Copyright 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1997, 1999, 2005, 2007 Tom Fowler

 

 

 

 

Tom Fowler’s

 

Room of Mystery

Stories of Horror, Mystery and Imagination

Volume 1

 

 

 

 

INDEX

 

          Breakfast Time – A murderer in the Salisbury family

          In the Next Room – A man undergoes a horrible experience

         Lenora’s Dilemma – A great-grandmother with a past

        The Man Who Fell Apart – Unspeakable horror in the Beaumont family                    

          Middle Age Mistakes – A cheating husband meets his match

          Mr. Smith – A reporter meets an extraordinary being

         Rude Awakenings – The Hayes family live an extended nightmare

       The Short Wait – The sad end of Harland Gofourth

       What Happens Next?—A long ago mystery is solved

       Wishful Thinking – A man gets everything he wishes for – with terrible consequences

 

 

 

 

Breakfast Time

 

        "Like another cup of coffee, dear? How about you, Betty?"   Jim asked, amiably. Jim Salisbury was always unfailingly polite to his wife and daughter, even though both had caused him much grief through the years.

        "Yeah, thanks," Jackie answered, absentmindedly.

        "Me, too," Betty said, looking at her father with wary eyes. His old-fashioned gentility had always made the 25-year old her feel slightly uncomfortable and she did not understand why.

        Jim poured the steaming coffee all around. It was one of the few things that all three of them had in common: a love for fresh, hot coffee.

        The women were obviously nervous. Jim was also, although he took pains not to show it. He asked, "Everyone enjoy breakfast?"

        "Yes, it was good. Thanks, Dad."

        "It was good, Jim." Jackie said, again with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

        "We'll have to do this more often," he said, amicably, smiling at his wife and daughter."

        "Yes, I suppose we should," Betty agreed, starting to feel perspiration beads in the palms of her hands. Jim noticed that she was beginning to rub them together nervously.

        "Jim, lets get on with it," Jackie said, a sharp edge in her voice now that was missing earlier.

        "All right, then," he answered, his tone changing to one of seriousness and formality. "Betty, you know why we invited you for breakfast. We need to talk this out."

        Betty, who had not eaten a morning meal with her parents in years, nodded her head and said nothing.

        "I still can't believe you want to have this conversation," Jackie said, crossly. She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

        "Oh, I think you can believe it well enough, dear," he answered, dryly, not taking his eyes off of her.

        "Well, then get on with it. I'm certain Betty wishes to be somewhere else." It was one of the few things that mother and daughter had agreed on in quite some time.

        "OK. Looking at his daughter, Jim said, "One of us is responsible for Mike's death."

        "You think so?" Betty tried to remain calm but her voice was shaky and she continued to rub her palms,

        "I think so, all right. One of us is a murderer."

        "What makes you think that?" Jackie asked, defensively, "All of us got sick."

        "True enough, but only one us died."

        "Could have been any of us. You heard what the doctor said. We're lucky we lost only Mike."

        "I don't think luck had anything to do with it." Jim said, a trace of anger now in his voice that frightened the two women.

        "You think I killed Mike?" Betty asked, her face now white as chalk.

        "I don't know."

        "You think I killed him?" Jackie asked, with emphasis and in a shrill voice, anger welling up from her diseased lungs.

        "Maybe I killed him," was her husband's sardonic answer.

        "Maybe you did," she answered, without conviction.

        "Maybe I did," he repeated, looking now at Betty.

        As he looked at her, none of them said anything. He felt a curious combination of love and pity for both of them, and he took no satisfaction in having to do what he was about to do. He allowed the uncomfortable pause in the conversation to continue on a little longer. Finally, glancing at them, he asked, "What makes you think that it was anything but murder?"

        "Jim," his wife said, with a forced weariness that impressed neither he nor their daughter, "We had dinner right here. Right here in this house, Here at this very table. All of us were ill; all of us spent several days in the hospital. I almost died. You and Betty are lucky you didn't die, too. We got food poisoning, Jim, a very serious case of food poisoning. But, it wasn't murder. What makes you think it was?"

        It was one of the few times in recent years that his wife had said anything that required lucid thought and logical reasoning. Although he did not say so, Jim was impressed with his wife's comments and question. Patiently, he answered, "Because nobody else got sick from that shipment of poultry. Only us. Don't you think it odd that only we, of all the people who purchased from that shipment, should get ill, much less ill to the point of death? I think it’s very odd, and so does Lieutenant Aldridge."

        The women cringed, as both were aware of Jim's' lengthy conversation with the police inspector yesterday afternoon. Aldridge had wanted to question Mrs. Salisbury and their daughter, but Jim asked if he could speak with them first, due to his wife's poor health and Betty's emotional state. Aldridge, seeing no harm in it, agreed. Last evening, Jim briefed them on the inspector's suspicions and his wish to discuss them in more detail.

        Betty, recently divorced from an abusive spouse, spent the night with them, the first time she had done so in many years. Her father thought of that as he looked at her. All those years in a bad marriage and never once did she come home for a peaceful night's sleep. Well, I bet she didn't get one last night, either. He looked back at Jackie and saw the same fear and disorientation on his wife's face as he had seen on his daughter's. Once again, he felt the curious combination of affection and pity and, noticing that she was about through with her cigarette, wondered, as he had many times, how can a person with emphysema continue to smoke? As he pondered his wife and daughter, his face gave away nothing. He said, "You're aware of the lieutenant's concerns. Neither of you can plead ignorance of that. The question still is, how come only we experienced poisoning from the roast turkey, and why did only Mike die? It had to be murder. Under these circumstances, there is no other explanation or answer. It was one of us three, and we were the only ones to come into contact with the turkey from the time it was purchased until the time it was consumed."

        "You got it from the store, Dad. You could have added the salmonella before you got home." Betty Busby, although not particularly close to or fond of her father, felt a burning shame on her face as she uttered these words.

        "That's true," he answered, seeming to take no offense, "but it's also true that you and your mother roasted the turkey and prepared the meal, and neither Mike nor I were around in the kitchen when you did so."

        "So Betty and I killed Mike?" Jackie, beginning to feel an unfamiliar uneasiness with her husband, started to answer her own question before being racked by a violent cough.

        "Well, I didn't add the poison," Betty said, with conviction and without the nervousness that marked her previous comments.

        "I didn't, either," her mother added, weakly, still not recovered by her coughing fit.

        "It wasn't me, either," Jim added, in the matter-of-fact manner that annoyed the two women.

        "You're sure he was murdered?" Betty asked, weakly, not expecting the answer she wished.

        "As certain as we can be of anything. If you have a different theory, I'm certain the lieutenant will be interested in hearing it."

        "When does he want to talk to us?" his wife asked.

        "As soon as we're done here."

        Now looking and feeling as ill as she was, Jackie said, "So one of us is a murderer. A murderer of a close family member."

        Jim, looking across the large breakfast room table and pondering the breakfast clean up, offered, "Yes, that's correct. In fact, Lieutenant Aldridge says that murders are usually committed by close friends or family."

        "If I didn't do it, then that means one of you two did," Betty said, feeling sick to her stomach.

        Jim, pained at what his daughter was going through, agreed, "I know, I have thought the same thought about you and you mother."

        "So you both think it was me," Mrs. Salisbury said, weakly.

        Betty answered quickly, "We didn't say that. If it wasn't you, then you feel the same way about us."

        Jim was impressed. That was the most intelligent thing Betty had said to her mother in a long time.

        Both women felt faint. The strain of the conversation was becoming too much for them. As Betty excused herself to go wash her face, the doorbell rang. It was the police lieutenant.

        "Good Morning," he said to Jackie Salisbury as he entered the kitchen, Jim trailing only a step behind.

        She quickly noted that he looked like a policeman. Aldridge was tall, dark and possessed an air of serious professionalism. She said, "Morning to you." Her disdain for the police lieutenant's presence was plainly obvious.

        "Where is your daughter? I understood you to say she would be here?

        Jim quickly answered, nervousness in his voice for the first time, "She's here. She's in the bathroom. Our conversation this morning has greatly disturbed her."

        "I would imagine," the lieutenant answered, dryly, "I hope she's OK. How do you feel about this, Mrs. Salisbury?"

        "I'm no killer."

        "Perhaps not, but I'm here to find out who is." As he said this, Betty walked back towards the kitchen and heard this exchange. As she stood by the kitchen table, both she and her mother looked as if they may collapse. Jim wondered, it's incredible, but they could have done it together, but why? Mike got along well with both of them.

        "Everyone take a seat. Mrs. Salisbury, would you rather sit here or in the living room?"

        "Here is fine, thank you."

        "OK, then. Like I said, I came to find out what happened. I am here to find the killer." As he said this, Aldridge felt like a character out of a cheap detective story.

        Jackie said, "But Jim said you were going to talk to us."

        "I am. We're talking now." Those words took the wind from Betty, who was at the point of hysteria. Her mother didn't look much better. Even Jim, who felt that the lieutenant was a bit melodramatic, winced at the inspector's bluntness.

        He asked, "I take it that you know who the murderer is."

        "Not really," the tall police lieutenant answered, softly.

        "Who do you think it is," Jim said, impatiently. He hoped his nervousness didn't show.

        "In a moment. First, let me explain a few things." He paused for a moment, but, not wanting to drag this out any longer than necessary, continued as soon as the Salisbury's were seated at the kitchen table. He sat, also, to seem less intimidating. The lieutenant was aware of Jackie Salisbury's frail health and had no desire to agitate her any more than she already was. Looking around the table, he said, "Mike died, but not of food poisoning. The killer was clever to arrange for everyone to get sick and make it appear that Mike was the only one unfortunate to die from it. It was not until I asked for an autopsy that we found the real cause of death."

        "Which was?" Betty asked, meekly.

        "Potassium cyanide. It was found in the cranberry juice Mike drank."  The lieutenant added, wryly, "The murderer used poison."

        Jim felt ill. To think that Jackie or Betty killed Mike. Jim was as sad as he had ever been. To say that he wondered why would be a gross understatement.

        But, as he looked at the women he didn't always like but still loved and pondered the unthinkable, the lieutenant said, "It's curious. We found traces of potassium cyanide in Mike's apartment."

        Betty yelled out a blood-curdling shriek. "My God! I remember switching his glass of juice with Mom's. There was a smudge on hers, and, knowing Mom's affinity for cleanliness, swapped it for his. The glasses were the same and filled with the same amount. I traded them when I placed the turkey on the table, before everyone sat down."

        "Did Mike place the glasses on the dining room table?" The inspector asked.

        "Why, yes, he did. Then . . . he meant to kill Mom!" Betty sat back in her chair, glassy-eyed and dazed. Jackie didn't look much better.

        "I hoped one of you would know something," Lieutenant Aldridge answered, softly. “Something important that you didn't realize was important. I figured Mike was the poisoner, but I wasn't certain. This explains how he was the one to die."

        "He wanted to kill his own mother?" Jim could scarcely believe it.

        "He wanted to put me out of my misery," Jackie said, softly. "He wanted to do me a favor and not be blamed for it." Jackie Salisbury wheezed and spent the next several minutes combating a violent coughing fit. The lieutenant felt pity for the entire family.

        After a period of several minutes, during which an eerie silence permeated the area around the kitchen table, Jim asked, "So, now what?"

        The policeman thought for a long moment. The revelation about the glasses of juice had answered the big question in his mind. Finally, he said, "So, now, I make my report. It's pretty obvious Mike's plan of mercy killing backfired tragically for him." Lieutenant Aldridge, not able to resist a bit of theater, rolled his eyes upward, as if not wanting to think or speak of this tragedy anymore. He continued, "We've done background checks on all of you. It is obvious none of you are the murdering kind. Betty's revelation of switching the glasses makes perfect sense of the whole sad mess. I suppose I will leave you in peace and say God Bless You." The police lieutenant rose and was anxious to leave. The last few minutes had been the most bizarre of his lengthy career in law enforcement. Jim quietly escorted him to the door.

        As he returned to the breakfast table, where it seemed a lifetime had been lived in the last hour, he said, "Well, our family has had some stormy times, but at least we now know we are not killers."

        Still weak from the coughing fit, Jackie said, "I sort of wish he had succeeded. Instead, I lost a son. I guess it doesn't matter. I probably will be with him soon enough. God rest his soul."

        Betty, still in shock, managed, "Amen to that. At least, we can live with each other now with no doubts. I was horrified to think of Dad or you as a killer."

        Jackie stared at her blankly as Jim just nodded his head, smiled slightly, and poured another cup of coffee. He hoped, with his wife not expected to live much longer and his daughter rebounding from a bad marriage, that the three of them could enjoy whatever time they had together in peace.

 

 

END

 

 

 

 

In the Next Room

 

It always feels strange to tell this story. I suppose I give the impression I've told it often, but I haven't. I guess I've told it no more that half a dozen times since I've been here, and at that only to the doctors who still don't believe me.

        That's why I'm going to tell you. I don't want to go to my grave without SOMEBODY outside this hospital besides Mom knowing exactly what happened, and why I am here.  Believe or don't believe, that is up to you, but I am going to die soon so I need to tell you now.

        In the spring of 1975 I was a young man with the world in the palm of his hand, or so I thought. I was 25 years old, single, and had enough money in my pocket to pay what few bills I had and enjoy myself with the rest. Although not an athlete, I had an athlete's build and, if I may say so, was not too sorry on the eyes as far looks went. I was fortunate to have several young ladies who didn't mind my company at all, and I considered myself a bit of a lady's man.

        So, when I rented a two-bedroom apartment over on Larson St., I thought I had it made. The other bedroom was to house my bicycle, telescope, and ever-growing collection of books and magazines. I planned to look for a house to purchase and hoped to close a deal before the lease on the apartment expired.

        Life in the new apartment started innocently enough. I was pleased with the added space and looked forward to the warmer months of spring and summer. However, what happened in the other room changed my life tragically and forever.

        I think that one reason I've had all these emotional problems through the years is because I cannot accurately describe, even to myself, exactly what was in that room. I was a writer in my youth and always prided myself on being able to express myself. But this, well, this is different.

        So, anyhow, you have noticed I'm beating around the bush. Almost a quarter of a century has passed and I still get frightened thinking about it. Be that as it may, here's what happened:

        Saturday evening was date night for me back then, and early one Sunday morning, after I had lived there about a month, I returned to the apartment shortly after 2:00AM. I was in a good mood, as I had spent a pleasant evening with a very nice young woman whom I looked forward to seeing again. Entering the front door, the lighted clock on the lamp stand told me it was 2:13. I looked forward to getting out of my clothes and into bed. However, before I could act on this wish I heard a faint noise from the study, as I called it. Puzzled, I walked the few paces it took to get to the study door, which I kept closed because of its untidy condition. When I opened the door, the life I had known was over.

        In the darkened room there was something, something that I've already said that I cannot really describe. It wasn't an animal, ghost or monster, but yet it was all these things. It was big and encompassed almost the entire room. It made no noise, except for the small sound it had used to draw attention to itself. It did not move, and emitted no odor, which will disappoint the would-be horror writers out there. What it did have was a presence: a cold, harsh, evil presence, which literally almost frightened me to death. I spent the first couple of years in the hospital trying to come up with that word, until Dr. Johnson suggested it. Presence, that's a good word. I felt its presence the moment I opened the door and, it did communicate with me, for in the space of a few moments I experienced the horror and terror of a thousand years.

        It hit me all at once, as a speeding car would a pedestrian. I envisioned rotted corpses rising from muddy, crumbling coffins. I saw dead and maimed accident victims and slaughter from wars too numerous to count. I felt the terror of drowning children and burning elderly people, fear and vomit spewing from their mouths. Souls groaned in such loudness and agony that I was convinced I had stumbled into hell. Death hung in the room like stale cigar smoke. Dead animals, sea creatures, and insects; all with the defeated look of finality on their pitiful faces, lay in a giant pool of blood and human waste. Every bad and vile thing in creation wrapped around me like a foul, dirty blanket. Mercifully, before this went on too long, I passed out. Is it hard for you to understand that fear is too mild a word to describe what it was like? That compares with saying a king or president is a powerful person.      

        Spiritual persons would say that I encountered the devil; others more practical would suggest that the too long evening of rich food, wine, and early morning lovemaking with my lady of the moment caused a nightmarish hallucination. Well, all I can say is that must have been some nightmare. Nightmares go away with the comforting light of day. Mine has lasted 25 years and is the reason I'm where I am.

        Nightmare. Terror. Horror. The devil. I've used these words to make my best attempt to describe the experience in the study. Hellish is another apt description. However, bizarre as it may seem, I had an even worse experience in store for me the next morning when I awoke.

        I awoke on the floor; face down in the study doorway. I felt as I had many times before when having too much to drink, nauseated but thirsty. I got up, my nose slightly bloody from falling and still fully dressed in the previous evening's clothing, and stumbled into the bathroom only a couple of steps away. I turned on the light over the sink and intended to splash water on my face when I saw myself in the mirror. I saw the skeletal face of a man many, many years older than I. Thinning gray hair, stained teeth, pale but leathery skin, wrinkles too numerous to count and frightened, hollow eyes to go with the broken and bloody nose. For the second time in six hours, I passed out because of fright.

        It was only last year that DNA tests proved to the police that I am indeed Bradley McAdams, the same Bradley McAdams that lived in the apartment on Larson St. My mother, who is 80 this year and looks much younger than I, had a locket of baby hair that they used to match with a snip taken just a few months ago. They couldn't believe that I am not yet 50. Preliminary tests on a tissue sample taken from my thigh indicate that I should be at least 120 years old!

        For many years, they thought me mentally incompetent; that I was somehow involved with the disappearance of the young Bradley McAdams. I've never held that against them, for why shouldn't they think that? They found me, an old man, a stranger that no one in the apartment complex had ever seen before, near death in Bradley's bathroom. Bradley was never to be seen again. At least, not the young Bradley I used to be.

        So, what did I see in the study? Did I see or hear anything? Did I experience anything other than a terrible nightmare? Well, maybe not, but how many persons do you know that age almost 70 years in one night?

            Perhaps that I have lived to tell you about it is the most horrible thing of all.

        See you on the other side.

 

END

 

 

 

 

Lenora’s Dilemma

 

1.

 

Lenora Hinman was the closest she ever came to being mad, and she had good reason. For the third time in the last six weeks, she had been robbed. The thief had not taken much, mainly because she did not have much to take.

Lenora was a 96-year old widow who stood barely five feet tall and weighed only 89 pounds. About this size in her youth, she was still wiry and strong. Surprisingly, her hair was not yet gray. It was still jet black and very healthy. Her skin was not overly wrinkled and her complexion was good considering her age. Her hearing and eyesight were still good. All in all, Lenora Hinman was a woman that belied her 96 years.

She lived alone in her home on 28th street. It was a large, spacious house, purchased by herself and Bill Hinman, her deceased husband, in 1939. It had been quite lovely when it was new, but now it needed paint and remodeling. Widowed for 45 years, she had been alone almost half of her life. A crusty, but very kind woman, she still attended church every Sunday and hosted the Wednesday afternoon circle meeting in her living room. The group was not as big as in earlier days, as death had claimed most of her friends. Lenora often wondered if old age was a blessing or curse.

She was up early, as usual, this Monday morning. Still able to live alone and take care of herself, her good health and independent nature allowed her to get by very well and not be a burden to her grandson, Bill Hinman III, who was her only blood relative living here and the only one that she was close to. Bill was 47 years old, happily married with three children and very concerned about his aging grandmother.

Finishing her morning chores, she decided to call Bill. She waited until mid morning before doing so, as she hesitated to call him at work. The man worked extremely hard and she hated to bother him.

"Hello Bill," she spoke in a quiet, flat voice. Bill always had trouble hearing her over the phone.

"Well, Hi, Grandma." Bill was always delighted to hear from her, even at work. He wished that they would talk and visit more often, but she wouldn't. She knew how busy he was.

"Got something to tell you."

A little alarmed, Bill answered, "Oh?"

"Got robbed again last night. 20 bucks."

     Grandma was getting robbed on a regular basis, it seemed, and this did not please Bill. The third time lately; he knew the police could not do much. Always small amounts of cash and no violence, he suspected the same person was responsible for all of the robberies. He was not as concerned about the money as he was his grandmother, though he knew she could scarcely afford to lose 20 dollars. "You OK?" He asked.

"Oh yes, I'm fine."

"Need any money?"

"I'm fine," she repeated, and Bill knew she was not telling the truth. He marveled at how a woman her age could get by as well as she did and on as little income as she had. She certainly didn't ask for much from him or his wife, Peggy. He wished they were doing more for her, but she steadfastly refused. She always told him they were busy enough and he had to admit she was right, at least to himself. Two kids in college and another in junior high kept him busy and broke.

"Everything OK at the house?"

        “Yeah, only a twenty missing off the end table in the living room”

           "Maybe you should keep your money in your purse," he gently suggested.

           "If he has to look for it, he may get mad," she answered, patiently. He had to admit she was probably right about that. The fact was, he didn't know what to do about this and she didn't, either.

           Bill agreed that this guy (he supposed that it was a guy) was sneaking in at night. Except for Sunday school and church, Grandma was not gone much, not even to the grocery. She lived in a neighborhood that was mainly elderly persons and Charles Hadlock, the owner of the grocery, made deliveries. Peggy did her hair once a month, after church, at Grandma's. Grandma locked the house up tight when she was gone on Sunday, but, much to Bill and Peggy's distress, left the doors unlocked and the windows open (in the summer) at night.

"I'm getting very concerned about you living there alone," he said, knowing he was about to lose this argument yet again.

          "Won't live in a rest home and won't live with you. Lived here 50 years and no two-bit thief's gonna run me off," she paused to get her breath, "and we've talked about this many times, Bill Hinman, lived here since the days of Rosy and will die here. Anything else?"  

          Bill chuckled to himself. He really cared for her. What a woman! She wouldn't even let him mow her grass. "Think you've covered it all, Ma'am."

          She muffled a low laugh, "OK, then. Least you've got manners. I credit Dorothy for that." Dorothy, his mother, had died of cancer 20 years ago.

          "She was a fine woman, like you, Grandma. I'll call you tonight."

          "Bye, baby." She called him that on special occasions.

 

2.

 

Lenora dined on a can of soup and piece of bread for lunch. She missed the hearty appetite of her youth. Surprisingly, that was one of the few things of her youth that she did miss. Even without Pa, the second half of her life had been, in most ways, better than the first. But, just lately, she felt every day of her 96 years. Well, she thought, time for a little nap. This afternoon I've plans to make.

Bill didn't call that night, but Peggy did. Lenora really liked her, largely because she was a good wife to Bill and a good mother to the kids, but also because she was friendly and easy to get along with. Peggy was a petite woman, like herself, and she complemented her husband nicely. That Bill and Peg always had time for her in the middle of their too busy lives was not lost on Lenora Hinman. She had lived 96 six observant years. Not much escaped her scrutiny.

"Mind if I come to the circle meeting Wednesday?" Peg asked, a little too lightly.

        "Yeah, come on, but everything's OK. You've nothing better to do than sit with old-timers?" She knew Peggy wanted to see for herself that she and the house were normal and she was touched by Peggy and Bill's concern. Three robberies right under her nose were very frightening. In the old days, this never would have happened.

Peggy laughed. Not a muffled chuckle, but a healthy laugh. "I like your friends and you know it."

        "Yeah, I know, but don't tell me we're not a pain in the ass sometimes."

        Another laugh. "I won't, but I'll see you Wednesday."

        "Right. See you then. See that my boy gets some rest." Since Bill the second died shortly after his wife, Dorothy, years ago, Bill the third was now "her boy".

        Lenora felt a little guilty at Peggy's insistence on attending her circle meeting. She was a cashier at a bank (she couldn't remember which one, she changed jobs several times) and didn't get paid when she took the afternoon off. She was all too aware the kids could scarcely afford to lose even a little bit off of a paycheck.

        Bill the third was a wonderful man but would never set the world on fire as a service representative at the light company, a position he held for the last 13 years and one he liked and felt comfortable with. Peggy had to work to make ends meet and coming to an old lady's circle meeting in the middle of the week had to be an inconvenience. Still, it pleased her that she liked to come and was concerned about her welfare. Lenora looked forward to Wednesday afternoon.

        Lenora spent the next few days thinking about the robberies and what to do about them. She was well aware she was mighty lucky not to have been harmed or maybe even killed. She felt her nerves may be getting to her, though, as food hadn't been sitting too well on her stomach recently.

        The next three weeks passed uneventfully, until it happened again. This time, she had been alert and heard the front door softly open at exactly 2:53AM, according to the bedside clock. The intruder found thirty dollars; one twenty and a ten-dollar bill, on the living room coffee table. She heard light footsteps; no doubt the thief was looking around the remainder of the living room-dining room area for more booty. Before long, she heard the front door open and shut. Whoever came to visit had been in and out in barely five minutes time.

        This time, Lenora did not tell Bill. She decided that she would no longer bother the kids.

Two weeks later, there was another robbery, this time at 3:51AM. Again, the unwanted guest was in and out in five minutes, this time with a twenty and five dollar bill. No doubt the thief was aware of their tacit arrangement. He could have twenty to thirty easy dollars every two to three weeks in return for not harming her. He felt it a good deal for both of them.

        But Lenora knew this could not go on forever. Her stomach was really bothering her and she made a rare trip to her doctor of 35 five years, Dr. Hamilton. She traveled by cab, so as not to alarm Bill and Peg.

        Approximately 12 weeks passed since the first of the robberies that now counted five in number. Approaching birthday number 97, she wished to be around to celebrate it with the kids. She hoped the early morning robber would not mess that up, but that was up to him.

        She had been feeling a bit better lately. Keeping busy seemed to be the best medicine for her. Though her appetite was gone, she did not feel quite as queasy as before, and this pleased her very much. Feeling good helped her to stay alert.

        She knew that soon, all of this would be over.

        Six more weeks went by. Bill and Peg had about forgotten about Grandma's persistent thief. At least, they hoped that, after six weeks, he had moved on to other pastures.

        Grandma Lenora had not forgotten, but she did get to spend birthday 97 with Bill and his family. Phil, her oldest great-grandson, even managed to be home from school for her party, and this delighted her tremendously. "Happy birthday, Grandma," Phil told her, hugging her gently, "May you have many more!"

        "Hope so, sweetie, but we'll see. I'm already on borrowed time," she offered, wryly.

        Allison, a very precocious eighth grader who reminded Lenora of her self at that age, ran to Lenora and kissed her after she cut the cake. "I hope I'm as cool as you when I'm old," she told her, enthusiastically, as Peg immediately corrected her faux pas. Lenora only laughed and pinched Allison's cheek, telling her not to fret over it.

        Only Bill the fourth couldn't make it, but he called during the party and wished her a Happy Birthday over the phone. Bill and Peg gave her a very nice velvet robe and slippers to match, which further delighted her, as items such as these were the only things that really gave her pleasure anymore.

        "In three years, we'll both be 100!" Billie Halley, her best friend and senior by one year, told her, "and we'll party together."

        "You're on, old lady," Lenora shot back, as everyone laughed.

        All of her few remaining friends were there. Friends she had known and gone to church with ever since moving here from California almost two generations ago. In many ways, it was the best birthday she had ever had. She was even able to eat a little cake and drink some punch. Bill and Peg's modest home had not been this full of people in a long time.

        Later, at home in bed, she cried tears of sadness and joy before falling into the deepest sleep she enjoyed in many years. Lenora had had the time of her life. It was a very special birthday for her.

        The next morning, she noticed the 20 dollar bill was still in its place on the coffee table. For the first time in weeks, she had not been alert to listen for her intruder. She began to think the man would not be back.

        But, come back he did, several nights later. Maybe he had been smart and didn't want to go to the same well too many times in such a short span of time. At any rate, it had been almost eight weeks since his last "visit", after having robbed her five times in the previous 12 weeks preceding this. Whatever his reasons or motives were, Lenora Hinman could not care less. The important thing was that he came back one more time. As she heard him quietly enter the house at 3:03 A.M., she was both grateful and terrified.

        She had to be fast, and that was not always possible at her age, but she did not have much time. This guy would be gone in just a few minutes. As she recalled what she would do and why, she summoned up reserves of mental and physical strength. Slipping quickly and quietly out of bed, she took her pistol from the nightstand and the vanilla scented candle she used as a night light from the chest of drawers and, wearing her new red velvet robe, stepped the short distance from her bedroom to the living room to greet her "guest."

        She was in the middle of the living room with her gun pointed at him before he realized she was there. When he saw her, he lunged at her.

        He was lightning fast, but was also a little too far from Lenora to get to her before she shot him between the eyes, killing him instantly. The sound of the gun rang in her ears, and she staggered backwards. She thought it was almost not necessary to stage what she would do next. It had almost happened anyway. If that fool and been half a foot closer . . .

         But there was no time to stand around and dawdle. In this neighborhood, sometimes a gunshot brought the police, but often it did not. At three in the morning, most folks around here would mind their own business, lest the next gunshot be leveled towards a nosy neighbor.

        But, she couldn't chance interference. Neighbors here may well investigate if it is realized a gunshot came from Lenora Hinman's home. She knew that she had to act NOW.

        Quickly saying a silent prayer, she dropped the candle to the floor, immediately igniting the old, dry carpet. As it rapidly flamed into a spreading fire, engulfing the equally old and dry curtains and furniture, Lenora let herself fall on the square shaped table her TV set was on, deliberately gashing her head against the sharp corner of the table.

        The self-imposed head injury did not knock her out, but it knocked her woozy and she could not have escaped even if she wanted to. Her last conscious thought was spent congratulating herself on her aim. It was of tremendous importance to her the cause of her death be so obvious as to not require an autopsy. Good old Doc Hamilton had not documented her stomach cancer.

        She managed to land right on her left temple and was bleeding profusely when she lost consciousness from shock and smoke inhalation.

 

3.

 

        "It was a nice funeral," Peggy told him. What else do you say about the funeral of a loved one? she thought, feeling somewhat foolish.

        "Well, I thought so, Bill replied, as he continued to search through mountains of old boxes and paper sacks in the basement of his grandmother's home, which, save for some minor smoke damage, was spared when the fire gutted the inside of the old brick home. Although Lenora had been gone several weeks, cleaning up brought back memories of that fateful night.

He and Peg hoped to do the basement in one day, but they quickly saw it would be a two, possibly three, day job and maybe more.  There were 50 years of Grandma's life documented here, and they had to discipline themselves to keep working on the frequent occasions an intriguing memento was found.

        The will had been read just two days ago, which was the reason for the delay in cleaning out what remained of the house.

        The fire gutted the inside of the house proper: everything in the home, including the inside structure, was old and bone dry, and ignited and burned quickly as kindling wood in a fireplace.  The house was destroyed and Grandma was gone long before help arrived. The charred bodies of the robber and Grandma were found with the pistol still in her blackened hand and the bullet inside the thief's skull. The indention in her skull was noted and the authorities assumed she had either been struck by the intruder or had fallen. No further examination of her body was made. Trauma and smoke inhalation had undoubtedly been the cause of death.

        The Hinman's were now unexpectedly a well to do couple. Being Lenora Hinman's sole heirs, Grandma left them almost half a million dollars in cash and various oil company stocks, plus they stood to collect on the house's fire insurance policy and Lenora's life insurance, which, oddly enough, had an accidental death rider attached to it only weeks before. In all, Bill and Peggy were now, thanks to the deceased Lenora, worth about a million dollars.

        More than enough to pay off their two mortgages and provide college educations for each child, plus insure a comfortable retirement in the not too distant future.

        Towards the end of the day, Peg found an old steamer trunk in a dark corner of the storage area underneath the stairs. It was full of old newspapers and letters from many years ago, before Grandma and Grandpa (funny, I never knew him, thought Bill) moved to Oklahoma City, Bill the III’s lifelong home.

"I'm hot, tired, and hungry, and it's after four. Let's take this home and go through it there," Bill said in his don't argue with me voice.

        Hauling it up the stairs proved to be a difficult task. The trunk was very heavy and bulky, and neither Bill nor Peg was particularly big or strong. After much effort, however, they made it to the top of the basement stairs.

        They began going through its contents later that evening after cleaning up and eating a good meal out.

        Several nights later Peggy read the following article from a yellowed newspaper from the steamer trunk to her astonished husband.

 

 

        From the Modesto (California) Bee, March 21, 1939 -- "White Paroled After Twelve Years." -- Convicted bank robber and murderer Lenore White was paroled from the Colorado State Prison near Boulder, Colorado, yesterday, after serving nearly 12 years of a life sentence. Convicted in 1926 of shooting a teller between the eyes and killing him while robbing the First National Bank of Colorado with her partner, convicted thief and murderer Jimmy Sanders, on August 2, 1924, Miss White was paroled on condition she leave the state and never return.

        Miss White, from here, stunned the parole board by informing them she is married and has a teenage son. She was granted parole not only because of her exemplary behavior while incarcerated but also in recognition of her role in assisting the authorities in recovering the almost one million dollars in stolen money she and Sanders took from various banks and businesses in the State of Colorado over a period of almost five years, from November 1919 until October, 1924. Over $600,000 has been recovered. It is assumed Sanders, who died of a heart attack while on death row in 1932 and who was the more vicious of the two, squandered the rest.

        Colorado authorities will not comment on Miss White's whereabouts. They will say only that she is relocated "a long way from here," and that "she is starting a new life."

 

 

END

 

 

 

 

The Man Who Fell Apart

 

1.

 

Howell was puzzled. He was in shock and suffering the grief that most people would when losing a brother, but still puzzled. Joe Carruthers, his good friend, called him in London with the news, explaining that his parents were in "deep mourning" and "unable to talk about it." Howell thought this odd and a bit disturbing, as his folks were very down to earth, no nonsense people of hardy Scotch-Irish stock. So, it was with a sense of vague foreboding that he stepped into the terminal at Kennedy Airport and awaited his flight to Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City.

        Howell Beaumont, Jr. was born and raised in Butler, a small town seventy miles or so from Oklahoma City. A very small town in the heart of the Bible belt, Howell left home immediately after graduation from high school to make his way in the larger world. Howell and Mabel Beaumont were hurt and confused by their eldest son's desire to leave home so quickly, but accepted it as best they could. As the years passed, their anger at Howell eased, in large measure because Hadley, Howell's brother and junior by 12 years, was a model son who moved back to Butler after finishing junior college in Lawton.

        Howell felt somewhat guilty about returning home under these circumstances. He had been back only three times, for short visits, in 28 years. Time had mellowed him, but he had been overseas for 16 years and it felt strange to be standing on American soil. A top-notch free-lance geologist, he was much in demand with all the major energy corporations and was well off financially, if not exactly wealthy.

        Saddened and worried, he was anxious to talk to Joe, who was to pick him up in Oklahoma City and drive him to Butler.

        "How was your trip?" Joe asked perfunctorily, as he pumped his old pal's hand. He and Howell were best friends when growing up and were still close, corresponding three to four times a year. Joe and his family met Howell in Denmark 12 years ago, enjoying several days of holiday together. They had not seen each other since.

        "OK. Hey, you're getting old." Howell replied.

        "But not bald," Joe shot back, pointing to his friend's thinning hairline, which was thick and long the last time he had seen him.

        This good-natured repartee lasted until Howell and his bags were loaded into Joe's car. The old friends allowed themselves these few minutes of lighthearted comradeship before the serious discussion began on the drive to Butler.

       

Pulling out of the airport parking lot, Howell asked simply, "What's going on?"

        Joe now began to act nervous. "We're going to stop and talk. You hungry?"

        "Ate on the plane."

        "We'll stop anyway. Don't want to drive and go over this."

        Howell was certain that something was wrong. Joe was not the kind to rattle easily, but he was extremely agitated now.

        Over coffee at a not-too crowded McDonald's on the way out of OKC, Joe slowly began to speak. His hands fidgeted and he was very pale. Howell wondered what in the hell could have his normally steel nerved friend so upset. He was about to find out.

        "The funeral was yesterday," Joe offered.

        "I know," Howell wryly replied, "kind of annoys me off that they couldn't wait," referring to his parents.

        "They did you a favor."

        "How so?"

        "The funeral was closed casket."

        "Get to the point," Howell snapped. Immediately, he apologized. "Sorry Joe."

        "Don't worry about it." He looked at his friend for a moment, saw he had delayed too long, and began to speak. Slowly and quietly, he began, "Your brother didn't die of cancer. He died of an unknown ailment." He was a little too deliberate with that statement.

        "What the hell does that mean, Joe?" "For gosh sakes man, spit it out." Howell was tired, confused, and certain something was hidden from him. He was out of patience.

        "It means Hadley died a horrible death. He literally fell apart." Joe's hands were now trembling terribly and his face was ashen. Howell was bewildered to the point of disorientation.

        "It started about five weeks ago. One day, Hadley noticed his right index finger was numb and it had an odd inner itch, the kind you can't scratch to get rid of. It was numb and cold, he told Doc Roberts later, with this itch he couldn't scratch. This bothered him for a couple of days." Taking a deep breath, Joe continued, "It was on the third day, in the morning when he got up. He started to rub the sleep out of his eyes and saw his finger was missing. It had fallen off in his sleep." With this statement, Joe thought he was going to throw up. And he had barely started with his story.

        This had not sunk in on Howell as yet. "His finger just fell off?" "Why?"

        "No one knows." Joe had to steel himself to continue. "When he discovered this, he freaked out. Ran out of the house screaming. When Jan caught up with him outside and saw what happened, she fainted. Ed Beers next door called 911 and the paramedics came. They found Howell's finger underneath his pillow."

        "This killed him?" Howell weakly asked.

        "No. What killed him was this kept happening. Doc Roberts didn't believe his finger just fell off. He figured he had an accident of some kind and just didn't want to say so. Jan tried to tell him there was no blood on the sheets or pillow case, just a small portion of the scab that had formed under the skin line, but he refused to listen."

        "It happened again?" Howell asked shakily. He too was feeling weak and nauseated.

        "Yeah, it happened again," Joe replied ironically, "couple of days later, Hadley felt this same numbness and deep itching in his right wrist. He panicked." Shaking his head, Joe added, "Well, guess I would too if I was scared to death my hand was getting ready to fall off.

        "Did it?" Howell could scarcely utter the words.

        "Uh huh." Joe's reply was barely audible.

        The men sat in silence for several minutes; Joe overcome by emotion and Howell in near shock. Neither man had taken more than a couple of sips of his coffee.

        "Want me to go on?"

        "Yeah, if you can."

        "Well, it was the same deal. Only this time Hadley tried to steel himself for the possibility. He kept it wrapped. And he went to Doc Robbers. Made a believer of old Doc, too. Fell off, or rather, came off, when he unwrapped it. Luckily, Hadley was in the best place he could be. Freaked out again, but Ann (Doc's nurse) put him out with a shot." Joe felt hot nausea in his throat and he had to stop for a moment. "Shit. Think I'm going to be sick."

        While Joe was in the restroom, Howell had his first moment alone since hearing this bizarre story. He hoped he would wake up soon from this nightmare, only he was wide-awake and alert. He was numb and felt sick himself, but the full horror of it all would not come until later.

        Joe returned looking pale but a little better. "Sure you want to keep on?"

        "Yeah. I'll be OK now. I think." This nightmare would not go away for him, either. No horror in this life ever bothered him, or ever would bother him, as this one did, and he was a man who had seen plenty in Korea. He took a sip of his now tepid coffee and started again.

        "After what happened in Doc's office, Hadley never recovered mentally. Oh, there was very little blood when his hand went. Again, it scabbed over underneath before detaching. No pain, just numbness and itching. But his mind couldn't handle what was happening. He was being brave as possible, but in the next two weeks he lost the middle toe on his right foot, his left foot, and his left leg just below the knee. Doc and Ann tried to keep him sedated, but still he spent all of his time screaming or crying." Joe's voice cracked and he began to weep quietly, "It was terrible, Howell. God, I'm sorry."

        Howell was trying valiantly to keep his composure. He had to keep hold of himself. There was much he did not know. In a thick, almost slurring voice, he asked his friend again if he could continue.

        "Have to, Howell. I want to get this done. But, let’s go outside." Joe gave him no time to answer, as he was anxious to feel the cold February air. He was out of his seat and out the door before Howell was hardly on his feet. He dreaded the next few minutes more than he did dying himself. Hell, he thought, dying now would be a relief. Joe knew he would never again have a peaceful night's sleep.

        Shuffling his feet and taking a deep sigh, Joe looked at Howell and said, "In the following two weeks, before he died, he lost his left arm just above the elbow, his right ear, a couple of teeth, his left eye, and started spitting up blood. Part of what he spit up was parts of his stomach and esophagus. Listen to me, Howell; I'm only going to say this once." Joe was like a man who was exhausted after a long marathon, but saw the end in sight. "None of this killed him, though I'm certain all of it was a strain to his system and that it certainly would have." Joe was now wild eyed and animated, but Howell neither noticed nor cared. "The day before he died, he felt numbness in his neck."

        The men stood in silence in the dark cold for a long time. Howell asked, in a whispered voice, "Was he conscious when he died?"

        "No. The doctors from Atlanta had him heavily sedated. The blood and oxygen to his head were cut off by the scab underneath the skin line, and he never knew. Thank God."

         Right now, Howell wasn't interested in hearing the details of his brother's death. He had nightmarish visions of his head falling off and rolling down the hospital corridor. Later he would learn Hadley's head was tightly wrapped and kept in place with a neck brace, in the vain hope something could be done to save him. Only after his death was the head lifted off of his neck, exposing the heavy scab, and taken to Atlanta to be studied in total secrecy.

        Howell was close to hyperventilating, but he forced himself to think clearly. That bad accident in the North Sea a few years ago, the explosion where 22 men were killed and dismembered hadn't shaken him as much as this, and he had seen that first hand. This was ghoulish and monstrous and it had happened to his brother. After swallowing down the contents of his stomach, he asked Joe, "Atlanta?"

        "Yeah. Doc Roberts wasted no more time after his first screw-up in notifying the Center for Disease Control. The Federal guys didn't believe Doc right away, either, as he himself doubted Hadley, but his reputation is good enough to where they sent a doctor from the City to check it out. After seeing Hadley and his cleanly severed hand with the odd scab on it  . . . , well, a team showed up in town the next day. They've been working on this ever since."

        "So what caused it?" Howell was scared, confused, and starting to get disoriented. It was almost an out-of-body experience. Time slowed down for him and it seemed it was himself he saw from afar; not Joe in front of him.

        "They don't know yet."

        "I guess everyone's shocked by this," Howell thought aloud. No doubt small town Butler, Oklahoma, was abuzz with it.

        "That's something else, Howell," Joe replied, slightly condescendingly, "No one knows. Everyone but Ann and Doc, your folks, and us, know the truth. The Atlanta people put Joe in an isolated ward at Mercy Hospital in the City after they examined him in Robert's clinic. Everyone believes it was fast acting cancer. The funeral was closed casket."

        "No kidding. You told me that already."

        Joe gently replied, "You know why now."

        Howell began to twitch, and it was not because of the cold night air. His hands shook badly, and Joe was afraid he pushed it too far. "Come on, Howell, I got whiskey in the car. You better have some."

        Howell regained his composure, somewhat, after a couple of stiff swigs of Joe's Jack Daniels. Lying down in the back seat with his knees up helped also. He was to spend the night with Joe and Peggy and would see his parents tomorrow, as he had been through too much today. Joe told him, "They're coping," but offered no other words of assurance concerning them. Joe added that Jan was "holding up". Well, OK, he would see them tomorrow. He needed time to adjust to this horror before an emotional reunion with his family.

 

2.

 

        Neither man slept well that night. It would be more accurate to say that neither man slept at all. As always when emotionally upset, Howell suffered from acute diarrhea and cramping. Joe suffered through nightmares and listening to his friend's bathroom noises. Both were grateful when morning came. Morning always offered fresh hope from the blackness of night.

        Peggy Carruthers served Howell hot tea for breakfast, hoping to quiet his grumbling insides. He sipped it slowly, beginning to feel a little bit better. Joe had a light breakfast of toast and coffee. "Have a little toast, Howell. You'll feel better." Howell knew he was right, but he wasn't quite up to solid food yet.

        When Peggy returned to the kitchen, Howell, in a low voice, asked, "Does she know everything?"

        "Yeah."

        "Suzanne?" Suzanne Carruthers was Joe and Peggy's 18-year old daughter and a senior at Butler High School.

        "No. No one else. Not even the Beers."

        Peggy returned with more coffee and sat down. "Feeling human yet?"

        "Almost," Howell replied, smiling at her. Peggy Carruthers was still a handsome woman. "I haven't had a chance to visit with you much. You getting along OK?"

        "I'm fine. Sorry about your brother, Howell," she offered, quietly.

        "Thanks. I get the feeling that there's more bad news," he replied, gently.

        "There is." Joe had dreaded this moment all night long. Time to get this over with. "Your parents aren't doing too well, Howell. Your father had a nervous breakdown. He's in the City at Mercy. The Atlanta guys are watching him. Don't know what he may say."

        Howell felt like a sixteen-pound bowling ball had just sucker punched him in the gut. "He's that bad off?" he asked, weakly.

        "Yes," Peggy answered, to Joe's relief, "This has driven him over the edge, at least temporarily. Dr. Benson from Atlanta thinks he's just had too much stress. "

        Howell felt panic and disorientation returning. "How is Mom?" "What about Jan?" Howell's voice had risen slightly.

        Joe was quite concerned, especially since he had one more thing to add to his already considerable burden. As he did last evening in the McDonald's parking lot, Joe looked his old pal in the eye and told him, "Your mother is not doing too well, either. She's also at Mercy. She left yesterday morning before I picked you up. Howell, night before last, she developed an odd numbness in her right thumb." Before Howell could reply, he added, "Jan is with them in Oklahoma City. They don't want to risk problems with her."

 

3.

 

        Howell Beaumont, at that moment, was as close to losing his sanity as a person could possibly be and still be functional. The news of the last twelve hours caused him to change from a well-adjusted, strong, middle-age professional man to one who was now crying, almost whimpering. Joe and Peggy were both embarrassed and deeply saddened. "Wish Dr. Roberts were here," Peggy thought aloud.

        "Yeah, we need to call him." Joe saw that Howell's eyes were glazed over and his fists were clenched so tight that his prominent knuckles were bleached white. Pushed him too far, Joe thought, unhappily.

        A few minutes later Doc Roberts showed up with Linda Howerton, a medical technician from Atlanta who was visiting with him when the phone rang. They arrived none too soon, as Howell had quieted down but was into a quiet shock.

        "Shock," Doc Roberts said, in straightforward, matter-of-fact fashion. Roberts reminded Joe of the doctor Milburn Stone used to play on Gunsmoke. A very crusty, but kind-hearted small town doctor. He was immensely popular with the local people, as he should be. He had been in practice here for 32 years. This business with Hadley Beaumont had shaken him severely, though he tried not to show it. Next was Mabel, he thought, and now Howell, Jr., buckling under the stress. Behind his poker face Dr. Roberts was, too, a very scared and confused man. What in the hell, he wondered bitterly, is happening here?

        "Yeah," Joe answered, about the only thing he was capable of saying right now. He, Peggy and Doc had born the brunt of the horror and pressure of the last few weeks, and it was starting to show.

        Linda Howerton, working with the Atlanta crisis team, had authority over Dr. Roberts as far as where to treat him. She was under standing orders from Dr. Benson to get anyone else affected with the "strange problem" to the isolation ward at Mercy. She told the rest of them, "While he may not have the illness, he may start babbling." Doc Roberts nodded his head. He knew to risk letting this secret out was to risk national panic. He also knew Joe and Peggy were near the breaking point, also. He promised Ms. Howerton he would watch them closely while she tended to Howell.

        An hour later Howell was on his way to Oklahoma City in a medical helicopter. Linda Howerton was with him.

        Doc Roberts stayed with Joe and Peggy, having a light lunch of soup and crackers. The good Doctor Richard Roberts a well regarded man in his profession. He was able to calm Joe down by spending the remainder of the morning with him and just visiting and shooting the breeze. Peggy, too, seemed comforted by his presence.

        Doc listened. "Doc, have you ever been terrified? I mean, really terrified?" Joe was not a man who expressed himself well, so he thought for a moment before adding, "It affects you physically. Real terror doesn't go away soon."

        "I know, Joe. True horror stays with you awhile. It certainly isn't like going to a horror picture show and leaving the theatre, forgetting about it within an hour." Gently, he added, "I have an idea of what you're going through."

        "A man literally falling apart inside and out. Who would ever think that something like that would happen outside of a gruesome horror novel?" Joe was calming and becoming more rational, one of the few bright spots in Doc Roberts day so far.

        Looking at Peggy now, while the three relaxed in the living room of the Carruthers modest home after lunch, Doc replied, "It is a true to life nightmare. The worst nightmare that can be imagined has come to pass in Butler, Oklahoma." He didn't need to add that Hadley and Mabel were possibly not going to be the only victims. He hoped against hope the Disease Center could come up with an answer and soon. He wasn't sure human beings could take this particular kind of stress indefinitely. Watching your friends fall to pieces and fearing that you may be next was unknown in the human experience.

        As if reading his mind, Peggy asked, "Has Dr. Benson, or anyone else, learned anything yet?"

        "You know as much as I know," Doc said, flatly.

        "How are you doing?" Peggy asked him.

        Doc appreciated her feminine concern. "I'm tired and stressed out, but I'm OK." He grinned at her, "Thanks for asking."

        "What do you think this might be?" She was determined to get Dr. Roberts to talk a little bit.

        To her surprise he did open up a little bit. "My idea is that it's a virus of some kind, possibly a hereditary disease. This kind of thing has no precedence anywhere, but I'll bet it's a disease of some order." He paused and looked right at Joe and Peggy, "You know it's odd that this happened to Mabel and Hadley at the same time."

        "Yeah. We know," Joe said, gloomily. "If it's catching, then we're next."

        The three sat in silence for a long time.

 

4.

 

        Mercifully, Mabel Beaumont died the next day. Doc Roberts took the call in his office, learning the particulars from Dr. Benson. "She died early this morning, Doctor. She began vomiting late last evening and didn't stop." A slight pause, "She choked to death, Doctor. She spit up a portion of her stomach and the remainder of it was stuck in her esophagus." Dr. Benson made a valiant attempt to be as clinical and unemotional as possible, but still, Doc Roberts detected his voice cracking just a little bit. He felt sick himself.

        "She didn't suffer long?"

        "No. Not long at all, and there had been no further, ah, separations."

        No further separations. A polite way of saying that nothing else fell off before losing her stomach. Doc was tired, angry, sick, and worried. What in the hell is going to happen next, he thought? Well, he sighed, guess we'll know soon enough. "Thanks for the call, Doctor. I'll be with the Carruthers. How is Howell?"

        "No change. We don't think that there is any permanent emotional damage. Just too much to deal with."

        "Don't I know it? Any word from Atlanta?"

        "None."

        Doc knew that the conversation was over. "Thanks again, Doctor. Keep us posted."

        "You know we will. I'll call you tonight."

        "I may be at the Carruthers. Talk to you then."

 

5.

 

        Six weeks went by. Early spring in Oklahoma can be warm and windy or cold and windy. This late March day was the latter. The Disease Center could find nothing concerning the cause of this terrible illness, but, thank goodness, no more people had fallen apart. The bad news was that Joe and Peggy, Doc Roberts and Ann were wearing down under the strain. It was a terrible secret and heavy lie to live with, but they knew it was for the best. No reason to panic the country if Atlanta could find answers.

        But Atlanta found no answers. Doc felt it was only a matter of time before this time bomb exploded. Ann accidentally bruised her elbow hitting it against the lab room door, and it was numb for a couple of days. She was sick with worry and almost hysterical until feeling returned to her arm, and Ann was an experienced nurse of fifteen years.

        The break, if you could call it that, came several weeks later, during Memorial Day weekend. Dr. Benson called from Atlanta. He and Doc Roberts knew each other well now, and were much less formal with each other.

        "Hey Doc, we have something to talk about." Dr. Benson admired the scrappy rural doctor very much.

        "Good. The Beaumont’s are doing better?"

        "A little bit. Yes, I think so," Benson replied. "Howell Sr. has come around a little bit. Having his son here has actually helped him. Howell Jr. seems to be benefiting from the time spent with his parents. Jan seems to draw strength by watching over them. Yes. I think that, under the circumstances, they all are coping satisfactorily."

        Any good news was welcome. There was so little of it lately. "Glad to hear it, Doctor. Anything on our study?" The doctors were careful about what they said over the telephone.

        "Yes, there is. By the way, how is your nurse?"

        "Ann is feeling better." That there had been no "separations" in several weeks now had restored her nerves somewhat, but Doc was acutely aware of what possibly lie ahead.

        "Excellent. We think we have found our virus. Not a virus, exactly, more like an abnormality in the blood makeups of Mabel and Hadley. We have tested thousands of blood samples and have not seen it anywhere else. I'm coming to see you tomorrow."

        "Are the Beaumonts going to be able to return home?"

        "We'll discuss that tomorrow." After chatting for a few more minutes, the doctors said their goodbyes until next time, and Doc anxiously awaited the arrival of Dr. Benson. He knew it had to be important to get the man to fly here over the holiday weekend.

        The two doctors met in Doc Roberts clinic late the next afternoon, a warm and rainy Saturday. Dr. Benson looked tired and drawn. This hasn't been easy on him, either, Doc thought. The men drank coffee and ate cookies before getting down to business. Ann was present.

        "Hope you've got something to tell us, Doctor. Ann and I have about had it." Ann nodded her head in agreement and refilled the coffee cups.

        "I do. It appears that it was a virus of some sort. That doesn't explain why no one else has caught it." That statement brought a shudder from Ann. "White cell count was up in both patients; many antibodies in both blood systems, but the fact that only they have been stricken suggests that may not be the whole story."

        "What are you saying, Doctor?" Doc was not wanting to play cat and mouse. He was too tired for that.

        "I'm saying we don't really know. Maybe this will strike again, maybe it will not. Maybe it's a virus, but possibly it's something else. The fact they were stricken in the same time period suggests that it was not hereditary or some other organic disease. But we don't really know. We have had only two patients to study." Ann began to feel faint and turn pale, another reminder at how this would affect the populace were this to be made public.

        "What about the Beaumonts?" Doc had not seen or talked to any of them since the weekend Howell Jr. came home to his nightmare.

        Gently, Dr. Benson replied, "They will stay with us indefinitely. You understand."

        Doc and Ann understood. They could not be allowed to talk. The people in Butler believed Howell Sr. was in a coma in Oklahoma City and Howell Jr. back in Europe. Mabel had a closed casket funeral in Butler a few days after her son was buried. Heart attack. Too much stress, and that no good oldest boy left for Europe before her death and no one had seen him since.

        "We understand," a shaken Doc Roberts answered. He and Ann were close to physical and mental exhaustion. As Joe had mentioned weeks ago, constant terror can be physically as well as emotionally devastating.

        Doctor Benson understood his friend's plight, but what could he do? The welfare of the nation and world depended on these few people to keep the secret. "Doctor; Ann," he looked at each in turn. "We are depending on you to carry on. The people here need you. I need you to keep yourselves together. We need normalcy here, which means you have to continue on and do your duties as doctor and nurse. We have to keep the lid on this, and too many people are involved already." He didn't have to tell them there was more room at the Inn in Atlanta, should problems arise.

        Doc looked at Ann. "Normalcy." Looking down at the floor, he addressed Doctor Benson, a man he had come to admire. "We know the score. You can depend on us."

        Benson was relieved and grateful to hear those words as Ann nodded her head in agreement. "Thanks Doctor." Putting his hand on Ann's shoulder as arose to leave, he thanked her also.

        "You're welcome, Doctor. You will keep working on this?"

        "Count on it," he answered, and, with that, he stepped outside the back door of the small clinic and got in the back seat of the waiting car. As his driver steered the big auto out of the parking lot, he realized those were the only words that Doc's nurse ever spoke to him.

        It was the last time Doc or Ann would see him.

 

6.

 

        In the months and years that followed, Doc and Ann never saw the Beaumonts again, either. Doc knew it would be useless to find out about them. Probably they were being kept in a nice place somewhere, isolated from the outside world. No doubt they were under constant medical care and surveillance. They were prisoners with VIP treatment and status, but still prisoners. He hoped they were well enough to understand why they were subject to this treatment.

        Doc and Ann carried on many more years after this experience. At one time, shortly before the Beaumonts became ill, she planned to quit and move to the City. This shared nightmare drew the Doc and Ann close together, and they eventually married. Not surprisingly, both knew there would be no comfort in living with anyone else. Their horrible shared secret bonded them together as few couples have been.

        The first couple of years after Dr. Benson's last visit; they lived in constant fear of the mystery ailment striking again. It never did, but that did not ease the fear. Over time, they learned to live with it, but certainly never got used to it. Patients complaining of numbness always brought high levels of panic and anxiety. Doc and Ann had a relationship and marriage based on a living, ongoing nightmare.

        How would you like to live in constant fear of your neck going numb and losing your head in a couple days, but not being able to share your fears with your friends and neighbors, who someday may need to know?

        Doc also bore the burden of keeping his eye on Joe and Peggy. He didn't want them to wind up as Dr. Bensons "guests" in Atlanta. Fortunately, they adjusted very well and were never a problem (meaning that they kept their mouths shut).

        Most of us will never know what it is like to watch a living man disintegrate into pieces. If you are a Christian, then you probably believe you will never be called on to bear more than you are able. Though only a lukewarm believer at best, Doc found himself praying much more after Hadley's death than he ever had before.

        It is said that one has to "walk in the other man's shoes" to fully understand him. One supposes that there are not too many people around who will ever understand the silent terror lived by Dr. and Ms. Richard Roberts, of Butler, Oklahoma.

 

END

 

 

 

 

Middle Age Mistakes

 

1.

 

Duane listened as she backed out of the driveway. He did not rise from the table to wave good-bye from the front window, as he would have done years ago. Instead, the sound of the Honda fading in the distance told him she was on her way.

He would be home alone this week, a fact he had mixed emotions about. He still loved his wife, but knew she no longer loved him. As he finished his coffee and cigarette, he remembered that two years ago, she threatened to kill him.

            It was his fault, he knew, as he cleaned the kitchen table and loaded the dishwasher. A meaningless fling with Sherry Hoke ruined his marriage. He laughed a silent, bitter laugh to himself that a couple of evenings in a motel room with a young girl who wasn't even good company cost him so much. Well, at least Deborah Ann was better company and better between the sheets.

Duane Adams liked Deborah Ann Gardner very much. 20 years younger than he and modestly attractive, they met a year ago when she came to work for Brook's Automotive, where Duane was service manager. They hit it off right away and the affair blossomed when each learned of the other's unhappiness at home.

        Duane was a man's man. Standing six-feet, six inches and weighing 230 pounds, he was well tanned and heavily muscled. His sandy blonde hair complemented a ruddy complexion very nicely. Duane was rugged, and healthy, and wore his 44 years well. He was a handsome man who attracted women easily.

        The big difference in Duane and Deborah Ann was that, while Duane still loved Barbara and wanted to repair his marriage, Deborah didn't care about her husband in the slightest. Duane wondered why, if she didn't care about her marriage anymore, she didn’t divorce William. At the same time, Deborah wondered why, if Duane still loved his wife, did he share a cheap motel bed with her? The answer, of course, was that they filled an emotional need for each other, so neither asked questions.

        As Duane finished cleaning up before leaving for work, he thought that it would be easier than usual to see Deborah a time or two this week. At least, easier for him, he thought. Deborah had to be careful of William, who had beaten her in the past. Duane was not proud of himself for getting involved in a situation like this. If only Barbara would forgive him.

        Duane had hurt her terribly. He felt guilty over it and was brooding this morning, knowing that Barbara would be out of town all week. She probably wouldn't miss him. Indeed, he was certain she wouldn't. Thinking about this upset him very much, and he almost ran the red light at the intersection one block before the entrance to Brook's. Good thing he caught himself in time, as a cop was staked out behind the side of the service station at the intersection. Well, at least I'm starting off the week with a little bit of good luck, he thought quietly as he finished the drive into Brook's and another hectic Monday. He was anxious to see Deborah.

"Morning, Big Guy," she called to him. Big Guy was her nickname for Duane. She liked the way that all of the mechanics snickered when she called him that. Duane, not without a sense of humor, accepted all of this good-naturedly.

            "Morning to you. How was the weekend?"  Not just a civil question on his part. They never saw each other on weekends and sometimes William drank too much and got nasty.

        "Fine. Yours?"

        "Fine." Duane guessed that she told the truth. She looked good this morning. Well rested with no bruises. "Barbara's off to Dallas until Friday night."

        She looked at him and smiled thinly. In a low voice she asked, "Going to see me sometime?"

        Duane didn't return the smile but hurriedly replied, "Sure. You'll have to let me know when.

        "Call you tonight. Going to be home?"

        Duane thought that question came out a little too lightly. "Sure. Going to do some housework."

        "Talk to you later then."

     The rest of the day passed uneventfully, with Deborah making good on her promise to call that evening, catching Duane in the middle of folding laundry. They made a date for Wednesday night. Duane figured on Wednesday, because that was William's bowling night, the one night of the week that he was certain to be away from home until after 11:00.

 

2.

 

        Tuesday was a normal day. Duane liked his job and enjoyed the sexual relationship with Deborah, but he didn't like having the two together. So far, nobody at work knew that they were intimate or took their flirtations with each other seriously, but that couldn't last forever. He still hoped for an emotional reconciliation with Barbara and hoped that it would come soon, before breaking with Deborah would become too messy.

        He was smoking and drinking a cool diet cola in the break room this afternoon, thinking about Deborah ("Deb", he liked to call her)) and the pleasures she always provided in the cheap motels. Usually, he took his break with one of the mechanics, but today timed it to where he would be alone to think for a few minutes. He couldn't give Deborah up. Not yet. But Barbara had threatened to kill him over Sherry. Well, he sighed, wonder what her reaction to Deb would be, if she cared anymore?

        He realized he was weary with it, and weary of it. He wanted things to be normal between him and Barbara again, but sadly realized this was unlikely. He hurt his wife deeply, and she was not a forgiving woman, particularly when the offense was something this major.

 

3.

 

        "Glad you could make it," she said, simply, as Duane entered the darkened room.

        "Wouldn't miss it," he replied, tenderly, and kissed her.

        She eagerly returned his kiss. She had to admit that the man was a good lover.

        "William bowling?"

        "Uh huh."

        "I brought a little something." Duane had a brown bag tucked under his right arm, containing a bottle of Russian Vodka. He preferred bourbon, but vodka did not linger on the breath, and Deb certainly did not wish to beaten by her husband later.

        He poured each of them a drink into separate plastic cups. Motel cups. What a way to treat a lady, he thought. They both drank the vodka straight. Got them high quicker and made the sex better.

        "Well, here's to us," and held his drink to hers. They both downed their drinks and he poured another round.

        They never talked much during these trysts. More talking went on between them at work. Deb liked it this way, as she could talk his ear off at work, if she so desired. Motels are for other purposes.

        Still, there had been enough pillow talk during the last year for her to know the score with Duane. He still loved Barbara, or so he said. He also said he would like to reconcile with her, not just share a house and an empty existence. Well, Deb thought, guess I don't understand men. William says he loves me, too. She sighed to herself while Duane dozed; these guys have mighty odd ways of showing love for their wives.

 

4.

 

        "Have we got time for another night before Barbara gets home?" she asked him the next morning.

        Duane lifted an eyebrow. "Don't know. You tell me. What about William?"

        "William is working late tomorrow. Paid overtime." William was a carpenter by trade, and his employer had a big remodel going for a law firm, a place with a lot of fancy woodwork.

        "Tomorrow's fine." He had already told her Barbara would not be returning until Saturday morning, around noon.

        She smiled, "Tomorrow night, then. Bring whiskey this time."

 

5.

    

        Duane mopped the last of the wax onto the kitchen floor. He was sweaty and tired, but decided to call Barbara before getting into the shower. A little after eight, she should be in her room now.

        She answered on the first ring. "Hello."

        "Barbara? Duane.

        "How's it going, getting the floor done?" She knew he was going to do it. He said he so when they talked a couple of days ago, and she doubted he did it last night, as that was his bowling night.

        He was pleased that she seemed to be in a good mood. "Yeah, the floor is done. Finished it just now. I'm beat."

        "Bet you are. That's work. I figured that's what you were doing."

        "You having a good week?' He knew better than to ask if she missed him.

        "Uh huh. Be glad when this is over. I don't like covering other manager's stores. Particularly out of town stores."

        Barbara was a store manager for Green's, the big drug and retail chain, and she was a very good one. Revenues had gone up in every store she had been assigned to, a fact not lost on the Green's hierarchy. She started with them fifteen years ago, re-entering the work force at age 30 with no experience or job skills, and worked her way up the hard way. Persistence and courage now had her on the short promotion list for district manager. She and Duane knew how Green's reviewed people. If she did well on a difficult out of town fill-in, she stood an excellent chance of receiving that promotion. Duane was very proud of her, but she now only rarely accepted affection from him.

        "Sure you can't make it home before Saturday morning?"

        "I'm sure," she answered, flatly.

        They chatted for a few minutes, but didn't really have much to say to each other. Barbara would warm to him slightly, but only slightly. She was civil to him and even friendly sometimes, but would allow no intimacy. Duane learned long ago not to force idle conversation on her. "Well, I guess I'll see you day after tomorrow."

        "I guess you will."

        "See you then. Bye now."

        "Bye." He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but thought better of it. Hopefully, in time  . . .

        Around 4:00PM on Friday afternoons, Duane began to count down the clock until quitting time, which, for him, depended upon the volume of business Brook's happened to be doing. Usually, he made it out between six and six-thirty. He didn't expect tonight to be any different.

        On this Friday afternoon, he had a rare Friday night "date" with Deb to look forward to. He chuckled to himself that he felt like a high school boy waiting for sixth hour to end and the weekend to begin. Deb had been exceptionally aroused night before last, and he hoped she would still be in the same high spirits tonight. She should be, he reasoned. Tonight was her idea.

        He also reasoned that having an affair with someone like Deborah was better than nothing, which was close to what he had at home. He would have to be careful not to talk about Barbara so much. It was the only thing that seemed to annoy Deb. Guess that's understandable, he decided. He wasn't interested in listening about Sweet William.

        Quitting time came and Duane walked out the door, heading straight to the liquor store for a bottle of whiskey. He and Deb would party a little harder and a little longer this evening, what with William working most of the night. William would be no factor at all tonight; on the off chance that he finished early, he would head to the nearest bar or 7-11 for a six-pack or quart. Deb would more than likely not see or talk to him until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.

        Duane even got to the motel first, for a change. Tonight, they got a suite at a nicer place and planned to stay until the wee hours. Duane decided they would drink mixed drinks out of glasses tonight, not cheap plastic cups. He was feeling slightly

light-headed, like a high school boy who knew that he was about to have his first sexual experience.

        The door knocked. This time, it was Duane who let her in. "Hello, gorgeous," he smiled.

        "Hello Big Guy," she replied, huskily, and had their customary first kiss.

        "You look great." They both were dressed a little nicer.

        "So do you." He mixed bourbon and Sprite, not too strong, and they took their time with them. Duane was feeling good.

        They didn't get in bed for a while. Each was savoring a night that, for some reason, seemed special to both of them. When they did make it to bed, they made passionate love several times. To Duane's delight, she was every bit as enthusiastic as two nights ago.

        But nightmares come at unexpected times, and just as he was dozing off for a nap after their third session, he was aware of the front door opening and footsteps approaching. Before he could collect his three-bourbon and Sprite thoughts, he saw a man in the doorway.

        The last things he saw or were aware of were two bright flashes, maybe six feet in front of him. He didn't have time to wonder why his head jerked back twice.

 

6.

 

        "Hello Deborah?"

        "Hey, Hi. How you doing?"

        "Getting by," she said, in a low voice. You?"

        "Same. Heard about your promotion. Congratulations."

        "Thanks. That's old hat to me now. Maybe you'll come back to work for me one of these days."

        "I'd like to."

        "Think about it. A better job would help with William's legal bills."

        "You got that right." In a hesitant, voice, she asked, "How're you adapting to widowhood?"

        "About the same as you're adapting to having your old man in prison."

        Deb chuckled, "Right again."

        "Call me soon."

        "You got it."

 

END

        

 

 

 

Mr. Smith

 

1.

 

The doorbell rang and Danny cursed silently to himself. He hated to be disturbed during Monday Night Football, but this was not the first time. Reluctantly, he rose from his favorite chair and headed towards the front door. No mean effort for the portly Danny Mann.

        Opening the door, Danny saw a distinguished, well-dressed man standing on the other side of the bullet proof storm door. Not the kind of character that usually shows up here unannounced, he thought.

        "Mr. Mann?" The man spoke before Danny could address him first.

        "Yes."

         "My name is Tom Smith. I have something to tell you that you will be most interested in. May I enter?" Mr. Smith was exceedingly polite.

        As an investigative reporter with over 40 years of experience, Danny Mann could size up people quickly and accurately. Something about Mr. Smith rang an alarm bell in his head, his demeanor not withstanding. Still, his instincts seldom lied and this time they told him to let Mr. Smith in. After only a moment's hesitation, Danny offered, "Please come in."

        "Thank you," Mr. Smith replied, "I know you hate to be bothered during evening football telecasts, particularly when your beloved Chiefs are playing. Were they playing tonight, I would have come some other time."

        Danny didn't know what to think of this man. Tom Smith was tall and slender, sporting a deep suntan and expensive clothes. He looked to be around 60 years of age, but gave the appearance of youth and vigor. His brown hair was well manicured and highlighted a slight graying around the temples. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache, which complemented blue eyes and bushy eyebrows. Whatever else this guy turns out to be, Danny concluded, he certainly is a cut above most people I meet in this business. But, how does he know so much about me? Though a famous man, Danny always kept his private life to himself.

         Danny was in a state of mild bewilderment as he escorted his guest into the study. Rubbing his hand through thinning hair, he led the way through the short, dark hallway. Danny Mann was a lifelong bachelor and lived in a modest, but well kept, condo. The study was the biggest and best room in his home. It was where he spent most of his time. Though well kept, one noticed immediately upon entering the faint smell of whiskey and cheap cigars. Danny's housekeeper fought the valiant battle.

        "Please sit, Mr. Smith," Danny said as he motioned to the large leather chair on the other side of his desk. Danny was very proud of the twin leather chairs in his office. Persons that visited appreciated sitting in as nice a chair as his. It made them feel good and, when they felt good, they talked. It occurred to Danny that he had not yet uttered half a dozen sentences to his new acquaintance, but felt he knew him well.

        "Thank you," the visitor replied as he took his seat. "I know that you, as I, do not appreciate small talk, so I will get to the point. My name is not really Tom Smith and I am not from here."

     Danny nodded. He didn't think "Tom Smith" fit a man such as this, nor was he surprised that he was not from Kansas City. Many people in this world are not from Kansas City, he thought wryly. Politely, he answered, "So?"

        "Mr. Mann, I have visited you because you are well known to your people and have a generally positive influence upon them. When I say I am not from here, I mean that I am what you would call an alien." "Tom Smith" spoke without emotion.

        "Where are you from?" He asked, in his raspy voice. Danny guessed Europe: Spain, maybe.

        "I am not an alien from another country. I am from another time and space."

        Danny dealt with many head cases through the years. He had tossed guys out on their ears for less than this, but, again, his instincts told him to keep listening.

        As if reading his host's mind, the man said, "You are wise not to dismiss these seemingly absurd remarks out of hand. I will show you proof of everything I say."

        "Continue," Danny replied, patiently.

        "When I told you I am from another time and space, that is only half true. My civilization occupies the same space as yours, but on a different... channel, or frequency." The man seemed to search for words. "Think of the football game on the television that you are missing because of me. It is broadcast on one. Think of another program being broadcast on another network. This is the best correlation that I can offer."

        "You mentioned space and time." Danny was riding with this, for now.

        "Imagine the second program being run 600,000 years in the future. Same medium. Different avenues at far different times."

        "Are you saying that you are from a time 600,000 years ahead of us?"

        "We are 596,348 years and 21 days behind you. Our civilization took far less time to advance than yours," Tom answered, dryly.

        Danny had no idea where this conversation was going. He needed to keep Mr. Smith talking. "This is very interesting, but you're right. All of this does sound absurd, and why do you need to speak with an influential citizen?

        "Our culture wishes to introduce itself to yours. You are probably not aware that yours and mine are the only two civilizations in existence."

        Danny now decided, instincts or no instincts, to rid himself of the polite Mr. Smith as quickly as possible. However, the man did mention that he could prove himself. He would ask for proof, and then toss him out. "You said that you could prove yourself. I think now is a good time for you to do so."

        Tom Smith grinned. "Can you hear me now?" He asked, only he didn't move his lips.

        "Yes, but a good ventriloquist can do that," Danny answered.

        "Can a good ventriloquist do this?" As he spoke, he disappeared from sight. "I am now invisible to you. People of my entity can travel across great distances in time and physical measure effortlessly. This, plus our ability to assume any shape and mass we find convenient, is the chief difference between we and you." Tom Smith became visible again. Still sitting in the big leather chair, he said, "Touch my arm. Do you feel it?"

        Danny, a man used to having curves thrown to him by unusual people, still suspected an illusion of some kind. Tom Smith may be a pro. Maybe he was sent here to discredit me. More than one person walking around today would love to do that, he well knew. Cautiously, he touched Tom's elbow. "Yes, I feel your arm."

        "Very well. Remove it and when you do, I will be standing by the window."

        Danny looked right into his guests eyes as he removed his hand. Tom's eyes disappeared. As Danny blinked, Tom was already standing by the window. Tom said, "Now, I do not want to scare you. I would like to hold your hand with mine and, as I do, cause my hand to disappear. We will speak to one another and look at each other and you will be holding air where you were grasping my hand. Can you do this?"

     Danny was frightened, and somewhat bewildered, but he was a salty old veteran who didn't rattle easily. He rose from his chair and met Tom at the window. Hell, he reasoned, if Nixon couldn't get the best of me, Tom Smith certainly will not. Looking Tom in the eye, he answered, "Okay, let's do it."

        Tom smiled. "Very good, Danny, and I agree with you about Nixon. If you held your own with him, you have nothing to fear from me.

        "I didn't think that out loud!" Danny almost shouted.

        "No, you didn't. You thought it. I can cause you to hear my thoughts and I can hear yours. Tom's lips did not move as he "said" this.

        Ever the pro, a very rattled Danny said, "Well, let's shake hands."

        Tom used a very soothing voice and told him, "Okay. Just remember that you will be holding air where you were holding my hand."

        The men took each other's hand. Danny, a man's man who had shaken many a hand, considered Tom Smith's handshake a good one. Firm, but not too firm, and friendly. Tom smiled at Danny and gripped his hand tightly before it disappeared altogether. Danny looked down and Tom's right hand was missing. This time, Danny had a difficult time keeping his nerve. Having a man in his home whom could read thoughts, cause all or part of himself to disappear, and who claimed to be from 596,348 years and 21 days in the past on another TV station bothered him a great deal.

        "One more thing, Danny. I'm going to put my right arm in front of you. Please touch my wrist." Danny did. There was no hand there, just a stub at the end of his wrist. "Thank you. Keep looking and don't blink. My hand will reappear--now!" As he said this, his hand reappeared and he gave Danny an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

    Danny Mann had not, in his 64 years of existence, 44 of those going head to head with vicious criminals, psychopaths, crooked politicians and unusual, unpredictable people of all kinds (great newsmakers all), been unnerved as he now was. It had taken Tom Smith less than a half hour to do this to him. He had one thing on his mind now.

        "Your thought concerning the bottle of bourbon is a good one," Tom Smith said, using spoken words so as not to agitate his host further. "May I join you?"

 

2.

 

         Danny was feeling better after two stiff bourbon and sevens. The color returned to his cheeks and he was thinking clearly once again.

        "May I call you Tom?

        "I wish you would. I'm sorry that I had to do what I did, but you have to understand that I am who I say I am."

        "So I'm in the presence of an alien who can cross time and space in ease. Now what?"

         The men had retired to the living room. Though slightly smaller than the study, the decor was done in lighter colors and the ceiling was higher, giving it an airiness and brightness that the dark paneled study lacked. Danny was much in need of airiness and brightness right now.

        "As I said earlier, we wish to introduce ourselves to your people."

        "You think I can help with this? How? Wouldn't it be better to contact government officials?"

        Tom laughed. "Take me to your leader! You must be an old film aficionado."

        Danny laughed also. That remark was a bit ridiculous. He, more than anyone else, should understand the futility of dealing with the government. The laugh eased his mood but he knew he shouldn't let his guard down too much. He allowed himself a generous portion of bourbon only because he could handle it well. "Yeah, I guess that's not a good idea, but what's the purpose of wanting to meet us? You are far advanced. We are not. What do you want? You seem to know all about us anyway." It took no small amount of courage to ask that question.

        "We don't want to overtake you, so you can rest easy about that." Danny didn't know why, but he believed him. "We want to study the human race. You have something in your character that we lack."

        "What?"

        "Unpredictability."

        "Unpredictability!" Danny was dumbfounded. In the movies, Man's evil nature was usually the culprit. "What do you want to know about unpredictability?"

        "Please remember I come from a species that can move about freely through both time and distance. We have no need for food, shelter, or creature comforts. Our existence is far different from yours. In my world, there are no questions about anything because we literally know all of the answers. By being able to go anywhere and do anything, there are no mysteries in our experience. The confusion and chaos of your world fascinates us. It is true we know a great deal about you; indeed, in most respects, we know you better than you know yourselves. Still, we would like to intermingle with you, not only observe you from afar. We feel we will never understand your irrational behavior until we do so."

        If nothing else, Mr. Tom Smith was one hell of a talker. Danny was beginning to feel disoriented again and wondered aloud if Tom Smith could be trusted.

        "Again, if we wanted to destroy you, we would have done so long ago. Given the fact that you do not possess the powers our people do, your caution is wise and justified. Understand also that we can be of great assistance to mankind. For example, we can easily correct the myriad of inconsistencies in your recorded history."

        Tom Smith's soothing demeanor again calmed his host and this last statement interested Danny Mann, ever the accurate newsman, greatly. "How can you do that? Can you teach us to time travel?"

        "No. It is not possible for your species to ever do that. But, your researchers should, by all means, keep working on it. They will learn many useful things by accident while doing so."

        "So how can you assist us?"

        The television was still on in the living room with the sound turned down. Tom asked, "May I borrow your television for a moment?"

        "Of course," a perplexed Danny replied.

        Out of consideration for Danny's frayed nerves, Tom walked normally to the TV set. "I believe you have a blank tape in your video recorder, placed there by you the day before yesterday. May I use it?"

        Danny didn't bother to wonder how he knew this. He simply nodded his head.

        "Thank you." Danny continued to be impressed by Tom Smith's comfortable formality.

        "I'm going to record something that you will be most interested in." As he said this, Tom took the VCR antenna lead in his right hand, the one that he had caused to disappear and reappear at will, and turned on the VCR to RECORD. What Danny saw appear on his TV screen was the most amazing thing yet in a night of amazing experiences.

        Tom Smith knew Danny was a student of the American civil war, fought some 130 years ago, and was considered an expert on the subject. (He had written professionally about it). What he was recording for his host was General Lee's surrender to General Grant. It was just as if a reporter with a mini cam was standing in the Appomattox Court House on April 9, 1865. Tom knew that Danny, though impressed, was still skeptical.

        Tom finished the taping. Danny viewed the whole thing without looking up once. "I'm going to show you something else, Danny. After this, we will continue tomorrow. I think you have enough to go to bed with tonight. Do you remember your ninth birthday party?"

        Did he ever. He remembered it because it was the last birthday of his that his mother, Virginia Mann, was there for. In fact, it was just about the last occasion of any kind that Virginia Mann was able to enjoy. Three days after her son's birthday, she lay dead of a massive stroke. What Danny now saw on his TV screen was almost too much for him to bear. He saw himself as a pudgy nine year old standing over the big chocolate birthday cake his mother had baked for him, preparing to blow out the candles after his friends got through singing Happy Birthday. No pictures remained of that long ago day, celebrated over 55 years ago, certainly no videotape of the occasion. The sights and sounds coming from the screen overtook him. He began to weep, something Danny Mann rarely did.

        Tom quietly quit recording and turned off the VCR and TV set. Gently, he said, "Until now, there was doubt in your mind. You are now convinced that I am legitimate." This was a statement, not a question. "Danny, I will leave now and see you when I am sure you are ready to visit some more. Will you be OK?" Tom knew he would be, but wanted to show his concern.

        "Yes," Danny replied, somewhat shakily.

        Tom smiled, "See you later, then."

        "Yeah, later." With that, Tom Smith walked to the front door and exited, the normal, human way by opening the door and walking through it.

 

3.

 

        Danny woke the next morning rested and refreshed. He was pleasantly surprised he was able to sleep as soundly as he did. Perhaps killing the bottle of bourbon after his strange guest left had something to do with that. After his usual breakfast of toast and coffee, followed by his morning shower and shave, he was ready to consider the bizarre events of last night.

     Danny Mann was at the exalted stage of his profession that earned him the right to set his own hours and work at home when he wished. His radio network provided him an office here in Kansas City, but he did much of his work at home when not on the road. Danny was a very well known public personality, having made a name for him self in radio, television, and print journalism. Tom Smith was right. Danny Mann was a much respected and trusted old-time newsman with a loyal following.

        So after showering and dressing, Danny stepped into his comfortable study and considered himself "at work." This morning's business was all-important. What to do about Tom Smith?

        It was still hard for him to believe that last night was not just a dream. Maybe he was getting too old to drink a near-full bottle of Jack without suffering for it, but he knew last night was no bad dream. Tom Smith left the videotape in the VCR. Danny decided to watch it again.

        Walking into the living room and turning on the television with some apprehension, Danny rewound the tape and pressed the PLAY button. Generals Grant and Lee were seated across from each other. Both men certainly looked like they had been through a long war, (Danny noted the mud on General Grant's uniform). He wished Tom had allowed a look at Traveler, General Lee's horse. He could tell that this was no TV or feature film, nor was it a documentary. It was just too...authentic. Hell, he thought, if it's real then it certainly is authentic. What else would it be? He was amused at his own thought.

        When the surrender footage finished, which was extraordinary because Tom taped the whole ceremony, from the time the generals entered the Courthouse until the time they left, Danny braced himself to watch his birthday party. Both eagerly anticipating and dreading viewing it again, soon he was absorbed in it totally, his emotions taking him back through the years. Tom included a generous amount of footage of his mother. Danny couldn't help weeping. He loved his mother so and she was taken from him not a week after this party ended. Tom Smith, the thoughtful man from who-knows-where, had taped his mother at different intervals during the party. From cutting the cake to standing by herself in the corner, watching her son enjoy the nine-year old limelight. Finally, the taped party ended and there was only blue on the TV screen. Danny didn't remember Tom taping the surrender at Appomattox and his birthday party in their entireties, but last night did seem a bit of a blur to him now.

        This taping of his party, more than anything else Tom said or did, convinced him of his legitimacy, for Danny remembered this party well and there had been no one there filming. Filming a child's birthday party in the 1930's was a rare thing, something only the very wealthy did. Danny's mother was hardly that, he thought bitterly. Spending the rest his childhood in a Methodist orphanage after a parent's death was not something a rich boy would have done.

        So Danny was convinced that Tom Smith was an "alien." Funny, he didn't really equate that term with Tom. Alien, to his way of thinking, meant different and menacing. Tom was certainly different but not menacing. Lighting a cigar, he realized Tom went to great pains to prove who he was without scaring him to death.

        It occurred to Danny that Tom and his fellow "citizens" could easily take over this world whenever they wished, as Tom stated last night. Why bother courting me if your goal is forceful domination, he wondered? Not a trusting person by nature, Danny kept looking for reasons to doubt Tom Smith. He could find none.

        Tom Smith stated he would return when he was certain I could handle it, Danny remembered. After sleeping on it and weighing all of the pros and cons until lunchtime, Danny, over a simple lunch of chicken noodle soup and crackers, decided to trust Tom Smith, or whatever his real name is. When he saw Tom again, he would volunteer his assistance in introducing him to humankind. He would also try to talk him out of it.

 

4.

 

        Friday morning arrived and Tom Smith had not reappeared, which surprised Danny somewhat. He expected him back by now. But he hadn't returned and Danny once again wondered if wasn't getting a little too old to be drinking so much.

        He worked at home all week. More and more he preferred to do his office work in the comfort of his own home. Also, this week he was hoping for Tom Smith to come see him again. He got his wish in the middle of the afternoon.

        Danny was at his desk drinking a coke and reading the morning newspaper around 2:00PM when the doorbell rang. He knew who it was before he heard Tom's "voice" from outside.

        "Hello Danny," he heard Tom say at the same instant the bell rang. He realized that he had not heard anything. It was Tom's telepathy. Never in the twenty plus years he lived here had he ever been able to hear anyone speak from the front porch with the door closed.

        "Tom?" Danny wondered aloud.

        "Yes, may I enter?"

        "Sure. Don't suppose I could stop you," Danny replied, matter-of-factly.

        "I wouldn't want to intrude if not wanted," Tom said, seriously, as he appeared in front of him, sitting in the big leather visitor's chair.

        "Of course you're welcome. If you can read minds then you know that already." Tom smiled a friendly smile as Danny said this.

        "Of course, you are right. You have decided to assist us." It was Tom's turn to be nonchalant.

        "Yes, I have, but I don't know exactly how to go about it.

        "I realize that, but I believe that a person such as you can figure out a way. If helping us is still the goal."

        Danny hesitated before answering. "Have you read my thoughts this week?"

        "No. I wanted to respect your privacy, plus I found out something that disturbs me a great deal. I find that associating with human beings subjects me to human temptations."

        "Associating with me does this?" Danny asked, concern showing in his voice.

"No, not you, really. I have been mixing with humans all week, incognito, of course. I find myself developing the same fears and weaknesses as you. Dancing too close to the flame, as you would put it."

        Danny hesitated again. "Tom, I believe what you have shown and told me. I want to help you. I will find a way to introduce you to my people if you wish, but you must know by now, if you didn't before, that it will frighten most of them greatly. I don't think you'll receive a warm welcome."

        Tom thought a moment before replying. "I think you are right. Observing you for thousands of years from afar did not teach me what being here one week as a secret visitor did."

        "I'm glad you didn't read my mind and try to influence my thoughts. Only the last couple of days have I been able to think this through."

        "I know."

        "Still want a public introduction?"

        "No. Your people aren't ready. Don't be offended but I have learned that humans do not recognize the truth about things well and cannot think things through properly."

        Danny Mann, the veteran reporter, chuckled. "You're familiar with the Christian religion?"

        "Yes. A sad and excellent example." Tom Smith had not realized until now how introspective his new friend was. He realized also that his civilization harbored many misconceptions about these people. Misconceptions that could prove to be dangerous should the two societies begin to interrelate. Perhaps our cultures are not so much different after all, he thought to himself, and perhaps we do not know everything. Tom smiled at Danny and reached across the desk to take hold of his hand, "I think that it would be wise to leave things as they are. You won't see me again. I believe I should go. Good-bye, Danny."

        Danny felt a warm squeeze before feeling nothing. Tom was gone.

 

5.

 

        Danny spent all of the next week at the office downtown. He was in no mood to be alone just now. In his time he sat on many a story for one reason or another, but never one like this and none of them permanently.

        Only after he was gone sometime did Danny realize the only tangible evidence he had of Tom Smith's existence was the tape, and he realized no one but he would ever recognize it for what it was. To anyone else it would be just another videotape. Only in retrospect did he realize just what an act of friendship the tape represented.

         Tom Smith knew well what the two tapings would mean to Danny. Danny would not view the tape very often as it was always an emotional experience for him to do so, for more reasons than one. The original tape he kept in a safe deposit box. He kept a duplicate in his study for viewing. He was tempted from time to time to record his experiences with Tom Smith and place them in the safe deposit box with the tape, but he never did so. He did not want to break the trust with Tom.

        It would be easy for him to think this was all a dream. It certainly seemed like one, particularly as the weeks and months passed by. Tom said good-bye as quickly and unexpectedly as he had said hello. Normally not a sentimental man, Danny wished their last conversation could have lasted longer. He knew, though, that drawn out good-byes were neither his style nor Tom's. Still, he had spent so little time with the remarkable Tom Smith over the course of two short visits.

        But how extraordinary those visits were.

 

 

END

 

 

 

 

Rude Awakenings

 

1.

 

Allie Hayes didn't notice anything out of the ordinary when she first woke up, except for an uncharacteristic slight grogginess. Then, the dull ache in her head disguised, for a short time, the sharper pain in her right foot. Allie lay on her back, attempting to will away the dry mouth and sour nausea of her stomach. Flu, she thought, unhappily, as she turned to swing her shapely 20-year old legs out of bed. Pain and shock exploded within her temples when she attempted to stand.

        Only after falling backward, back onto the mattress she had slept on since a small child, did she notice her feet. One of them was missing.

        Ed Hayes heard his daughter moaning. Fortunately, he was home that morning. A morning he would never forget. Nor would he forget the sight of his oldest daughter staring dully at the neatly bandaged ankle, which contrasted sharply with the shapely, smoothly contoured foot, which remained on her opposite leg.

        "What happened," he asked, stupidly, to no one in particular.

        "Don't know," Allie answered, dully. Both father and daughter stared in shocked silence at the ankle that, only a few hours before, supported a perfectly healthy foot.

        After a long silence, Ed asked, "You don't know?"

        "No." Allie felt as if she would be sick to her stomach, but realized that she would be unable to run to the bathroom. The thought of that served as a cruel reinforcement of the horrible reality. Panicked, she burst into tears. "Daddy, what happened?"

        Ed stood by bedroom window, bathed in bright morning sunlight. Later he would ponder the contrast to the horrific events of that unforgettable morning. For now, all he could do was hold his oldest daughter in his arms and comfort her as best he could. Weakly, he replied, "I don't know."

        Within the hour, an emergency medical team was in the house examining Allie's ankle, and the police were standing by, watching intently. Audrey Hayes was in the den with her husband, having returned from her job at the bank a few minutes earlier. She, as her unfortunate daughter, was in a state of shock. Ed, a former U.S. Army Ranger, had kept himself together for the sake of his loved ones, but an extreme sadness was setting in on top of the morning's bizarre event. He was grateful their other daughter, 16-year old Toni, was safely at school. Ed had made certain of that just after dialing 911.

        Officer Clyde Beauchamp was anxious to question Ed, but had graciously given him and his wife time to compose.  As if reading the officer's mind, Ed finally said, "Guess you have some questions."

        "Yes, I do," answered Beauchamp, softly. "Can you tell me what happened?

        "Wish to God I could. I heard moaning and went to her room to see what the matter was. I found her . . . like she is now. Says she doesn't know what happened. I believe her, but can't see how that can be." Beauchamp noticed sadness and anger clouded the poor man's eyes.

         Beauchamp, a large, ruddy man who looked like the veteran cop of 28 years that he was, drew his long legs up from the low standing easy chair and stood. "Let me check on the medics."

        They had just finished examining Allie and had given her a powerful sedative. "It'll be awhile before you can talk to her. She's been through enough for today," Beauchamp was told. The medic continued, "It looks like a professionally done amputation. Clean all the way. Clean removal, no tear marks in the bone or flesh. There was a fresh, sterile bandage and very little blood, just a speck on the bottom. No blood on the sheet or anywhere in the bedroom. This was evidently done somewhere else."

        Beauchamp began to feel a little faint, and he was a man who had seen much in his time. From what Ed Hayes had told him, Allie was shocked into incoherence when she discovered her foot missing. He had heard her come in last night about midnight and bound up the stairs like she always did, her feet a little heavier on the steps than her mother's or sister's. Ed had been trained to notice these things when an army ranger. "The thought of an intruder doing such a thing as quietly and skillfully as this puzzles and horrifies me, although I was sleeping heavier than normal last night," Ed had said, and Ed Hayes was neither a man who would have missed unknown or unwanted sounds in his home nor one who spooked easily. Officer Beauchamp was as disturbed by this aspect of the early morning events in the Hayes household as he was the crime itself

        The family would not have to wait long before the mysterious assailant would strike again and, this time, would strike right under the noses of a family very much on its guard.

 

2.

       

Allie had lost her foot in January, just before she was to return for spring classes at Glenn Junior College, where she was to get her associate's degree at the end of term. "I'm going to get that degree, therapy or no therapy," she told her parents soon after experiencing the event that would change her life forever. Very much her father's daughter, Ed and Audrey were very proud of her, and of younger daughter Toni, also, who had experienced the fear and horror with remarkable poise.

        By the time Spring break came around, the Hayes family was just beginning to come to terms with what happened. That they could cope at all was a miracle in itself, as the bizarre plight of Allison (Allie) Hayes had become national news overnight. In early 1999, The Hayes mystery had become America's no.1 entertainment tragedy.

        Glenn is a quiet town of 100,000 people out in west Texas. Detective Sgt. Clyde Beauchamp had lived in Glenn all of his life and had absolutely no desire to live anywhere else, even after the long awaited retirement which crept closer with each passing year. A tough, no-nonsense Texas lawman to his very core, Beauchamp felt great sympathy and admiration for the Hayes family. He respected Ed's Vietnam service record, but admired the Hayes women even more. "Before I retire," he would tell his wife repeatedly, "I want to find who maimed the Hayes girl." That Allison was bright and beautiful and reminded him of his niece, Pam, only added to his resolve.

        "So, how's it going?" his boss asked one morning in mid March. Jim Miller and Clyde could have been twins. The similarities in temperament and demeanor were striking.

        "Not so good. It's not helping that all those reporters keep bothering the Hayes family. Wish there was something we could do about them." Beauchamp made no effort to hide his disdain.

        "There isn't," Lieutenant Miller said, bluntly. "Do you have anything, anything at all? It's as if a ghost cut Allison Hayes’s foot off."

        "No fingerprints. No blood. No footprints. No DNA. No hair. No noise. No knife. No nothing," was his equally blunt reply. "We've come up with absolutely nothing. Sometimes I think it WAS a ghost."  Miller nodded. He knew his old friend was right. Family members, neighbors, business associates, church friends, sales clerks in the neighborhood shops where the Hayes family lived; in short, anyone vaguely connected in any way to Allie Hayes and her family had been or were in the process of being researched thoroughly. The Glenn Police Dept., now in the national spotlight, had done an enormous amount of good, quality work in the two months since the crime was committed, and had zero leads or suspects to show for it.

        As the original crime was bizarre enough, the second one was even more so, because Glenn, TX, and the Hayes family was one of the most observed in the country. Still, happen again it did, this time to Ed Hayes’s beloved wife of 22 years, Audrey.

        In late March, Audrey became the second Hayes woman to be maimed at the hands of an unknown madman.

 

3.

       

On that cloudy morning, Ed thought he was in the middle of a terrible nightmare. One of those nightmares that frighten you to the very core of your being, but that, at some level of consciousness, whispers to you that it is only a dream. As Ed woke from a deep sleep, he saw what appeared to be a glove on his wife's hand. It was a white glove with a patch of red that didn't look quite like a glove should. Shaking grogginess from his eyes, he quickly realized it wasn't a glove at all. It was a bandage. A bandage wrapped neatly over what appeared to be Audrey's wrist. And it was certainly no dream.

        Surrealistic was what Ed later described to Clyde Beauchamp, who again found himself in the Hayes home less than an hour after the call came, this time directly to the police station.

        "That was a pretty good job you did with Mrs. Hayes," Beauchamp said, after Ed explained what happened after he awoke.

        "Well, it kept her from going into total shock," Ed shrugged. "I hoped I never would have to use military training again after I got out, especially not in a situation like this." Ed's voice cracked, and Beauchamp quietly nodded. Holding her close and explaining softly what had happened had been a masterstroke, but was similar to what Ed had done many times with young GI's who had stepped on mines during the Asian war. Ed felt as if war of another sort had come to the Hayes home, and indeed one had. It seemed an undeclared war on his family with maiming, not death, as the goal of the perpetrator.

        "Same as before," Ed told Beauchamp, "but this time I am absolutely certain of one thing: Audrey was in bed asleep when I came to bed, and her hands were folded across her chest."

        Beauchamp, who had called for additional police to help with the quickly growing news media outside, noticed that Ed's voiced cracked slightly with that last statement, but ignored it. The scene in the house was eerily similar to what it had been only weeks before. It was the same medical team and police officers and the same family members in the house. This time, Allie was doing her best to console her mother, but fear and terror gripped both women.

        "Sodium pentathlon again," the head medic declared. Ralph Starrett was a registered nurse of over 20 years and Beauchamp knew him well. If he said it was pentathlon, then pentathlon it was. It was what was used to drug both women, and Ed. Ed's excellent night's sleep was because of a mild dose of it. You could smell it on the sweat of his forehead and explained the slight nausea and grogginess that he couldn't shake off.

        "I'd like to know how that character got upstairs to drug me before I heard him."

        "I'd like to know that myself," Beauchamp replied.

        Ed detected a tone in the officer's voice that he did not like. "What did you mean by that?" he asked, not too kindly.

        "Just that," Beauchamp replied, evenly. "Take it easy, Mr. Hayes, I'm just thinking out loud."

        "And I'm not certain I like what you're thinking."

        At that moment, Ed realized that being a suspect in these terrible crimes would be added to his already heavy and heartbreaking burdens.

 

4.

       

"Think he's involved, Clyde?"

        "Don't know. I don't really think so, but what else explains it?"

        Jim Miller trusted his old friend's instincts better than Beauchamp himself did, but both men realized that, with this second maiming coming right on the heels of the first one, the case would now become political. No one wanted the Glenn police department to suffer what that police department in Colorado did a few years when that little girl was found murdered the day after Christmas, but everyone from the mayor on down in Glenn knew what was coming, what with media from as far away as Israel already arriving.

        "It would help if we had something, anything to go on."

        "No kidding," was Beauchamp's reply.

        Miller would have taken that as sarcastic disrespect in anyone else. Instead, he asked, half pleadingly, "Nothing at all?"

        "Nothing. The only noticeable difference in this second attack is the bandage on Mrs. Hayes’s wrist. It was much bloodier than the bandage on Allison's ankle. Whoever this is, is playing it mighty close to the vest. The Hayes know of no one who would wish them this kind of harm, and there has been no contact, no message, from whoever's doing this."

        "How did he get by our patrol cars?" Miller wanted to know. The Hayes neighborhood had been heavily patrolled with both marked and unmarked cars since the first incident.

 

5.

       

The Allison Hayes case had been investigated as thoroughly as such a case could be in only two months time. The drainpipes had been removed and inspected for hair, blood, and bone. Carpet and wall samples were taken from Allie's room and sent to the FBI lab in Washington, as were the mattress and sheet of her bed. So far, nothing had been found and Beauchamp was not confident there would be.

        Outside the house, the yard was inspected for loose sod and the garden and shrub areas dug up and replaced. "It was," Beauchamp commented, "as if Miss Hayes was maimed somewhere else. But, as she pointed out, she came home and went to bed. Nothing out of the ordinary."

        So now, with a second maiming to investigate, Beauchamp considered that possibly these crimes were committed outside the home. That the family, particularly the light sleeping Ed, had been drugged was now an established fact. The question was, HOW had they been drugged and WHEN? The sadist must have been aware that everyone in the house was out cold, else he never would have been able to enter the home and remove Allie and then, two months later, her mother Audrey, returning them after his sickening work was complete.

        Even though Ed Hayes was still officially under suspicion, Beauchamp and Miller agreed that, bizarre and unlikely as it seemed, an intruder drugging the family, then kidnapping and returning the victims in the early morning hours was the most logical explanation. "But," Miller asked, one morning over coffee, less than a week after the second crime against the Hayes family, "If it happened this way, then there are new questions to answer. If it wasn't Ed, who does the Hayes know that would be capable of such professional and sadistic acts? How did this person escape police and media scrutiny when committing the second crime? How did he get the better of the still formidable ex-army ranger Ed a second time?

        These were questions Clyde Beauchamp had asked himself over and over, but he did not say this to his boss. Instead, he said, "No one knows. Two major crimes committed against the same family and we still know nothing." Frustration was beginning to crack the veteran detective's tough veneer.

        The men finished their coffee in silence. The break in the case would not come until Ed Hayes himself was attacked less than a week later.

        The identity of the guilty person and the reason for the ghastly crimes would stun a morbidly interested public.

 

 

6.

       

Beauchamp admired the courage and spunk of the Hayes women. They lived in constant terror and fear of a third visit from their tormentor, but they were holding up as well as could be expected. It helped that chief of police John Hammer had placed a 24- hour guard around all members of the Hayes family.

        Indeed, Hammer had bluntly ordered "no further harm come to any member of the Hayes family until the case is solved." Because of this, it was all the more shocking that a third attack was made on Ed Hayes himself in the early morning hours of April 1, April Fools Day. However, Ed was ready. Ready with a heavy heart, because earlier in the evening he had noticed the attacker slipping a powder into his customary before bed nightcap. ([Later it would be determined that the powder was crushed up sleeping pills]). That's how I was shot with pentathlon. I was already drugged with sleep medication, he lamented. That's probably why I wasn't more aware of what was going on the night Allie was attacked. As he smiled and hid his emotions from the person fixing his drink, he felt ill and wanted to break down and sob. Of course, he did not, and that self-control would help end the case in a few short hours).

        Had he not been aware of the maniac's attempt to drug him and not swallowed the doctored highball, he never would have reacted in time to save himself. As it was, he barely was able to subdue the attacker in his and Audrey's darkened bedroom and put an end to the madness.

        "Allie always uses mouthwash before going to bed, and Audrey always has a glass of milk. Toni usually has a half a can of cola before retiring. I suppose being creatures of habit was almost the death of us all," Ed would groan to Lieutenant Miller, during a lengthy interview at the police station the next day.

        "I thought it may be you," Beauchamp said, evenly.

        "Yeah, I know. You weren't too suttle."

        "Sorry. Sorry it worked out like it did."

        "Yeah."

        "I knew it just about had to be a family member, but I was surprised to learn how the . . . evidence was disposed of." Beauchamp hated to have to be so blunt with the heartbroken Ed, for he had suffered through the guilty one's confession earlier, having viewed it through a one-way mirror.

        "Yeah." Ed grimaced. That was about all he seemed capable of saying.

        Miller said, "With the house being watched like it was, it was virtually impossible for anyone to leave and come back." In a subdued voice, he nervously continued, "we didn't expect to find that the hand and ankle were fed to your dog, (The Hayes owned a four-year-old male German shepherd), and that the bones were crushed and mixed with the fireplace ashes. Pretty smart. Brilliant, really."

        Ed sighed, "Yeah, brilliant. I can't believe my life has come to this." Miller and Beauchamp knew they were dealing with a defeated, heartbroken man.

        "That's why the towels were the only things recovered, along with the saw and scalpel." Beauchamp quickly added, painfully aware that his boss was being uncharacteristically insensitive.

        "When I saw the scalpel in her hand, you cannot understand the shock."

        "No, we can't," Beauchamp admitted, "but I never would have guessed it was her."

        "Neither would I," sighed Ed, "I cannot for the life of me understand how or why she did it."

        "Painkillers and mental instability can cause a person to do much," added Miller, still painfully awkward with Ed Hayes.

        "I figured it was Toni," Ed offered, in a dull voice.

        "Me too," said Beauchamp.

        "Yeah," Ed offered once more, "but why? WHY? I thought I knew her!"

        Softly, and in a much more thoughtful tone, Lieutenant Miller said, "You heard her tell Sgt. Beauchamp and the others this morning that she had witnessed her aunt raped and maimed by an intruder years ago."

        "Yeah, but I never knew. Why didn't she tell me?"

        For the first time, Ed Hayes broke down and wept.

                                       

EPILOGUE

       

Six months later, Ed sat over breakfast and took stock of the situation. Toni had immersed herself in teenage things, everything from pep club to chess club. He worried that she was overdoing it and over-compensating for the horror of the previous spring. Still, she had that Hayes determination and would make it, although with emotional scars that she would carry for the rest of her life. She was the youngest and least damaged of the Hayes clan. For reasons he could not explain to himself, he was grateful that it had not been her to deal the family so much misery.

        Ed worried that Allie was repressing her emotions. She, like her younger sister, had thrown herself into school and rehabilitation, becoming an obvious overachiever. But, there was nothing he could do about how she reacted. He saw trouble down the road for her but, she too, possessed the Hayes mental toughness and Ed felt that she would live a successful life, although one lived on a rocky emotional road. If nothing else, Allie would will herself to health and happiness, he mused.

          Audrey responded well to physical therapy. Although Allie was now walking and doing everything she ever did on her artificial foot, Audrey had not quite yet mastered her new hand, but she would. She is two months behind her daughter in rehab, he reminded himself. He worried the most about her. Audrey possessed no Hayes blood and was the most fragile of the three women in his life. Still, Audrey had not slipped into total mental illness as was initially feared, and Ed hoped that she would not.

                As for Ed, he would never again sleep well, and for understandable reasons could not bear the thought of sleeping pills or his once customary nightcap.

        Until his death some years later, rare was the night that he could get the image of his kind and loving wife out of his mind. The image of the crazed Audrey, eyes shining and teeth bared, with the upraised needle of sodium pentathlon stolen from the family dentist silhouetted against the moonlight streaming into their bedroom window, aimed straight for his neck, would haunt him for the rest of his days. (The scalpel in her left hand had gashed his wrist, and for weeks the photo of his wound and the accompanying story was the hottest tabloid topic). He found the surgical saw and several clean towels only a couple of feet away, on a TV tray. 

        Ed always had to fight back tears when dining alone in the morning. Mornings used to be he and his wife's favorite time together. Audrey was brilliant, in a very demented way, he would reflect, sadly. Bloody towels had been found in a large safe deposit box at Audrey's bank. He and Beauchamp supposed that was where Audrey kept the bloody saw and scalpel when not in use, but Audrey wasn't saying. Beauchamp had recently told him that the instruments had been stolen from a surgical ward at the local hospital almost five years ago.

        Planned this for at least five years. Ed still had trouble comprehending the fact that he never really knew his deeply disturbed wife at all.

        Thinking again of Allie and her 21st birthday coming up, part of him wished her mother could be with them, but it would be a long time, if ever, that she would be allowed outside the walls of the court-ordered mental health facility.

        And, thinking once more of his younger daughter, he was grateful that he had found his wife's terrible secret out when he did.

 

 

END

 

 

 

 

The Short Wait

 

Entry in the diary of Harland Gofourth:

 

        Thursday, March 26, 1987:  As I write this I know I'll be gone when this is read. I'll be dead. Dead by him or dead of fright. You probably have already noticed the shaky handwriting.

        I did a little writing in high school, so I hope I can express myself properly. I'm awfully nervous. Keep that in mind.

        You probably wonder why this is the first page of a new diary. It's simple. It's been many years since I felt the need to write my thoughts down. Now I'd better. I want it known what is about to happen to me.

         Some years ago, I took money from the New States Pension Fund. You may be aware that the New States Driver's Union (NSDU) is strong in the east, with a membership of thirty thousand members. I was the treasurer of our local and, at that time, we maintained a balance of  $250,000 in our account. Our president, Billy Friend, helped me transfer the bulk of this sum into a joint account with him, presumably to keep it in this account for only a few days until we could restructure our local's financial portfolio. You may not be familiar with this story here in Colorado, but it was big news in Trenton twenty years ago. Look it up. To make a long story short, he took the fall, and I took the money. The investigation uncovered many of Billy's other activities, and he was put away for a long time. Billy was released several months ago and that's when it started again.

        If you're reading this then you know I lived by myself and was a paraplegic. Should have a housekeeper but I don't. That's just as well. Wouldn't want anyone else involved in this. You've also noticed that this place sits way back from the road. Neighbors are good to check on me but I am very much alone here. I liked it that way until a few days ago.

        They say that what goes around, comes around. That's sure true of my relationship with Billy Friend. I screwed him big time, and he's been paying interest on it ever since. Haven't been able to walk in fifteen years because one of Billy's drivers ran me down. Tried to kill me but crippled me instead. He doesn't know it but that's been punishment enough.

         Eight years ago, Jane was robbed and beaten up in a grocery store parking lot. Being my wife took its toll on her, and she wasn't in robust health to start with. I'm certain the trauma contributed to the stroke that killed her a few weeks later. Billy knows I know. I helped beat a driver or two in my time, always robbing them first and usually in a parking lot.

        Billy is playing his last card now. Someone (maybe him) has called every night for the last two weeks, talking nonsense. Except for one night when he told me to stay up late and watch my porch catch on fire. I did stay up late, and it did catch on fire. A small bomb had been placed under the boards. Guess I don't have to say how that scared me.

        I'm writing this now because of this morning's call. The caller told me I'm going to have a visitor soon and that I will die and the score will finally be settled. It's just starting to sink in that maybe this isn't such a bad thing after all. I wish I'd never known him and sure wish I hadn't sold him out, but it's way too late to try to atone for a life foolishly lived.

I guess I'm writing this as much to calm myself as I am to set the record straight. You'll never be able to tie Billy Friend to my death. You better know that I'm terrified.

        Have you ever been terrified? Really and truly horrified? I never was until today. It's a strange feeling. It gives me a sense of lightness, like I could get up from this chair I live in and float around. My senses are sharp, or seem to be, and this kind of fear has a taste-- tastes like copper pennies and the aftertaste of a low voltage electrical shock. Being crippled, I have trouble controlling body functions but now I've lost all control. They say this kind of fear has smell. Maybe the smell is on me but I can't tell. I'm scared out of my mind but can think clearly, (I think. What do you think?), and am ready for anything. I guess. I'm ready for action but am incapable of action. He has me where he wants me.

        Will he kill me slow or quick? It'll be quick. He's mean and ruthless but not sadistic, at least not in this sense. He'll want this job done fast and clean with nothing for the police to find. I guess it won't hurt to say I've been involved in these kinds of jobs, too.

        Asking the cops for help was a joke, but I know they don't owe me anything. They've always resented my presence here but couldn't do anything about it. When the FBI talks, these types of jerks have to listen. I can't run, fight, or get help from them. I'm sitting here waiting. I've danced around the law all my life but I'm not dancing now. I guess I know what a convict on death row feels like, a convict with a short wait.

        If I'm still around, I'll write more tomorrow.

Epilogue

        "Sarge, come here."

        "What?"

        "I guess this is Mr. Gofourth." The man in the wheel chair was dead with a bullet hole in his skull.

        "Fine way to start a weekend. Been dead long?"

        "Yeah, maybe a few hours, maybe a full day. He's cold."

        "Least he doesn't stink too bad. If Mrs. Mabry hadn't called, he may have sat here a long time."

        "Sarge, there's a book under his butt." Young Officer Ellison struggled to remove it from under Gofourth's body. It smelled of feces and dried urine. Ellison wiped it clean with a damp paper towel from Gofourth's small kitchen

        "Let me see," Sgt. Folgate ordered after the diary was sufficiently clean.

        The two men quickly read the new diary with the single entry for Thursday the twenty-sixth. Two days ago. "Whoa," Ellison whistled, "this guy was involved with Billy Friend?"

        "Guess so," Folgate answered, slowly. "If he was behind Gofourth's murder, Gofourth was right. We'll never tie him to it. The only thing Friend ever got nailed on was the embezzlement scam. The other stuff would never have become known if the Feds hadn't started looking."

        "There's got to be evidence in here somewhere," Ellison said, excitedly.

        "Don't bet on it," Folgate remarked, dryly. "I bet this poor bastard did die of fright as much as he did the gunshot. If I knew somebody like Billy Friend was coming for me I'd be plenty scared." He sighed, "Damn, and trapped in a wheelchair and no one around to help. He was right. None of the old timers cared for him, too much of a smart ass when he first got here. But, I don't think any of us could have protected him from Billy Friend forever and I'm sure he knew it." Folgate paused and took a deep breath, Officer Ellison hanging on his every word, "At least he was fortunate in one way. His nightmare was as bad as any I can think of but he was right. He had a short wait."

 

END

 

 

 

 

What Happens Next?

 

1.

 

The storm outside raged as the murderer snuck silently into Carol Moorman's bedroom. The faint amber light on Carol's alarm clock read 2:13. The intruder considered this for a moment before proceeding. Carol would be sound asleep and would not stir even for an April thunderstorm in Oklahoma. The thunder was loud and the high wind pounded the rain violently against the bedroom window, enough sound to cover any noise Carol would make.

        But, Carol made no noise. Her 21-year old heart stopped beating the moment the murderer jabbed the ice pick deep into her chest, right into the heart muscle itself. For good measure, the killer removed the ice pick and stabbed a second time, this time into the right temple, deep into her brain.

        The murderer was pleased. The violent storm had been an unnecessary piece of good fortune, for all of the Moormans were heavy sleepers, and the storm served only to camouflage the killer's movements, which were few.

        The killer, also a Moorman, slept soundly the rest of the dark and gloomy early morning.

 

2.

 

         "I guess Holly told you about Carol," Bob Moorman said. "She was murdered in her sleep 19 years ago last month. The police have always believed one of us did it." Bob looked right into Bill's eyes as he said this, looking for a reaction. "Holly was only one year old then, so obviously it wasn't her. But, you may be marrying into a family with a murderer in it."

        Holly said nothing while her fiancée and father talked. Dad had agreed to talk to them. Bill had a right to hear the story.

        "No one was arrested?"

        "No."

        "Was any family member singled out as a suspect?"

        "No, but the police made it clear they believed it was one of us."  Us being Bob, Holly's mother Mary, and her older brother and sister. 38-year old Ted and 36-year old Brooke were teenagers then, with the infant Holly being Bob and Mary's middle-age surprise.

        Bill Zimmer, not a bashful man, asked Bob, "What do you think. Did one of the Moormans do it?"

        The older man admired Bill and was not offended by the question. "I believe so. Yes. There was simply no evidence to point to anyone else." He turned to Holly and put his hand on hers. "Sweetheart, I've always suspected it was your mother. God bless her. As you know, she suffered a nervous breakdown right after having you and she couldn't cope with Carol's problems. I don't know this for a fact; it's just a feeling I've always had. I've never had a sense it was Ted or Brooke, and I hope you can believe it wasn't me. But, your mom's gone now." He shook his head sadly. "It wasn't you, so I can speak candidly with you and Bill." Slowly, he continued, pouring them all another cup of coffee as he did so. "Mary reacted to Carol's death differently than the rest of us. Like she was relieved. She didn't seem overcome with grief; something I have always wondered about. But, don't think poorly of your mother. She was not well, and I could very well be wrong." He waited for a reply but got none. Bill and Holly were clearly uncomfortable and Holly asked if they could be excused.

"Of course." Bob rose from the kitchen table and shook Bill's hand. "I think Holly is getting a fine guy. I hope you feel comfortable with our family."

        "I do, sir, and thank you for sharing your thoughts with us."

        "You're welcome. I hope we don't have to discuss it again, though. It is very distressing to me." A dark look came upon his face, "I know I can trust you to keep this conversation candid."

        "Of course, sir. But, may I ask another question?"

        "Go ahead."

        Outside on the driveway, Bill asked, "Are the Meadows police still interested?" The Moorman family had lived in the same house in the small community of Meadows, Oklahoma, for over 30 years. Bob was the only one still living there, as Mary had died last year after a long bout with cancer.

        Bob considered his answer. "Oh, not as much as they used to be. About five years ago, they seemed to finally let it go. I suppose if evidence were found, then, yes, they would pursue. There's one cop, Bryan Olum, who's retired now but is still on the auxiliary list. I see him often at the store and mall. I know he's still interested. He was in the first squad car that showed up that morning." Bob was pained by the question, and agitation showed in his voice.

        "I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps that was not a proper question."

        Recovering, Bob said, "Of course it was. This is just very painful."

        Bill and Holly got in the car, a brand new 1987 Ford Escort Bob had purchased just last week, and said their good-byes. "Next time we come over, we'll talk of more pleasant things, like our wedding," Holly said, grinning.

        Bob grinned. The subject of his youngest daughter's impending wedding brightened his mood. "I'll look forward to that. I wish Mary were here to help plan it, but life goes on. I'll see you both soon." With that, they pulled out of the driveway and headed for Bill's apartment, which was about a three-mile drive.

        Somberly, Bob asked, "What happens next?"

        Clutching her purse and removing the note, she replied sadly, "When I talked to Brooke, she knew nothing of this note. She never saw it. Said she didn’t check for notes that night and quit checking the hiding place after the murder. I know it's Carol's handwriting. I've seen letters she wrote to Grandma." After a pause, she said, so softly that Bill could barely hear over the traffic, "Let's call Mr. Olum."

 

Epilogue

 

        Several days previously, Bill and Holly had been cleaning out her room in the house, packing up her things and preparing for her to move in with Bill. The wedding was less than two weeks away. Her room, which had been Brooke's room at the time of the murder, had been scoured from top to bottom by the young couple. Holly hoped to get all of her belongings in one visit, plus leave it clean and neat so her dad would not have to do it. While on the floor picking up loose coins and other debris from where her chest of drawers had been, she found a wad of paper, folded over several times, under a loose flap in the carpet, close to where Brooke's bed used to be. Not yellowed or dog-eared, the note obviously had been there a long time. Thinking it may be an old love note from one of Brooke's boyfriends, she looked at it in anticipation of playfully reading it to Bill. It read:

        Brooke, Dad found out I'm pregnant. Dr. Benson told him. He hasn't told mom yet. WHAT SHOULD I DO? He was so mad at me. Said if I did anything to give mom a relapse he would kill me! I'm scared, Brooke, and I don't know what to do. PLEASE come talk to me tonight when you get home! It's raining like crazy. I'm lonely and SCARED! Dad's NEVER been like this with me! I think he's got the same problem mom's had. You should have SEEN HIS EYES! Help me!

Carol

 

 

END

 

 

 

 

Wishful Thinking

 

Prologue

 

"Choose carefully what you wish for, for you will surely get it," goes an old saying. In the spring of 1989, Charles Kingham, in all of his 42 years, had never heard these words of wisdom, nor would he have thought much about them if he had.

        Today, he can tell you much about foolish dreams and wishful thinking.

                                       

1.

 

        Charles Kingham was a reasonably happy man in April of 1989. A staunch republican since the pre-Watergate days, he was delighted that George Bush had been elected president the preceding fall, assuring a continuation of the Reagan era for four more years. As a self-employed computer programmer in high demand, he enjoyed a high degree of professional mobility and economic independence. He looked like the professional man he was, standing six feet, three inches high and carrying a lean 180 pounds. Sandy blonde hair and brown eyes complemented the browns and tans he favored in his wardrobe. His handsome face sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. A warm smile and engaging personality won him many friends. However, a cocaine problem and last year's divorce from Nora, his wife of 20 years, threw a cloud over what would have been the best time of his life. Still, considering what he had been through the last 12 months, he was getting along well. Tax time, April 15, came and went, and he fared better than he thought he would. He was in an upbeat mood that week. Then it started.

        Charles remembers clearly when it began. It was a warm, sunny day in Houston, his home for the last dozen years. When relaxed and in a good mood he would tell friends, "The first thing I remember about it is the time I was driving down Highway 59 and having the driver side front tire blow out. I remember wishing with all my heart that it had not happened. As I struggled to keep control of the car, all of a sudden it began to roll smooth again. When I looked at the tire after pulling over, the tire was perfectly normal. I know it blew; heard the WHOOSH of the air and everything, but it was undamaged. No hint that anything was wrong with it. But I KNOW it blew. After that, I was aware that I could wish for things and they would soon happen or appear."

 

        In reality, it took Charles several days to realize fully what happened. An incident with an empty salt shaker in his kitchen two days later, and a stopped-up drain in the bathtub two days after that, convinced him of his new power. He could make things happen by wishing for them.

        He sat at his kitchen table and admired his saltshaker, the full one that had been empty for over a month because he kept forgetting to buy salt at the grocery store. A thoughtful man, he was taking stock of the situation. So far this week, he had been saved the expense of a ruined tire, (and possibly a collision on the highway), the cost of a bag of salt, and possibly the expense of hiring a plumber. He didn't know what to think about this newly found power, except that, so far, it scared him. A moment ago, he tried to switch channels on his TV set by wishing for it, but the channel stayed the same. Why could he wish for some things but not others? Luckily, it was Friday night and, with the exception of Elizabeth, he had nothing planned for the weekend. Maybe he could figure this out.

        I wish I knew why the channel didn't change, he thought. A moment later, he had the answer. He realized he could not change the TV channel because it was not really important to him. It was not a heartfelt wish. Whoever or whatever that had placed this gift upon him had also placed an important restriction. He must truly desire what he wished for. He also realized that this awareness, this answer to his question, was another wish fulfilled. As Charles picked up the saltshaker and rolled it around in his hands, spilling some salt on his clean tabletop, another realization hit him. This strange power could be rejected any time simply by "wishing" it away. Charles certainly did not want to do that. It was too exciting. Still, he was puzzled, and he asked himself, why is an empty saltshaker more important in the eternal scheme of things than changing a TV channel? 

        He sat at the kitchen table, saltshaker in hand, and thought for a long time.

 

        He let the phone ring several times. Elizabeth refused to get an answering machine, something that annoyed Charles very much. Finally, on the sixth ring, she answered, "hello."

        "Hi Elizabeth." She wouldn't let him call her Liz, another annoyance to him.

        "You didn't call last night." she said, a slight irritation in her voice.

        "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I've had a strange week."

        "Did you get your tub drain fixed?"

        "It's fixed," he answered, wryly. "Want to go out tonight?"

        "I wanted to go out last night," she said, flatly.

        "I know, and I am sorry." he replied, gently, "But when you hear what I have to tell you, you may not be so quick to go out with me." He said this half seriously, causing her to wonder what was going on. He always called when returning home from work on Friday nights, but not last night. "Let's get a bite to eat tonight, and then I have something to tell you."

        "OK," she said, not wanting to pursue this further on the telephone. "See you here at 7:00?"

        "See you then."

        Charles owed much of his emotional well being to Elizabeth Cox. After Nora left him a year ago to move to Atlanta with her former boss, Elizabeth had come into his life three months later and picked up the pieces, getting him off the cocaine and booze and back to work. Younger than Charles by 13 years, she had a younger and fresher perspective on things which had been good for him. She was a very attractive blonde of medium height and build with light complexion and blue eyes. Quite often she wore her shoulder length hair in a ponytail. When in a playful mood, Charles sometimes called her Barbie. She had a sometimes too serious demeanor and would often frown, making her pretty face less attractive when doing so. But, she complemented Charles' mildly eccentric personality very well. They were in love, not yet realizing it.

        Neither of them said much at dinner. Elizabeth knew him well enough to know that he would tell her all that was on his mind in due time. Charles rarely spoke of Nora, but he had mentioned several times that she was a nag. Why Charles felt this was necessary mystified her. In her relationship with him, Elizabeth had said little and listened a lot, which had been a good thing for both of them. She would know soon enough what was so important that it kept him from calling her last night.

        Charles took her back to his place. Normally, they went to hers, but not tonight. When Nora left, he sold all of their furniture and got rid of all other reminders of her. Much of the money he made from his estate sale went to finance his brief but intense cocaine habit. As a result, he now lived very modestly in a clean, but sparsely furnished, one bedroom apartment in a medium-price complex. He was embarrassed to have Elizabeth over as a guest. He didn't know yet that Elizabeth didn't care what his place was or looked like. But, tonight, he felt it was important for her to see the saltshaker, even though there was nothing unusual to see.

     He had a beer, only one, and she sipped bourbon and water while he explained to her the strange events of the last week. "I have to really want something before this will work," he told her.

        Elizabeth was afraid he was back doing drugs, but he had seemed in control of himself, if quiet, at dinner. She thought carefully about how she would reply to what he had just told her, causing an uncomfortable silence while he waited for her to speak. He realized his story sounded crazy. He hoped to be able to prove it to her.

        As if reading his mind, she asked, "Can you prove any of this? Can you make the salt disappear out of the shaker if you want it to? If you want to prove it to me bad enough, according to what you said, you can."

        They were sitting at the kitchen table with the saltshaker in front of them. Like an illusionist, he had her examine the shaker until she was satisfied there was no trick involved. He then said, "Hold the shaker in your hand. I will wish for the shaker to be empty." He added, thinking out loud, "I really want this to happen so I can prove to you I'm not crazy or back on the powder." As he finished saying this, the shaker turned empty, startling Elizabeth so much she dropped it. She was visibly shaken when she picked it up and examined it.

        "Imagine how I felt when my tire blew and repaired itself," he said, slowly.

        They stared at each other for several long moments. She finally asked him, "What do you intend to do with this power?"

        "What do you mean, what am I going to do with it?"

        "What are you going to wish for?"

        "I don't know," he answered, slowly, "I haven't given that much thought."

        "Maybe you had better give it some thought," she said, hesitantly. Elizabeth was the more practical of the two, and she could already see problems ahead.

        "Yeah, you know, you're right," he said, shakily, "I can wish for anything I want, as long as I really want it."

        "You'd better be careful," she warned. She got up to mix herself another bourbon and water, this one much stronger than her first. "Remember the old saying, watch what you ask for; you may get it."

        "Yeah, I know," he replied, but he didn't know.

         But soon he would know.

 

2.

 

        Charles and Elizabeth finished Saturday night on a good note. Three bourbon and waters for her and a rare, for these days, second beer for him put them in a relaxed and mellow mood. The conversation shifted from Charles’ new power to more intimate lover's talk, and Elizabeth slept over; something she was doing with increasing frequency. Neither of them attended church and Elizabeth left for her apartment soon after a mid-morning breakfast. Normally, Charles hated to see her go, but today, he was glad she did. He needed time to think. Alone.

        What a fool I've been! he thought, as he sat at his familiar place in his small dining room. I can have anything I want just by wishing for it! This idea, like a fast growing cancer, had been working on him since last night. He had not been able to think of anything else, even when making love to the amorous Elizabeth. He slept fitfully, tossing and turning all night.

        Charles was excited, but was not so carried away as to not be able to think rationally at all. This is quite a sobering thing, I've got to use it properly, he thought. He frowned and sickened a little when he realized that he had better not harbor any negative emotions for anything or anybody. I can't hate or wish ill will toward anyone. Who knows what would happen? I better not lose my temper or get drunk. He sat and smoked, drank his after breakfast coffee, and the full realization of his "gift ' fell upon him.

        But, he reasoned, used wisely, I can have what I want. Like Dr. Jekyll, Charles had a darker side to his better nature, the side that got him in trouble with cocaine last year. He asked himself, what do I want?

         Arriving back at her apartment, Elizabeth was worrying about the man she was falling in love with. Distracted and tense during lovemaking last night, he had slept little. Frowning, she knew what was on his mind, had seen it in his eyes last night. He's going to wish for something, probably something today, and he's going to get it. She was both worried and relieved that she was not with him now.  

                                         

3.


        Later that morning, Charles made his first purposeful wish. He was proud of himself for thinking of it and not being selfish.

        Betty Kingham had been a widower for almost seven years. A woman of the older generation, she had no marketable skills when Bill Kingham fell dead of a massive heart attack while shopping in the mall one Tuesday night in June of 1982. She lived on a very modest fixed income and money was, to say the least, very tight for her. She still lived in the house where Charles grew up in Lawton, Oklahoma. It was in bad need of painting and repair. Charles had long wanted to get her into a better one. Now, he saw his chance to do so.

         So, he wished for a new house for his mother. It occurred to him that wishing like this was very similar to praying. After quietly stating his wish for the new house, he ate a bite of lunch and lay down for a nap, feeling very pleased with himself. He wondered how soon and by what means this wish would be answered. He remembered not being able to change his TV channel and was afraid this wish may not be answered.

        He had eaten late and was still napping at 4:00 when the phone rang. He wasn't sleeping soundly and he answered it on the first ring. "Hello."

        "Mr. Kingham?"

        "Yes?"

        "Mr. Charles Kingham?"

        "Yes. What do you want?" He was wide-awake now.

         "Mr. Kingham, this is Dr. James Benjamin at Memorial Hospital in Lawton, OK. Your mother has been admitted for minor cuts and abrasions, and also smoke inhalation."

        Charles felt himself going numb. "What happened?" he asked, barely able to speak.

        Her house and the house next to hers’ caught fire and burned. Your mother is fine, but she's staying with us until tomorrow. She's quite shaken up."

        "What happened? May I talk to her?"

        "You may speak with her, but only briefly. I don't want her getting excited again."

        "Thank you." Charles waited until his mother was on the phone.

        "Chuck?"

        "Hi Mom." She sounded good.

        "Got some bad news, son. Heard the doctor tell you about the fires. I'm okay, but Gretchen's grandson, Tommy, was killed. The fire started in her kitchen and quickly burned her place down. You know how these old wood frame houses are. Wind carried it to our place. Ours is burned to the ground, too." Her voice had grown weaker.

        "But you're okay?"

        "Shook up and weak, but I'll make it.

        Charles was too stunned to say much. "Tell Mrs. Mangum how sorry I am."  The Mangums had been their neighbors for over 35 years, or for as long as he could remember.

        "Oh, I will. Doc says I better go. One more thing, she added, weakly, "you're going to get your wish. Insurance man has already told Gretchen and me they'll rebuild our houses. Sure didn't want a new one this way."

        Charles swallowed a bitter nausea. "I know you didn't, Mom. I didn't want it this way, either." After a pause, he added, "You get some rest, I'll call tomorrow. Do I need to come and take care of you?"

        "No, neighbors and the church circle will help with that. You just keep in touch. Gotta go, Doc's orders."

        "Bye, Mom."

        "Bye, Chuck."

 

4.

 

        An ashen Charles arrived at Elizabeth's apartment early Sunday evening. He told her on the phone what he had wished for, and what happened.

        "I had no idea that would happen," he said, as she handed him a beer.

        "I kind of worried about this." she said, "But I admit, I would have thought wishing for a house for your mother would have been a safe enough bet."

        "You would have thought so," he answered, wearily. He slumped in the big easy chair in Elizabeth's living room. She was concerned about him.

        "Are you going to wish for anything else?"

        "No. At least, not until I can make some sense of all this. Where did this come from? Is being able to wish for things a blessing or a curse?" The pain in his voice touched Elizabeth. She wished there was more she could do to ease his anguish.

        She sat on the arm of the big chair, almost in his lap. "Well, I don't know," she answered, "But it does seem to be a dangerous toy to play with. I was scared of it right away. I wonder if you really can get rid of it?"

        "Maybe I can wish for it to be gone, but do I want to do that?" he asked, thinking aloud, and enjoying the smell of her perfume. Elizabeth was so feminine. "Maybe not all wishes have a dark side. There was no problem the day I wished for the tire to repair itself."

        "But, there sure was a problem today, wasn't there?"

        "Yes, there was."

        She leaned in to him, their noses almost touching. "And you have no idea what will happen the next time you wish for something."

        Her dark blue eyes bored right into him. He knew she was right, but he was not yet ready to banish the gift. "No, I don't. But, before I give up something this powerful, I'm going to have to think it over. I know that I CAN stop this power, but, right now, I don't know if I WANT to give it up. It's too valuable a thing to give up on so easily." Although he was arguing with her, there was a plea for help in his voice.

        Elizabeth knew him well enough not to argue or try to get him to change his mind. She asked, quietly, "What will you wish for next?"

        "I don't know. Like I said, I'm going to give this some serious thought.

        "You'd better. Better give it a LOT of thought. Don't forget Tommy Mangum."

        "How the hell can I forget him!" he snapped. Charles wished, for a split second that she would go sit down on the sofa and shut up. It horrified him when she did just that. Collecting himself, he said, "Sorry about that, Elizabeth."

        "Sorry about what?"

        "I just wished for you to sit down and shut up," he told her, sheepishly.

        She turned pale and thought for a long moment before speaking. Evenly, but forcefully, she said, "I think you had better do whatever you have to get rid of this. It's a curse, not a blessing. It scares me, Chuck."

        That made an impression on him. She rarely called him Chuck. Charles looked at her and nodded slowly.

 

5.

 

        Charles left it alone for the next couple of weeks. He forced himself not to wish for anything. He walked through each day numb with fear and regret over the Mangum incident. At least, his mother was okay. She was going to have her new house.

        He was careful also not to let any of the other human emotions get the better of him while he was trying to figure all of this out. Being able to will Elizabeth to do his bidding frightened him as much as the death of Tommy Mangum. He fled from any situation that caused him the slightest irritation, and he refused to make love with Elizabeth. He knew that soon, this must end. He could not live like this indefinitely.         

        But, he could not bring himself to attempt to reject the power. The possibility of having anything he wanted intrigued him still. He spent all of his spare time pondering this problem and asking himself what he wanted to wish for. He thought long and hard, hoping to outsmart the unknown powers. He wanted to wish for something substantial; something that would be of benefit to himself and possibly those close to him, but he did not want any negative results. He didn't know if he could live with another Mangum incident.

        As Charles spent his evenings alone, Elizabeth worried about him. He had not so much as kissed her goodnight in the time since he forced his will on her. Indeed, she had only seen him twice for brief visits, since that time, and he shared little of what he was thinking about. She knew he must see this to its ultimate conclusion by himself, alone. She hoped, for many reasons now, that he handled it wisely and well. Elizabeth knew now that she loved him.

        Charles retired early this Monday evening, immediately after the 10:00 news, 15 days now since his traumatic Sunday. He felt good and relaxed, secure in the knowledge that his big decision could be delayed another day. He did call Elizabeth and tell her goodnight. He missed her and realized he was in love with her. They told each other this on the phone one night last week. He was anxious to get this great and terrible time of his life behind him and get on with his life. If he could get one big, important wish to come to pass, he would take steps to leave this so-called “gift” behind. He would soon ask Elizabeth to marry him.

        Charles fell into a deep, restful sleep thinking of these things. That night, he slept the best sleep he had in several weeks, since before his tire blew. He dreamed the sweet dreams that only those of good intentions and clear conscience can..

        However, sometimes unconscious impulses and emotions are far different than the wishes and desires of our conscious selves. While Charles enjoyed his best night's sleep in several weeks, sometime in the night he dreamed that Richard Harvey, Nora's 35-year-old former boss and current lover, died of a heart attack while making love to her. He vividly saw his well-muscled shoulders and arms go limp while in the heat of passion. Charles saw the terror in his ex-wife’s eyes and heard the sound of her scream as he collapsed on top of her and stopped breathing, a thin line of drool running slowly from the corner of his mouth. A decent man when awake, Charles dreamily delighted in her panic when she could not get out from underneath him.

        Charles Kingham, the jilted ex-husband who harbored (so he thought) no ill will toward Nora or the handsome Richard Harvey, slept soundly through the night and would never know that the actual event took place simultaneously with his wicked dream wish.

       

6.

 

Charles was back in his favorite chair at Elizabeth's apartment. His hands shook and the paleness of his face was in sharp contrast to his bloodshot, terror stricken eyes. "Thanks for staying home today. I couldn't have made it this morning without you." His voice cracked and he was making a valiant effort to stay coherent. Elizabeth was deeply worried about him but was trying not to show it.

        "I'm glad to be here when you need me. I love you, you know."

        Charles brightened just a little and managed a weak smile. "I know. When this is over, I want you to marry me."

        "Is that a proposal?"

        "Yes."

        "Then the answer is yes, but we've got to get this settled."

        "I know." Charles coughed when a sip of Elizabeth's excellent flavored coffee went down wrong, and he grimaced in pain.

        "Everything OK?" she asked, with more than a little concern in her voice.

        "Yeah," he answered, unhappily. "After Nora called, I spent the rest of the morning in the bathroom throwing up. Couldn't stop dry heaving until just before coming over here. That's why I got here so late."

        "I was worried something had happened to you."

        "It did." he replied dryly, “A four hour upset stomach."

        "It's time to put a stop to this."

        "I know."

        "You mentioned once that you can wish for this  . . . power you have to go away? How do you know this?"

         "I just do. I don't know how or why I know this." Slowly, he continued, "I'm just aware that I can reject this anytime I want. I just haven't done it yet." His voice rose and his hands, which never really stopped shaking, trembled even more. He was getting panicky again.

        Quickly, she asked, "Why haven't you done it yet?"

        "I wanted to be with you when I do."

        "Then let's do it now. This is going to kill you, too, Chuck."

        "I know." It seemed to Elizabeth that “I know” was the only reply Charles was capable of just now.

        "Then calm yourself down and do it! Let's do it now!"

        The urgency in her voice brought him back to himself and he gathered strength from her. Elizabeth was a good woman, good for him, and would be a fine wife. Charles was a lucky man. He would, in the next few minutes, deal himself a new hand in life and a second chance at happiness. "Well, all right." At that moment, he formalized the wish in his thoughts, and wished mightily for this strange power, which had come upon him so unexpectedly and without warning, to simply be no more. A moment later, a strange look appeared on his face; a look of relief and release. "It's gone. Can't explain it, but it's gone."

        She sat on the arm of the big easy chair, as she always did when he sat in it and she was not in his lap. He pulled her to him and kissed her.

        It was over.

 

Epilogue

 

        Indeed it was over, but there were some problems to work through. Charles and Elizabeth quickly married and bought a house. The memories of Charle’s terrible experience were too alive in their respective apartments and the change in scenery did them both good. Within two years, Elizabeth gave birth to Charles, Jr. Charles finally got the child that Nora denied him.

        Charles had been through so much in a small space of time, and he would have had a lot to deal with even without the strange events in the spring of 1989. But, he did have the added terrible curse of wishful thinking and it took him a long time to deal with the guilt of being responsible for the deaths of two people. For those deaths he was responsible, of that he had no doubt.    

Today, a normal man with normal human abilities and frailties, Charles is very careful not to harbor ill will towards anyone or anything, and he questions himself constantly about his motivations and actions towards others. A happy person now, with a solid home and family life, his reference point for everything is either before or after the "wishes." A deep measure of guilt over the deaths of Tommy Mangum and Robert Harvey will always remain, but I'm happy to say the future for Charles, Elizabeth, and three-year old Charles, Jr. looks bright.

 

END