I turned, and saw what appeared to be a relatively unkempt man standing behind me.
Jerome Kennedy. Astro physicist. A man who was mocked rather than revered for his theories on space, and in particular, space travel.
And those theories were, to put it mildly, interesting.
It was probably why the Admiral conscripted him for this voyage into the unknown.
“I though that was only in the imagination of television script writers.”
“Possibly, but we just witnessed something that none of us can rationally explain. One minute they were there, the next, poof.”
“That’s why you are along for the ride, to find explanations for the unexplainable. I look forward to your report.” Then, turning back to the navigator, “are we still in touch with the original alien vessel?”
“Just, and still heading towards Uranus.”
“Then let’s get after it, maximum speed when possible.”
I left the newly promoted number one in charge and went into the captains day room. I was still getting used to the idea of actually bring captain, because the aura of previous inhabitant of this room was still there. And it felt like he was in the room watching everything I did.
I shook my head, as if that would cast off the jitters I felt, and sat down behind the imposing desk, one thathad been made over a hundred years before, and from a vessel with the same name.
I still didn’t have a lot to put in any report to the Admiral, but had a lot to think about.
I brought up the navigation screen and looked at the suggested path from where we were to Uranus, and the time it would take.
There was a buzzing sound, and a face appeared on my screen. It was the Captain’s personal assistant for want of a better name, Louise Chalmers, an ex Lieutenant Colonel from the military, but not by much. She had retired into this position, and, I suspect, another was for the military to keep up to date on the Captain’s decisions.
“Come in.”
The door opened, she came in, and it closed behind her. There was no open door policy on this ship.
“Sir.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure if you are aware, but I am here to serve whomever the current Captain is, and since Captain V is not here, that would be you in his stead.”
I had read that she was his choice for P A, and that it was a personal matter, as usually Captains didn’t have such staff members.
“I thought you were on board to serve only the previous captain “
“Not so. If you read standing order 207615, you will realise my position was ratified as general crew member, serving the ship rather than an individual. My job is to make your job easier.”
While she was speaking, I fetched the standing orders, and the one she referred, and a quick scan proved such to be the case.
“In what way?”
“Paperwork, the vane of any officers existence I’m told, and to organise all activities of a non urgent nature, like bring the daily reports to you.”
I knew that captain had to be appraised of everything that happened on board, just not every day.
“I take it you have the reports?”
“I have, and unfortunately, as per regulations, I have to make sure you have received them. Your predecessor wanted me to summarise. I can do the same for you.”
It’s like working in two offices, one uptown, and one downtown.
I have two blogs, this one, and another which is purely for writing, and generally, a lot of starts and not a lot of finishes. I get ideas, and it’s a place to store them, and give a few people some amusement at my, sometimes, improbable situations and far-fetched stories.
Here I try to be more serious.
I have the ceiling, the cinema of my dreams. Here anything is possible, like jumping from a helicopter about to explode, and survive, and get out of a sinking ship, like Houdini. Of course, there is always one time when it doesn’t work, and Houdini knows that all too well.
Over there, I have a series which I started here, long ago, where I take a photograph and write a story inspired by it. The interesting thing about that is I could probably use the same photograph over and over, and it would inspire a different tale.
I know, if I was running a writing class, everyone would see that photograph differently.
But what amazes me sometimes is the fact the story is not directly related to the theme. It got me thinking about how we view our experiences, and what triggers memories. I’ve discovered that it doesn’t necessarily happen by correlation, say, for instance, a memory of being in New York might be triggered by a visit to a cafe in Cloncurry.
I try to do one of these every day, but sometimes it’s hard work. Writing itself can be some days, particularly when the words are lurking there, behind that invisible, impenetrable, rock wall.
OK, so I’m stuck in the middle of writing a piece over there, and I’ve come over here to whinge.
But, enough. I’ll let you know what the cinema of my dreams is showing, later.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
Three a.m. is meant to be so quiet; you could hear your heart beating.
Ten to, all hell had broken loose when one of the conveyor belts broke, and a replacement was needed, and the engineers were on the clock.
Ten past, the hullabaloo had died down, and back at the desk, I was contemplating a long scotch to calm the nerves. Drinking on the job was not condoned, but not unheard of. I opened the drawer and looked at the bottle, then thought the better of it.
And, when I looked up, Nadia was standing in front of the desk.
She was as quiet as a ninja, and just as dangerous.
“Never a dull moment,” she said, dragging a chair over and sitting down. “I got here a half hour ago and all hell was breaking loose.”
“Conveyor broke. No one wants to see production stop or slide. Too many questions.”
“Fixed?”
“Of course.” I made a note to order a replacement. Better to have two in store, just in case.
“How did you get in?”
Security was tight, not like it used to be, especially after what happened to me.
“I know the guards, they know I’m not a threat.”
I could beg to differ, but I was glad to see her. “Did you know Alex was a caver?”
“A what?”
“One of those people who go scrambling through caves.”
“I doubt it.”
“He used the word spelunking.”
“Which is?”
“Exploring caves.”
“He’s no explorer, I bet he’s looking for the treasure.”
“And so has a million others before him. I seriously doubt the treasure will be in a cave in the hills, which is where all the known caves are. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily include the so-called underground river under the mall, but apparently isn’t.”
“You heard?”
“That the flooding was not necessarily the result of a flood of water from the mountains, yes. A problem with the foundations, it has been suggested.”
“A fact Benderby is working overtime to cover up.”
Nadia seemed well informed. I was guessing the Cossatino’s could see an opportunity to blackmail Benderby, if they had proof. I wouldn’t put anything past them.
“You know something I don’t?”
“We always know something others don’t.”
“Have I got a dark secret?”
“That depends.”
She smiled, and it worried me.
“Your mother and Joshua Benderby used to be very good friends when they were at school.”
Old news, well, not so old news, but if I hadn’t seen the flowers…
“What are you insinuating?”
“They had a fling before your mother realized what sort of a man he really was and picked your father instead. But, from what I’m told, they were close, and there wasn’t a lot of time between the breakup and you coming along.”
Odd, but that was just the thought that entered my mind at the exact instant she said it.
“But, I look nothing like the Benderby’s.”
“Benderby didn’t look anything like his parents either, it’s a generational thing, so you might want to find a photo of his father and mother, you know, just to settle the nerves. Or a DNA test.”
It was the last thing on my mind. Imagine being a stepbrother to Alex. Wouldn’t that get his nose out of joint, going from the only son and heir to sharing the mantle? I was older than him, too, which gave me more of a claim on the fortune.
No. Not a chance in the world. There wouldn’t be enough money to assuage the horrors of that family. It would be bad enough if they got together now, which wasn’t as unlikely as it sounded. His wife had died, and he hadn’t remarried, or, for that matter, found someone else. Yet.
“Have you come with any other news?”
“No. Just a picnic basket. I thought you might want a late, late supper.”
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
Every year we bowed to the absurdity that Edward John Berkely bestowed upon us for that one week we all agreed to, somewhere back in the mists of time, for reasons now, no one could remember.
It took the form of Edward’s version of the Amazing Race, with 25 clues that took us to places we’d generally never been to before, each of us starting from our home city, and ending up in the same destination, the Empire State Building.
It was always that week beginning the first Saturday in December, and ran for a week, each day ending up in a particular hotel where the numbered clues for the next day would be delivered. The first day’s clues were delivered by email and told us when to start.
We also had a burner phone, delivered before the start, used to track each team, mostly so that we did not cheat. No one ever had, but perhaps that was due to having the phone. It was the only means of communication with Edward, along the way, in case of problems.
Elaborate, yes. Exciting, yes, in the beginning.
Last year, I had suffered a series of misfortunes and failed to finish, the first time, and I had told Edward I was no longer interested. So soon after the death of my wife, I didn’t want to go, but he cajoled me into it.
This year, when he sent the email to ask if I was participating, I told him I wasn’t. Without Jane, who loved the challenge of it more than I did, it seemed pointless, and when I didn’t hear back, I assumed my name had been struck off the list, and gave it no more thought.
As time passed life began to assume a form of normality. It might have taken less time if we had children, but that was not possible, and we accepted it. By myself in a big empty house, it took a while to realise all it did was shackle me to the past, and I had to move on.
There was nothing to keep where I was, our friends were great when there were the two of us, but not so much after she had passed. They came, gave their condolences, and then slowly stopped coming. They were mostly Jane’s friends, and I learned later, didn’t like her choice of husband, but tolerated me for the sake of her happiness.
On the other side of the country, I knew I could lose myself in a city as large as New York, and never run into anyone I’d known. I was happy to be by myself. At conferences, the six I attended around the country each year, they were people I knew and liked Jane, but she was not one of us. When she passed, that first conference was difficult.
Now, I was the one without a plus one, and had settled back into a bachelor’s existence, and, no, I was not interested in finding a replacement for Jane.
Of course, what we tell ourselves and what happens, in reality, are two entirely different things, particularly when a random chance meeting with an old friend I’d not seen for 20 years came out of that proverbial left field.
Mary-Anne Dawkins. Or at least that was the last name I knew her by.
The girl next door, the girl I grew up with, the girl I went through grade school, elementary school, and later, for a time, college. We never dated, it never got to that, but we were inseparable, always had each other’s back, and it had been a sad day when her parents decided to return home and took her and her brother with them.
That day broke my heart, for reasons, then I could not explain. Much later I realised she had been the love of my life, and the one that got away. And with the passing of time, I had almost forgotten her.
I saw her standing at the reception desk of the hotel I was staying for the latest conference when I returned to change for the dinner being held on the last day.
At least I thought it was her. When I stood beside her, and she turned to look in my direction, she simply smiled and ignored me. It was her smile, the one that reminded me of the cat who ate the canary. There were three attributes, the smile, the wavy hair, and the infectious giggle. All three were present in that girl beside me, an older version. But exactly how I would have expected her to age.
“Mary Anne Dawkins,” I said when she turned to go to her room.
She stopped. “Yes, once. It’s now Mary Anne Thomas. Do I know you?”
Interesting that she would not remember me. “My name is Gary Johnson. We used to be friends back in Saratoga.”
“Exactly when?”
I explained the relationship we had for over a dozen years, and that still didn’t register.
When she saw my puzzled expression she said, “Oh, sorry. I was in an accident about a year back, a bad one as it happens, and lost most of my memories before it happened. Basically, I was lying in the hospital with absolutely no idea who I was, where I came from, or what I did. You have no idea how scary that can be. Anyway, one of my friends recognised the photo in the paper and came to rescue me. If you were who you say you are, then if I had those memories, I would remember you, but, I’m sorry, I do not.”
And her point was, this would probably look like I was trying to hook up.
I shrugged. “Then I’m sorry to hear about what happened and will leave you in peace. It was nice to see you again, anyway, Mary Anne.”
Over the next hour or so I pondered the plight of people who lost their memories and what it must be like, waking up one morning and not knowing who you were.
Some people might be thankful given their circumstances. It only highlighted the fact my memories were intact, and sometimes I wished they weren’t because of how painful some were. My life had too many moments that inspired grief rather than rejoicing and seeing Mary Anne again had dragged a lot back to the surface.
Enough to make it impossible to go to the post-conference dinner. Feeling as miserable as I did then, I would not make good company.
Instead, I went down to the hotel restaurant and asked for a table in a corner and was going to have dinner on my own.
I was on my third drink when a familiar face appeared at the restaurant doorway, scanning the tables. Mary Anne. Was she looking for someone?
Our eyes met and moved on, but in a single moment, I felt a spark of regret.
A few minutes later a waiter came and asked me if she could join me for dinner, the restaurant was full, and she had not made a booking.
I shrugged. Why not? It would be like dining with a total stranger, which could be interesting, or just plain sad.
“Thank you for this. I was supposed to be dining with someone else, but they had to cancel. I didn’t fancy going elsewhere, and thought, well, you might tell me a little about myself.”
“Are you sure you’d want to do that? I would think it might be better to leave the old you behind and embrace the new you.”
She settled in the chair and ordered a drink. Those few minutes gave me time to glance at the older version of Mary Anne, and my mental vision of her didn’t match the physical version sitting opposite. She looked, to me, very sad.
“Someone else told me that, and I remember at the time, it might have had something to so with my past, something very bad. I wake up some mornings very frightened and have these bad dreams from time to time. The doctor said it might be just a result of the accident, but some of them are quite real.”
Perhaps that was what was driving the sadness. “I only knew you when you were a child, from grade school to the start of college. Without that friendship, I don’t think I might have achieved what I have over time.”
“Were we more than just friends, weren’t we? I feel that it might have been more. Another result of the accident is that I can sense things from people. The tenor of your voice conveys a depth of feeling. It also tells me you recently suffered a terrible loss. A wife?”
Or she could just see right through me. I’d never really recovered from losing Jane, and yes, being with her now, those feelings had resurfaced.
“My wife died about a year ago, and with you, I always suspected my feelings were one-sided. I never expressed them, and by the time I realised what they were, you were gone. A regret, yes, but we all learn to live with regrets and mistakes.”
It was a convenient moment for the waiter to arrive and take our order. I needed the time to reshelve those memories and change the subject.
“It has to be a monumental coincidence our being here at the same time. I’m at a law enforcement conference. You?”
It seemed odd saying it, law enforcement because it was not exactly true. I was not in a police or sheriff’s department, but something else. I just used the anonymous cover of working for the NYPD as a cover. I had once, earlier on, and people usually accepted it.
“I’m looking for a Xenolith”
She saw the curious expression on my face, and added, “A rock, a large rock.”
Inevitably I had to ask, “Why? Are you a geologist?”
“No. A travel guide of sorts. I work for a company that finds unusual things for travellers to do, or at the moment, elements of a tour that is like the Amazing Race. We have a client who does it once a year for his friends.”
“Edward Berkeley”
Her turn to be surprised. “You know him?”
“An old friend from school days.” And then it occurred to me, she would have known him had she had her memories, because we all used to hang out together, and another memory resurfaced, the fact he fancied her, and then a pang of jealousy, she fancied him.
This was too much of a coincidence. “Have you met him?”
“No. I was out of the office a few months back when he brought the list of places for us to look for. Oh, I see, would he have recognised me?”
“He did have a thing for you. I’ll be honest I was a little jealous, but his parents were very rich and I couldn’t compete.”
“One thing I remember is when they told me had come to the office just to see me, I got a very bad vibe. Conversely, here with you, it does seem familiar, and don’t get me wrong or write anything into it, I feel, for the first time, safe. It’s a very odd feeling to have, but perhaps it comes from our time together. I don’t know.”
Food was served, it was time to leave that and change the subject. I could see a change in her, one of confusion. I didn’t want to be the one that might bring back memories that had been taken from her for a reason.
It was something I’d read about once when dealing with head trauma, and bad things that happened to people. The mind, given an opportunity, just simply shut them out to protect.
Waiting for the next course, a bottle of wine was ordered and served, and the conversation moved on.
“What do you do in law enforcement?”
“Research. You know, you watch the TV shows and there’s this guy or girl behind a computer reeling off stuff relevant to the case. It doesn’t quite work like that, it’s sometimes a lot more difficult, but it’s more or less the job.”
“That’s why you’re here?”
“I was asked to come and lead a session on the more obscure sources of information. Sometimes I think when I retire, I will be able to do family trees with my eyes closed. I researched mine, going all the way back to the people who came over from England.”
“Oh.”
The main course arrived, and it seemed to have an effect on her because she closed her eyes, put her hands on her forehead, and said, “Oh, no. Oh, God no, no, no…”
And then passed out.
It was three days before she woke.
I had tried to find if there was any significant person in her life that should know what happened but found nothing on her, nor in her room. Other than her name on the booking form, the fact she had paid herself, she had paid cash and had no credit cards or driver’s licence, or any documentation to verify who she was.
I knew her as Mary Anne Dawkins and tried to trace her that way, but her identity disappeared after she left my hometown. No Mary Ann Dawkins from there could be traced, nor her parents.
It was like she had appeared out of thin air.
With no one else available, and with the permission of the local police force, I stayed with her, and would until she woke when we could get answers to the mystery.
It was a relief when she opened her eyes. Those first few seconds when there would be disorientation, showed through the surprise, then fear in her expression. Then she saw me, and I wanted to believe it was a smile, but it might have been something else. I was holding her hand at the time.
“Gary, Gary Johnson, of Saratoga, yes? I know you, don’t I.”
“The same.” OK, what just happened? The girl I’d seen before didn’t have a clue who I was. Could that have been an act? If it was it was very convincing.
“What are you doing here? Where am I. by the way? A hospital, yes. I had an accident though I don’t remember anything of it. T-boned in a taxi on the way to the airport? Hey, I was coming to see you…”
“Whoa.” This was getting freakish. Had she just come out of the fog left behind by the accident, and time had stood still for, what, a year? I asked her, “What day is it?”
“October 7th, 2021.”
“Actually, it’s March 23rd 2023.”
“Oh my God. What the hell? Have I been in a coma all this time? How is it possible to lose that much time?”
At that point, the doctor and nursing staff came in and took command of her, and I was relegated to the passage, on the outside looking in. I watched her go through a dozen different states of mind and the gamut of emotions until finally, she had settled, and I was allowed back.
I just sat down when she reached out and grabbed my hand and held it tightly.
“You have to do something for me. It might sound very weird, but believe me, it’s very important because if you don’t, he might succeed in finishing what he started out, killing me.”
“Who?”
“James Fordsburg. You would remember the Fordsburg case; the family were funnelling finds into a private army with the intention of staging a coup and taking over the country. They had property in remote places that were discovered to be training camps, munition dumps, an airport with fighter planes.”
I remembered it. The closest we ever came to civil war again.
“The reason why we left in a hurry. My father worked for the Fordsburgs. He found out what was going on and became a whistleblower. The case never made it to court, the Fordsburgs killed themselves, along with the top military people. What you and everyone else didn’t know was the was a junior Fordsburg, but he did use that name, he used his maternal family name, Berkeley, and his name, Edward Berkeley.
“He never stopped searching. He killed my father, mother and brother, even if the police still say it was an accident, and he’s never stopped looking for me. I then got the idea if I found you, you would know what to do and tracked you down. I spoke to Jane. When I explained who I was, she said she would tell you. Anyway, a year ago, he found me, and I just managed to get away, get a car, and come to see you. I was on my way to the airport, and here I am 18 months later, the message finally delivered.”
It was an amazing tale. If it was true, then Fordsburg the younger would be on the wanted list. That Edward was this Fordsburg, that was a little harder to come to terms with.
“OK. You know I have to check the facts, and that means leaving you here, but I will arrange for protection.”
I heard the door to the room close behind me, and a voice say, “That won’t be necessary, Gary. I can take it from here.”
I heard Mary Anne gasp. I turned around and saw Edward in a county Sherriff’s uniform.
“I don’t know what tales she’s been telling you, Gary, but all of it is in her imagination.”
“So you’re not a Fordsburg?”
“Me? No. You know who I am, Garry. The middle of the road, invisible guy, with rich parents that made my life miserable.”
“I’m not made,” Mary Anne said. “He’s dangerous, and we will not leave this room alive.”
I was inclined to agree with her. He was behaving oddly, like he was strung out, and trying to keep a lid on it. That made him highly unpredictable.
I stood and turned to face him.
“Be careful Garry. No sudden moves. I hope you’re not buying into this tissue of lies.”
No, but I was playing for time. The fact he was in the room meant he had got rid of the guard at the door. It was possible the doctor might come back, and equally possible he might be momentarily distracted.
As I was thinking that he had drawn his weapon, I had to assume the safety was off.
“No need for guns, Ed. I’m not a threat. Nor is Mary Anne. Not if what you say is true.”
The next thing that happened was a loud clanging sound which was the distraction I needed, but it didn’t quite turn out the way I expected. Yes, I got to him, yes, I partially neutralised the gun, and yes, in the scuffle that followed the weapon discharged.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And the story:
It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.
The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.
He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.
The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.
There was nowhere for him to go.
The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.
Where was he going?
“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.
“What?”
“I think he’s made us.”
“How?”
“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”
“How far away?”
“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”
It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”
“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”
Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.
Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.
Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.
Or so we thought.
Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.
“What the hell…” Aland muttered.
I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication where he went.
Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.
I looked up. Nothing.
Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”
Then where did he go?
Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.
“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”
I’d lost him.
It was as simple as that.
I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.
I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.
It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.
I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.
Here’s the third part, the Opportunity
Where was I last night between 9pm and 3am?
Not with my wife, Wendy. She had gone out before 6 pm, about the time I got home from work. No, she didn’t really say where she was going, or if she did, given the list of the past, I didn’t believe her.
Where was I?
Home, alone.
Could anyone corroborate that?
Sadly no. Isn’t that always the way, though?
But, the car I was driving was a company car. It had a GPS and tracking system, part of so-called security measures put in by the company I worked for, but in reality there to check after-hours use.
The GPS would show I never left home. Using the car, that is.
The only other car had been taken by Wendy so the reality was, I hadn’t left home. The other car, the off-road vehicle was in the workshop, still waiting to be repaired. It was the car our son had been killed in, and neither of us had the heart to do anything with it.
But…
Apparently, I had a visitor.
James Burgman had been seen outside my house at 10:30 pm, his car had been found two blocks away in the car park, away from the street, and he was found dead, shot by a gun that used 9mm bullets, at 4:45 am the next morning.
No. I had not been seen leaving the house, but it had been ascertained that it was possible to leave and not be seen, if I tried hard enough.
I hadn’t and had no reason to, but that didn’t seem to matter.
Sitting in the interview room, purportedly to help the police in their enquiries, Detective John Sanderson had detailed quite succinctly how I had a motive, the means, and the opportunity.
Little else mattered, particularly the fact I didn’t do it. It was only a matter of time before the gun was found.
So, there I sat in the station, waiting for a series of test results to come back, mainly gunshot residue on me and on my clothes, not just those I was wearing, but everything I owned.
In the end, there was nothing. They couldn’t prove I left home, or that I shot him. Not then. I was advised not to leave the city, that I was a person of interest.
When I asked whether my wife, Wendy, had been subjected to the same interrogation, the atmosphere changed, and Sanderson had rounded on me quite savagely.
“Her innocence is not in question. In fact, you would not be here if it wasn’t for her statement. She honestly believes you shot him out of pure jealousy, and, quite frankly Mr Winters, so do I, and it will only be a matter of time before I find the evidence to convict you. Now, get out of my sight.”
This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.
See below for an excerpt from the book…
Coming soon!
An excerpt from the book:
When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.
Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.
It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.
Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.
But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.
His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.
At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.
For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.
Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.
Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.
Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.
It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.
It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.
Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.
Except, of course, when it came to Harry.
He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.
So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.
There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.
So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.
There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.
She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.
Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.
Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.
Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.
Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.
Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
“And tell me again,” Will said, “just why are we out here at two in the morning?”
It was not lost on him that a minute or so before they had passed a sign proclaiming they had crossed into Wild Horse Mountain territory, and moments later, a sign with a horse on it.
It explained the empty horse box they’d brought along, and the earlier statement by his friend Chad, that he was planning to catch a brumby and break it.
Chad was full of good ideas like that, especially after a dozen drinks.
“We’re on an adventure, Billy boy. Just roll with it.”
Last adventure I’d just rolled with saw us explaining to Sherriff Daley why we shouldn’t be locked up and the key thrown away.
“I’m trying, but seriously, you brought Charlene?”
Charlene was Chad’s latest girlfriend and the one, he said. So were Fergie, and Donna, and, well, I forgot the last one; she had lasted almost a week. But this one had lasted longer than the others, and I detected that same devil-may-care attitude in her. I put that down to the fact she was the daughter of the town preacher.
“She wanted to see what we get up to. The girl’s got an adventurous streak. What can I say?”
No, for starters. I doubt her family would be happily bailing her out of jail. Maybe with her along he might show a bit more common sense.
He slowed, then turning at the slip road, stopped in front of a locked gate where there was a road leading into the forest, and a sign saying that only authorised personnel could pass.
“Is this private land?” I asked.
“Forest service. Government land. The sign’s there to keep the fools out.” He held up a key. “My uncle knows a man who knows a ranger who says so long as we don’t kill anything it’s fine.”
“And you’re thinking catching a wild horse is going to be easy? I assume that’s what we’re here for?”
“I thought I explained that earlier. How hard can it be? I watched a video on YouTube and it’s easy. We’ve both been on a cattle drive and passed with flying colours. Just think of it as catching a bull, only a little larger, but no horns.”
I think trying to do that at night and in the dark might be slightly more complicated than he’s considered, and, as for having the skills necessary, back then there were a half dozen experienced cowboys there to back us up.
I shrugged; there was no changing his mind once it was made up. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I muttered under my breath.
“Exactly.” He handed me the key and I got out.
I looked back and could see Charlene acting a lot more animated than before, so maybe she was on board with this crazy scheme.
I unlocked the gate, opened it, waited until he drove through, and then closed and locked it behind me.
The discussion between Charlene and Chad was still going on when I got back in. From the part I heard it seems she thought he was taking her to a secret lookout, not go brumby hunting, and him saying they could do both. I got the impression she was not keen on catching a horse.
Whatever happened, it was going to be an interesting few hours.
Chad was the sort of person who when everything was going great and everyone was on board with his scheme, it was fine. When the hiccups in the master plan started to happen, that’s when things start to fall apart.
After an hour’s slow crawl through the forest over a track that gave the pickup and following trailer a good workout, Charlene was losing interest.
So was I, but I’d learned not to express my sentiments.
“So,” she said, “where are these horses?”
“Here. They’re everywhere, they’re always running all over the place.”
Except they were not. Not tonight anyway. And just then I remembered reading that the county administration had decided it was time to move the horses on so they could carve out a chunk of land for camping, hunting and fishing. The conservationists were up in arms, the hunters were rubbing their hands in glee, and the campers were saying fools with guns were an accident waiting to happen.
A loud bank and what sounded like a gunshot hitting the side of the horse float was enough for Chad to stop, douse the lights and kill the engine. I disabled the lights that went on when the doors opened.
Suddenly it was dead silent. I was sure I could hear my heart beating.
Then, the silence was broken by another shot, so loud we all jumped.
I was first out of the pickup, just in case they were shooting at us. That prompted, in the next breath, who was shooting at us, and why?
Chad and Charlene came around to join me.
“What the hell just happened?” Chad asked.
“Gunshots. Perhaps the hunters have decided not to wait until they got county approval. We’ll have to tell the sheriff, get on his good side. We just need to find out who they are.”
No need. A minute or so later there was yelling carried on the night air.
“What the hell are you doing. The boss said no advertising our presence.”
“I saw a car.”
“It’s the main track and there’s going to be cars. Get back to the camp, and you want to hope whoever you shot at doesn’t call the sheriff.”
I looked at Chad. “We’ll wait a few minutes then get moving again.”
“What’s going on?” A visibly shaken Charlene wasn’t too happy about what had just happened.
I could have told her that a night out with Chad provided enough excitement for a week. Things always seemed to happen around him.
“Hunting season started early,” Chad said.
“We’re not going to get shot are we?”
“No.” Chad sounded positive, but there was no way we could know what those people were doing.
I got up and checked the horse float for bullet holes and instead saw a scrape along the side made by an overhanging branch. There was no sign of a bullet hole, but it didn’t explain the loud bang we all heard.
When I came back, I said, “Let’s get out of here.”
Another half hour passed in silence until we came out of the forest into a clearing that was visible in the twilight, a cloudless sky and full moon giving the whole area a strange eerie feeling.
Chad drove on the track that skirted the open area and stopped by a dilapidated hut. Lights off and engine off, once out of the car the silence was rather strange to a person who lived in the city where there was constant noise.
Chad had a rough hand-drawn map he got from a friend of a friend, that looked a lot like the clearing with a hut exactly where we had stopped. It was as much of it as I remembered until she spread it out over the bonnet of the car.
He then switched on the light of his phone.
We gathered around like conspirators.
“We’re here.” He pointed to the X that marked the hut. His finger then followed the track around further to a point where a lake bordered the clearing, with another X. “A watering hole for the wildlife, and quite often where the horses come. This whole clearing is where they gather.”
Gather they might, but not tonight. It was light enough to see the edges of the clearing, the forest beyond, and the shimmering surface of the lake in the distance. It was enough to see nothing was stirring.
“Perhaps,” Charlene said, “they knew we were coming.” There was no mistaking the sardonic tone.
Maybe she had already been on one of his wild goose chases. This wasn’t my first rodeo.
The silence was broken by the sound of a horse, coming from the direction of the lake.
“Maybe not.”
We turned to look, and the first thing I saw was a horse, yes, but there was a rider on it. Followed by another, and another, until at least ten came out of the forest and into the open.
Nightriders?
“What the hell…” I heard Charlene mutter.
Perhaps against a dark background, they hadn’t seen us. Or they had and were ignoring us. They stopped for what looked like a short drink break then continued to follow what must have been a path across the shoreline of the lake, and within a few minutes had disappeared into the forest.
“Local tourist adventure rides up to the lookout at night where they look at the stars,” Chad said.
“And you know this…” Charlene sounded like she would have preferred that to what Chad was taking us on now.
So would I, if I had a choice.
“Is the lookout accessible by car?” I asked, now getting the feeling it wasn’t.
“A 4×4 maybe, but the most direct route and easiest is by horse. But we’re not here to look at the stars. I’m going down to the lake. You two?”
“I’m staying here,” Charles said, shivering.
I could tell she wanted to go home but was too afraid to say anything. And by her body language, I didn’t think this relationship between her and Chad was going to last much longer.
“Then stay with her Mike. I won’t be long.”
With that, he headed off towards the lake.
“He’s stark staring mad,” she said when he was out of earshot.
“Chad had some crazy ideas sometimes, but his heart is in the right place. At least with him, what you see is what you get?”
“You think? What’s your excuse?”
“Being here? He’s helped me get through some rough times. My parents were killed in an accident when I was 13. He convinced his parents I should stay with them because otherwise I’d finish up in the foster care system, and they did. I guess I’m the little brother he never had. What about you?”
“Sad story, I needed someone to teach me to line dance. He made it fun. This isn’t.”
“Why’d you agree to come?”
“I thought we were going to the lookout, at least that’s how he sold it. Not catching horses. Can he even ride a horse?”
“His uncle has a ranch with cattle. We’ve been going there mustering every year for what seems like a lifetime.”
“He asked me to go with him this year.”
“Then do. I could do with a break, go to the city, see what I’m not missing.”
The surrounding silence closed in on us as the conversation dries up. Talking to girls was not my forte.
“He’s taking a long time,” Charlene said about ten minutes later.
It mirrored my own thought. How long could it take to walk to the water’s edge, see there was nothing to be found, and come back.
A loud bang, like the sound of a rifle, punctured the stillness.
“Was that…?” She said.
“A gunshot? Sounded like it.”
I went over to the back of the car and pulled out the rifle Chad carried with him, hidden under the seat. It surprised me the first time I discovered he travelled around with a gun. It wasn’t loaded, but it didn’t take long to load. I put some extra bullets in my pocket, just in case.
“You coming?” I asked. If anything happened to her, I knew Chad would be angry. “If someone is out there shooting people, it’s not s good idea to be here alone.”
She didn’t need to be asked twice.
“You know how to use that?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Coyotes.”
We both stayed on the track skirting the open space, just to make it harder for anyone likely to be aiming at us until we reached the knoll above the lake. It was the one place where, if there was a shooter. we would be most vulnerable. Neither of us stayed there for longer than a second, perhaps two, before heading down the 50 yards to the water’s edge. A quick scan showed no sign of Chad.
At the water’s edge, she said, “Where is he? If this is one of his games, then I don’t like it.”
I knew Chad, and I also knew he was capable of pulling a stunt like this. If he was, I was going to be very annoyed.
Facing the knoll, I heard a soft splashing sound behind me and turned.
Chad.
He was not more than 20 yards out in the water, face down.
“Damn.”
I dropped the rifle and headed into the water, swimming the last few yards, but I knew, the moment I reached him, he was dead. The hole in the side of his head was unmistakable. I brought him back to the shore and dragged him above the water line, then checked for a pulse.
Nothing.
Then I realised Charlene was not there, where I’d left her, but further along the beach. She had picked up the rifle, and by the way she was carrying it, she knew how to use it. Had she heard something?
Behind her, one of the horsemen arrived with a riderless horse and stopped next to her.
“What’s going on?” I asked. I was hoping it wasn’t what it looked like.
“This has nothing to do with you, Mike. Justice has been served.”
Justice? What justice? What had Chad done to deserve a death like this?
“Amy Potterdam. Just because you own the law in this County doesn’t mean you can get away with murder.”
Amy Potterdam? All I could remember about that was a girl had died in unusual circumstances at a party he had attended, if only briefly. Someone had claimed that he had given the girl the spiked drink that eventually killed her, but witnesses and evidence had proven otherwise. The fact his father was the County Sherriff had no bearing.
I watched her climb up on the horse and take the reins. I stood and started walking towards her. “This is wrong.”
“Don’t come any closer, or I will shoot you.”
I didn’t stop. I didn’t know what I was going to do, or if there was anything I could do. I just knew I had to try.
They say you don’t hear the bullet that has your name on it.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 