The Dark Side Of The Dune

By Jack Carbee

The Dark Side of the Dune is a psychological murder mystery set in Chicago and a small lakeside Michigan village. Forty years after leaving for college, George Wapello, a successful businessman, returns to his hometown and makes a grizzly discovery. The skeleton of a young girl that for forty years has lain undisturbed under the sand on the dark side of the dune can lead to only one assumption... He is a murderer. Determined to establish her identity and understand how and why she died and why he remembers nothing of the event, he discovers that someone else shares his secret. The outcome can only be determined in the jungle of vines and blackberry bushes where nobody ever goes on the dark side of the dune.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891571549

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The Dark Side Of The Dune

Jack Carbee

Copyright © 2024 Jack Carbee

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-89157-135-8 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89157-154-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part 4

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part 5

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

About the Author

Prologue

I have no idea what the outcome of this complicated nightmare will be. There must be an outcome, and though it will be particularly unpleasant for me, I often wish I had the courage to end it, to take responsibility for my actions. I alone have the information that will finally bring my life to a comfortable place. But fallout that will sprinkle down on me from taking that demeaning step keeps me captive and prevents me the satisfaction of announcing to the world I am not who the world thinks I am. This recitation will present the details as they unfold, or as I am able to discover them. Some parts of the great puzzle are history to be discovered. Others, no doubt, will be related as they unfold, and that is the scariest part of what lies beneath the surface. It's my story, a tale that has laid dormant for forty years and has quite inexplicably emerged close enough to haunt me but remains distant enough to be clouded in the unknown.

Since I made the horrible discovery a few weeks ago, I have been in constant turmoil. The one thing that I have been able to establish is that I suffer and have suffered for forty years from a condition called dissociative amnesia. Yes, it is a big psychiatric term, and no professional has been involved in the diagnosis. To involve a psychiatrist would mean that I must relate what I have found to be the truth of my early life. Instead of risking that, I choose this method to hopefully reveal to myself the truth of who I was. This recitation will relate what I have discovered and what I experience in the coming months or years. It will be locked up with my will, and instructions to my lawyer will be to release it upon the reading of that will. I'm comfortable that I know who I am now, but that's a sham if I find out that the evidence of forty years ago convicts me of living a lie.

Here is the charge. I am a murderer. That is a sobering conclusion, but it is the only one that can possibly be drawn from what I discovered in that desolate spot. She had lain undisturbed for forty years until I was inexplicably drawn to her resting place, a place that I have no memory of ever having visited. I know not who she might have been, but what disturbs me most is that she was somebody's daughter, probably somebody's sister, and could have been somebody's mother if her life hadn't violently ended. She deserves better, and I am determined to attempt to bring her some dignity. Obviously, that is at my peril. To discover who she was and to right the wrong that has for forty years been perpetuated is to expose the secret life that I have been living. But that life has now been indelibly impacted by her presence. She is with me every waking hour, and the likelihood of her fading from memory is impossible to imagine.

This is my story. I write it from the cabin of my sailboat, the Aphrodite, which rests in the harbor along Lake Front Drive in Chicago. The forty years in the middle of my life are inconsequential. My childhood is important only as background. The important elements are of recent months. That's where my story begins and my life as it was ends. The forty years that are of little consequence now were of critical importance as they were unfolding. The opportunities that blossomed with the right schooling and preparation resulted in a prosperous life. Marrying the oldest daughter of a Chicago business leader added to the formula for ascending both economic and social ladders. Add two bright children, who in their own right were driven to success and padded the biographical résumé. Include the formulation of friendships with numerous others either ascending the ladder of success or enjoying the view from the top of the mountain, which would seem to capsulize those years that need no further mention.

Now you know the game in which I am involved. The rules are vague at best, and there is no scoreboard. I have no way of knowing for certain, but I suspect it's late in the fourth quarter.

Part 1

Chapter 1

The misadventure began rather innocently. Julia, my wife of over thirty years, had grown distant as our children became independent and left us to ourselves. She preferred the company of her craft group and traveled regularly across the Midwest for weekend craft shows. I sought refuge on my pride and joy, the Aphrodite, a thirty-five-foot sailboat. The children matured and moved away and found the niche in which they prospered. That made me proud and content, but it left a void in my life. No longer did I have a ready crew who shared my love of the open water. Now the Aphrodite serves predominantly as an after-office-hours martini bar from which I have a great view of joggers in tight shorts and bra tops. Rarely could I convince friends to leave the golf course or tennis court to join me in my passion on the beautiful, seemingly endless waters of Lake Michigan.

Julia had a rare weekend with no craft show to attend, and it was one of those late summer mornings that signaled a day for trading the concrete heat trap of Chicago's Lincoln Park for the cool, deep, blue open water. I used my best persuasive skills and a very strong Bloody Mary to convince Julia to be part of my crew and join me. At one time, she loved to be out on the lake, staring back at the skyline of the city of her youth. However, the last few years, she was much happier exploring the shops on Michigan Avenue or in Old Town with her best divorced friend, Madeline. But at least for one day she was mine.

The breeze was just perfect and blowing across miles of deep water; it was refreshing and contributed to air much cooler than that we left behind.

Now, I want you to remember where the limitations are. Don't be sneaking out too far toward the Michigan shore. I need to be able to tell which of those skyscrapers is which. You know how nervous I get out here.

I remember, but I really don't understand. It's a perfect day. There are no storms anywhere in Illinois or Wisconsin or even the Dakotas. I haven't seen a freighter. There is absolutely no reason for you to be nervous. Sailboats are everywhere, many of them probably headed for the Michigan villages that you are so afraid of.

I'm not afraid of them. I'm just tired of hearing about them all the time. Chicago is your home now and has been for over forty years.

She never turned to face me. Her gaze was always directed westward toward the distant skyline. At that point, she continued to make her point by outlining the social calendar for the following two weeks. However, my bladder needed attention, so I secured the wheel and went below. When I returned, she was still expounding on the events, and my absence went unnoticed.

I was gazing into the haze toward the eastern shore, where my developmental years had been spent in a small lakefront village when she interrupted my reverie.

You're not listening. All you ever think of is that damned little village where you lived a perfect life, which would bore most human adults to death.

I was listening. Tuesday we are dining with the Randolphs at the country club. Friday is the Chicago Symphony's Summer Extravaganza. Sunday we will have brunch at the Towers with your sister and the human sleeping pill, Edward, who not only smells like the lab he lives in but must continually drone on about it.

At least he talks. You sit there like a goddamn statue.

I could be at the Cubs game, enjoying a hot dog and a couple of Old Styles, but instead I dine on escargot and duck breast and sniff my wine before I can drink it. And I can't tell you when, but we are entertaining the Wells the following week some time.

The waves lapped in rhythm against the hull. Silence only as dense as can be experienced on a vast expanse of water took over. Finally, I got the courage to pursue what I had been thinking.

I have asked this many times before, and I'll ask it again. Why are you so opposed to sailing to the Michigan shore? Those boring villages you spoke of have drawn so many Chicagoans to them that property is now expensive, damn expensive. Did you know the locals call us FIPS. I won't expound, but I think you can figure it out.

She hesitated momentarily and then nodded. I'm uneasy out here because I'm afraid you will dump me over the side where there will be no trace of me and replace me with a mute blond.

There is no such creature. No woman is mute, let alone a blond one. I was quite pleased with my response, but it definitely did not go over well.

Silently she got up and went below. Minutes later, she returned with a rather-pale Bloody Mary and reclaimed her seat. After several minutes, Julia cleared her throat and began. Okay, I've got a deal for you. There's a show out in Rosemont in two weeks, and Madeline can't go. If you will go with me for a couple of hours, point the boat eastward and get to where you can see the shore. No harbor. No up-close look. Just the sight of the shore from a safe distance and nothing more. I'll hold the helm while you go below and fetch me another Mary, and don't go overboard on the Bloody.

It was an offer that I could not refuse, so I plotted a course, and she settled in to make love to one Bloody Mary after another. I followed her instructions, hoping to avoid any confrontation, as she was clearly becoming more intoxicated by the hour. By midafternoon, the shore appeared, but Julia snored through the event. I, however, steered the Aphrodite up the shoreline until I spied a village, probably South Haven or maybe even Holland. Then I knew I was pushing my luck and turned the boat toward the west.

It was nearly dark when I guided the Aphrodite into its berth. Julia had awakened and spent some time below. I suspected she was sick, but when she reappeared, she carried another rather-pale Bloody Mary. Okay, so far, today you have had your way. You got to see Michigan, and you have succeeded in getting me drunk. Now, I suppose you want me to perform my wifely duty.

I absolutely whiffed on my response. Sex with a sloppy-drunk female is not my idea of a good time. No thanks, but I'll get you safely tucked in.

She stomped off ahead down the dock and was standing at a white Lincoln while I hit the remote key, and the lights of my Cadillac flashed. Though I said nothing, the level of her anger hit an all-time high.

She accepted my help up the steps and into the front room. There was no hope of negotiating the stairs with a semiconscious woman, so I deposited her on the couch and went upstairs to get a couple of afghans. When I returned only minutes later, she was gone. I took quick inventory of the places she might have been. I even looked out the kitchen window in case she in her drunken state might have driven off, but her car was still there. Then I heard it. There is something distinctive about the sound of a human vomiting.

I helped her clean her face, escorted her back to the couch, and gently tucked her in.

It's all your fault, she was crying bitterly. If you hadn't insisted that we go to that horrible place… No other words came from Julia. She was out.

I left her there sound asleep, returned to the Aphrodite, and prepared to spend a comfortable night in the stateroom. The longer I laid there, the more formulated an idea became.

I am going back to the village of my youth, and I don't care what she says.

It was a comfortable decision, made after weighing the positives versus the negatives. It was not one arrived at after a moment of romantic memories of youthful triumphs or a desire to rekindle old acquaintances. I realized that it had arisen when, from quite a distance, I had gazed upon the magic of three hundred miles of beautiful beaches stretching along the west coast of my home state. My developmental years had been great, but for some unknown reason, I had never managed to prioritize returning as a necessary part of my adult life. Perhaps it was Julia's stereotype of all small-town life as hicksville that drove the wedge between past and present. Whatever the reason, I was now comfortable that a link needed to be forged between what formed the basis of the man I was and that man. Forty years of separation caused the only hesitation present in my mind. ‘How had it changed?' The question became clearer as I began to turn my wild idea into reality.

Chapter 2

The next few days incorporated putting the finishing touches on the McGabe contract, using my primitive computer skills to plan and make all necessary reservations for my return to the home of my youth and gather the courage to tell Julia of my plans. The business end of it was just formality, as all the hard work had been completed in the previous months. I was the senior partner, so there was no need to excuse myself for the week. Neal would be surprised because I rarely took time in chunks larger than a few hours or an afternoon.

The planning and reservations provided a greater challenge. Julia had always mapped out vacations and weekend getaways when things were better between us—from the exit out the front door to the carrying of the luggage up the stairs on our return. I was stymied until I remembered an ad for Tripadvisor and Booking.com. By the following Monday, I had reservations at a bed-and-breakfast, The Jewel of the Coast, a half-day charter fishing trip aboard the Pequod, and had scoped out the restaurants and bars. That last detail introduced the shock of how much the village had changed. When I left for college, there were two restaurants—one that served breakfast all day and the other smelled of old grease—and six bars that served pickled eggs and peanuts in the shell. Now there were thirteen restaurants with cutesy names and the same number of bars as before; but they all bragged of pizza, giant burgers, or wings in ten different sauces.

One other small detail had yet to be addressed. It took me three whole days to gather the courage to broach the topic with my wife. You remember that day we sailed farther out.

How the hell could I forget it, you bastard. My head hurt for two days afterward. There was no sign of any humor intended.

Well, just seeing the Michigan shore rekindled a desire that I did not know I had. Here I was sure I paused as the daggers were directed in my direction. I spit it out and awaited the worst, which never came. I am going back to the old stomping ground next week. I've reservations and…

She let me suffer through the whole episode before dropping her news on me. You know that you agreed to go to Rosemont for a couple of hours with me that Saturday. I waited for the icy follow-up. "Well, you won't be available, and I don't give a damn. Madeline had a change of plans, and I don't require the presence of your sorry