said. "You think I'm gonna have you able to fly something that I can't? Dream on, motherfucker."

Jake laughed. "I love you, Helen," he said, stroking a lock of her hair.

"I love you too," she told him, leaning in to give him a soft, sensuous kiss on the cheek.

He took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a loving gaze. "Can I cheat off your test papers when we take the class?" he asked.

That earned him yet another punch in the shoulder, and her another accusation of domestic violence.

Helen was in the mood for love when they got back to his place. Jake went to the wine cellar to select a good vintage for them (he went with one of the bottles he'd bought in Bordeaux) and by the time he carried it back upstairs, she was sitting on the bed, dressed in nothing but one of his long T-shirts. Her long, sexy legs were on display, parted just enough to allow him a tantalizing peek between them. Her large, braless breasts bounced and jiggled with each movement of her body. She was playing coy, of course, acting like she was just getting ready for bed and had no idea the picture she was painting for him.

"Looks like someone is interested in a little more than sleep tonight," Jake commented as he set the wine bottle down on a table and picked up the corkscrew.

"I don't know what made you think that," she said with mock huffiness. "I was just making myself comfortable."

"Uh huh," he said, threading the corkscrew into the cork. He gently pulled it out and set it down. He then poured each of them a glass. He carried them over to the bed and handed Helen hers.

"Thanks," she said, snuggling into his side, rubbing her breast against his shoulder.

He took a sip of the wine, taking a moment to savor the taste of it, and then looked at Helen, a serious expression on his face. "Before you get any more comfortable," he told her. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to make you uncomfortable first."

The sexy smile faded a little from her face. "What do you mean?" she asked carefully.

"I got another letter from Miss Johansen yesterday," he told her.

"Oh Jesus," Helen said with a shake of the head. "I thought you were going to give me the 'I think we should see other people' speech. Can't we talk about this... you know..." She took his free hand and dropped it high on her upper thigh. "... later?"

The soft skin of her leg and the hint of aroused musk he smelled when she pulled the hem of the t-shirt up almost derailed him. Almost. He gently removed his hand. "I really think we should talk about it now," he told her.

"Oh come on, Jake," she said. "So the whacko wrote you another letter? What's the big deal? I told you, there's no reason to take her seriously. She's just someone with mental problems."

"I really think you should read the letter," Jake said. "It's... well... more disturbing than the first one. Much more disturbing."

Helen chewed her bottom lip nervously. "Much more, huh?" she asked.

"Yeah," Jake said. He stood up and walked over to the desk in the corner of the room. Inside the top drawer was an envelope. He picked it up and carried it over to Helen.

She reluctantly took it. After setting her wine glass down on the table next to the bed she pulled open the flap and removed two pieces of paper. She unfolded them and looked down at the first sheet. It was written in the same spiky handwriting as the first letter.

Jake my love, my soulmate,

I still haven't heard back from you so I can only conclude that that bitch Helen is intercepting your letters to me. When I realized the lengths that slut is going to just to keep us from fulfilling our destiny together, I also realized that she must be exerting some kind of supernatural mind control over you to keep you bound to her. No other explanation makes sense. I realize now that your situation must be desperate and that I must act quickly and forcefully in order to free you from the pit of hell you are in. Don't worry. Help is on the way. I'm formulating your liberation even now. The end of your suffering is in sight and the end of that demon spawn who has enslaved you is imminent.

Please study the drawing I sent with this letter. Soon you will see this in person and the spell will be broken. We are almost together, my love. Just one more tough battle to fight.

All my love, all my life,

Jen

"Wow," Helen said when she was done with the letter. "I will admit that this one did actually send a chill up my spine, but I still don't think..."

"Uh... Helen," Jake said. "I think maybe you'd better take a look at the drawing she made before you dismiss this as just another letter."

She was about to make a wisecrack, her mouth was actually opening to deliver it, and then she took a good look at Jake's face. She could tell he was very upset by the letter, very worried about her. She closed her mouth and looked down at the sheets of paper in her hand. Slowly, she removed the top sheet upon which the letter itself had been written. When she saw what was underneath she gasped. She stared at the picture for nearly thirty seconds, her hands beginning to tremble.

The picture took up most of a standard sheet of typing paper. It had been drawn in colored pencils with exacting detail, displaying a frightening amount of artistic talent. The picture showed Helen from the shoulders up, the likeness unmistakable. Helen had been drawn with a ragged, bloody gash across her throat, as if a dull knife had slashed her from ear to ear. Her mouth was open and filled with blood, her teeth bashed in. And her eyes... well... her eyes weren't there at all. Where the eyes should have been were two bloody sockets with ripped and ragged flesh surrounding them. Printed in gothic calligraphy below the picture, in letters drawn red and dripping blood, were the words, DIE DEMON!! DIE!!!!

"Are you okay, hon?" Jake asked as he saw that Helen's trembling was getting worse.

"I'm... I'm gonna be sick," she said, dropping the letter to the floor. She scrambled into the bathroom and Jake heard violent retching coming from within. She was in there for more than five minutes. Finally, the water ran as she brushed her teeth and she emerged, still looking a little pale and ill.

"Are you okay?" he asked her.

"Jesus Christ, Jake," she said. "You could've warned me."

"Sorry," he said. "I wanted you to see that this woman is dangerous."

"She's a fuckin' psycho!" Helen yelled. "Holy shit! I need to call the cops!"

"I already did," Jake said.

"You did? What did they say? Are they going to arrest her?"

"There's nothing they can do," he said. "I called the LAPD, who I don't really have a great relationship with, and they basically told me to go pound sand. They say there's no crime until she actually attempts to assault you or me."

"Wonderful," Helen said.

"I also called the Ventura Sheriff's Department. They were, at least, a little friendlier with me, if not very helpful. They said the same thing LAPD did, that there's nothing they can do until she actually makes some sort of move on you. They said if you see her creeping around near your house, that, coupled with the letters she's written, might be enough to get you a temporary restraining order against her."

"Which is nothing but a piece of paper," Helen said.

"Correct," Jake agreed. "They did also promise to send patrol cars by your house a few times a day and at night, just to check on things. Very nice of them, I will agree, but not very helpful in the great scheme of things."

Helen slumped down on the bed. Her shirt had ridden up, displaying her nude crotch to his view, but somehow, the sight was not as sexy as it had been a few minutes before. He took a sip of his wine and then lay down next to her. He brushed the hair from her eyes and kissed her on the nose. "I'm sorry about all this, babe," he told her. "I really didn't want to spring this on you the night before we go to Martha's Vineyard, but I thought you would want to know about this."

"It's okay," she said, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it. "I just need to figure out what I'm going to do about this."

"You know what I'm going to suggest," he said.

She nodded. "I know," she said. "Come move in here with you."

"You'll be much safer," Jake said. "My house is pretty secure, there's always someone here, and if we need the cops, they get here a lot faster."

"And I'll be forty miles from where I work," Helen said, "and I'll be moving in with you because of security, not because I think it's time for us to move in together."

"I know," Jake said, "but under the circumstances, don't you think..."

She was shaking her head. "No, Jake," she said. "And not just for those two reasons either. I'm not going to let this psycho bitch chase me out of my house. I love my house. I worked hard and saved for years in order to buy it and I'm not going to run away from it just because some whack-job is obsessed with my famous boyfriend. Do you understand where I'm coming from?"

"Yeah," he said with a sigh. "I do."

They lay there together in silence for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling fan spinning above them. Jake had a few sips of his wine. Helen left hers untouched.

"If you're not going to move out," Jake finally said, "will you at least let me make your house a little more secure?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Alarm system, motion detectors, automatic security lighting out in front and back. The same stuff I have here."

"Jake, that'll cost a fortune," she said.

"I have a fortune," he told her. "Let me get someone working on it tomorrow and it'll be done by the time we get back from the wedding."

She wanted to say no. Jake could tell just by looking at her face. Helen was incredibly proud and incredibly stubborn. She couldn't quite bring herself to reject his offer, however. "Okay," she said. "That sounds like a good idea. But I'm going to pay you back."

"Don't worry about it," Jake said. "It won't be that much money."

"With interest," she added.

"Okay," he said, giving in. "You'll pay me back with interest."

"You're just jerking me off," she accused. "You have no intention of taking my money, do you?"

"Are you kidding?" he asked her. "Of course I'm gonna take your money. And if you're late with a single fucking payment, I'm gonna send some people over to your pad to thump on you a little."

She smiled, the first she'd offered since reading the letter. "You're an asshole," she said.

"True," he agreed. "And that's why you love me, isn't it?"

"No," she said. "I don't love you at all. This was all an elaborate scheme to score myself a new security system."

He chuckled. "Still want to score something else as well?" he asked.

"I might be persuaded," she said.

"You might be?"

"I might be," she confirmed.

As it turned out, she didn't require all that much persuasion.

Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts

June 14^th, 1989

The wedding rehearsal took several hours to complete, as all members of the wedding ceremony ran through their respective roles over and over at the direction of a flamboyantly gay wedding planner named Irving Grand. Irving became a little peeved with Jake when Jake refused to perform the actual song he would be singing at the ceremony.

"You have to practice it here, Jake," he'd cried dramatically on several occasions. "You, as a musical performer, must realize the importance of careful rehearsal prior to performance."

"I rehearsed it enough before I left," Jake said. "I won't screw it up when the time comes to play it. I'm a professional."

"But we must know the timing of the piece," Irving said. "We must know how it fits in with the ambience of the ceremony so we may adjust the events that occur after it accordingly!"

"It's two minutes and thirty-four seconds in length," Jake told him. "And it's a mellow love song that will fit in perfectly with a wedding ceremony."

"But..."

"No buts," Jake said. "Not a single person on Earth has heard this song yet except me. I haven't even run it by Helen. And the first time it is heard by ears other than mine will be during the ceremony it was specifically written for. If it'll make you feel better, I'll throw down another two-minute and thirty something second tune during the rehearsal to fill in the space."

Irving didn't like this, but eventually accepted that it was the best he was going to get. He agreed, and Jake performed an acoustic guitar version of Molly Malone, the Irish folk ballad, timing it to make it last two and a half minutes. During the first run-through the other members of the wedding party clapped and sang along, further irritating Irving.

"Interesting choice of replacement tune," said Celia, who had been one of the ones clapping along. "A song about a girl who dies young."

"I've always liked that song," Jake said. "My mom used to sing it when I was a kid. And, since it was written sometime in the 1800s, no one holds the copyright on it. No one can take legal action against me for doing a public access tune."

"I guess not," Celia agreed.

In addition to rehearsing the ceremony, Jake and Helen were introduced to Celia's parents, who had been flown to Martha's Vineyard from Barquisimeto, Venezuela on a private Learjet chartered by Greg Oldfellow. Roberto Valdez was a tall, balding man of fifty-six, very foreboding looking although this impression quickly disappeared when you started talking to him. Maria Valdez was fifty-one and the resemblance to Celia was almost startling. She was tall, large bosomed, and had a thick mane of rich brunette hair. The aging process had been kind to her and she could have passed for Celia's older sister instead of her mother. Maria's command of the English language was spotty at best. She understood everything that was said to her but sometimes lapsed into Spanish when replying. She, like her husband, was very pleasant but seemed overwhelmed at the grandeur in which she found herself.

"So which one of you is responsible for teaching Celia the guitar?" Jake asked them during a break in the action. "I know it had to be one or both of you, because she's surely got some musical genes going on."

"It was I," Roberto said with no small measure of pride. "I taught Celia and Eduardo the guitar when they children."

The lessons didn't stick as well with Eduardo, did they? Jake did not say. Eduardo, lead guitarist of La Diferencia, knew his chords well enough but did not seem to be able to progress beyond simple rhythms. The few solos he had done on the albums were nothing more than disjointed noise that vaguely resembled music. "You are to be complimented, Senor," he did say. "Celia's acoustical playing is a thing of beauty."

Roberto nodded, obviously pleased with the praise (and obviously not missing Jake's exclusion of Eduardo in the statement). "She took to the instrument at a very early age," he said. "I remember teaching her the basic chords before she was even in school. She has long since surpassed her brother and even myself in skill."

"You are quite the guitar player as well, Jake," Maria said, her accent so thick it took Jake a moment to interpret just what she'd said. "I enjoyed the cockles and muscles song you did."

"Thank you, Senora Valdez," he said. "Hopefully you will enjoy the actual wedding song I composed as well."

"I'm looking forward to it," she told him. She then rattled off a long statement in rapid fire Spanish which Senor Valdez reluctantly interpreted as her opinion that he should consider getting a haircut as he looked like a girl.

Jake laughed. "I'll take that under advisement," he told her.

Finally, the rehearsal came to an end and the traditional rehearsal dinner began. The wedding party was served New York steaks, grilled mushrooms, fresh asparagus, and rice pilaf. For desert, there was baked Alaska. The food was very good and there was a lot of it.

The wedding hall was a no smoking facility, so after the plates were taken away, Jake excused himself to go step outside and have a cigarette. Helen was still working on her last glass of wine — she was a bit on the tipsy side — and talking to Greg's sister, who was interested in learning to fly. She elected to stay behind.

Jake walked out through the back door of the facility and onto a large balcony that overlooked the resort's private beach. There was a brisk wind blowing and the soothing sound of the breakers crashing on the shore drifted to him. He took out a smoke and lit up. No sooner had he taken his first drag when a whiff of vanilla reached his nose.