Displaced

By Paul Willis

Little by little, Jeff Shields world is transforming from routine to bizarre. Strangers are recognizing him. His house is being invaded. But the perpetrator whoever or whatever it is leaves no signs of entry and clearly isnt a run-of-the-mill robber. Jeff hasnt been harmed, but knows its only a matter of time unless he uncovers the root of the quirky happenings.

Meanwhile, Jessica French is seamlessly easing back into regular life after a 14-month disappearance. She claims she had moved to Virginia and did a poor job of keeping in contact, but close friend Renee Hillman sees through the farce. Renee makes it her personal mission to uncover the puzzling secret of Jessicas year-plus hiatus.

Although Jeff lives in Colorado and Jessica in Southern California, their stories have a similar, mysteriously disturbing connection. Soon, both experience a plight few on earth have been forced to endure in Displaced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456746018

Paul Willis

Paul Willis has been a sports reporter in the Denver area since 2000. Career highlights include covering a World Series and an NBA All-Star Game. The former college athlete remains an avid baseball player and is a big fan of dogs. This is his first published suspense novel.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 1

Shutting off the lights was becoming an ominous chore for Jeff Shields.

He didn’t care to admit it, but his pre-bedtime routine was undergoing a metamorphosis as suspicion began to govern his every move. It began as a nightly glance out the living room window before he closed the drapes, escalated to a lengthy, scrutinized survey of the block, and now was evolving into outright paranoia.

Tonight, it was exceedingly difficult to get to bed on time. The wind was overly potent for a midsummer night, or any night, for that matter. It whipped through the trees, creating an eerie cacophony of rustling leaves and branches layered with the subtle whine of a freight train’s whistle in the far distance. To Jeff, the shrill sound, a clamor generally reserved for the winter months, carried a menacing tone.

It was still above 80 degrees on this mid-July Colorado night, and in most circumstances, the gale would have been a welcome reprieve from the dry, near-100-degree temperatures that had encompassed the area most of the past three weeks. Not tonight. But then again, the way things had recently transpired, he probably could have found something menacing about the models’ poses in his newest swimsuit issue.

He lived alone in the Denver-area suburb of Archer, and things just hadn’t been right the past few months. Things, little things, were becoming peculiar around the house. And the mysterious little quirks were increasing.

He had recently lost his roommate, Roger Jordan, who moved out in April to buy his own place. Because Jeff was doing the same with his current home and was starting to make more money, finding another roommate wasn’t a priority. He was leaning toward not getting one at all.

Although Roger still knew the code to the garage, the strange happenings could not be attributed to him. The two remained buddies, and Roger, a website designer, was far too busy and too grounded to concoct an elaborate scheme to mess with Jeff. In fact, Roger didn’t even know about the oddities because Jeff was too embarrassed to tell him – or anyone else.

Jeff recently earned a promotion at Sanstrom Enterprises in downtown Denver, where he held an accounting job. His Monday-to-Friday, 9-to-5 workweek began tomorrow. The digital clock beside the living room television read 11:13 p.m., meaning it was time to think about turning in.

He found himself reluctant to turn off the late-night sports program and kill the lights.

He was no wimp, but he was edgy because of the recent events. It would be much easier to concentrate on the day’s highlights than to fall asleep in his current state. At this point, he wouldn’t have been surprised to walk into his room, only to find a vagrant stretched out on his bed with a sign begging for food. Or perhaps the bedroom door would shut behind him with a sinister thud, eternally locking him from the outside world.

OK, he thought aloud. Time to go to sleep if I’m going to be worth a crap at work tomorrow.

Television off.

OK, good.

House lights off. OK.

Wow, Jeff thought to himself. I’m like a regular 28-year-old. I’m not afraid of the dark.

It was 11:31 when he crawled into bed, and for the first time in roughly a week, sleep was smooth, deep and effective. But that was the final night of seamless rest for quite some time.

*

A butter knife stuck to the counter by peanut butter usually doesn’t carry a macabre connotation, but that was the first of the bizarre happenings. In early May, Jeff returned home from work and noticed the sticky knife on his countertop, merely a leftover from someone who didn’t clean up after making a sandwich.

Although it was something he could envision himself doing, he had no recollection of making anything with peanut butter in the past month. Maybe he had craved a midnight snack and was too tired to remember? Nope. He had cleaned the kitchen spotless the previous night, and it remained that way after his pre-work cereal that morning.

So it had happened during the day while he was gone. Roger, the only other person with house access, had been at work in Highlands Ranch more than 40 minutes away. Plus, Roger wouldn’t visit without letting Jeff know, and he was no mess-maker anyway.

Many friends had visited Jeff’s place, but he knew of none who would force their way in, eat a sandwich then blaze without making mention. His parents lived in Oregon, so they certainly did not play a role in peanut butter-gate.

This particular instance didn’t frighten Jeff, just made him wonder what the heck had happened. He had dismissed the occurrence after a few days, because, how long can you dwell on something that was ultimately irrelevant?

But that was only the beginning.

Additional minor incidents began to surface. Twice, Jeff returned home from work to see a burner left on. Each time, he was sure he hadn’t touched the oven that morning. Yet another time, the pantry door was open.

He didn’t have a dog or any other pet for that matter. He did have seven fish in a 55-gallon tank in his living room, but he doubted a tinfoil barb would escape the tank, flop to kitchen, hook up a PBJ, then, sensing a shortage of breath, realize that he’d better return to his tank instead of cleaning up.

Since moving to Colorado six years ago after graduating from Oregon State, he had lived in this home and witnessed no odd activity. If something supernatural possessed the house, things would have surfaced long ago, right?

The mind-boggling aspect to these kitchen peculiarities was nothing was threatening about them. They were just strange. He convinced himself simply to ignore them, because if thieves were to blame, they would have stolen all his valuables by now. He persuaded himself that his recent increased workload might have allowed him to overlook a few mundane details.

In the back of his mind he knew this wasn’t the case. When he thought it out on a purely factual basis, he realized how undeniably abnormal this was. It was when he viewed it from this perspective that he became uneasy.

Just when he was ready to dismiss everything, more disturbing occurrences unfolded away from the house. He innately sensed a connection.

Just last month, he left Sanstrom Enterprises at 5 p.m. on a Thursday, ready to meet Roger and some other buddies for cocktails at Maloney’s. When he retrieved his Nissan Maxima from the parking lot, he swore it was in a different spot than where he parked in the morning. He recalled being in the row closest to the street, but there it was, in Row 3 when he returned. At first, he expected to see his vehicle completely stripped down, only the bare bones remaining. But when he entered the car, his iPod was still there, as was the $13 he left in the center console. Everything was there. But he swore he hadn’t parked there. He had eaten lunch at Quizno’s across the street, so he hadn’t left for lunch and spaced out that he had re-parked.

It got worse four days later.

He returned to the same parking lot after work, and his Maxima was gone. Vanished. He hustled back to the office, roughly a seven-minute trek, and reported the vehicle missing. When he returned to the lot to wait for the police, the car was there. It wasn’t in the same spot he parked it that morning, but it was returned. He checked inside. Nothing was gone. His cell phone remained in the center console, and he used to it to call the authorities and tell them not to respond. Embarrassed, he concocted a story that he’d forgotten his girlfriend had borrowed the car.

He knew he wasn’t undergoing temporary dementia. When he started the car, he noticed the temperature gauge. The car was already warm. Just to confirm, he popped the hood and, as he suspected, the engine was hot as if it had been driven.

He considered the possibilities as he left the lot. He owned two keys for the car – the one on his key chain and one inside a magnetic case concealed on the underside of the driver’s-side front tire. Like many, he kept the spare in that location in case he lost his keys. Apparently, someone figured out the secret.

There was a simple troubleshooting solution: He removed the spare key. At least logic prevailed in this instance. His car remained stationary from then on.

Although a month had passed since the Maxima was temporarily molested, he still felt a link between his car’s disappearance and the happenings at the house. At least now he’d dismissed any ridiculous notion that the in-house activity could have been attributed to a ghost. More than a few times, he envisioned a spirit-like presence rummaging through the kitchen in quest of anything edible. Famished from years of eternal fast, the apparition finally realizes it had been decades since it last fed and, rather than feasting on an Outback steak or something equally tantalizing, raids Jeff’s modest, bachelor-like supply of food.

He didn’t truly entertain that notion, but hey, it was as plausible as anything else he had imagined.

The most recent episode, however, was starting to get personal. Just Friday, he returned home and saw that someone had been sleeping on his bed. Not under the covers or anything, but on top of the comforter. Ruffles on the bedspread and an overall disheveled look gave it away.

But who would do that? And why? What is wrong with criminals these days? Can’t they just come in, rob something and turn over a few couches for dramatic effect? Why would someone find a way to break into the house, crash out for a few hours then flee without as much as merely checking to see if anything valuable could be heisted?

These questions circled Jeff’s head throughout the weekend, and now he half expected to see something bizarre every time he returned home. Now Monday, as he drove home after a rare workday in which he felt fully rested, he couldn’t help wonder what was next. That’s why he was only mildly stricken with fear when he walked through the door.

*

Jeff typically would have been relieved to get home. Wading through rush-hour traffic from Denver to Archer was never a pleasant task, but today it wasn’t as painstaking as usual.

Attempting not to be reluctant to enter his own house, he ignited the garage door with his Lift Master remote and pulled the Maxima into its spot. It was scalding hot in the garage, undoubtedly several degrees higher than the 98 outside.

As he loosened his tie while he walked into the house, he contemplated calling Roger to grab a few beers instead of settling for his normal Monday chill-at-home session. Roger undoubtedly would be up for it, because he rarely turned down a few cold ones.

Jeff froze in his tracks. Coffee beans on the linoleum. Tons of them scattered about. Pots, pans and blood. Not an abundance of blood, just traces of a congealed red substance that didn’t leave much room for the imagination. Apparently, an intruder had made another sizeable meal, this time spaghetti, and made a mistake with a utensil. Whoever it was didn’t bother to put the dishes in the dishwasher or wipe up the residue from their small kitchen wound.

The sight of blood, though sparse, gave Jeff the creeps and he was reluctant to scour the rest of the house. Before he went anywhere, he placed the pans in the dishwasher, applied a few sprays of 409 to the countertop and removed any trace of the incident.

Bad idea, he realized moments afterwards. He had just erased any smidgen of evidence that an unwanted guest had been present. A forensics team could have easily taken a sample of blood and perhaps linked it to whoever the prowler was. He still felt better knowing it was gone.

Next step the bedroom. He grabbed his largest kitchen knife and headed that way, expecting the worst. His bed was as he left it in the morning, tidily made. He peeked in his closet. Nothing there either. He searched the remainder of the house. It was free of sociopaths, psychos or any sign that anyone or anything had invaded the premises.

Whoever this was, whatever it was, undoubtedly was toying with Jeff. The incidents were growing from merely odd to overly peculiar, and he suspected the degree of intensity would only increase. He had to figure things out immediately before a devastating scene unfolded.

He had to get out of the house. He had to tell someone. He had kept it all to himself to this point, only because he knew people would think he was a whack job if he told them. He had always been straight up with Roger Jordan, though, and he figured his longtime buddy and former roommate might understand. Well, he’d hear him out anyway.

*

There are plenty of reasons why summer is nearly everybody’s favorite season: The warmth, the outdoor activity, the hotties in skimpy clothes. All of that was appealing to Jeff, but his favorite facet of summer was how long the days lasted. It was 8:10 p.m. as he pulled into Boston’s in Highlands Ranch, Roger’s favorite hangout, and nearly an hour of daylight remained.

The 40-minute, post-rush-hour drive was much more endurable than the daily trek home from work, plus it gave Jeff an avenue to escape the thoughts of his pseudo-haunted house.

He strolled into Boston’s and found Roger sitting in a booth near the back on the window side, two cold Coors Lights ready to be polished. Roger had positioned himself in prime position to take in the Colorado Rockies game on one television and the Hooters bikini contest on the other. Jeff would have to settle for just baseball on his side of the table.

What up, man? Roger asked, extending for a handshake followed by a fist-to-fist tap.

Not shit, Jeff replied, although there was enough to fill a double-seat outhouse.

After they exchanged pleasantries and talked about things that regularly would have been interesting, he decided to finally divulge.

Things are getting weird at home, he began.

Thirty-five minutes later, he had told Roger Jordan everything, every excruciating detail, down to the consistency of the ripples on his mattress after the unwanted snooze.

Have any enemies? Roger asked. Any chick you shut down who might be pissed?

I wish that was the case, Jeff answered. "Somehow, I feel this is deeper than some emotional girl. Plus, no chick digs me that much. You know that."

Roger gave Jeff plenty of ideas. He told him vary his routine. Perhaps staying home from work one day would catch the perpetrator off guard. He advised changing the garage code. Install a security system. Cleverly place a video camera somewhere in the house. Get a dog. And not some wimpy-ass dog, either.

The ideas were proactive, but Jeff felt he’d be acting overly paranoid if he put any of them into effect. After all, he hadn’t been robbed or harmed in any way. Not yet, anyway.

As he raised this concern, two women approached their table. Jeff recognized neither, but apparently one knew Roger.

Hey you! the darker-haired of the two said to Roger, giving him a hug. This is my friend, Sasha.

Roger introduced his friend as Yvonne, a girl he had become acquaintances with at this very bar. They had met here shortly after Roger moved to the area, realized they shared a few common friends and had been buds ever since. Roger seemed to want a bit more, but in Jeff’s eyes, his buddy simply wasn’t aggressive enough.

Yvonne was enough to make Jeff forget about his house for awhile. She was about 5-foot-9, had dark-brown hair that fell just beyond her shoulders and a figure that undoubtedly had been chiseled through several hours at the gym. She looked sexy in her shirt-and-skirt outfit.

Sasha was no slouch herself. She was an inch taller than Yvonne and had straight, reddish-blonde hair that flowed its way to the middle of her back. She was wearing designer jeans and a tight blue shirt.

Roger invited the pair of hotties to take a seat. Yvonne sat on his side of the booth and Sasha settled in next to Jeff. Funny, he thought, how a few decent-looking women could distract men from even the most serious of matters.

Obviously, Jeff and Roger discontinued their conversation and talked about less stressing matters. About 20 minutes and two beers after the girls joined, Jeff invited the three to come by his house on Friday night. He hadn’t had many guests lately, and perhaps that was the tonic to cure the ills that plagued his abode.

Roger immediately said he was in for Friday, and the girls talked softly across the table, as only girls do, undoubtedly semi-secretly discussing if something better was on the table for that evening. Though they didn’t commit, they said that they would likely be there, and Sasha asked Jeff for his phone number. Because he knew trusting a girl to call was like trusting Osama bin Laden to babysit, he asked for hers as well. She gave him her card from the 24 Hour Fitness she apparently managed, which contained her work and cell phone numbers as well as her email. Score.

By midnight, the swell-looking tandem had departed and it was just Jeff and Roger. By then, Jeff was so appeased to have escaped the thoughts of his house that he saw no need to rekindle the conversation. Plus, the night had more than served its purpose. He finally had told someone about the events, and Roger not only seemed to believe him but provided worthwhile suggestions. And even if he never saw the two girls again, at least he got to hang out with two cuties for awhile.

He had put back seven beers in about 4 ½ hours and was relatively buzzed, but he didn’t fear the drive home. He never had been popped for a DUI, and he knew the streak of amnesty would remain intact tonight. He was smoothly driving 65 with the cruise control on, and he had not boozed to the point of incoherence. He listened to the Denver rock station, which filtered selections of Tool, Metallica, Evanescence, System of a Down and Pantera as he cruised home. For once, he was encountered with no reluctance as he pulled into the driveway.

*

The buzz allowed sleep to come easy, although Jeff woke up intermittently throughout the night from nondescript dreams. These were not nightmares or menacing dreams, just scattered thoughts that never quite strung themselves together to create an actual theme. He was able to find sleep shortly after each wakeup when he thought about possibly hooking up with Sasha. It was a long shot, but at least it was something to vary his thoughts.

He was groggy when he awoke Tuesday morning, a small price to pay for the night out in Highlands Ranch. He was essentially on auto-pilot as he drove to work, a positive considering the ridiculous traffic surrounding him that transformed the 15-minute drive to Sanstrom Enterprises into a 35-minute hassle. Jeff always found it humorous when people told him, Think traffic is bad here? You should see (fill in any major city). He had heard them all. Traffic is worse in Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, Philly…

How, he wondered, can it get worse than being stopped on the highway? It was a daily occurrence for Jeff, to and from work, and he pondered what could be more aggravating than being stopped atop a major US highway with a 55-mph speed-limit sign seemingly mocking the throngs of stationary drivers from its post beside the road.

Stress objects were few and far between for Jeff Shields. Money? Nope. You can always make more money if you run out. Women? No. Although he didn’t look like a superstar, the 6-foot-tall, 190-pounder possessed better-than-average looks, but that did not make him immune from the games women played. He believed that as he got older, the game playing would subside. Turns out, women in their upper-20s are generally no more mature than the college-aged ladies. Therefore, Jeff refused to let women and their nonstop drama rattle his even-keel demeanor.

Traffic, though, provoked profanity-laced tirades so in-depth that even Chris Rock would blush if he were in the passenger seat. Not much else stressed him out, save for an unknown entity periodically breaking into his house and leaving behind cryptic signs of its presence.

About an hour after he settled into his cubicle, Jeff perused his two email accounts. Just as he was pondering whether to send one to Sasha, he noticed he had a new message from Roger Jordan. This must be good. Roger seldom emailed just to bullshit, and he never sent those crappy forwards that always ended up in the deleted folder anyway. It was an offer to go to the Colorado Rockies game that night against the St. Louis Cardinals. Coors Field was merely 16 blocks from the office, and baseball always had been his favorite sport. He was in.

He agreed to meet Roger outside the home-plate entrance at 6:45 for the 7 p.m. start. Apparently, Roger only had two tickets, but Jeff wished he had four so Sasha and Yvonne could occupy the other two.

The workday dragged, but 5 p.m. eventually came. Jeff drove the Maxima to a back street near Coors Field that contained his secret free parking spot. The spot saved him about $200 a year he guessed, considering he went to about 20 games a season and would have to pay roughly $10 a shot in the stadium lot.

It was only 5:20, so he headed toward the Sports Column to grab some dinner before Roger arrived. He was walking past the stadium when he noticed three people in their mid-20s, two women and a man, staring at him from about 10 yards away. The sidewalk was partially populated with a mix of 9-to-5ers and the handful of diehard fans that came to the park early to see batting practice. Jeff initially wondered if the group was looking at someone behind him.

What’s going on Jeff? asked one of the women, a short, dark-haired, slightly chunky girl he’d never seen before.

Hi Jeff, the other woman said as just as they were about to cross paths.

Not much, just, uh, going to the game, Jeff replied to the first inquisitor.

He was confused, but the ladies seemed so sure they knew him that he pretended to recognize them, hoping their identities would come to him. Maybe he had met them at a party or downtown when he was loaded.

You have to come by again, man, the man said. Vanessa has been asking about you.

Jeff never fully stopped walking. He gave a thumbs-up sign and continued on his way. The smiles on the faces of his three friends gave way to confused, slightly bewildered looks, but all three waved bye as he continued on. It was a surreal moment.

The three obviously knew who he was and reacted as if they knew him fairly well. He truly did not recognize any of them. None bared even a faint resemblance. Sure, there were times he’d meet someone at a party, or perhaps at work, who he failed to recall the next time he saw them, but he wouldn’t have entirely forgotten three people. Plus, the man had asked him to come by again. And who was Vanessa?

Jeff continued to the Sports Column. The bar/restaurant sat just one block south of the stadium. It was a trendy, two-story unit that attracted the college-aged crowd and served as a great place to keep the buzz going after the game.

It was not as packed as usual at this time of day, so it offered Jeff a chance to put the incident into perspective. As he sipped on a Mountain Dew while awaiting his buffalo chicken sandwich, he made the connection he was trying to avoid: The run-in with the strangers was related to the occurrences at his home.

He did not believe any of the three was the person entering his house, but an inherent feeling made him certain there was an association.

It was 95 degrees outside and 75 inside, but when Jeff felt the back of his neck, it was ice cold.

Chapter 2

The sunset was magnificent.

Otherworldly colors imprinted the western sky, an all-encompassing glow that persuaded even the most fickle of viewers to focus on its brilliance. A riveting orange hue yielded shades of gold, bronze, crimson, and in the farthest reaches, violet and lavender. The shades were so sharp and dramatically distinctive that it was doubtful they could ever be duplicated by anything but nature itself.

As the sun faded farther and farther on its nightly journey west, it began to disappear behind miles of smooth Pacific Ocean.

Certain she had soaked up every tan-inducing ounce Tuesday’s sun had to offer, Jessica French sat up on her beach towel, shook the sand off of her T-shirt and shorts and put them on over her two-piece bikini. She loved San Diego and everything about it, even if the sun had to retreat each evening like it did everywhere else.

Today was a toning day. She already was as tan as she was going to get. She was just further cementing it in hopes it would never disappear.

Jessica knew plenty about disappearing. Her entire life had been checkered with disappearance, dating back to her father walking out on the family when she was 7. That one, however, turned out to be the least of her worries. Her mother, Crystal, remarried two years later, and Jessica’s stepfather, Eric Watson, turned out to be a much greater guardian and role model than her original clown of a dad ever could have become.

Although her parents lived almost two hours north in Anaheim, Jessica had been very close with them recently. She regretted the 14 months she had missed and wished more than anything she could have them back. She wondered if someday she would be able to tell the truth – or fully comprehend the truth – about those 426 days, a hiatus from which she returned only two months ago.

Perhaps that day would eventually arrive, and whomever she told about it would believe her story. Until then, she had to repress the daily regret that swallowed her like billowing fog on an unsuspecting harbor. That’s why the beach wasn’t only a place to tan, but a therapeutic sanctuary, a place to figuratively bury her secrets in the sand.

Her car, an early-1990s model Volkswagen Cabriolet, was a 200-yard walk from her beach spot. She keyed the ignition and headed home for what she figured would be a lazy Tuesday night. She retrieved her cell phone from the center console and noticed she had missed three calls, two of which she recognized. One was from her parents, the other from her friend Renee Hillman. She had two voicemails. Her parents wanted her to come to Anaheim sometime in the next couple of weeks, and then a long rant from Renee.

What up Jess? It’s me, she began. Listen, Melinda and I are heading to the Fox and the Hizzle tonight for a few drinks. Before you say no – because I know you like to be a good little girl and stay in on weeknights – let me say that we’ll be done by 12:30 or so, so you gotta come. Oh, and that Kyle guy and a few of his friends will be there. So don’t make me come to your apartment and physically drag you out. OK? OK? Ring me as soon as you can. Bye, honey.

The unknown third caller did not leave a message.

Jessica was smiling, laughing at the message that was so typical of Renee, who people often confused as her sister. Each had sandy blonde hair, So Cal bodies and tans, and each was constantly hit on whenever they went out. At 5-foot-7, the 24-year-old Renee was an inch taller, had slightly darker hair and had green eyes while Jessica’s were blue.

The two didn’t look exactly alike, but enough to draw comparisons. Jessica also was 24, but her age was a sore subject for her, for one very justifiable reason.

Jessica had already decided she was going to join her lady friends at the bar, but she was going to give Renee the Oh, I don’t know, I’m pretty worn out speech to maintain her reputation as a weekday wimp. She didn’t want Renee to believe going out on Tuesdays was going to become a regular occurrence. She worked 8-5 Monday-Friday at Sansaco Bank, and going in with a hangover seemed to make the day three times longer.

It was already 8:40 by the time she got to her apartment in the west San Diego suburb of Sierra. She always seemed to arrive home later in the summer, when the sun extended its curfew to past 8 o’clock.

By 9:05 she was ready, and Renee and Melinda Nguyen cruised by 10 minutes later to pick her up. They stepped into the modest second-floor, two-bedroom unit and each gave Jessica a hug. As a good host always does, Jessica offered the guests a quick shot of Cuervo as a little kick-start to the evening. Of course, they accepted.

Melinda, a strikingly slender 5-foot-5 half-Korean, half-white woman, powered down the shot as if it was merely a bump in the road on the way to a 20-drink evening. She was 25 and had already endured a divorce and the disappointing ruling of split-custody for her 2-year-old son, so liquor oftentimes was her escape. Plus, she was a partier to begin with, and hanging out with Renee and Jessica only enhanced that quality.

It was 9:40 by the time the three finally rolled into the Fox and the Hound, a semi-upscale bar-restaurant chain. After Renee parked her Saturn and the girls entered the bar, they each grabbed a Miller Lite and headed to the poolroom. The countless big-screen televisions broadcasted an array of the day’s sports highlights, a live baseball game and an ongoing stream of music videos. Each video was loudly blared throughout the place, and the music was usually good. A Rise Against song was ending as the girls selected their pool sticks, and a tune by Paramore was just beginning as they racked up.

After two games – Melinda won both – four men entered the room. Jessica recognized one of them. It was Kyle Goecher, Renee’s newest obsession. Right away, Renee threw herself all over him, giving him a hug so huge that nearly everyone in the immediate vicinity turned to gawk. People have paid for less, Jessica thought.

Renee introduced the other three guys, but Jessica forgot their names before the introductions were complete. She remembered one of them might have been named Rich, but she wasn’t sure which one.

By 11, Jessica had already pounded four beers – only one less than Melinda – and was considering slowing down. That’s when Kyle brought over a tray with a gang of shots on it. He proposed a toast, and the shots disappeared as quickly as they arrived. Jessica pulled Renee aside directly after they chased the tequila with their beer.

Look, hun, Jessica began. "I know we’re having fun, I know you like Kyle, but I have to be home by 12:30 like we said. Cool?"

You got it, baby, Renee replied, her voice raised to transcend the music. Just relax and have fun. There are three other hot guys and you have over an hour. I’ll get you home. Trust me.

Melinda already had found her way to one of the guys, and Jessica just was waiting for a make-out scene somewhere near the pool table. The two other guys were discreetly checking out Jessica, but not impolitely so. Good thing too, because neither stood a chance. Not tonight, anyway.

For whatever reason, the beers continued to flow as smoothly as a river in runoff season, and Jessica was really starting to get buzzed. She felt herself slipping, her drunken side trying to rationalize why it would be OK to stay out till closing just once. She realized the consequences – most threatening: an ultra-long day at the bank – but she was caving in.

All of a sudden, it was 1:45 and Jessica was unclear of the precise number of alcoholic beverages she had consumed. The guys had left five minutes earlier, along with Melinda with the one she was working on. Kyle kissed Renee briefly before rolling out, and one of his friends, Tyler, had cracked Jessica’s shell and had gotten a hug from her.

Renee had actually partially slowed down, opting for water in favor of beer on the last two rounds. She was still loaded, but not to the extent Jessica was.

Jessica was unprepared for the line of questioning on the drive home.

Jess, Renee began. You know when you were gone for a year? Where, where did…where did you go?

The question was nearly enough to sober Jessica up. She sighed, knowing that if she was going to tell anyone about it, it’d be Renee. But even in her impaired state, she wasn’t ready. Renee had subtly prodded a few times before, but Jessica had stuck to her original story, the Virginia story, until she realized Renee saw through the charade.

She had been back to San Diego for nearly two months now, but remained reluctant to tell anyone the true story.

I’ll tell you someday, Renee, Jessica said softly. Like I’ve told you before, I wasn’t kidnapped or anything. But I didn’t mean to be gone, either. I know this just confuses you more, but please realize that, me being gone, it’s still traumatic.

*

Fly balls always seemed to sail a little farther at Coors Field, and for Jeff Shields, the beer always went down a little easier when he visited the ballpark. These summer nights enhanced thirst, and baseball and beer went together as well as winter and snowboards, rivers and kayaks, Sasha and a firm-fitting two-piece.

Jeff wasn’t certain about the latter assertion, but he was fairly convinced after meeting her the night before.

Roger’s tickets turned out to be pretty good ones. They sat along the left-field line, two sections removed from third base. The hometown Rockies were losing 5-2 to the Cardinals in the fifth inning and Jeff’s mind was beginning to wander a bit, partially because he already was on beer No. 4, and these were of the 16 oz. variety.

Roger hadn’t brought anything up about Jeff’s situation, choosing instead to ask what he thought of Sasha and Yvonne. Jeff played it off cool, but Roger knew him well enough to see that he was fairly smitten with Sasha.

As they downed their booze, Roger presented Jeff with the good news: he and the girls were certain to visit Jeff’s house on Friday night.

Speaking of which, was there anything turned upside-down in the house when you got home? Roger asked, having finally found a good segue. Because if your house is haunted, or if you have some crazy dude living in my old room I’m out.

Nope, nothing last night, Jeff replied. But I’m getting a feeling this whole situation transcends the house.

Why’s that? Roger asked.

After conducting a brief survey of the nearby spectators, Jeff told Roger about the incident on his way to the park. As he relayed it, Jeff couldn’t escape the suspicion that everyone in the stands was listening in and that they all knew his name. The previous night at Boston’s, when he had told Roger the original story, his friend had greeted his tale with an even-keel understanding and went as far to offer suggestions. Now, as he spoke of the newest development, he could see an unquestionable look of concern on Roger’s face.

You’re not fucking with me on this? Roger asked when Jeff was done.

Nah, man, Jeff said. And these people truly knew me, or believed they did. The looks on their faces were so authentic when they asked me how I was doing. I mean, how did I not remember them if they truly knew me? Did I miss some time somewhere?

Well, I moved in a little over four years ago and I saw you at least every other day the whole time I was there, Roger replied. You went to New York, but that was only for four days, and I’m sure you remember that.

No explanation existed for this latest transpiration. At dinner, he’d made a mental retrieval of the past few days, making sure he could account for each segment of the day. He was satisfied that he knew where he was at all times, just like usual.

He then tried to find a common link between all of the strange occurrences, but could not. A messed-up kitchen, an uninvited napper, a stolen-then-brought-back car, a group of three people that recognized him and knew his name although he had never met any of them. What was the common thread?

He had considered filing a police report but figured it might sound somewhat lame. What would he say? He could envision the quizzical look of the officer when he told him, Hi sir. Yes, someone went into my kitchen and made a meal and didn’t clean up, then someone was sleeping in my bed, and I think someone stole my car then brought it back.

He didn’t want to look like a whack job, but at the same time, he felt like he had to get to the root of the problem before something serious happened. He determined that the next time something quirky occurred at home, he would leave it untouched and call the cops. Maybe they could gather fingerprints and establish who the intruder was, or at the very least, the case would be on record. Jeff hoped to avoid that scenario if at all possible. He wanted figure it out himself, make it go away.

Jeff and Roger remained fairly silent through the latter innings of the game,