Brooks - The Next Best Thing

The Next Best Thing

By Wiley Brooks

legal details

Copyright 2019 Wiley Brooks

All rights reserved

ISBN: 9781773177122

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019907191

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, known now or hereafter invented is forbidden without the written consent of the author.

The Next Best Thing is a work of fiction. There are a few real people named but their parts in the story are completely made up. The reader should assume that names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Get Wiley's Next Book for Free!

As a thank you for downloading this book, Wiley will give you his next one for free! Visit WileyBrooks.com and enter your email. When his next book is available, he'll send you a code for a free download. One other thing, when you finish this one, please write a review. Amazon puts a lot of weight in books that get reviews.

Contents

DEDICATION

To my sweet wife, Marianne Bichsel . Youve always believed in and encouraged me. Every day that passes Im thankful that you agreed to marry me those many years ago.

To my dear friend, Monty Dennison . This book had languished for 32 years until one Tuesday last August when, after a Bombay Gin martini and a glass of red wine, you said to me Just write the damn book. So I did.

KEY LOCALES in BOOK

Prologue

S ome things never leave you. I lost my daughter thirty-two years ago. You know that clich about time healing wounds. Dont believe it. If time had healing power, three decades should be more than enough. But I long for my sweet baby girl every day. Every day, there is a moment when my heart cracks. I can feel it. Physically. Its like something gives way in my chest.

Anything can trigger it. Yesterday there was this little girl Id say she was three, maybe four literally ran right into me on the sidewalk outside the Winn-Dixie. She was wearing a bright yellow dress and laughing up a storm. Then she looked up at me with her beautiful blue eyes with that half-guilty, half-frightened look that only a child can give. I gave her a big smile; her expression changed back into glee once again. She turned, darted off as her mother came running down the sidewalk, bags in both arms, yelling for her to stop that instant. As the little girl scurried away, my smile melted from my face. Those blue eyes could have been Amandas. The terrible emptiness gripped me yet again.

Its awful to lose a child. It doesnt matter if she is two or twenty-two. I suspect that almost all dads have a clear picture in their minds of their kids future. From the time Amanda was a baby, I could see her in cap and gown, or walking down the aisle, me at her side. In my mind, Amanda was going to take over the business I had founded. I pictured her sitting behind my desk looking every bit the successful woman that I knew she would become. And, of course, I saw her as a mother. Shed be a great one. I think all fathers have these visions of their children. Amanda, though, was my only child, so maybe mine were more vivid.

Im getting old. I was forty-eight when Amanda died. Last week I turned eighty, but I stopped celebrating my birthday thirty-two years ago. On my birthday this year, I ran into my friend, Amal, at the gym. Amal is about twenty years younger than me and one of the most outgoing fellows I know. He retired a year ago and started showing up to work out at about the same time as me every day. We became gym pals. Well, last week when I told Amal that it was my birthday, he insisted on taking me to lunch.

My friend, eighty years is a long life, Amal said to me as we waited for our food. A chance for many blessings. Tell me, what are you most grateful for?

Amal and I were not deep friends. I had never told him about Amanda or much of anything that was truly personal. Thats easy, I said. Amanda. He looked puzzled at the name he had not heard before. Was that your wife? he asked.

Im sure he didnt expect to spend the next four hours hearing about my sweet girl, all the things we did together, her years away at college and finally her post-college adventure. You know, Amal, I wasnt thrilled that she was going to travel the world by herself, no less! But the world was a far safer place back in the Eighties. Or so I thought. And Amanda was a smart kid. Lots of common sense. Shed be fine. I was wrong.

And with that, I told Amal about Amandas murder. Savage. Brutal. I told him how it gutted me and emptied my soul.

I couldnt imagine how I could go on, yet here I am thirty-two years later. Nothing had meaning then. You know the stages of grief? I moved to the anger stage quickly. I wanted to find the sonofabitch who did it and kill him. I hatched a plan and hired a guy to find him.

Did you? Amal asked. Find him, I mean.

Oh yeah, I answered.

And what did you do?

I stared at Amal. His question hung in the air. What happened that hot afternoon on a jungle trail in Southeast Asia had stayed there. Only three other people knew the story. Ive since shared it with no one. But as I sat there with this casual friend sipping on a Diet Coke and waiting for my burger to arrive, I knew the time had come. I told Amal the whole story.

He wept.

So did I.

Day 1

A manda boarded the bus this morning in Melaka. Truth is, she was glad to be moving on. Visiting Melaka was like visiting Oakland before its renaissance. Best, perhaps, to not linger.

Melakas charms were pointed out in her travel guide and the yellow book had rarely misled her. And make no mistake; there was history here. And maybe, someday, Malaysia would get it together enough to do it justice. After all, Melaka had once been the center of an empire. One would never guess it now.

Once a busy port on the Strait of Malacca, Melaka was showing its age. Tired, rundown and dirty. It was hard to escape the stench of raw sewage that flowed into the river that meandered through town.

During the Vietnam War, ports throughout Southeast Asia bustled with business. It was in a prime and safe location. Near Singapore, Melaka held a strategic location on the Strait that hugs the west coast of Malaysia all the way to Thailand. But when the war ended, things slowed. Fewer and fewer ships called on Melaka. The city looked weary. As did its people.

Amanda was traveling alone. Her dad had worried about that before she left Tampa. But the fact was that she was rarely actually alone. The road is sprinkled with travelers like her from all over the world.

Backpackers, it turns out, are a friendly bunch. They engage easily with each other, form bonds, share stories, sometimes more and then move on. The membership of their little bands ebb and flow, constantly changing. It had become the aspect of travel Amanda most enjoyed.

Bus routes crisscross Malaysia. While some backpackers stuck out their thumb for rides, most relied on going from point A to point B by bus. Buses were cheap and fairly reliable. Some were even air-conditioned coaches with TVs showing movies. Others were less well appointed; basic school bus seating with windows that move up and down to allow in cooling air, at least when the bus was moving. Thats the kind of bus Amanda found herself getting on for the upcoming four-and-a-half-hour ride.

When she boarded, a petite redhead with her hair tied back in a ponytail was already sitting midway back next to an open window. Amanda grabbed the seat directly across the aisle. The two young women smiled at each other.