Chapter 7

They kept him drugged with pills. He knew that. And occasionally in the past when he could, he'd faked swallowing them. Never again. He'd take the meds when he was instructed to take them. Meds was the alien word for pills.

One time, he'd managed to skip the meds three days in a row. On the third day, he became violently sick. While lying on a bed wishing he could die, he overheard some aliens talking about his symptoms. They'd guessed that he hadn't taken his meds because the symptoms he exhibited could be caused by a sudden withdrawal of meds.

So he took the meds without complaint, but that didn't stop him from wondering what the meds did to him.

The day after skipping the night meds, he woke up with a partial erection. That's when he realized that one of the things the meds did was suppress his libido. He couldn't remember the last time he had been horny.

His thoughts drifted back into his past, back to when he occupied his real body. Yvonne. Yvonne could get him hard. She spent him into the poor house, but she was a sexy piece. He could see her in his memories. The meds didn't kill memories, just dulled them, but they did nothing to dull his fantasies.

He'd tried to jerk off, and he'd managed a full erection, but it wilted before he could climax. He reasoned that real sex, sex with a woman, would give him what he wanted. But none of the female experiments in the building appealed to him. Not the old hag pretending to hold a baby. Not the fat broad that skipped like a girl and pretended to jump rope all the time. And certainly not any of the female aliens. The thought of sex with an alien made him sick.

Then one day, a new experiment arrived. Grace. The aliens called her Grace. Her blonde hair was stringy, and she wore no makeup, but she was young and slim, and when he looked at her he could feel some arousal.

That's when he started to experiment with the meds. He pretended to take some of them and actually took others, and tested the results, finally determining that if he skipped two of the meds at night, he woke up with a full erection the next morning. He still couldn't achieve an orgasm, but he came closer. A woman's body, a pussy was needed to give him full release. Grace's pussy.

He had one other thing going for him. Like him, Grace had figured out that not speaking, not moving until being told to move was the smart way to act around the aliens.

Tonight's the night, he thought.

The snow on the foothills around Ely played tag with the light shining from the early sun, glistening, then fading to gray, but never black. Rugged, sienna-colored boulders, pushed up through the earth's crust from the liquid heat of the mantle during an explosive moment long past, and now poked up through the snow and competed with the olive-green teardrops that were cedar trees. The foothills were greeting-card beautiful. The streets in the little valley that housed the town were dirty and ugly, though, and they weren't completely clear of snow and ice. The pickup did some slipping and sliding.

I'd ask around. Did the folks around here put on snow tires in the winter?

Cory and Nora looked like they were still asleep when I walked into the weight room at the school the next morning. Cory had called me the night before to tell me he wouldn't need a ride. Nora was picking him up, a development I applauded silently.

I introduced myself to Nora. I'd never met her. She was a big girl, but like Cory, she wasn't obese. She had a perfect face. By that I mean that all of the features in her face were perfectly symmetrical. She did have two small scars, one on each cheek, probably from acne. I pictured her as svelte in my mind's eye, and nearly gasped at the vision of an ugly duckling morphing into the swan she could become.

As Aaron MacDonald, I'd worked with a personal trainer, so I elected to use his approach and demeanor. After they stood on the scale to determine their weight, I measured the various parts of their body with a measuring tape. I didn't have the device that tested body fat, but the size of their waists embarrassed both of them.

"No need to be embarrassed," I said. "If you persevere, you'll soon be good candidates for a body-beautiful contest."

They didn't believe me.

"Did I go too far?" I asked.

"Yes," they parroted, and then laughed together—a good thing. Until then, they'd been quiet and tense.

"What? You don't see yourselves as centerfolds in Playboy and Playgirl magazines?"

They laughed some more.

"That's the spirit I want to see. Cory, Nora, the expression 'no pain, no gain' is accurate. You're going to experience some pain. You might as well have some fun while your bodies are screaming at you to stop whatever you're doing to make yourself svelte." I paused. "Svelte. I like the sound of that word. It sort of rolls off my tongue and gives me the shivers."

They laughed again.

"So, work hard, be diligent, but have some fun in the process. That's an order. Okay?"

"Got it, Coach," Cory said.

"I like fun," Nora said. "Fun is a good thing."

Then I took each of them through some exercises using free weights to determine their strengths and weaknesses, jotting down notes after each exercise, and complimenting them whenever possible. Cory had good balance; Nora didn't, but she had grace. Then I had an epiphany. Working with weights and running were essential, but some combination exercises that include elements of tai chi, yoga and pilates might help. I groaned. More research on the net was needed.

I told them I'd have a training schedule the next morning, but they should plan on running, not working out with weights.

"I'd like your workouts to match mine," I said. "I run on Thursdays, so I'll be running with you tomorrow. Friday will be your first session with the weights. Did Ms. Sanger give you your diets?"

It had been bitter cold outside when I left the house, and snow was still on the ground, so my upcoming morning run with Danielle would be cancelled.

"No, today sometime, she promised," Nora said.

"Like Nora said," Cory quipped.

"Good, I'll see you here tomorrow morning at seven, Nora. Cory, I'll see you at football practice this afternoon."

I had time for another chore before my home room class, so I hot-footed it to the administrative offices. Tom was in, and he agreed to see me. I gave him copies of the short and long term affects of meth and the meth recipe I'd downloaded off the net the previous night.

"It occurred to me that the high school meth dealer is probably dealing because he's an addict," I said. "I wanted to know what to look for in a user, thus the affects of using the junk. You probably know more about this than I, but I made a copy of the affects for you anyway. The recipe surprised me because meth can be manufactured with over-the-counter drugs and household supplies, but the list also gave me an idea. This is a small town. Unless the people making the meth are getting their supplies out of town, a little investigative work should produce some names to check out. Notice the supplies I highlighted in red: Contact 12 hour capsules, Heet, muriatic acid, iodine tincture 2%, and Red Devil lye. Who has been purchasing those items in Ely? The drugstores and any other store that sells non-prescription drugs should be told to watch for heavy buyers of Contact capsules and iodine tincture 2%. Heet is sold by auto supplies stores. It's a gas-line antifreeze and water remover. Muriatic acid is used to clean concrete, probably sold by hardware stores. I don't know who sells Red Devil lye, but it can't be available in too many places in town. Waddaya think?"

"Red Devil lye was used for making soap, but because of its use in the manufacture of meth and other reasons, it was taken off the shelves, which didn't stop the meth cookers. It or a substitute is available on the Internet," Tom said. "Coach, why did you go to all this trouble?"

I sank in the chair. "Because someone is selling meth to students in this high school. Because that someone is destroying young lives, and I want him stopped." I sighed. "Okay, I'll back off and leave this to the professionals like you and Sheriff Ken and his deputies." I stood up. Then an unrelated question came to mind. "On another subject, Tom, what do you know about Larry Foreman's home life?"

Tom snorted. "What home life? The whereabouts of his father is unknown. He lives with his mother. She's a drunk. He takes care of her the best he can. They're on welfare, and he works nights at a convenience store. His days off are Thursday and Friday so he can play football."

"Shit," I muttered.

"What's the problem?"

"I jumped all over him for being a sexist when I announced that Helen Sanford was joining the football team as a place kicker. Then I preached to him about being angry and told him he could get help to manage his anger. He told me if it cost money to forget it. Out of ignorance, I handled him and the situation badly."

Tom emitted a short laugh and clapped me on the shoulder. "Welcome to the club of frustrated educators who care, Coach."

"Thanks a bunch. Do you know the condition of the football field? Will it be available this afternoon for practice?"

"Nope, but if it doesn't snow tonight, you'll be able to practice on it tomorrow afternoon, and the last game of the season with the Fallon Greenies will take place on Friday as scheduled."

I was so stunned that I sat back in the chair.

"What?" Tom said.

"I didn't know Friday's game would end the season."

Tom frowned.

"No memories, Tom, remember?" I said.

He laughed riotously.

When he settled down, I said, "Am I scheduled to coach anything else for the rest of the school year?"

"You'll have some free time during basketball season, but you're coaching the track team."

Great, that's just great, I thought sarcastically. I know less about track and field than I did about football when I found out I was the head football coach. "Will I have an assistant coach?" I said.

"You bet," Tom said. "Pick anyone from the faculty that will be willing to work with you, or needs a little bigger paycheck, or both."

"Hello, Tom. Do you have a problem at the school?" Sheriff Ken Hansen said. He'd just returned a call from Tom Early.

"No, no problem or at least no current problem that needs your attention. Listen, a curious thing happened this morning. Coach came marching into my office with a meth recipe that he'd found online. He'd marked a number of the ingredients and suggested that in a town of this size if we investigated who was buying the highlighted ingredients that we might track down the meth cooker. One of the items on the list was Red Devil lye."

"Red Devil lye was taken off the market over three years ago, Tom," the sheriff said.

"I know, and when I informed Coach about that, it took all the wind out of his sails. He said he'd leave the investigation in your hands."

"Good," the sheriff said. "As a general rule, meth cookers are a violent bunch of cretins. Coach is big, and I'm sure he can handle himself, but a small lead projectile from a zip gun can take down the biggest man. Meth cookers are generally recidivists, and they don't use zip guns; they're more sophisticated. Their weapons of choice are of the illegal variety, by that I mean automatic firearms."

"I hear you, Sheriff," Tom said. Hansen had taken the conversation off topic. To redirect it, Tom said, "Another item on Coach's list is muriatic acid."

"I don't remember all the ingredients that go into making meth, Tom, but we track the sales of a number of them, Contact 12-hour capsules and similar cold medicines, for instance. By law, the drugstores must require buyers to display a picture ID, and then write down the buyer's name."

"Do you track muriatic acid?"

"No, not like we track Contact or Sudafed capsules and other cold medicines that have been put behind glass at the pharmacies."

"Coach said the acid is used to clean concrete, probably sold by hardware stores. You might want to check the hardware stores in town for someone who has made more than one purchase of the acid."

"We did that, Tom. The meth cooker isn't buying muriatic acid from any paint or hardware store in Ely."

"Okay, just a thought, sorry to have bothered you," Tom said, feeling a little foolish.

"No problem. Whenever you have an idea that you think might help us identify that meth cooker, call me. As a matter of fact, fax Coach's list to me. Cookers use slightly different recipes. His list might help. That Coach, he's something else again, isn't he?"

Tom chuckled. "Yes he is. Truth be told, Sheriff, I didn't like him until he was struck by lightning and lost his memories. Since then, he's been very likeable, and he's become a real asset to the school."

"The good Lord smote him, Tom, reached out of the sky and yanked away all his meanness along with his memories. He's been touched by the hand of God."

"Maybe so, Sheriff, maybe so."

Sheriff Hansen stuck his head out of his office and told his secretary that he wanted to speak to Wade Cantrell, one of his deputies. A few minutes later Cantrell stood in front of the sheriff's desk.

"Have we been tracking the sale of the ingredients meth cookers use in their recipes?" the sheriff said.

"We checked on cold medicine sales at the drugstores a while back. That's about it, Sheriff."

"This is a list of four items." He handed the list to Cantrell. "Contact capsules is one of the four. Check the drugstores again, and while you're in the drugstores, ask about sales of iodine tincture 2%."

"I'll get right on it, Sheriff," Cantrell said.

"I'm not finished, Wade. Check out Heet sales wherever auto supplies are sold, and do the same for muriatic acid sales from the paint and hardware stores in town. Heet is a gas-line antifreeze and water remover, and muriatic acid is used to clean concrete."

Cantrell read the short list, looked up and said, "Good thinking, Sheriff."

Hansen smiled and said, "That's why they pay me the big bucks, Wade."

I stuck my head in Robyn's office. "Got time for lunch somewhere besides this school?" I said.

She frowned.

"This isn't a date, Robyn. It's school business. I want to talk about some students without other teachers or students listening in," I said, pressing the invitation. "I'm buying. Where's a good place to eat close by?"

"Evah's at the Copper Queen," she said.

"Can you pull the files of four students and bring them with you: Cory and Nora's, plus Cal Jensen's and Larry Foreman's?"

"That'll take a few minutes," Robyn said.

"Okay, we'll use separate cars. While you're pulling the files, I'll get us a table at Evah's." I grinned. "That way, I won't have to be alone with you. I don't want to get slapped silly again."

She laughed, which was a good sign.

I was sitting at a table in the restaurant when I saw Robyn striding toward me. Her posture as she moved was straight and confident, emphasizing her height. She looked like a runway model, except her strut wasn't exaggerated.

"You're looking good today," I said as I held out a chair for her to sit on.

She smiled and said, "Thank you."

"Let's order. We'll talk while we eat," I said.

After the waitress left with our orders, I told Robyn about the fiasco that my ignorance had made of my conversation with Larry the previous day. "Robyn, that young man has every reason to be angry most of the time, and what I said to him aggravated his situation and increased his anger. I don't want to run off at the mouth again without knowing enough about the students I'm dealing with to be effective, instead of harmful. How are Larry's grades?"

She opened his file, flipped some pages, and then looked shocked.

"What?" I said.

"He's carrying a 3.67 grade-point average," Robyn said. "Larry Foreman is an exceptional student, college material."

I nodded and pursed my lips. "Never happen. He's dirt poor, and he's committed to taking care of his alcoholic mother. Tell me the grade-point averages of the other three students."

Cal was a B student, barely.

"Cal probably follows Larry's lead," I said.

"Probably," Robyn said and picked up another file. "Whoa, another surprise!"

"Who?"

"Cory. His average is 3.1. He's a slightly better student than Cal."

"That is surprising. With his learning disability, he must work his ass off to get those kinds of grades," I said.

"He does. Remember, I told you he studies three or four hours daily." She opened the last file. "No surprise here. Nora has the highest average of the four. I think she's ranked third in the junior class. Two B's in P.E. her freshman and sophomore years and a B in art last year. Otherwise she's a straight A student."

"So she's an outcast not only because she doesn't present the body beautiful but also because she's smart," I said.

"Yep," Robyn said.

"Do the files tell us about their home lives?"

"No."

"What about their goals and aspirations or lack thereof?"

"I've been working with Nora on college applications," Robyn said. "She wants to be a medical doctor."

"Is that in her file?"

"No."

"What about Cory's dyslexia? Is that in his file?"

"Yes, but only because he was tested for it during his freshman year."

"Are instances of discipline for bad behavior in the files?"

"Yes, but not in every case."

I groaned.

"What?" she said.

"Tell me if I'm wrong. The files contain lists of subjects taken and grades earned, test scores required by the state or federal governments and college entrance exams, some info on learning disabilities, if any, and any disciplinary notes."

"They also include the student's current schedule and the names of parents or guardian and contact information," Robyn said. "Why did you groan?"

"The files don't tell me enough to deal with a student problem without potentially doing harm," I said.

"Like with Larry?" she said.

"Yes."

Our meals arrived and we ate in silence for a few minutes. I broke the silence. "This is a better restaurant than the coffee shop in the Jailhouse Casino."

She smiled. "Yes it is. This crab salad is scrumptious."

"That's fake crab."

"I know. It still tastes good."

"Do you know anyone proficient in yoga or pilates?"

"Huh? Never mind, I heard you. Why do you ask?"
I told her about my idea of combining elements of tai chi, yoga, and pilates, along with weight training and running to keep Cory and Nora's interest high during their weight-loss efforts.

"Coach, that's an excellent idea!" she gushed. "You know someone who practices yoga, by the way."

"Who?"

"Danny."

I grinned. "How about that? Life's full of surprises."

"It sure is. Surprise, surprise, I use pilates for my workouts," Robyn said, grinning ear to ear.

I rubbed my hands together with glee. "How about helping me with Cory and Nora? Not everyday, just join us for a few mornings to teach them some pilates exercises and check back occasionally to mark their progress. That's what I plan to do."

"Sure. Where and when?"

"The gym, seven AM."