Circling the Turtle

By E. C. Myers and T. M. Doran

What do you do when a successful career is interrupted by the news that you have only months to live? And what do you do when you realize that your work has been your life, that you have no close relationships and no purpose apart from the job that has come to define and consume you?

John OConnors response is to journey to Mackinac Island where, at age twelve, he spent the happiest days of his life in the summer of 1972, and where he begins a search for the girl who befriended him that long-ago summer.

A series of mysteries...who are the elderly women who accept John into their home on the Island...who is Jack the Rapper, the shadowy figure who commits crimes at Florida theme parks...and what became of the girl who was Johns best friend that summer on the Island - are the backdrop for the things that matter most in life: relationships, purpose, and transformation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 30, 2007
• ISBN: 9781477180433

E. C. Myers

The author is a sixth generation Michigander. He has handled large snapping turtles, frogs of all kinds, and even small alligators, but not without trepidation and often against the better judgment of family and friends. He and his wife are year-round residents of Michigan.

Book preview

Copyright © 2007 by T.M. Doran.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

37965

Contents

Preface/Credits

Vignette Number One

Vignette Number Two

Vignette Number Three

Vignette Number Four

Vignette Number Five

Vignette Number Six

Vignette Number Seven

Vignette Number Eight

Vignette Number Nine

Vignette Number Ten

Vignette Number Eleven

Vignette Number Twelve

Vignette Number Thirteen

Vignette Number Fourteen

Vignette Number Fifteen

Vignette Number Sixteen

Vignette Number Seventeen

Vignette Number Eighteen

Vignette Number Nineteen

Vignette Number Twenty

Vignette Number Twenty-one

Vignette Number Twenty-two

Vignette Number Twenty-three

Vignette Number Twenty-four

Vignette Number Twenty-five

Vignette Number Twenty-six

Vignette Number Twenty-seven

Vignette Number Twenty-eight

Vignette Number Twenty-nine

The Last Vignette

Preface/Credits

T his story was a joy to write.

Special thanks to Sherry Doran, James Doran, Fr. Michael Orsi, and Anne Gordon for their critical readings, which made the story better. Also, many thanks to Chris Myers for the original artwork and Debbie Goetz for the graphic design.

While the characters, events and organizations are fiction, Mackinac Island is a real place. The big turtle was first explored by Indian tribes and was settled by French immigrants and missionaries.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds is a 1967 Beatles (Lennon-McCartney) composition, and credit is noted.

The chronological and geographical hopscotching was unavoidable. The story demanded to be told that way.

. . . Suddenly resolve hardened in him (Frodo), and he seized a short sword that lay beside him, and kneeling he stooped over the bodies of his companions. With what strength he had he hewed the crawling arm near the wrist, and the hand broke off; but at the same moment the sword splintered up to the hilt. There was a shriek and the light vanished. In the dark there was a snarling noise.

. . . All at once back into his mind, from which it had disappeared with the first coming of the fog, came the memory of the house under the Hill, and of Tom singing. He remembered the rhyme that Tom had taught him. In a small desperate voice he began: Ho! Tom Bombadil! And with that name his voice seemed to grow strong: it had a full and lively sound, and the dark chamber echoed as if to drum and trumpet.

Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!

By water, wood and hill, by the reed and willow,

By fire, sun and moon, harken now to hear us!

Come, Tom Bombadil, for our need is near us!

J. R. R. Tolkien

1.jpg

Vignette Number One

August 10, 2003, Orlando

H e was more machine than man.

It had been easy to get into the house. His training, access to the right tools, and the advice of colleagues had made the operation simple.

What had brought him to that dark corner in that dark house was another matter. It had started with fear for his job, the only anchor in his life and, in many respects, his reason for being. That fear had gotten a grip on him over a period of months, had made it hard to sleep and eat. That fear made him angry, especially at himself for not being able to remove the source of this debilitating anxiety. He was angry at the person causing the fear too and the more he learned about that person the more the idea came alive in his mind.

It was a bold idea, even desperate, but he could not get rid of it. In one fell swoop he could make the fear and anger go away. Life could return to normal. The idea graduated to a resolution. He knew what he must do and he was prepared to do it. It was then that the analytical process that had served him so well was deployed. Every detail of the plan was confirmed—except one.

And so to this house on a night when he knew the owner would be engaged until after ten p.m. She had made the mistake, through pride, of allowing him to learn her name and even though she had covered her tracks ably, with the resources at his command, he had been able to find her.

He had removed and engaged the magazine for the 9mm pistol several times. It was a beautiful piece of machinery. He was ready.

It would have been interesting to have searched the house. Would he have found her props or any of the valuables? But he could not risk turning on and off lights, not when he didn’t know how long she’d be. Moreover, he was as good at his business as she was at hers. He didn’t believe in taking unnecessary risks, especially when so much was at stake.

There he stood and with every psychological trick at his command avoided that unresolved detail of the plan. He raised the gun and looked at it. It was barely visible. A slender beam of light from the streetlamp pierced the blinds and found the barrel, causing it to shine like a silver cigar.

It was after ten-thirty when he heard the door. He pulled the hood over his face.

A light came on, illuminating the room. The corner he had chosen would hide him from anyone entering the house, but she had to pass through this room to get to the bathroom and her bedroom. He wasn’t nervous. He had always been less nervous when an operation was in progress than when planning for it.

As she walked past him he darted from the corner and in one motion reached around her throat with his left arm and squeezed. He knew she was an athlete. He would not give her an ounce of latitude to resist. She gasped. Before she could struggle, he lifted the pistol to the right side of her head.

Don’t.

Please, she said.

There they stood. He was in no hurry. Hadn’t she made his life miserable?

She was breathing hard. He could feel her lungs expand and contract. He pushed the muzzle of the pistol harder against her head.

She whimpered, Please.

The temptation to squeeze the trigger was overpowering. It was as if he was someone else and that someone needed this woman’s blood. Something like a voice in his mind reminded him that she had humiliated him, had exposed his inadequacy. Couldn’t all of that be eliminated by pulling the trigger? Was he a coward on top of everything else? He had come to the matter he had been avoiding; what to do at this moment?

There they stood. She was shaking uncontrollably. He was wet with perspiration. His trigger finger seemed to have a mind and life of its own. He could all but hear the explosion and feel her warm blood. How could he resist the urge to finally eradicate his torment?

I hope you don’t have to shoot anyone.

It’s part of the job, he had answered.

I don’t want you to shoot anyone…

The memory was a freshening breeze that dispersed the phantom voice like so much chaff. Where had it come from? Despite the pain that had brought him here—and it had been excruciating—what was he doing? For all his faults, he never imagined himself capable of killing.

She was all-but catatonic. Before she could resist, he taped her hands behind her back and taped her mouth. Then, he forced her to the floor and taped her ankles together. He picked her up and carried her to the couch.

He could see the panic in her eyes. It momentarily froze him. Don’t ever go there again. Ever! He dropped a Davinci Company postcard on the floor.

She looked up into his masked face and nodded with a vigor fueled by terror.

He stumbled out of the house and walked the seven blocks to his car.

It was night.

2.jpg

Vignette Number Two

July 14, 2007, Orlando

W hen he woke as the night crested it was not to

the knowledge that he was dying, or to the realization that his career had ended. His first conscious thought was that he must find her and talk to her again.

That he had not seen her in thirty-five years and