Camilla clung to Stan’s arm at the class reunion. She was as beautiful as she had been in college and would have been mine, if not for him. “I see your play is now a big hit movie,” I said.
“That’s right.” Stan smiled. He was unable to wear contacts, and still wore those black-framed style of eyeglasses like I remembered.
“Camilla,” he said, “there’s Julie, why don’t you go talk with her awhile.” She obediently left and moved through the crowd. I would never have ordered her around like that.
“You don’t still hold a grudge, do you?” he asked.
I wondered if he meant about Camilla or something else. “No, of course not. Meet my wife.” Lovely redheaded Sandra came to my side with our drinks. “Sandra, I’d like you to meet my best friend in high school – Stan Philips.”
Sandra smiled. “Jamie has mentioned you to me. It’s a pleasure. But he can’t seem to find his other high school friends.”
Stan shrugged. “Not everyone comes to these things.”
I took the drink she handed me, gulped it down, and glanced around the crowded room yet again. “I know,” I said. “But I hoped to see Karl Lucas and Fred Hodges. Remember them?”
“Not really, I haven’t seen any of my classmates for years. I’ve lost track. What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been in the construction business with my father. Dad just retired and left me in charge of his company.”
“Really? I thought you hated the construction business.”
“Well, not all of us can have successful writing careers,” I said.
Someone I didn’t recognize interrupted us and held out a hand to Stan. “Bob Donalds. Remember me? We were in history class together. I sat right behind you. Congratulations on the movie.”
Stan beamed. “Thanks.”
After Bob left, Camilla returned and I introduced her to Sandra.
“I recall you used to do some writing. Still keep it up?” Stan asked me.
I shrugged. “No time for that in the construction business. You’ve got to be on your toes. My father taught me that.”
“And when you learned, he gave you that car,” Sandra said.
Stan’s eyes lit up. “Your dad finally gave you the ’67 Buick Skylark convertible?”
“That’s right. I drove it here tonight.”
“You didn’t?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I’ve got to see it.”
“Sure,” I agreed readily. “Come on.”
“What about the rest of your friends?” Camilla asked Stan.
“Jamie was the one I wanted to see. You stay. Keep Sandra company.”
I kissed Sandra. “Would you mind taking a cab home?”
She smiled. “Not at all.”
Stan was enthusiastic when we got to the hotel’s parking lot. “How does she run?”
“As good as ever.” I pulled the keys from my pocket. “Shall we?”
As soon as I unlocked the passenger door, Stan hopped in the red car. I put down the white top. We left the hotel parking lot and headed north on Haven toward the new construction site.
There was static on every button on the car radio. I’d have to get that fixed. As I pulled off the road and parked, the headlights blinked off and back on twice.
“Why have we stopped?”
“Something’s wrong with the car,” I said, getting out. Stan opened his door and stepped out also. “And I wanted to talk. You owe me money.”
***
I couldn’t sleep and left for work early. After the concrete foundation for the new building’s walkway was poured, police detectives arrived.
“I’m Detective Clark,” said a blond cop, “and this is Detective Morris.” He indicated his dark-haired partner. “Stan Philips is missing,” Clark studied my reaction. “His wife, Camilla, said that you and him left the high school reunion together last night and she hasn’t seen him since.”
“He wanted to ride in my ’67 Buick Skylark convertible. We drove around awhile and I took him back to the hotel. That’s the last time I saw him.”
I didn’t tell the detectives that Stan’s hit movie was based on a play we wrote together in our college drama class. My plan was to tell Stan that I still had my copy of our original play, and unless he gave me a fair share of the movie profits, I’d go public as an uncredited co-author.
Karl Lucas and Fred Hodges were my close friends at that time and had been in the same drama class. I wondered if Stan paid them not to show up at the reunion.
Clark shoved a paper at me. “This is a warrant to search the premises.”
“Fine,” I said, merely glancing at it. I went back inside and watched them through the window as they walked around the building site. Clark picked something off the ground, and put it into a bag. Then they turned and headed back toward the trailer.
I came out. “Look familiar?” Morris asked. I glanced at the item in the plastic bag.
“Someone must have dropped their glasses. I’ll put them in the lost and found.” I held out my hand.
Clark smiled, shook his head, and handed me a photo of Stan that Camilla must have given him. “Look.” In the photo, Stan had on the black-framed eyeglasses that were currently in the cop’s evidence bag.
I was handcuffed, read my rights, and stuffed into their police car. “What do you think we’re going to find when we dig up that new concrete walkway?” Morris asked.
“Not a thing. I’ll talk to your captain about this. My company is already behind schedule.”
They weren’t going to find Stan buried under the walkway. After we had stopped at the construction site last night and gotten out of the car, a sudden wind came out of nowhere and bright lights flared up all around.
I had rolled underneath the car. Stan screamed, and when the bright lights vanished, he was gone. No one deserved being abducted by aliens more than he did, but I wish I’d been able to blackmail him first.
First published in SF Satellite in 2000. A different version of this story titled “It Isn’t Blackmail” was published in Altered Reality in 2020.
K. A. Williams lives in North Carolina and writes mystery/crime, speculative, general fiction, and poetry. Over 200 of her stories and poems have been published in various magazines including Mysterical-E, Mystery Tribune, Yellow Mama, Trembling With Fear, Aphelion, Theme Of Absence, 365 Tomorrows, Altered Reality, Calliope, and The Rockford Review winning one of their Editor’s Choice Awards for prose in 2009. Apart from writing, she enjoys rock music, Scrabble, computer chess, and CYOA games.
