Secret Adventures

By Richard R Van Doren

Story Blurbs: 1) A 9/11 survivor barely escapes the South Tower collapse and must make a critical decision, return to his family and face crushing debt from his failing business or disappear so that his wife and daughter may receive a two million dollar insurance settlement in "The One Who Got Away." 2) Are you being abused by a bully? Here's a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Van Doren
• Release date: Nov 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087926629

Richard R Van Doren

Retired ordained minister in mainline Protestant denomination New Jersey born and raised, now living in Indiana M.Div. and M.Phil. in English Lit. Part-time college composition instructor

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Table of Contents

The One Who Got Away

1-800 Get Even

A Day at the Park

Citizen Snoop

Death in the Sixties

South of the Border

As Way Leads on to Way (novella)

Lone Wolf

Teddy Moved

The Land of Sunsets

The Things We Do for Love

The One Who Got Away

Smoke! Screams! That dizzying red beacon! Endless flights of stairs! Return to your offices. The fire department is on the way. Everything is under control.

He bumped shoulders with another escapee choking on the oily fumes and nearly sprawled face first into the murky haze.

How much time? How much time?

Suddenly, his lungs constricted and he choked back some vomit.

Three uniformed fire fighters stormed past with superhuman energy up the stairs and into oblivion.

Best case scenario: thirty seconds before suffocation. He had to get out of this stairwell! Groping along the inner wall he found a door handle and twisted it, the unknown party coughing and wheezing behind him.

He burst into a ceilinged rain forest, water spraying everywhere, but fortunately no fire! He thought he heard stampeding feet on the floor above him, or was that the rumble of roaring flames?

Now, droplets blinded him, but only partially. He lurched down the empty hallway desperately seeking another exit.

How far had he gone? Half way? More?

His office was on the seventy sixth floor. No elevators in operation. A river of flame like volcanic lava rushed toward him there, forcing him to the stairs.

He must be half way, at least. Maybe more! He seemed to have run forever.

If only I get could get near a window, he thought, see how much farther to the ground. But what if he had only run ten stories? What if freedom and salvation proved hopeless? Any second he expected sharp pains in his chest and a collapse to the floor.

How much farther? How much farther?

He saw a sign reading Exit and lunged in that direction. Once again he fell into a stairwell and saw a number painted on the opposite wall. It read two!

Two floors to go! Freedom! Survival!

Hope welled within him, renewing his strength. He took the steps two, three at a time. One last door! He slammed his shoulder against the bar and fell into an enormous abandoned lobby. A walkway to the other tower? No, that got hit first. Must get out. Get to the street. Get away. As far away as possible.

Debris blocked his way to the outside. He vaulted over it, but caught his foot on unseen metal, stumbled and fell.

Suddenly, the earth began to shake! An earthquake? Are you serious!?

That could only mean the building above him would come down—only seconds to live. With a last jolt of adrenaline he leapt for the glass outer door and tumbled into the smoky open air. His ears rebelled at the deafening, endless thunderclap above and behind him. Crawling now—the trembling ground made it impossible to stand—he pulled himself away, breaking fingernails on the concrete, mercilessly scuffing his once shiny shoes. Blocks and girders crashed to the ground like the footsteps of a giant monster. He prepared to be seized, taken up and eaten alive.

Ahead, he could barely discern the sound and outline of the fountain in the square. Rising to his feet, he dove for it and plunged into a shallow pool of water.

All went quiet then. The shaking ceased. He held his breath as long as he could, but finally surfaced. All he saw was grey, like a great veil had been pulled over the city, a veil of smoke and dust.

He rose to his feet and lifted his wet shirt to his mouth and nose to filter out the toxic air.

Seeing nothing, he could only walk in the same direction he crawled, then dove, knowing that at least this led away from the horror behind him.

Minutes later, the filthy cloud began to clear and a cacophonous wail of sirens assailed his eardrums.

Strangely, he saw no one, and was beginning to think that was a blessing.

Soon, she would hear of the disaster, the love of his life. When she learned of his death, would she weep or breathe a sigh of relief? She loved him, that he knew, but life with him had not turned out as they hoped. His bold business venture, so successful at first, had crumbled and they faced the very real possibility of bankruptcy, the loss of their home and the promise offered by an excellent school system for their daughter Janis. Where could they live with no money? Certainly, the government would compensate them somewhat for the loss of records and work time, but that would ultimately amount to nothing.

He simply could not face that look of disappointment he detected so many times over the last few months—or was he projecting his own self-doubt on an uncompromisingly loving, supportive and confident face?

When he reached the street he gazed to his right and saw masses of uniformed officials scurrying to and fro. In that direction lay his old life, a life of family, perhaps a joyful reunion—and financial ruin.

In the other direction lay an empty city street, uncertainty, but the ironclad fact of a two point five million dollar life insurance settlement for his wife and daughter.

For long moments which grew more perilous as they increased the likelihood of discovery, he pondered the most critical decision of his life.

If he turned left, he could never hold or speak to them again. The reality of his death must be absolute and permanent. Otherwise, fraud and imprisonment awaited, and perhaps not just for him, if Deborah learned of his survival and did not return the money immediately.

He pressed his eyes closed, uttered a prayer to an unfamiliar god, and made his decision.

He turned left.

His mind racing now, he had to prioritize, one of those precious business skills that led to early success. He needed money, cash; he could no longer use his credit cards. In fact, he quickly emptied his wallet and dropped them into the sewage drain so as not to be tempted.

Next came the riskiest step in his blossoming plan. The only place where he could gather some funds was his bank branch only two blocks away. Was it damaged? Had the employees been dismissed? If the answer was yes, the situation was hopeless. If the answer was no, he still had problems. How could he cash out his business savings account of seventeen thousand dollars without being recognized or having the transaction recorded? Answer: he couldn’t. This was the one weakness. If he were ever to be discovered, it would be here.

Glenn James Fogerty, soaked to the skin and coated with dusty mud, strode confidently into the Apple Union Bank as if it were another business day. He waited patiently for one of the new tellers least likely to recognize him, slapped down his ID and related his plans to the bewildered young woman—bewildered by his appearance, his request, but most of all by the unimaginable horror that had just taken place only blocks away. Apparently, the manager suffered the same condition, because he didn’t seem to register anything that was going on. When Fogerty said, I’m going to buy a boat—today—with cash, the manager seemed to understand and signed off without a word.

With a hundred and seventy one hundred dollars bill stuffed into his pockets the next thing he needed was a new set of duds. These he bought at a Gap, surprising the staff who stood outside crying as the second tower came crashing down. Who would be buying clothes now, they wondered. Certainly, this man was dazed and needed attention, but they had no spirit for questioning now—reality had vanished for all of them—so one clerk hurriedly rang up the sale and watched the man in jeans and tie-dyed t-shirt vanish from the store forever.

Fogerty managed to catch the last ferry to Staten Island, before all but pedestrian traffic ceased in and out of the city. Now, he needed a car. Forget about air travel. All planes would probably be grounded for a day or two, and even when they flew again, he’d have to produce identification. So he hailed a cab with the curious directions to take him to the nearest used car lot, not part of a dealership, but an independent lot where he was less likely to be asked uncomfortable questions. There he bought an old Toyota, a brand noted for its reliability. He would need it, too, because the car already had one hundred and forty-four thousand miles on it, and he would need it to take him to the border of Mexico without incident. There, of course, he would leave the vehicle with the keys inside and hope somebody else could get some use out of it.

He gassed up and headed south. Three days later, he ditched the car and bribed a truck driver to hide him in the empty trailer. (They rarely checked vehicles leaving the United States.) From Mexico he could go anywhere, and decided on the South Seas.

Fogerty signed on to a tramp steamer, faking his credentials as an experienced cook. (If grilling burgers for holiday parties was experience, then perhaps he did not lie.) They must have fired his predecessor for substandard performance, because none of the crew ever complained about the novel concoctions he threw together for their sustenance. When they put to port near a U.S. Navy outpost, he disembarked, despite the protestations of his skipper. This is as far as I go, he insisted. He mollified his crewmates somewhat by leaving behind detailed recipes for canned beans and fresh fish.

He spent his first afternoon shopping at the modest general store catering to the military, filling his back pack, which he purchased there also, with inexpensive jewelry and popular treats, assuming the indigenous population could not care less about little green pieces of paper, regardless of their denomination.

He assumed correctly, and the accuracy of his insight pleased him. Thanks to a pretty little turquoise bracelet, and a couple of large Three Musketeers bars, two muscular caramel-skinned natives rowed him via outrigger canoe to a nearby islet, which they assured him sported game, wild fruits and unlimited sea food. Luckily, you came during the dry season, an interpreter remarked, but you had better prepare for monsoons and high waves in a few months.

Let’s see if I survive, first, Fogerty thought, then I’ll worry about the elements.

When he stepped onto the blinding warm sand near the shadow of palm trees, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply for the first time in over a week. By now Deborah and Janis would have adjusted to the finality of his absence, the tears, if there were any, coming less frequently. That’s when he fell on his hands and knees and finally allowed himself to cry.

He rolled over on his back and lay in the sand, basking in the warm tropical sunshine and gentle breeze. Yes, he thought, I can die here.

******

Monday was the first morning Deborah awoke and did not start crying during the first minute of consciousness. She broke habit and did not turn on the television first thing, either. I mean what else will they be talking about, she thought. This will be the biggest news story for months, perhaps years, perhaps for ever. And frankly, the situation angered her, not because of the calloused cruelty behind the act, and not because of the traumatic impact it could have on her daughter and so many thousands of others. It angered her because it seemed to water down her loss. Glenn’s death should have been special, for lack of a better word—not one of thousands. His life should have been held up for the community, with grief and attention focused solely on him. But his dying in the biggest terrorist attack in history distracted even their closest family and friends, as if those other thousands were drawing them all away and minimizing the end of this single solitary wonderful human being.

It might be part of family lore someday, to know that Glenn James Fogerty died in the World Trade Center, and maybe even a certain degree of respect will result from it—awe even—but that all seemed so cheap, so anti-climactic to the crushing immediate reality of his loss.

Deborah rolled out of bed, donned her robe and tapped on Janis’ door. Time to get up, Honey. You’re going back to school today. When, she didn’t hear a sound, she tapped a little harder and began to repeat, but was interrupted, All right! All right! I heard you, the thirteen year-old growled.

Breakfast in five, Deborah announced, then bounded down the stairs to make good on her promise.

Minutes later, the high school freshman shuffled into the kitchen, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

Raisin bran, toast and a banana—how does that sound? Deborah asked.

Just great, Janis droned.

Deborah studied the girl—young woman, actually—whose eyes remained riveted to the floor. Suddenly, she choked back a tear, realizing her little girl would be denied the love, protectiveness and guidance of a father throughout her teen years, and her later life.

Why don’t you turn on the TV? Janis asked.

You know what’s on—same ole, same ole.

That’s better than sitting here in silence.

What would you like to talk about? Deborah continued, moving fluidly through the kitchen gathering bowls and plates and spoons, cereal and milk and bread. Is there anything interesting going on in school this week?

How would I know? I haven’t been there since last Tuesday.

Deborah didn’t know what to say to that. She wanted to talk about the young woman’s emotional detachment from the week’s events. To date, she had not yet seen Janis cry, and thought that unhealthy. She tried something risky.

I had another dream about Dad last night.

Janis slipped off the kitchen stool and strode to the living room. I don’t want to hear this, she muttered.

Come on, Honey, let me speak. I... I need you, someone to listen to me.

Then why don’t you call the minister? He’s better at understanding those things.

Deborah raised her hands in surrender. All right, all right, she said, but please don’t leave. I won’t say any more. She switched on the small TV sitting on the counter by the sink. Familiar footage of the wreckage played, the endless loop of that second plane crashing into Glenn’s building, a report without video of people jumping to their deaths to escape the flames—the same ole, same ole. And all the while Janis gazed at the screen munching her raisin bran without response.

Her daughter’s actions were not unusual from what she learned later. Jenny Teasley, whom Janis barely knew before this week, had been coming over regularly, and the two just talked about things unrelated to The Day. They never embraced, nor cried. That’s what bothered Deborah the most. A screaming fit, smashing glasses against the wall would have been better, but had this generation become so numbed, so cynical about the world around them that they could not even cry for a lost parent?

Deborah busied herself with straightening a house already tidy. Early that afternoon the minister visited again to talk about the memorial service and offer comfort if needed. She forced down cynicism of her own, wondering if this older man came so often for reasons other than pastoral counseling. But he never said anything suggestive. In fact, he never even tried to hug her, and that she would have accepted as genuine—with no ulterior motives.

I’ve been having this recurring dream about Glenn, she said, almost as an after thought.

The minister Barney Smits seemed to brighten at the prospect that Deborah was finally going to share something meaningful. Until then she had been all business, not even crying in his presence and seeming to wander far away whenever he offered prayer.

The dream is so vivid, so life-like. I feel like I can reach out and touch him.

Tell me about it, the minister urged. "I believe dreams are very significant."

Really? It’s not unusual for a grieving spouse to dream about her husband, is it?

No, but sometimes the dreams tell us more than we can grasp in our conscious mind.

Deborah seemed to brush away the thought. It’s nothing earth-shattering, I promise you, but it’s the same thing over and over again. I see Glenn very clearly, as I said—all alone. He’s looking directly at me and he’s... smiling. He never says a word, and he looks different somehow.

Reverend Smits’ eyes bore into her and he paused before speaking. How was he different? he asked.

Deborah sighed. It’s really quite strange. He’s seems to be wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt and baggy jeans, clothing he never wore in all the time I’ve known him. He was always so meticulous, you know—never a hair out of place. He’d even wear pressed khakis to play softball or roll in the grass when Janis was a little girl. And the beard! My God! I think he shaved every single day of our marriage. THAT was definitely not like Glenn.

The minster nodded quietly, and measured his words. Truthfully, Deborah, this is not the first time I’ve had dreams like that described to me by people who have recently experienced loss.

So it’s an archetypal response, part of the universal buried sub-conscious?

I didn’t say that. I’ve only heard of dreams like this from people of faith, or at least those who did not hold faith in disdain. And I tell you frankly I think it means something. The fact that he’s smiling means that he’s happy wherever he is. That’s the first constant in all of the dreams I’ve heard. The second is the fact that he says nothing, which reinforces the teaching that there is a great gulf between this life and the next, a gulf that is never crossed. Psychics notwithstanding, there is no direct communication with us from those who have passed on, but at least we are allowed to see that they are happy. And finally, the fact that he’s changed means exactly that. He has a new life and a new body, whatever that may be.

They decided to postpone any decisions about the service until all of the wreckage had been analyzed. While no doubt remained about Glenn Fogerty’s fate, the recovery of some DNA evidence or a picture that he carried with him, for example, would lend a finality that Deborah had not yet attained.

But of course intense heat and a million tons of rubble could easily erase all traces of a human body.

After four weeks, Glenn Fogerty came to believe he could survive living by himself on a semi-deserted island. (There was a small village of about thirty people three miles away on the opposite shore.) Apparently, the resourcefulness that abandoned him in business resurfaced in this life or death challenge. He taught himself to spear fish, scale palm trees, scavenge for fresh fruit and trap small game. Fortunately, he had the foresight to purchase from the general store a hunting knife, a hatchet, several boxes of wood matches and a cheap set of cigarette lighters. In a very short time he discovered why his generation lost its battle with obesity. Everything came so easily in the city and suburbs. Finding food was a day long endeavor out here—and very hard work. He soon lost his middle-aged paunch.

After several failed attempts, he managed to build a hut, more like a lean-to, actually, with a grass and leafy roof. The first storm blew it down and he buried himself in the sand to escape the cold, driving rain. The next time he tied things a little bit more securely, and while the little shelter survived the wind, it did not survive the surge of the ocean pushed ahead by a pre-seasonal monsoon.

He loved waking up to a view of the deep blue sea, but wisdom dictated he move farther inland to protect himself from the bigger storms to come. They might call this place Agua Placida, meaning tranquil water, a name given by Spanish explorers, but coastal residents the world over knew full well that Neptune could lose his temper without warning.

If the last storm’s any indication of what’s to come, I’d better drive the support poles as deep as I can, he thought. He scooped sand with both hands to create a hole in the ground, then with all his strength plunged the sharpened edge of a skinned tree branch into it, hoping to sink the pole another foot. But instead of yielding dirt, the pole struck a very hard object, sending splinters into his palms and jolting the nerves in his arms and back. Once he gained control of his temper and pulled the slivers of wood out of his skin, he stared at the hole in perplexity. Could this be volcanic bedrock, he wondered. It seemed possible, but very unlikely. So, with his curiosity piqued, he dropped to his knees again and proceeded to scoop out the cool, wet sand.

That’s when he found the treasure.

The chest looked exactly like all of those iconic images, heavy damp planks of wood held together by thick metal bands of bronze. It took him several more minutes to dig around the chest and free it enough to lift it to the surface. He thought sure he’d throw his back out in this awkward position, because the thing had to weigh a hundred pounds. When he finally dragged it free he saw the thick iron hinges and the familiar padlock with the enormous keyhole, imposing enough to discourage any attempt at prying it open.

But maybe that won’t be necessary, Fogerty reasoned. The wood appeared rotten, so the chest would probably burst open if dropped onto a rock. The question remained, where on this sandy terrain could he find something hard like that? He couldn’t climb a tree and hold the chest at the same time. Lifting it over his head and throwing it down would not be enough, either. He thought of his neighbors across the island with whom he had already decided to share his bounty, but elected to withhold his discovery from them until he determined the magnitude of it.

Finally, Fogerty took his hatchet and simply chopped away. With great effort he managed to send slivers and wedges flying until he could see something gleaming inside the box. Excited now, his strength renewed, he hacked at the chest spraying wood chips in all directions. After an hour of frantic effort interrupted by several pauses to rest his aching muscles, he opened a hole big enough to pull some of the contents free. His heart leapt when he laid eyes on the first item, a small leather pouch containing stones of some kind. When he spilled its contents onto the sand, his jaw dropped. There lying before him—some as wide and quarters—were precious gems, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, fully cut and polished.

He had no idea how to appraise such things, but he could plainly see they’d bring tens of thousands of dollars, if not six figures in the jewelry district of New York City—if they were real. Either way, here they were worthless. Frantic now, he grabbed his knife and scraped away at the hole, slowly widening it. After another hour he was able to pull free a chalice that appeared to be made of solid gold with ruby inlays. Several minutes later, he yanked free a jewel encrusted cross with a solid gold chain.

This all set Fogerty’s mind to racing. These three items alone, the bag of gems, the chalice and cross, with a combined historical and luxury value, were probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars on the open market, enough for him to return to civilization and live in obscurity, but probably not enough to pay off the insurance company and avoid the charge of fraud. Carrying more than that would be unwieldy and very dangerous. His only hope was to rebury the chest, return by himself at some future date and gather its contents—not impossible, but very, very risky.

He could already hear the conversation. Where did you find this? A far away place. How far, exactly? VERY far. His discovery would attract enough attention that an unscrupulous buyer would hire a detective to follow his every move. So he’d have to play it coy, maybe wait a year or more before returning to the island. Until that time, he could not reveal himself to Deborah and Janis, but he could watch them from afar.

Fogerty gave several of the smaller gems to his island neighbors. He withheld the rest, not out of avarice but out of respect for their simple tropical lifestyle, which he himself had come to love. Why ruin this with the temptation of great wealth, and the division and corruption that usually accompanies it? If nothing else, the gems would provide them with food and the best medical attention for the rest of their lives. Plus, they’d buy him a lift back to the Navy base.

They laughed when he offered the pretty stones as payment for another ride in an outrigger canoe, which he thought odd.

Fogerty retraced his steps and booked passage on the same tramp steamer, paying cash this time with three hundred dollar bills, because their new cook seemed to be working out just fine.

Once in Mexico, he sought out the places where ragged people go and tracked down an expert on false identifications—including passports, drivers’ licenses and birth certificates. From this day forward, once he crossed the border into his home country, he’d be known as Thomas Flynn, a bearded, deeply tanned eccentric wearing a panama hat, sunglasses, Bermuda shorts, a floral shirt and sandals—all year ‘round. He was fairly sure that unless someone stared at him long and hard, no one—not even his wife and daughter—would recognize him. But of course his plan was never to let them see him at all.

The items brought him six hundred and thirty thousand dollars, as well as the anticipated and worrisome curiosity. One of the jewelers to whom he showed his treasure wanted to call the news services, so unusual were his finds. It took a sizeable bribe to buy the man’s silence, but Thomas Flynn doubted the jeweler’s words and knew he had to run for it.

Having flown from Mexico and taken a cab to downtown, once again he bought a car, a non-descript used Chevy, this time with maybe a year left in its mechanical life. With all of his emotional strength, he resisted the temptation to drive home and embrace Deborah and Janis, and instead spent his first day seeking out a modest apartment in the town adjacent to theirs.

If he was careful, he would not have to work until he returned to the island, which allowed him to do the thing he dreamed of exclusively: watching his wife and daughter from afar.

The days drifted passed like a swollen river and season blended into season. Thomas Flynn parked his surprisingly durable Chevy on the corner by the woods holding his binoculars and studying his little girl blossoming into womanhood.

There she prances down the front walk to the awaiting bus. There she climbs down with her neighborhood friends, Terry and Mike, chats for some minutes then breaks for her front door. Sometimes Deborah appears to welcome Janis and Flynn’s heart leaps.

A light snow falls and still he wears his Bermuda shorts, impervious to the cold. The flakes thicken and soon his two women emerge from the garage with shovels in their hands, laughing and stopping for the occasional snowball fight.

My God, let me hold them again, he prays, and thinks about the island, the only place that could make his dream come true.

But something holds him here, as if leaving again might expose his family to danger or additional loss. Now, they have a protector and maybe they even sense his presence.

The sun shines again and their tulips bloom. Deborah kneels besides the flower bed pulling weeds. Janis bolts from the garage on her bicycle. Deborah calls out as if to demand assistance, but quickly gives up as the young girl disappears around the corner.

By now Thomas has realized that parking in the same spot every day would attract suspicion, so he leaves the car at a nearby convenience store and walks through the woods, being careful not to be seen or break any twigs. He stands in the shadows and catches his breath as a new neighbor, young and quite handsome, stops to chat with Deborah who prunes the pine tree at the edge of their lot. She smiles a little bit too much, too soon Thomas thinks, and once again he knows he did the right thing.

Another young man, much younger in fact, strides to the front door early one evening. He is wearing formal attire and carries in his hand a corsage. Deborah opens the door with a wide smile and invites him in.

Is it possible? Thomas asks himself. Has that much time passed?

Janis steps out with the young man behind her, his hand on the small of her back. Together they walk to a shiny car; he being the perfect gentleman opens the door for her and she slides into the passenger’s seat. They both wave at Deborah who stands in the doorway brushing away tears. Minutes later, the handsome neighbor walks by and seems to ask if he might come in. Thomas feels his face go flush, but is relieved when Deborah shakes her head.

It’s only a matter of time, he thought. I’ve got to get back to that island.

A blazing summer and exceptional drought wilt Deborah’s beloved plants, but his good citizen wife refuses to water them in obedience to a town ordinance. Many die and will have to be replaced come spring.

Thomas is shocked to see Janis pull the car out of their garage and zoom away. At that moment he resolves to book a flight for Mexico. Only he misplaced his identification! He searches every nook and cranny of his apartment, but cannot locate it. Without a passport and birth certificate he can’t leave the country. At least he still has his driver’s license, but can he risk applying for replacement credentials? What if they discover his