Crime Time: A Timely Mystery

By R.E. Derouin

If you were able to spend about twenty minute viewing any place, any time in the past, where would you visit? The options are mind boggling as they were to Howard Abbott in Crime Time but the prospects of such a gift are frightening as well. Should he strive to unlock the secrets of history? Solve the mysteries of the world? But who would believe him when he himself can barely comprehend what is happening? This damaged man elected not to simply satisfy his personal curiosity but instead to accomplish good; like finding missing children.

Recently awoken from a three year coma, Abott experiences an incredibly vivid dream. With confirmation the brief visions are true peeks at the past, five dissimilar acquaintances form a marriage of sorts to utilize this gift to the fullest. The group commits to devote their lives in a sometimes bizarre search for missing children. Crime Time is their story of success and unseen consequences. The hunters become the hunted as friendships are tested, minds tortured, guilt to be overcome and lives sacrificed, all for the sake of the children.

Other books by R.E.Derouin

David Dean Mystery Series

Time Trial 1999
San Juan Solution 2000
Mountain Ice 2002
Dead on the Fourth of July 2003
Skip Case 2004
Bail Out 2008

Also:
Enough to Miss Christmas 2011
Crime Time 2013

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483511511

Book preview

9781483511511

Chapter One

I’ve pondered the events of those few months so often and so deeply I know if I don’t at least commit the experience to paper I’ll never move forward. The utter uniqueness of what we accomplished virtually demands that there exist somewhere a record of what transpired and the terrible toll the results exerted on those of us involved. So here I am, with proverbial pen to paper, musing about the final disposition of these scratching, if I should crawl my way through to completion of the task.

I’ll record the facts from my personal point of view, and my personal observation of the reactions of the others involved, some of whom are unable to tell their own story. I’ll leave judgment in the hands of the reader. What I pen about him will be pure speculation. How can any rational person hope to know what thoughts take place in so evil a mind?

Coincidently, the starting date of our involvement is etched in my memory for an entirely different and more pleasant a reason. It’s almost ludicrous what ultimately evolved given how so benign it all began. It was the joyous weekend my future wife and I made public our marriage plans, though there was no one about to hear our announcement. We were rolling in euphoria alone when an old friend from my Amherst, Massachusetts childhood telephoned with an invitation to visit her family cabin in New Hampshire. There began the intimate gathering of five distinctly different individuals, and the unique results of our brief weekend cohabitation.

Betsy and I agreed to visit as we were eager to share our news and escape the city. The trip would allow my future wife, who was from Iowa, to view a part of the country she’d never seen. The visit pleased me doubly; to show off my fiancée and escape the rush of late summer in New York.

Betsy and I met last fall while jogging in Central Park. Both of us were new to New York City, and had few or no friends. It began with a glance as we passed each other the first time, a smile the next two or three laps, and then a pretend rest stop. We chatted briefly, agreed to have coffee and have been nearly inseparable ever sense. Each of us maintains our own apartment, but when Betsy is in town, we spend most nights together.

For all you gadabouts and tourists used to driving hither and yon, a weekend trip to New England is a piece of cake. But picture Ben and Betsy, two city dwellers, neither owning a car. That’s not uncommon for Big Apple young people, living on a modest income in a financially immodest city. So after a cab ride to the airport rental agency, we escaped the fumes of Manhattan on an August Friday noon and fell in line with the city escapees heading north.

Betsy Morganthaw, my fiancée, was employed by a public relations firm at a wage half again as much as her future husband. I, Ben Gustefson, collated boring statistical figures while locked in a cramped cubical of a company that offered me no future potential. Betsy toured the country, staying in plush hotels and dining in fine restaurants, all paid for by a boss who thought she was God’s eldest daughter. To this day I wonder why she took a step backwards at the altar’s edge by marrying me.

Be patient as I identify the other participants in this saga. While my relationship with Martha LeBlanc, nee Rossi, dated back to our playpen years and kindergarten days, lately we’ve hiked different paths, reducing our contact to Christmas cards and once a month phone calls. Martha is a trauma nurse in a large Boston hospital. Her husband Quinn, a scientist, attended our childhood school but I know him principally through his wife. He does something weird with computers, electricity and maybe death rays. Only a handful of human minds can comprehend his work.

The goal of our offered summer sojourn was described as a seasonal cabin on a small lake in near Wolfboro, New Hampshire. Martha inherited the property from her grandfather. According to the brief phone call Quinn has spent the last three months at this water side retreat writing a paper on some obscure theoretical principal. He tried to explain his project on the phone when his wife invited us but I was lost after the first sentence. Quinn is our age but he jumped two school grades on academic excellence. I vaguely remember him as the resident nerd. A dozen years have passed and we’re now all pushing thirty, like a scene from an eighties classic movie. Why Quinn wasn’t voted the least likely to land the school’s prom queen beauty, I’ll never know. He was a foster kid and didn’t travel in our circles. Never the less he and Martha have four married years under their belts and are expecting their first child. While Martha is my kindred spirit, Quinn and I always got along fairly well the few times we’re all gotten together.

I filled Betsy in on our hosts as we maneuvered the country roads of New England. We were directed by a friendly voice on our GPS, a previously unused present from my retired parents.

Do they live in the cabin? Betsy asked, probably visualizing Abe Lincoln’s birth place, with an outside toilet and stream-carried water.

It’s a seasonal place, according to Martha’s description, I answered. Quinn has a sabbatical from teaching and is using it all summer for a college project. Martha commutes weekends a hundred miles from their home.

Where do they live? she asked as we rolled up and down low hills by bucolic pastures.

Outside of Boston, in Peabody. Martha stays down during the week as she wants to work until she has the baby.

My future bride looked envious. She sounded thrilled about the baby on the phone. Betsy and I were in agreement on having a family. It was a matter of timing. All four of us are kissing thirty, swinging on that cusp between frantic singles and life commitments. Good bye good times and good wine; bring on the boxed stuff and bills.

I wondered about the step my friends were taking. For all of Quinn LeBlanc’s intellectual abilities, I not sure Martha isn’t the main bread winner while Quinn tinkers in the theoretical world of the intellectual elite. Be it as it may, both seem happy as pigeons in a bird bath with their modest lives.

Jane, our GPS, as Betsy named her, didn’t let us down and we found our friend’s cabin at the end of a dusty road. We were tired and hungry for dinner after a six hour drive.

Ben Gustefson, the love of my life! Martha shouted, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me on the lips before I let go of the steering wheel. Hugs, intros and congratulations followed as we emerged from the car.

Come on up and see the place, Martha called as she strolled up the path to the cabin.

Betsy stopped me as I was about to follow.

You didn’t tell me, Betsy said, hands on her hips, and out of ear shot of the others.

Tell you what?

That Martha LeBlanc is drop dead gorgeous; that’s what!

My Betsy is fine looking woman, beautiful in my mind and in the eyes of most, but even I have to admit she lacks the room-stopping allure of Martha LeBlanc.

I guess you could say Martha is pretty good looking, I answered.

Betsy didn’t buy my toned down assessment but at least continued to smile. Why were you holding back? Is there some history I should know about?

I had to laugh. I’d known Martha for all my remembered life. We were cowboy and Indian kids, living in an imagination paradise of rocks and trees and dirt, with her leading the way. She was the first to the top of the monkey bars, the one to suggest strip poker and I was perpetually in awe of everything about her. Martha is stunning by every standard known to man, but acts oblivious to her beauty, as if it’s an annoyance while she continues doing her own thing.

Are you the jilted lover? Betsy asked.

I thought a moment before answering. I’ve kissed Martha exactly twice. The first time I was eight or nine and my action earned me a cracked lip. The second time was when she married Quinn LeBlanc. I looked my lovely future wife in the eye. Martha and I know each other far too well to ever be lovers. I’d outgrown those feelings, hadn’t I?

Betsy nodded, gave me a kiss, and trotted off to follow our hosts.

Martha stopped to grab Betsy’s hand, leading the way toward the cabin while Quinn and I unloaded the car. Martha’s friendly action was the beginning of a strong relationship between my two favorite women.

Just leave the stuff on the porch for now, Quinn said as we went in to join the others.

Martha opened the screen door with a flourish Grandpa built this place in the nineteen thirties and wired it years later. You can still smell the lamp oil. She led us into a large room, dominated by a pot belly stove. In the old days there was a hand pump in the kitchen and no hot water you didn’t boil yourself.

I love it! Betsy cried. I feel like a pioneer.

Even more so when you bathe in the pond, Quinn quipped.

He’s just pulling your leg, Martha answered. With electricity, we have hot water too. She turned to her husband. Quinn swims every morning and takes along a cake of soap because he’s lazy.

Martha’s voice dropped to a whisper as she pointed to a rickety staircase. There are three small rooms upstairs but we’ll explain about them later.

Well-worn furniture populated the homey main room, some no doubt the envy of an antique shop owner. A massive oak table was the most dominate piece. Large windows framed a picturesque pond, boarded by tall pines. A half mile across the water a few other camps were visible. The small kitchen showed signs of its past life, before the addition of a modern sink and electric stove.

I hope you don’t mind mice, Quinn said with a smile as he showed us a small room behind the kitchen.

This was originally an extra bedroom when I was a kid, Martha said, pointing out a converted bathroom with a metal walk-in shower. Time for booze, Quinn announced.

Martha smiled at us. I’m surprised he waited this long.

Betsy opted for wine and Quinn opened a Merlot ceremoniously, toasting our engagement. Pregnant Martha abstained, content with an iced tea. The two women adjourned to the front porch to cut green beans and shuck corn. I dug in a tub of iced beer and Quinn and I toasted the two cans as we sat back on Adirondack chairs to enjoy the late afternoon.

I’m glad you got yourself a good woman, Ben.

Thanks, I answered. We’re very happy together.

Quinn took a long sip on his beer. "I’ve got to tell you, Ben. Everyone back in high school figured you and Martha we’re the pair. You’d been together since diaper days.

Look, Quinn. Martha and me . . .

Don’t say it, ‘cause I got her. She checked out everyone then this incredible beauty chose me! I was in heaven; still am. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.

We’re both fortunate, Quinn. I love Betsy, just the way you love Martha.

I know; I’m not jealous, but you and Martha have this thing between you that goes so far back I get dizzy thinking about it. My wife loves you; do you know that Ben? Only it’s a different kind of love; not the sex kind. I can’t even understand it.

Think of us like sister and brother. . .

Bull shit! That’s a piss-poor analogy, he said as he opened another can and changed the subject. His remarks made me a tad uncomfortable.

We didn’t show you the upstairs because Howie is taking a nap in our bedroom, he continued.

Howie?

He flew in from Santa Barbara, California on a red-eye. He’s only here until Sunday night when we drop him off in Boston for his flight back. Quinn added, We didn’t want to wake him, or be talking about him while he might overhear. He’s napping in our room at the top of the stairs When I didn’t comment, he continued.

He’s Martha’s cousin, Quinn grumbled. "The guy is a story and a half. Martha’s aunt, Howie’s mother, called and practically begged her to let him fly out for a couple of days. You know Martha; she doesn’t do no very well."

What’s his problem? I asked.

Let’s take a walk, Quinn said. We’ll leave Martha and Betsy to get acquainted. I followed Quinn down to the water’s edge as the women waved from whicker rocking chairs on the wide verandah.

Howie was about to become Father Abbott, a Catholic priest when a drunk in a half million dollar motor home broadsided him. He spent thirty-one months in a coma.

God, that’s terrible!

He came out of it; yes and no. He’s suffered through a bunch of operations, mostly on his brain. After the coma, there was a year or so of therapy. Now he’s at least functional but the sad part is he lost nearly all of his memory.

You mean the accident? I picked up a stone and attempted to skim it across the water.

If that was all, he could deal with it. Quinn answered. Howie doesn’t remember any details of his prior life; family; studying for the priest hood, college . . . it’s all a blank slate and he can’t find the chalk.

Everything is gone?

It’s like he didn’t have a life. There are zero personal memories. Do you know what a dissociative fugue state is? One look and he continued. I guess not. Anyway, he’s fine with physical functions and general learning; math, history, common knowledge . . . stuff like that, but he can’t tell you how or why he knows what he knows or how or when he learned it. He can even spout some sports trivia and Christmas carols and stuff like that. It’s weird talking to him.

But none of his past is familiar?

His mother, Martha’s Aunt Rose says he’s not the same person. It’s been tough on her. Howie’s father died while he was in the coma. Rose remarried; some guy named Ronnie that Martha thinks is an asshole. When Howie was released from the hospital, Rose took him in. She said it was like having a boarder, or a visiting brother-in-law you want to kick out but don’t know how. Howie lived with them for a few months but they eased him into an apartment nearby. I get the hint this Ronnie and Howie don’t dance to the same fiddle player.

You say he’s physically okay.

In the sense he can function but the memory is probably gone for good. He physically lost a portion of the brain itself.

How does he stay active? Is he going back to the priesthood?

The seminary released him at his request. It was either that or start from scratch but he’s not even sure he’s a catholic, much less committed to anything. He’s thirty-six years old and starting life over; he’s an empty box.

How does he support himself?

Insurance money and maybe the drunk had some money. Howie doesn’t work and he still suffers from head trauma. He seems depressed and doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Who wouldn’t be disheartened? There’s no chance some of the memory is still there?

From what I’ve learned his entire brain structure is distorted. The accident did a hell of a job and the long coma and operations messed him up further. His mother says there was a lot of experimental stuff done on him while he was out of it. No one ever thought he’d return to the living.

It must drive him nuts not knowing.

You’d think so and I guess he’s curious about his past, but he’s not obsessed. His mother pushed him off on us because he stayed here in the cabin a couple of summers growing up. She thought visiting might jar something loose. I think she wanted to get him off her back. He’s a bit of a pain in the ass.

Quinn slapped me on the back as he looked up at the darkening sky. There but for the grace of God I,’ and all that shit, he said. Let’s toss on the steaks and get more beer before the rain starts.

Betsy was alone on the porch but as we approached, Martha opened the screen door, her arm around a frail looking man, about five-seven, who wore an off-center toupee and a fragile smile. He walked with a slight limp and looked older than thirty-six. I try to resurrect my first impression of Howard Abbott not colored by Quinn’s negative appraisal. A single word comes to mind. He looked incredibly sad.

Oblivious as we were at the time, this meeting of the five of us was the beginning of a relationship that fused our lives together in a way we never imagined possible. Only he, unknown to any of us yet, was absent from our lives.

Oklahoma. It’s wonderful on the open road once more! How I missed the fresh air and country scenes any painter would utilize his entire palette to capture. Years of only remembered dreams but now the real act is so much better than fantasying! Wasted years caused by one silly mistake. But now I’m more cautious and mature. I amaze myself with my cleverness.

The children are so innocent they will believe anything I tell them. If I remain careful, I can repeat what I am compelled to do, over and over again. No more just dreaming about it. Their screams are genuine and tangible. They plead for me, their master, to stop but I never will now that I know what I’m capable of accomplishing. I will not be trapped this time. Life is perfect! Different places, different states, different ways to dispose of my little treasures; they’ll never realize it’s the same person!

Chapter Two

After introductions we gathered around the oak table to get acquainted as more beer and wine flowed. Howie abstained. He appeared attentive as Betsy and I explained our wedding plans and his hosts discussed about Martha’s pregnancy. When the steaks were grilled and the corn and green beans boiled, the table was leaden with food, enough for a small army. We paused before digging in.

Don’t expect me to say grace, Howie quipped. I don’t remember.

You’re not getting away with that excuse every time you want to get out of something, Martha said. Next, you’ll tell me you’ve forgotten how to do dishes too.

He smiled as we bowed our heads and proceeded to thank God for the food and company. And, he added. I’m here in one piece, sort of, and you’ve given me a clean slate after act one of my life. There are lots of folks who would use their genie-wish to do just that. I’m sorry to have missed the first act, but I promise a short intermission before my act two begins.

It sounded pretty rational to me, I thought as we all amend.

I don’t mean to sound morose, he said with a smile. I assume our hosts have updated you on my affliction, if that’s what I should call it. I was pleased by his candor. His pronouncement lightened the what-to-say-or-what-not-to-say problem. Martha turned the openness up a notch.

If we’re going to be frank, She said, why don’t you ditch that stupid rug you’re wearing on your head? If you don’t think I’ve seen scars, I’ll take you down to the hospital ER on any Saturday night.

Betsy was shocked, but not me. I’d known Martha far too long. If Howie was stunned he didn’t show it as he pulled off his toupee with a smile.

I suppose I’d remember you as an outspoken brat if I hadn’t lost a few years of memory.

You betcha, cousin, she replied as she leaned over the table and kissed him on the cheek. I could tell you stories!

How would I know if you were lying? Howie asked, adding, Did I sleep with you?

It was Martha’s turn to be mildly shocked, Only in my dreams. The summer you two came up here, I had a major crush on my handsome California cousin but you were seven years older than me and didn’t know I existed. Their repartee set the tone for the evening.

I’m not so good looking anymore, he answered, a tad embarrassed.

The left side of Howie’s head was absent hair and a series of three dark scars were visible. However, while noticeable, his damaged appearance was less disagreeable than I expected.

If you’re concerned about a messed up head, either shave it all off or comb over the scars. But please, ditch that awful hair piece. It makes you look like a dork. She handed him the wine bottle. He smiled and joined us for a glass. He had some catching up to do, especially with Quinn.

We chipped in clearing the table and cleaning the dishes. Quinn lit the large stove to stave off the chill as rain began pounding the metal roof above us. We chatted amicably around the oak table, laughing at each other’s stories. Martha kept up a steady stream of reminiscences; I’m sure for Howie’s benefit. He played along with her banter.

Martha lugged out a tattered game of Monopoly. Given its vintage, some E-Bay customer would have paid a Boardwalk price for it.

Do you remember this, or do I have to teach you? she asked all of us. Betsy and I claimed world class ability while Quinn just rolled his eyes. Howie put his knuckles to the side of his head and closed his eyes.

I have vague recollections of beating the crap out of you while you cried your eyes out and pounded your fists in despair.

That’s not a memory; it’s more wishful thinking! Count out the money and don’t cheat like the last time.

While we played the first few turns, Howie described how indiscriminate elements of his memory remained.

Why should I remember a ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card and not recognize my own mother, or a picture of my father or sister; or this bratty cousin?

That’s because the brain is the strangest tool of the body, Quinn answered. He proceeded to take off on an explanatory lecture that mentioned anandamides as brain messenger molecules and details about brain chemistry. He had moved to receptors and enkephalins before Martha covered her ears and yelled, You’re turn! Do you want Park Place or don’t you?

Betsy and Martha, now becoming the best of friends, conspired together against the rest of us until they owned most of the board. The rest of us were spiraling toward bankruptcy when Howie turned to Martha. Did Annie play Monopoly too?

Yes, she answered in a somber voice. When silence followed, she seemed obligated to explain. Annie was Howie’s little sister. She died when she was twelve. It was easy to recognize Martha’s pain with the subject.

I’ve seen her picture, he said as he rolled the dice. She was pretty. Quinn, sensing his wife’s discomfort, changed the subject back to the game.

You’re almost as broke as Ben, he told Howie. Roll a five or a seven and you’re history.

Martha turned to sleeping arrangements. We had yet to see the second floor bedrooms.

This is the situation, our hostess stated. There are three small rooms up stairs. None of them are five star accommodations but two are fairly comfortable. The third room is filled with my wizard mad scientist husband’s electronic hub bub of messy experiments. There is a bed in there, along with stinky plants, vegetables, mushrooms, and all kinds of crap. Plus his gizmos buzz all night.

You’re the only one who can hear the buzz, Quinn answered defensively.

Martha ignored him. I tried to get him to turn the stuff off and clear it up but no go. The world will come to an end if he does.

Quinn stood, as if addressing a class of incoming freshmen. It’s a timed experiment and it has to run for a precise period. We’re testing the growth reactions or rate of deterioration of various organics exposed to a variety of energy and magnetic sources. I can’t shut down the experiment until six PM tomorrow night. That’s the culmination of the thirty day trial.

No problem, Howie said. I’m the interloper and a single. I’ll take the laboratory.

That’s not fair! my gallant bride-to-be offered. Roll the dice. Lowest count gets the single. The three guests exempted the hosts and rolled. Betsy was safe with a nine and I thought my four bought me the cot until Howie’s snake eyes saved me. He was history, in more ways than one. A roll of the dice changed the lives of all of us and hundreds of others. Sleeping arrangements were set. After shaking the dice again, for turns in the single bathroom, we climbed the stairs to our rooms.

They’re really nice people, all three, Betsy announced as she snuggled against me beneath an ancient quilt in a spacious double bed that took up most of our room.

I’m pleased you’re getting along with Martha so well.

She’s a sweetheart but I feel sorry for Howie; for getting stuck in the room with Quinn’s experiments. Overall, he seems in good humor, considering his condition.

I’m sure it helps being around people, I answered. I can’t comprehend losing three years of life and a lifetime of memories. What vocational opportunities are available for an almost-priest who’s been out of this world for the last few years?

Betsy agreed as she snuggled against me. You were two points on the dice from sleeping alone big guy.

Now that I’m not, what do you have in mind?

Stop talking and do your duty, she said as I complied, with vigor. After all, it was the night of our official engagement.

We started our lovemaking slowly, allowing the others in nearby bedrooms time to fall asleep. However, once we got going, I’m proud to state my future wife responded robustly, both physically and vocally. I tried to shush her to little avail.

God, Ben! Don’t stop! Please! I put my hand over her mouth. She began to moan and sunk her nails into my back until we finally flopped back in exhaustion.

I’m so embarrassed, Betsy said at last. I have to learn to control myself.

Please don’t! I answered with a chuckle. I’m sure neither Quinn nor Martha is surprised and Howie is probably asleep.

I could see her shocked face in the glow from a night light. He was a priest! I bet he’s a virgin! God, he’s probably never heard anyone doing that!

I’ll bet he slept right through it, I said, pulling her closer. The words weren’t out of my mouth when we heard his door open and footsteps retreating down the hall.

Now I’m really humiliated, she said, borrowing her head in the pillow. Maybe I should apologize.

You’d just embarrass the poor guy. He’s probably just using the bathroom.

Maybe he thinks I was in pain; that you were hurting me.

Why would he think that? Give him a minute; he’ll come back upstairs. Several minutes stretched into ten with neither of us closing our eyes.

I didn’t hear a flush, Betsy said, her voice drenched in distress. When I didn’t answer, she added. Why don’t you go down? You could pretend to use the toilet and see if he’s all right. Tell him how sorry I am, and you weren’t hurting me. Say I was making funny noises because you were tickling me, or I was having a weird dream.

Betsy, I’m not going to explain the facts of life to a guy pushing forty!

She began to shove me out of bed. Go! Please! Do it for me. I’ll never get to sleep worrying about him. Just make sure he’s not traumatized or something.

I reluctantly descended the stairs, smiling but unsure what to say. My smile disappeared when I saw Howard Abbott on the sofa, his head in his hands. He appeared not to see me until I cleared my throat. He jumped up, as if he’d seen a ghost.

Sorry, he mumbled, wringing his hands.

We’re the sorry ones, I answered, for waking you up. I was surprised to see he looked frightened.

No, no. I just had . . . a dream, I guess. Sort of a flash-back you might call it. It was disturbing as hell. He flopped down on the sofa.

After all you’ve gone through, it’s a shame you can’t even get a decent night’s sleep. Maybe the dream is a good thing, a peek at the past?

He shook his head no and gave a cynical chuckle. It’s funny. I’m the guy with no past and I have this . . . earlier vision and it’s not even my memory.

What did you see? I asked out of politeness.

I have to mull it around in my head if you don’t mind. Maybe I’ll discuss it in the morning. He turned to me. What would you do if you saw a flying saucer?

This zinger out of the blue took me aback. Join AA, I answered. Either that or change my eye glass prescription.

Let’s say it landed right in front of you when you were cold sober. You even touched it, maybe saw little green men. Then, poof, it’s gone leaving no marks or evidence whatsoever. He looked at me. Would you tell anyone?

I thought a moment. Probably not. I guess I’m a coward. I’d assume no one would believe me. How could I prove what I saw? I suppose I’d begin to doubt myself the more I thought about it.

Howie nodded. Catch twenty-two. He smiled. "Go back to your lovely bride. Don’t worry. I didn’t see a space ship!" He turned and climbed the stairs.

Betsy was awake when I returned. I told her Howie had a flashback but I didn’t relate the rest of his whacky conversation. She seemed satisfied and fell asleep at once. A little later I heard Howie shuffling downstairs again. I didn’t hear him return. I lay awake for hours until I finally dozed, dreaming of space ships and aliens with toupees.

Arkansas. The hunt is on but the weather is too hot and sticky. Perhaps I’ll move further east and see if the plucking is better when the weather is cooler.

Chapter Three

Once I slept, it was the sleep of the dead and I didn’t awaken until Betsy jabbed me. I opened my eyes to full daylight. It remained overcast and I could hear the rain pelting the roof and a murmur of voices below. Betsy reached for a bathrobe and I pulled on my jeans.

I smell coffee, she said with a smile. Let’s go. I’ll race you for the bath room.

Martha was mixing batter while Quinn stood at the stove, heating a frying pan. Ready for pancakes? he called.

Coffee first, please, I answered as the bath room door closed behind Betsy. Howie was nowhere in sight.

Did you two get a good night’s sleep, Martha asked as she poured me a cup of coffee.

No problem, I answered. The rain on the roof was soothing.

"If they got any sleep," Quinn quipped as he poured pancake batter into the sizzling pan.

I was using the bathroom after Betsy when I heard her tell Martha she’d slept like hibernating bear.

It’s so nice not to listen to police sirens and taxies honking but I’m afraid we might have woken Howie.

He’s sleeping in late, Martha said. He’ll miss pancakes. I better knock on his door."

Martha was already on the stairs when I returned to the room. Betsy was seated at the table, forking sausage onto her plate and smothering pancakes in maple syrup.

That syrup is the real stuff, straight from the trees, Quinn reported as he poured more batter into the pan. We drive up to Vermont every spring. The sausage is country fresh too.

It’s delicious, Betsy said as I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat down beside her. Quinn was flipping the pancakes when Martha hurried down the stairs.

Howie’s not up there, she said, alarm in her voice. I felt a shudder remembering the prior night.

Maybe he went for an early morning walk, Betsy offered.

In this weather? Quinn asked with a frown. He’d drown. It’s raining enough to make Noah do a double shift.

Well, Howie’s not in the house, Martha said.

He was upset last night, I admitted. We heard him come downstairs and when I checked on him he spoke of having some sort of flashback.

I’ll bet it was the damn buzzing of your Tesla thing. The poor guy probably didn’t sleep a wink.

Betsy gave me a look. You said he was fine when you came back upstairs.

He was; maybe a little upset. I paused. I heard him come down again later before I fell asleep.

You’d better look around outside, Martha said. Quinn didn’t look pleased but handed her the spatula and started for the door. I rose to follow and he tossed me a jacket. The umbrella’s gone. I guess the nut went for a walk after all.

Quinn! Martha chastised.

You’d have to be a nut to go hiking in this, he muttered as we left.

Our search didn’t take long. From the porch we could see the huddled figure of Howie Abbott sitting under a large red umbrella on the edge of the pier. He was fully clothed and wore a light jacket. We were both soaked by the time we reached him.

Howie, what in hell are you doing? Quinn snarled.

Startled, he jumped to his feet, dropping the umbrella. I wondered if he’d been asleep

Oh, God! I’m sorry! I thought I’d be back before you guys woke up.

Are you okay? I asked.

You’re missing world class pancakes, Quinn grumbled. Let’s get the hell out of this drenching rain.

Yes. Sure. Sorry. He said, but didn’t answer my question.

We shook ourselves dry on the porch and returned to the warmth of the cabin. Safe and sound, Quinn said. I’m starved.

Martha had a plate of pancakes ready. We all sat around the large table. Howie seemed uncomfortable.

Did my crazy husband’s experiments keep you up all night? Martha asked as she passed around butter and syrup. The smell of the flowers alone would have kept me awake. I’d keep looking for a corpse in a casket.

No, Howie answered. It’s just me. It’s nothing you did. I just had trouble . . . concentrating.

Flashbacks? I asked. My question earned me a scowl from Howie. He picked at his food while the rest of us wolfed down stacks of pancakes and melt in your mouth sausage. I savored the best breakfast in years but my concern for Howie remained.

After the meal I sought him out in the main room while the other crowded in the kitchen cleaning up. He started to move away, but I stopped him.

You know, Howie, I’ve given some thought to your flying saucer analogy. I had his attention. I didn’t consider who to tell. Maybe I’d admit what happened to friends I knew I could trust. If something is upsetting you, consider sharing it. Who knows? Perhaps we could help you to work it out. He nodded and crossed to the window and stared out at the rain.

Thanks, he said but he didn’t bite on my invitation.

Martha stopped me upstairs a little later as I was coming out of my room.

I’m worried about Howie but I don’t know what to do. I feel terrible about making him sleep in that smelly room, but really, Quinn’s equipment hardly makes a sound. What should I do? Should I press him?

I’d wait for him come to us. I hope he does.

She sighed. Quinn thinks I should mind my own business. I just hate to see Howie suffering; especially after all he’s gone through.

We spent the next hour discussing potential rainy day activities. A movie or a trip to town was suggested and met with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. There was little interest in another round of Monopoly. The weather made outdoor activities unrealistic. Betsy was in the kitchen, baking scones for a mid-morning snack, while the rest of us were lounging around the main room vetoing each other’s suggestions. Howie, who had remained silent, stepped forward. He was a bundle of nerves.

I guess I’d like a little input from you guys, if you don’t mind. It’s something that’s got me down. It’s going to take an open mind on everyone’s part, believe me. We all readily agreed. Martha caught my eye and winked. Betsy strolled in, wiping flour from her hands on a dish towel.

Howie took a deep breath and began. I went to sleep last night, almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The buzz didn’t bother you? Martha asked.

On the contrary, I didn’t even hear it. It’s what happened next that’s got me troubled.

Go on, Martha prompted. I caught Quinn roll his eyes.

I’ll call it a dream for lack of another word but that’s not what I experienced.

A flashback, I suggested.

Howie shook his head. "Not that either; it was much more intense. I found myself in a farm house living room where a woman about thirty was ironing shirts. She was humming a tune I didn’t recognize. There was a little girl of about six or seven playing with a