August Eighth

Playing on the clock radio, the news at 7:00 A.M., Monday morning, August 1^st: “ It’s hazy, hot and humid in the city this morning.  The Yankees are ahead of Boston by six games after they crushed the Sox last night, 12-1; KISS played to a sold out Madison Square Garden audience, and traffic is bumper to bumper on the GW Bridge due to a jack-knifed tractor trailer in the left lane.  Be safe and have a great day!”

Jack Wilson, born of Hungarian parents, a former Army intelligence officer, now the FBI’s number one profiler in the country.  Jack was an all-around average guy of average height, average weight, brown hair, brown eyes – the kind of guy who would not turn heads, would not be noticed – perfect for the FBI.  As a matter of fact, many people described him as “pleasant-looking.”   He lives with his longtime girlfriend, Shannon, a supermodel for a sportswear giant in New York City’s fashion center and the mother of their son, Tommy.  Jack leans over and shuts off the clock radio and sits up on the edge of the bed.  Shannon is in the shower so Jack puts on his sweat pants and walks into the kitchen.  His coffee mug is out and set up for him by Shannon.  He pours himself a cup of coffee, adds cream and sugar and takes a sip, almost burning his mouth.  Setting down the mug, he glances at the clock in the kitchen.  He remembers he has to drive Shannon to Newark Airport for her 11:00 A.M. Flight on the company’s jet; Shannon has a photo shoot in Paris this week.  After delivering Shannon to her flight, Jack will head to FBI headquarters in NYC.  He walks over to the bathroom, says good morning to Shannon and asks her if she wants some breakfast.  Jack goes back to the kitchen and pulls out some eggs, bacon and potatoes, pops an English muffin in the toaster and heats up the frying pan.  When the butter is melted, he cracks open the eggs and starts them frying the way Shannon likes them, over easy.  Shannon comes into the kitchen in a white terry cloth robe and a towel wrapped around her head like a turban planting a good morning kiss on Jack.  She sets the table and freshens up her coffee.  “I can’t wait to hear from Vince at Wide Open Cycles of Daytona Beach,” Shannon says.  Both Shannon and Jack had been to Bike Week in 2003.  They had driven their black Ford Bronco down to Florida, towing their bikes on a trailer.  They met Vince and his partner on Main Street where they discussed customizing their bikes – Jack’s Fatboy and Shannon’s Sporty.  They left their bikes with Vince, the best motorcycle customizer in the country who promised to have them before Biketoberfest 2003.  Jack said he would call Vince to check on the status of their bikes.  Shannon wrote down Vince’s number for him. 

Shannon said she wanted him to make love to her again after breakfast, but Jack reminded her that if that happened, she would probably miss her plane.  “Well, I’m not happy about that, but we will have to wait until I get back from Paris,” Shannon said.  Jack started to clean up the dishes while Shannon got ready, then he jumped in the shower.  As he was drying off, Shannon was getting her clothes together and came into the bathroom to dry her hair and put on some make-up.  Jack checked his gun, making sure the safety was on, put on his blue jeans, a white dress shirt, cowboy boots and his shoulder holster.  He took his black sports jacket from the closet and put it on over his gun.  He called to Shannon

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