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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Mysteries Across Time
- Sprache: Englisch
Jere Van Dyk, Pulitzer Prize nominee, New York Times Reporter, CBS Correspondent, and author: “When you pick this book up, you cannot put it down. This is a crime novel unlike any I have read, moving from the present to the past, and back again. There is love, unremitting tension, and there is danger. It will keep you up at night.”
Time. Murder. Revenge. When a serial killer is released after thirty years, the past refuses to stay buried. Especially when time travel becomes the ultimate weapon.
Michael Mays has spent his life haunted by his mother's murder - who was taken from him when he was only 12 years old. When he discovers a mysterious book with the power to travel back in time, he thinks he's finally found the key to uncovering the truth. But he's not the only one hunting for answers. Daniel Wygal, freshly released from prison and harboring dark secrets, will stop at nothing to possess the book's power. As Michael races back and forth through time collecting pieces of the deadly puzzle, he finds himself trapped in a dangerous game of cat and mouse. His investigation leads him to Linda Curt, whose family was torn apart by a similar murder. Together, they uncover a web of family secrets, betrayal, and a killer's obsession that spans decades. But with Daniel closing in and loved ones in danger, Michael faces an impossible choice: If he changes the past to save his mother, what other horrors might he unleash?
Debts Unsettled is Hollis Oliver's heart-stopping mystery thriller that blends time travel with deadly revenge. If you love pulse-pounding suspense, mind-bending time travel, and dark family secrets, you'll be captivated by Oliver's masterful psychological thriller.
Unlock this time-bending thriller today and discover if the past can truly be changed.
Examples of Reader’s Five Star Reviews:
"The book is well written with a fast pace that is hard to put down. Because the author did not have to prop up the story with lewd language and sex, this is a great book to recommend to family and friends.” (Emphasis added)
“I wasn't sure what to expect from an author I wasn't familiar with. I was more than impressed. The characters were well developed, the story did not get bogged down with too much detail but flowed very smoothly. But mostly it kept me guessing and wanting to keep reading. I am really looking forward to his next book."
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Seitenzahl: 568
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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Debts Unsettled
A Mystery Across Time
Hollis Oliver
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and organizations portrayed are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
Debts unsettled – A Mystery Across Time
Book one in the “Mysteries Across Time” series
www.hollisoliver.com
Copyright © by Hollis Oliver
All Rights Reserved
DUSTY RAIN PUBLISHING
Washington, USA
ISBN 978-0-578-66781-2 (Paperback)
ISBN 979-8-9894368-2-8 (Hardback)
ISBN 978-0-578-66780-5 (eBook)
First Edition: April 2020
Second Edition: August 2023
Printed in the United States
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
I dedicate this book to SuzyShe has loved me beyond reason
“There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.”
— Robert Louis Stevenson
Willamette State Penitentiary, Oregon
Thursday, October 3rd
Daniel wanted to scream; even more so, he wanted a knife.
From the age of 25, a six-inch blade had been his first choice. He could make do with a four incher, but he preferred the heft of six inchers.
Six inchers felt true.
At that very moment, he wanted to apply truth to every convict loser in the prison library.
He loathed the losers’ whining. It battered his senses and brought to mind his mother bending over to get in his face.
She would jut her lower lip, whine “Boo Hoo,” then stomp off while shrieking, “Get over it you big baby!”
Over the past 30 years, he had heard it all. From shifting blame to their parents, to being set up.
He was sick to death of hearing it.
I’d be doing them a favor. And ending the sound of their whining and caterwauling would do me a favor. Win-win!
The odor of confined men assaulted him each time he walked into the prison library, increasing his urge to scream. The stink even permeated his hair. When he showered, the water released the odor. As it flowed down his face, the stink sickened him; a reminder served up daily for the past 10,950 days. There was no refuge from the odor or from the heap of constant reminders of his housing status.
He craved the irresistible call of perfumes from the hair, the skin, the clothing, even the breath of women. That was the biggest driver of his need to scream and of his desire for the knife.
I have to get out of here!
His fists hung at his sides. He clenched them white-knuckled, silently screaming, “All those years wasted... with nothing but losers!”
That he was a heartless murderer had eluded him. But twelve jurors had deemed him a loser. It cost him 30 years of his life.
Daniel had not reconciled getting caught. He could not fathom the police being smart enough to catch him.
Not by themselves. They must have had help.
He spotted an available computer in the far corner and sauntered across the library’s flooring.
Daniel was aware of the room following the movement of his feet across the 12-inch, black, and gray linoleum squares.
The guard also tracked his steps across the floor. To Daniel’s mind, the avoidance of eye contact smacked of cowardice. That thought brought on a smirk.
He relaxed.
The State of Oregon moved the penitentiary in 1866, where it stood desolate in the fields and surrounding forests.
Over the course of his three decades of daily prison walks, Daniel witnessed fields transformed into parking lots and forests develop into neighborhoods.
But progress was unsuccessful in intruding upon Daniel. He avoided newspapers, television, and most of the internet. He had no interest in knowing about the latest gadgets or who was famous and adored by the masses. His only interest was in how his investments were doing, and what he could do with his money when he’s released from prison.
Instead, he read classic novels, and never tired of re-reading his favorite authors: Louis L’Amour and Wilbur Smith.
After 30 years in prison, Daniel’s heart was still the heart of a killer—a serial killer.
Because of working out daily, he looked as lean and fit as he had on the day he shuffled in wearing an orange jumpsuit. Ankle chains and matching wrist adornments had accessorized his jumpsuit.
When people first met him, they noticed his pockmarked face, weak chin, and thinning white hair. Stark contrasts with his arrogance and swagger.
Prisoners and guards knew him as deadly smart and ruthless. They feared himand his network of enforcers.
Thirty years had fed his bitterness, not lessened it. Each year, August 8th came and went without occasion to take vengeance upon the appropriate gender—with the correct knife blade length.
Six times during his 30-year stay, Daniel had waged his lethal anger on men who identified as women. They did not satiate his appetite.
But Daniel saw hope: A parole hearing the next day.
He took a seat in front of an HP desktop computer.
As he watched the computer fire up, he marveled at how comfortable he had become with that technology. It had been less than six months since he attended computer training. His know-how was more like that of a 16-year-old than that of a 60-year-old, but he continued to avoid current news and social media.
He found the computers most useful in managing his trust fund investments. Prison staff and inmates knew he was wealthy. They did not know he was one of the wealthiest people in the State of Oregon.
Daniel had an idea, brought to mind by the thought of his upcoming parole hearing. He wondered if it was driven by a guilty conscience, remorse, or morbid curiosity. While considering the three, morbid curiosity caused the corners of his mouth to lift.
He opened Google and searched for personal information on the woman the State of Oregon had convicted him of killing.
The discovery of her having a daughter piqued his curiosity. By searching online archives, he found information about the children of the four women police suspected he killed.
One offspring committed suicide, several had drug and alcohol related arrests; they all had failed marriages.
But the son of Deborah Mays—one of the four murder victims police suspected him of killing—took a different path. Michael Mays became an attorney.
What put this kid’s life on such a different track?
He found Michael’s law firm’s website and clicked on “Our Team.”
“What the—“ he yelled out and slammed hard against the back of the metal chair. The sound reverberated in the concrete, linoleum, and metal room.
It brought attention from everyone, including the guard.
Daniel moved his hand to his lower back, grimaced at the guard, and said, “Muscle spasm.”
He leaned forward to study the computer screen.
It’s the guy… from over 30 years ago.
That confused and shook Daniel.
Several times while he stalked Deborah Mays, 12-year-old Michael, her only child, was with her.
This guy… this grown Michael was there too. How is that possible?
He leaned back with his hands behind his head. His mind went back three decades. Back to when he and the adult Michael confronted one another, even clashed physically.
Daniel pondered; confusion ruled his mind.
His head made a slow movement side-to-side as he thought, Thirty years ago; this cannot be true.
He ran his hands down his face, blew out a breath, and thought, Will I face him again?
Without diverting his eyes from Michael’s photo; his face contorted. He whispered, “Michael Mays, if we meet again, you will go down and never get up.”
Daniel was at a complete loss over the implications of his discovery. He sat motionless for an hour, running every angle of memories from 30-years-ago through his mind. It didn’t lessen his incredulity.
Portland, Oregon
Dr. Jennifer Downing’s Office
The same day
For 30 years, Michael Mays had lived with, even accepted, the unsolved murder of his mother. That alone was not why he sat in a waiting room that day.
After losing his job with a large L.A. law firm, and everything else to his ex-wife, he was smart enough to know he needed help.
Dr. Downing stepped out of her office and smiled, while saying, “Michael, give me a few minutes, please.”
“I’ll be here.” He said, as he looked at her and nodded.
He re-adjusted his position in the chair. His six-foot four-inch frame, even though relatively lean, didn’t combine well with waiting room furniture.
After the promised few minutes, the doctor stepped out. “Please come in, Michael.”
Her office breathed and exhaled a harmonized femininity. A whiff of cinnamon and vanilla pulled him in to see bouquets of flowers, floral-patterned fabrics, and well-placed art and furnishings. Classical music played in the distance.
A sofa sat next to a built-in bookcase; in the bookcase, someone had placed books at random positions. Michael saw the books as wrestling against conforming with the order of the rest of the office.
The doctor shook his hand and motioned toward a floral chair that faced the bookcase.
Dr. Jennifer Downing, approximately the same age as Michael, dressed like her office, everything neat and in place. But not cinnamon or vanilla. Her scent was a hint of gardenia.
She sat in a matching chair, facing him. Michael looked past her. The books appeared to have shifted to wrestling against the doctor.
“Michael, when we first met, I noticed you took in my entire office before sitting, as you did today.”
“Your office is calming and peaceful,” Michael said, “but it’s foreign to my taste.”
“Does it make you uncomfortable? Are you having second thoughts about seeing a female psychologist?”
Michael shook his head. “No… no, both of my law firm partners, men, recommended you. But I am fascinated by the emotions brought on when we meet.”
“Do you sense why you have those emotions?”
Michael thought for a few seconds.
“I have two whys. First, when we shake hands, I pick up a trace of gardenia. That’s a powerful memory I associate with my mother. I was 12 years old when someone murdered her. She loved that perfume; I still have the bottle she used on the day she died.”
“Should I not wear it next time we meet?”
“No, that scent is a wonderful memory. Please wear it.”
The doctor smiled. “Good; what’s the second why?”
“The woman who raised me, my grandmother, decorates with a similar feminine touch. An older, Victorian style, but feminine.”
“We haven’t discussed your grandmother. Is she still with us?”
“Yes, 90-years-old and very much alive.”
The doctor nodded. “Your response makes me want to meet her. When we last met, we discussed your mother and father. We didn’t discuss you being twelve when your mother died, or who raised you. So, is your mother’s mother the woman who raised you?”
“Yes.”
“How has she dealt with her daughter’s death?”
Michael lowered his gaze. “If you had a daughter who someone murdered, how would you deal with it?”
Dr. Downing looked down, shook her head, and said, “My question was clinical, wasn’t it? I apologize.”
Michael leaned toward her and stared into her eyes for a several seconds.
“Doctor, my grandmother is the most important person in my life. If I could do one thing for her—to pay her back for how she loved and raised me—I’d choose to find who killed her daughter and bring closure before she dies.”
After considering his response, she gave a soft smile and nodded in agreement. “If I could help you with that, I would, but I’m far from being clairvoyant or a detective.
“During our last meeting, I sensed you have a goal of discovering why your father abandoned you. Is my takeaway from that conversation correct?”
Michael put his hand to his chin. “You’re more of a detective than you know. I guess you could say I, too, need closure. On both my mother and my father.
“Any hope of achieving either, or both?”
“None I can see.”
“Maybe we can discover a way to bring closure for you.”
The doctor studied her notes for a few seconds, then said, “Okay, Michael, let’s continue last week’s discussion. We discussed the loss of your job and your failed marriage. Since that session, and as I reviewed my notes for today’s session, I’ve become curious about communications between you and your ex-wife. How would you characterize them?”
Michael stared at her for a few seconds, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees and his hands out. “If we were going out to dinner, just the two of us, I’d ask a question, which took about a quarter of a mile. Her answer, three miles. Her follow-up question, a mile. My answer turned the car back toward home.”
Dr. Downing hid a smile. “Is that your experience in conversations with your friends?”
“No. We joke and jab one another sarcastically, but it causes laughter, not anger.”
The doctor made a note. “Since we’re there, tell me about your friends?”
He looked at her, tilted his head, and pursed his lips. “What do you mean? I guess I don’t understand the question.”
“It’s not a trick question. I want to hear your perspective on your relationships with friends. Let’s start with two.”
Michael looked down while resting his chin between his index finger and thumb. He looked up. “My grandmother—“
The doctor cut him off. “A friend who is not a relative. She’s your friend because she raised you and because she’s your grandmother.”
“Okay.” Michael sat up straight and crossed his arms. “My friend Matt. We went to law school together.”
“When did you last spend time with him?”
“A month or two after Gwen and I divorced.”
She flipped two pages back and looked at her notes. “You and Gwen divorced two years ago?”
“And life gets in the way.”
“In your way, or his way?”
“In everyone’s way.”
“Did you reach out to him?”
“No, like I said, life got in the way.”
Dr. Downing studied Michael’s eyes for a moment before making a note. “Okay, tell me about another friend?”
Michael turned his head away, closed his eyes while taking a deep breath, then looked back at the doctor. “Kenny.”
“Describe that relationship.”
“We play golf in the men’s club at the golf course where we’re members.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
Michael sighed through his nostrils. “It’s been about a month.”
“When will you see him next?”
“Spring of next year, when golf season begins.” Michael slid forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and hands spread. “What do Matt or Kenny have to do with why I’m seeing you?”
Dr. Downing did not say a word. She allowed their conversation to percolate through his mind.
A full minute passed before she interrupted Michael’s thoughts.
“Michael, it’s important we end at this point. Between now and our next session, I want you to journal observations about your friendships and relationships. At a minimum, the two who first came to mind. They sound more like acquaintances, yet you cited them as friends. If they’re available, get together with them and use the skills that make you an excellent attorney. Michael, you recovered after your experience in California. In your current law firm, you made Partner in less than three years; don’t ignore that accomplishment.”
Michael gave a weak smile.
“At the end of each day, I want you to journal what you learned from that day’s personal interactions. Is that okay with you, Michael?”
“Ending the session, or friends being more like acquaintances?”
“Ending the session and journaling your daily thoughts and observations.”
Michael clasped his hands and rested his chin on his thumbs while looking down. He shook his head, then looked up. “Yes.”
Dr. Downing leaned forward. “Your mouth says yes, but your body language tells me it’s not okay with you?”
“I was hoping you’d have a few answers today. Instead, I feel like I’m being accused of something.”
“Michael, I’m making no accusations. But I will help guide you through the self-discovery process. Then we can discuss answers, or more accurately, the actualization of mitigating your discoveries.”
He stood. “And people think attorneys use cryptic language.”
She smiled. “I’m out of town for the next six weeks, so you’ll have plenty of time for reflection. I look forward to discussing friendships, or better yet, relationships. All right?”
Michael nodded and shook her hand. “I’ll see you in six weeks.”
Michael drove toward his office, feeling like his thoughts were being tossed around in a blender; his emotions were bleeding like they were being untangled from blackberry brambles.
He jabbed his assistant’s number on his Favorites screen. His car’s speakerphone came to life.
“This is Trevor, Mr. Mays’ assistant. How can I help you?”
“Hey, Trevor, Michael here.”
“Hi, Mr. Mays.”
“Trevor, I have no appointments until after lunch, right?”
“That was correct, but your late afternoon partners’ meeting and your 2 P.M. meeting were both canceled, so other than three phone calls to return, your day is free.”
“Text me the phone messages. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Have a brilliant afternoon.”
“Thanks, Trevor.”
Given he had six weeks to work on his journal assignment, his immediate priority was to regroup from the doctor’s insights. The prescription, driving to Sisters, Oregon, to have halibut fish & chips for lunch. The result would be six hours behind the wheel. Side effects may include the recognition that he sucks at maintaining relationships. He considered that possibility as he merged onto I-5 Southbound. A random thought interrupted.
She’s taking six weeks off?
He finished the phone calls before he was thirty minutes down the road. One led to interesting, even challenging work. The other two were not profound issues.
Intellectual Property Attorney 101 level.
His calendar, during his first two years with the L.A. firm, overflowed with 101 assignments.
The third year, Michael’s cases became more stimulating. But by the end of that year, his former wife caused the firm’s partners to ask him to leave.
Move on. I will not spend five and a half hours with that cyclone in my head.
He ousted those thoughts by replaying his conversation with Dr. Downing. By the time he’d passed through Salem, and turned onto the highway to Sisters, the realization that the doctor was correct, slugged him. Other than his grandmother, he found few relationships. And those few were surface-only.
A roadside sign announced an exit in a fourth of a mile.
No reason to spend four more hours on the road rehashing what I know is true.
The exit would take him back to Salem, near the Capitol building, to a restaurant he loved.
I have better relationships with restaurants than I do with most people in my life.
He realized how pitiful that sounded.
While taking the exit, he looked to his right, across an open field. The Willamette State Penitentiary loomed behind chain link and razor-wire fencing.
His stare locked onto the prison, causing him to nearly run off the road.
Life could be worse.
Willamette State Penitentiary, Oregon
Still the Same Day
After lunch, Daniel told his cellmate what he had found.
The cellmate stepped back and sat on the edge of his bunk. “What difference does it make, Daniel?” He grabbed his pillow, placed it on his lap and began rubbing one of the pillow’s corners between his thumb and index finger.
The cellmate was a big man, scary-ugly and smart enough to fear Daniel and his network of enforcers. Or, as Daniel called them, part-time employees. Scary-ugly was also a part-time employee.
“Someone helped the police put me here… it must be him. He’s the same guy who hounded me over 30 years ago. He carried a device I’d never seen and haven’t seen since; I believe he used it to take pictures of me.”
Scary-ugly became wide-eyed. He looked at the floor.
He slammed his hand on top of his bald head. “That means, somehow, he traveled back in time. That ain’t possible, right? Maybe it was his daddy you seen. I mean, I seen boys who look just like their daddies.”
Daniel stood, paced, and talked out loud to himself. “That could be, but why was he always on the sideline? Each time, he was watching Deborah Mays and her son from a distance.”
“Maybe his daddy was shy. Maybe he wanted to keep an eye peeled but didn’t like crowds, or people.”
Daniel’s gaze slashed at Scary-ugly. “Stop interrupting my thoughts.”
But Daniel’s thoughts were taking him nowhere. He leaned against a wall and gazed into the past. “I guess I’ll never find out short of time travel being discovered.”
Scary-ugly had recoiled, wishing he could take back his comments. While withdrawing farther onto his bunk, Daniel’s last sentence registered. He blurted out, “Hey, there’s a dude in here who says he’s innocent—”
Daniel cut him off. “Don’t we all?”
Scary-Ugly hugged his pillow tighter, pleading, “Let me finish, Daniel. It might be something.” He retreated farther onto his bunk until the concrete block wall stopped him. “This dude claims he used a book to travel back in time. It’s a convincing story, man. Most dudes laugh at him, but I’ve listened to him tell it… probably ten times. It never changes.”
“A book?” Daniel’s full attention fell on his cellmate. “Michael Mays, or whoever it was, carried a book. What’s the guy’s name?”
“Russell. I never heard his last name.”
Daniel swung his feet up onto his bunk and laid back. “Point him out at dinner.”
As Daniel drifted off, clanking sounds startled him. “Get up, Daniel. The Warden wants to see you.” Again, the guard hit the cell’s doorjamb with his baton.
Daniel sat up, placed his feet on the floor, and glared at the guard. “Hit the doorjamb again.”
Scary-ugly sat up and also glared. But his glare was scary-ugly.
The guard backed away.
Daniel picked up his shirt, shook it out, brushed off lint from the left sleeve, then put it on as he walked through his cell’s doorway and into the hallway. The guard pulled out handcuffs.
“Lead the way,” Daniel scowled and buttoned his shirt as he followed.
As they neared the Warden’s office, the guard pointed to an oak banker’s chair outside the office doorway. Daniel glanced at him but continued walking straight through the Warden’s open door. The guard moved to stop him. The Warden held up his hand. “It’s okay, Jim. Please close the door.”
The Warden’s office had two large bookcases stuffed with books. All but those on a shelf in the bookcase closest to his desk showed no signs of wear. Those closest were well-worn policy manuals, at the ready, waiting to pounce. He’d lined his walls with framed certificates for participating in trainings, his college diploma, and years-of-service awards.
The warden sat behind his desk, tapping the edge of a file folder in his right hand against the palm of his left hand.
Daniel sat, not waiting for an invitation.
The Warden stared at Daniel for a few seconds then stood. “Daniel… we have a problem.”
“What problem do you have, Warden?”
The Warden remained calm. “Daniel, you know we don't allow controversial material on our in-house computers.”
Daniel did not break eye contact or respond.
“Our IT people searched the library server and found disturbing photos in a file you created.”
Daniel still did not break eye contact or respond.
“Your parole hearing is tomorrow, right?”
Daniel’s head lowered and his eyes narrowed, but his stare held.
The Warden opened the file folder. He pulled out photos and laid them one-by-one on the desk until only one remained in his hand. Daniel did not shift his glare.
The Warden held up the remaining photo. It was of a partially clad woman who died from traumatic, disfiguring injuries. He slid the photo back into the envelope while saying, “What will the Parole Board think when they see these? Do you believe they will view you as rehabilitated and grant you parole?”
Daniel did not speak. Instead, he reached next to a photo on the desk and picked up a pad of yellow sticky notes. With a pen from a wooden “Years of Service” award pen holder, he wrote on a sticky note, peeled it from the pad, and stuck it on one of the photos. As he leaned back in his chair, he tossed the pen and sticky note pad on the desk. The pen rolled across the photos and fell to the floor.
The Warden removed the note Daniel had written on.
He fixed his gaze on Daniel and raised the note until it came between them.
For a few seconds, he stared at the note.
Lowering it, his face had gone pale.
Panic leapt into his eyes. “Where did you get this?”
Daniel snarled. “It doesn’t matter. But if the Parole Board sees those photos,” again, lowering his head while maintaining eye contact, “I will have my employees—on the outside—pay your family a visit.”
His face contorted into a twisted smile. “Imagine your family’s photos among those on your desk.”
Without another word, Daniel stood, walked to the door, opened it, and walked out while waving to the guard. “Let’s go, Jim.”
The Warden continued to stand, staring back and forth between the yellow sticky note and the photos on the desk.
That evening, Scary-ugly pointed out Russell.
As Daniel walked toward the table, he made eye contact with the inmate sitting across from Russell and gave a side nod.
There was no hesitation. The inmate was up and gone.
Daniel placed his food tray on the stainless-steel table, sat on the attached stool, and considered Russell for a few seconds. His impression was that the guy looked slippery. A pretty-boy, and everything about him screamed huckster.
“I take it you want to talk?”
“Yeah,” Daniel said, as he used the back of his plastic spork to smear margarine on a piece of bread and took a bite. “Someone told me pieces of your story.” He chewed, while wiping the butter from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Spreading more margarine on the bread, he said, “I want to hear it for myself.”
“I know who you are, Daniel. Your reputation precedes you.”
Daniel dumped ketchup on his meatloaf. He cut off and speared a piece “My reputation is what I want it to be.” Looking back up, he shoved the meatloaf into his mouth. “I have people who build it and protect it for me.”
Russell studied Daniel for a few seconds. “Do you want details, or the Reader’s Digest version?”
“The entire story—but hold on—you're willing to tell me without bargaining? No one in here does that.”
Russell lifted his Spork. Sickly colored gelatinous gravy oozed through the Spork’s short tines. “Either I tell you the story… or eat this crap.” He studied it without emotion, dropped his Spork, and looked at Daniel. “If I keep telling it, someday, someone will believe me and help me get out of here.”
A metal food tray crashed against the concrete floor.
The clatter caused Russell to flinch.
Taking another bite of bread, Daniel gave a slight smile. “I’m listening; I might be that someone.”
Russell told of being convicted of murder and losing everything, including his wife and son.
He moved on to how he had discovered a book that caused time travel. “When I was in high school, my mother told me a story about my grandmother Doris finding my grandfather James shot to death in their garage. When she found him, he was holding a blood-soaked book.
“Not long after my mother told me the story, I was searching my grandmother’s attic, looking for stuff I might turn into beer money. One thing I found was the blood-stained book. I took it and kept it. It was my only connection to my grandfather.”
After describing the exterior of the book, he told Daniel how he discovered its powers. He told of how he had used it to travel back in time, but on his last adventure, he left it behind by mistake.
He ended his story with, “Well, that’s it. Do you believe me?”
Daniel re-positioned the piece of apple pie on his plate to make it easier to cut. “I’ve never been one to believe in things like time travel, and your story hasn’t convinced me. But I’ve learned to be careful in rejecting something out of hand, without considering it further.”
Daniel crammed a spork-load of pie into his mouth and told Russell what he had discovered during his on-line search.
“I don’t understand how I’m related to that story?”
Daniel did not allow excitement to overcome calm. “I’m not convinced you are, but the man on the law firm’s website, Michael Mays, carried a book identical to the one you described.
“How’s that possible? I lost the book.”
Daniel nodded his head slowly, while saying, “Puzzling, isn’t it? To answer that question, I have to figure out ifMichael Mays is the man from 30 years ago. The only way I can do that is to get out of this hellhole.
“And when you get out, I expect you to help me get out.”
Daniel ignored Russell. He took on the look of a wolf approaching its prey. A wolf with pie crumbs on its face. Russell leaned away and retreated to the rear edge of the stool.
“If I find it was Michael Mays, and he has the book you described, I will destroy both him and the book!”
Willamette State Penitentiary, Oregon
Friday, October 4th
Prior to his parole hearing, Daniel met with his attorney in a small holding room. Four concrete block walls and a metal door—which had a small wired-glass window at eye level. A four-by-four-foot metal table and two metal chairs sat stark in the room.
As his attorney walked in, Daniel’s first thought was, They sent me a high school student?
Sunlit red-wine lipstick—which matched her fingernails—emphasized her full lips. Her cropped hair was platinum blonde with a hint of violet and appeared wind-blown.
Gray-violet eyes threw Daniel into a turmoil.
Or was it the black suit jacket and skirt, tailored tight, stressing she was young and fit?
Either way, it was a feeling he had not experienced in over 30 years.
Her fragrance made him want to grab her, bury his face in her hair, and breath in… slowly.
As he studied her, he fantasized about adding her photo to the Warden’s desktop.
“Daniel, my name is Sam Grant.” She removed her backpack and placed it on the floor next to the door. She pulled out several files, turned, looked up, and caught Daniel staring at her backside. As he raised his eyes, his lecherous smile caused her to step back. She tried to hide her fear, which pleased Daniel.
“Daniel…” she faltered, “I can… I can help you,” as she shook his hand with a grip strength that did not represent the weakness she felt in her gut. She looked at the files trembling in her hand. “I’ve reviewed your case and personal history.”
With none of the confidence she’d walked in with, she said, “I believe you’ll be out of here soon.”
As she laid out her strategy, her phone buzzed, causing her to jump.
Nervous as a schoolgirl. Daniel mused.
“Excuse me, I have to answer this text.”
Daniel saw no use for phones. His parents were long gone. No brothers or sisters. Maybe he’d find a use for one if paroled.
She held up her iPhone. “I apologize. My office sent a message I had to answer.”
As she lowered it, something caught Daniel’s eye. “Hold it.”
Sam saw he was looking at the back of her phone. Almost dropping it, she turned it over as if expecting to see a black widow spider.
Daniel leaned forward. “The shiny thing. Looks like an apple?”
She pointed to the back of the phone. “Oh,” she said and let out a deep breath. “That’s Apple’s logo. It’s on all of their products.”
“Does it do more than make calls?”
“More than we have time to discuss.”
“Does it take pictures?”
“Yes, great photos.”
“When were those phones first made?”
Sam tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “My brother bought one of the first models while I was in my sophomore year in college. So… 2007?”
“Sam, I can tell these questions sound strange to you, but I’ve been in here 30 years. I know nothing about phone technology.”
“How is it possible you’ve avoided smartphone technology?”
“I’ve avoided all technologies, except for our library’s computers. And people know I avoid it, so they are very careful with their conversations around me.”
The puzzled look on her face suggested she thought that was an odd arrogance.
She considered that comment for a few seconds. Daniel saw the fear return to her eyes. She looked at the file folder. “Well, let’s get you paroled so you can catch up.”
Sam impressed Daniel as he listened to her speak to the Parole Board. The five-person Parole Board, made up of four men and a woman, sat on metal chairs behind a metal table. It was a cold, sterile room, and the Board’s demeanor reflected the ambiance of the room.
Sam presented Daniel’s record as a model prisoner. She made a convincing argument that the evidence used against him 30 years ago was sketchy, and that he was no longer a danger to society. As she made that statement, she cast a nervous glance at Daniel
Daniel watched the body language and facial expressions of the Board. He suppressed a smile. Her ability to charm the Board amazed him.
She’s pulling it off.
After a brief interview with Daniel, they excused him and his attorney
As Sam and Daniel sat in the holding room, they discussed the hearing.
She looked at her notes. “Their body language suggested they agreed with my points. I sensed we had them when they quoted praise from the Department of Corrections' report."
“Sam,” Daniel placed both hands on the table, “do you believe I’m no longer a threat to society?”
She struggled to maintain a businesslike demeanor. “It’s… it’s not my place to judge, but to represent you to the best of my abilities.”
Daniel stared at her with the same look she’d caught when she had stood and turned from her backpack. “I admire your abilities.”
“Thank you.” Sam responded as she looked at her watch and found a reason to step out of the conference room and make a phone call.
The Parole Board called Daniel and Sam back into their meeting room. They reviewed their deliberation and informed Daniel that parole was being granted. Using his most sincere voice, Daniel thanked them. But it smacked of smarmy more than sincerity.
Daniel and Sam met back in the conference room. She reviewed with him the conditions of his parole and gave him a copy.
She shook his hand and turned toward the door. “Sam… hold it.” He continued his effort to be sincere and appreciative, but smarmy didn’t give way. “Thank you. We make a good team. Let me take you to dinner after I’m released.”
She gave an uneasy smile. “You’re welcome, Mr. Wygal. My firm has a strict policy against fraternizing with clients.” She opened the door and rushed through, hoping the guard was a fast walker.
While waiting for the guard to return, Daniel sat dejected. But, upon pondering his Monday morning release, he took heart.
There are plenty of sweet young things out there who’ll appreciate a wealthy, older man.
At dinner, Daniel described the hearing to Russell, including his release and his plans.
“Russel, I’m going to check out your story. Understand this, if I get the book, and try it as you’ve explained, and it doesn’t work—”
Russell winced. Daniel smiled.
“I won’t stop till I find the book. When I do, I’ll try it as you described, then destroy it.
“My only lead is Michael Mays and I’m counting on you letting me know if you come up with, or remember, anything that might help me.
“I’ll buy a phone Monday afternoon and get the number to you.”
“Daniel, I’m trusting when you find the book, you’ll use it to get me out of here. And that you'll give it to me rather than destroying it.”
Daniel tilted his head and gave a lopsided smile. “Of course.”
Saturday, October 5th
Saturday afternoon, laying on his bunk, Daniel recalled stalking Michael’s mother. He remembered the two houses she had frequented. One was easy to figure out. It was her home, where she lived with her husband and son. The second house took an investigation to sort out.
It belonged to Michael’s grandmother and grandfather.
He recalled talking to Michael’s grandmother as she worked in her front yard.
She was in her late fifties. Daniel remembered her being an attractive woman. She wore jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, which fit like it must have belonged to her husband. Leather work boots and gloves protected her feet and hands.
As she weeded flowers—which lined both sides of the walkway to her front door— strands of silver-streaked brown hair hung over her vivid blue eyes.
Daniel introduced himself; she introduced herself as Louise.
He turned the conversation to her daughter. “Louise, I live around the corner. On one of my walks, I stopped here and talked to a young woman as she was getting out of her car with, I assumed, her son. We didn’t talk long, just made introductions. She was a nice young woman.”
Louise pushed back the strands of hair. “Yes, that was my daughter Deborah and her son Michael. She may have been dropping Michael off while she headed to a meeting, or a doctor’s appointment, or some such thing. She knows I love spending time with my only grandchild.”
Daniel remembered complimenting her again on her yard work while saying goodbye.That was thirty-two years ago. It was the last time he saw Louise.
I wonder if she ever talked to her daughter again.
The rest of the weekend, Daniel continued putting his computer skills to work. He did a property records search on The City of Portland Development Services website. Michael’s grandparents, Ben and Louise Nelson still owned the house; he wrote their address in a small spiral notebook.
First, I pay Michael’s grandparents a visit.
Sunday, October 6th
That evening, after lights out, Daniel lay in his bunk talking with his cellmate.
“Daniel, I heard Big Ben bad-mouthing you this afternoon. He called you a coward and said you’re lucky you’re being released tomorrow. He claimed you wouldn’t have survived another week in here.”
Daniel chuckled. “He’s been a pain for 20 years. I want you to deliver a parting gift to him. The gift of freedom.”
“My pleasure. I’m tired of him too. He’s done nothing but make fun of me and talk trash about me in front of his buddies. I’ll catch him when they ain’t around.”
“Great. My only disappointment is that I won’t be there to enjoy the gift giving.”
Monday, October 7th
Daniel breathed deep as he walked out of the penitentiary, then threw his head back and let the Fall sun warm his face for a few seconds. He was unsure about what he’d do with the rest of his life, but getting the book, and trying it, as Russell described, was his priority.
If it doesn’t work, Russell is dead.
He suspected he was sifting vapor, but if Russell’s story was true, he could change history. A history where his life was on his own terms, not restrained by concrete and steel.
Guards closed the gate behind Daniel.
The air tastes good.
* * *
At the Portland, Oregon terminal, Daniel stepped off the bus. His first order of business was to buy a cell phone, a van—his vehicle of choice—and find a place to live.
He entered the bus station, approached a ticket window, and got directions to a phone store, which was only blocks away.
Cell phone purchased, he approached a taxi driver. “Hey, I need to buy a van. Any used car lots nearby?”
The driver asked in an accent Daniel couldn’t place. “How new do you want?”
Daniel shook his head. “I don’t care, as long as it runs well.”
The taxi driver pushed back his faded Seattle Mariners baseball cap. “My uncle has business on 82nd Avenue. I’ll take you there. He can help you.”
Daniel climbed in the back. “Lead the way… and stop at a Wells Fargo Bank.”
“I know of one.”
With Wells Fargo holding his Trust Fund, it was easy to get them to issue him a Visa Card.
Anticipating his release, Daniel applied for and received an ID card from the Department of Motor Vehicles.
The cab driver stopped at the bank. Daniel went in, showed his Visa card and his DMV ID, and withdrew $20,000 cash.
While Daniel was in the bank, the cab driver called his uncle.
With newfound energy, Daniel leapt back into the cab. Freedom had energized him.
No guards telling me what to do, where to go, and when to move.
After 15 minutes of driving, the cab driver drove into his uncle’s car lot.
Daniel bought the first van they showed him. The waving of cash resulted in a quick transaction.
While walking toward the van, he put on a pair of work gloves he’d lifted as he left the car lot’s office.
He climbed into the old, but serviceable, white Ford van, started the engine, and headed for the exit.
It’s early. I might as well visit the grandparents.
He stopped the van, removed one glove and pulled out his spiral notebook. He entered their address into Google Maps.
There you are granny. It worked just as the phone store girl showed me.
Daniel slipped the glove back on, put the van in gear, and exited onto the street.
* * *
Parked in front of the house, he planned his approach while sipping coffee he’d bought along the way. Coffee gone and plan in mind, he walked to the front door and knocked.
I’ll remember that coffee joint. Been a long time since I’ve had a good cup of coffee.
An hour later, Daniel walked out of Michael’s grandmother’s house. He’d gained far more information than he’d hoped for. Most helpful was learning about Michael’s Saturday morning routine.
The same coffee shop and used record store every Saturday morning.
It amazed him she had welcomed him right into her house. Her husband’s dead and she lives alone.
She invited me in. Stupid old lady.
Daniel shifted his focus to finding a place to live. He spotted a hotel near a mall he’d hung out at as a young man. The name “Residence” hooked him.
After an early dinner, Daniel relayed his new phone number to Russell.
* * *
Wednesday afternoon, Daniel sat on the edge of his bed experimenting with his new computer. He’d never used a notebook computer. He liked it.
His phone interrupted him. “Yeah?”
“Daniel, it’s Russell. My ex-wife visited me this morning to bring my son to see me—”
“You’re calling me to share family moments? Don’t waste my time. Call me when you can tell me where I’ll find the book.”
“Wait, Daniel, that’s why I’m calling. As she was leaving, she told me she’s having a yard sale this weekend. She claims she has the book and will either sell it, or give it away. She doesn’t care which… say’s it’s too much of a reminder of the past and wants it gone.
“At first, I wasn’t buying her claim to have the book. She refused to tell me how or where she got it, but I’m now convinced she has it.”
“I hope you convinced her not to sell it.”
Russell stammered. “I… I begged her… to bring it to me, but she… she refused.”
“What’s her address? Maybe I can buy the book for us.”
“I don’t know… she moved… years ago, and she didn’t give it to me. I’ll try again. I promise.”
Daniel ended the call. As he laid the phone on the bed, the Apple logo caught his eye. The thought of Gutenberg and Apple playing roles in his imprisonment struck him.
* * *
In a neighborhood restaurant, eating breakfast on the morning of the yard sale, Daniel’s phone buzzed. “Yeah.”
“Daniel, it’s Russell. I called a friend I haven’t talked to in years. He told me she hasn’t moved.”
“What’s the address?”
As Russell recited what was once his home address, Daniel wrote it in his notebook.
He looked at his watch; his voice raised. “Russell, it’s 8:15. She’s opened the yard sale by now. You’re not taking this serious dude. If that book’s gone, it’s on you. Those walls won’t protect you. They didn’t protect Big Ben.”
“I know, I heard that. I’m trying—”
Daniel hung up before Russell finished. He grabbed his coat, the notebook, and left money on the table. He decided to first go to The Coffee Shop Michael’s grandmother mentioned. Daniel’s plan was to see if Michael had already bought the book.
If he hasn't, I'll head to the yard sale.
He sensed the rage building as he considered that Russell’s story might be a fool’s tale.
If he lied, Russell will be dead before day’s end.
Finished with his shower and shave, Michael Mays was drying his face when his phone rang.
“Michael here.”
“Michael, it’s Gwen—”
“Gwen… If I’d have recognized the number, you’d be talking to my voice mail now. I’m surprised you’re up this early. Especially on a Saturday morning. What do you want?”
Gwen, Michael’s ex-wife, the same age as Michael, was smart, but without his drive, character, or work ethic. Her parents generously indulged her with financial support.
“Michael, I know how bitter you are—”
“Bitter, you must mean how much better I am without you.”
“Michael, I need something—”
“Let me think... the court gave you our house, everything we accumulated, even my Blazer season tickets—”
“Michael, stop. It was a fair deal. You got three years of great experience in a large Los Angeles law firm.”
Michael scoffed. “Yeah, and because of you, that experience ended too soon.”
“I was only trying to help you get a raise. I sensed you weren’t sticking up for yourself. You wanted to work there— an area way too expensive for your entry level salary. One of us had to pressure them.”
Michael pulled the phone from his ear, strangled it and shook it.
Jamming it back against his ear, he said, “And you did, repeatedly. Even after I asked you to stop… repeatedly.”
“Well, if you would have succeeded, I wouldn’t have kept trying. During that time, I supported us, and supervised construction of the house on the property my parents gave me.
“Every time we speak, Gwen, we get nowhere. This time you need something; what more could you want?”
“I know I agreed to you keeping our collection of 19th century novels, but I miss them. Can I have them?”
“Seriously, Gwen? You convinced the court that everything else we owned was because of you. Move on, please. Live your life and stay out of mine.”
He ended the call without waiting for a response, opened her contact information, and added her number, then blocked it.
He threw his phone on the bed. It bounced, ricocheting off the headboard onto the floor. He picked it up and got dressed.
Out of his apartment building and on the sidewalk, Michael realized how fast he was moving. The sound of Gwen’s voice making frivolous requests drove his legs and feet like a locomotive engine. “Let me have it, give it to me, let me have it, give it to me.”
Two blocks from his apartment, a yard sale sign pointed to a side street. It was not part of that morning’s plans, but he needed a diversion; time to cool off before heading to The Coffee Shop, where he had planned to ask Stephanie Clark out for dinner.
Michael wanted Gwen out of his head. But kept hearing, “Let me have it, give it to me.”
Michael knew he was being petty and unrealistic, but he hoped to find a 19th century novel to add to his collection.
At the yard sale, he found a table lined with over 50 books. He began sorting through them.
The yard sale kid had Michael in his sights as he circled a table made of an old interior sliding door on top of two, even older, wooden sawhorses. He picked up three Matchbox cars that were parked on the table.
While juggling the cars, he walked to the folding table where Michael stood.
“We’ve got a ton of stuff scattered around the driveway and in the yard. Some of it's crap, but most of it's good stuff.” Still juggling the cars, he twitched his head to keep his hair out of his eyes. “My mom says our crap may be another guy’s treasure. See anything you like?”
Michael did not raise his head. He held up a book. “How much for this?”
The kid glanced away from the circling cars. “My mom said a buck, but it’s worth more.”
Michael looked at the book and snapped at the kid. “For this, why?”
Michael’s response startled the kid, but he continued juggling. His friendliness turned argumentative, “Because she told me to give it away if I couldn’t sell it. She doesn’t give stuff away. I figure it’s something she wants to get rid of, but something she won’t throw away. Something’s worth more than a buck.”
“What’s your name?”
Back off, the kid’s not Gwen.
“My name’s Jacob. What’s yours?”
“Michael, I live around the corner. How old are you, Jacob?”
The kid’s voice became nasally and sarcastic. “Twelve, how old are you?”
Michael looked down and chuckled. “Forty-two… and, Jacob, I apologize. I wasn’t making fun of you being young. I meant it as a compliment to your reasoning skills. My attitude this morning stinks and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, thanks, Michael. I guess I read it wrong.”
“No, you read it right. I was being a jerk.”
“Yeah, I guess we both were,” Jacob said, as he caught two of the matchbook cars in his left hand. He circled his right hand behind his back, releasing the third car up and over his left shoulder. He caught it in his left hand, but it struck the cars he cradled there and bounced away.
Jacob looked at Michael with a wide grin. “Almost,” as he brought his right hand back around and shook Michael’s hand. “I’ll keep trying ‘til I get it.”
“Won’t be long and you’ll have it perfected.”
Michael turned his attention back to the book. The book’s title, ‘Making Pictures Come to Life,’ had caught his attention.
The clear packing tape that bound the book piqued his curiosity the most.
Why keep it from being opened? The stains on it, wine, blood?
“All right, I’m interested in photography, so I’ll give you two bucks for it, but that’s it.” Jacob was about to counter. Michael made a stop motion with his hand. “That’s 100% more than your mom wants for it.”
Jacob’s eyes widened. He grinned and couldn’t help but give a small fist pump. “Okay, it’s yours,” Jacob said, as he placed the Matchbook cars on the table. From the waistband of his Portland Trail Blazers gym shorts, he pulled out a plastic Walgreens sack and dropped the book into it.
Before paying, Michael asked, “Hey, Jacob, I collect vinyl record albums. Do you have any?”
Without speaking, Jacob mouthed, Vinyl record albums, likeit was a foreign language.
Michael handed Jacob two one-dollar bills. “That’s okay, Jacob. Good doing business with you. And I enjoyed meeting you.”
Jacob arched to see Michael’s face. “You too, thanks.” It was not because Jacob was small for a 12-year-old. Most people looked up when talking to Michael.
When they did, they found he had dark brown hair, green eyes, and chiseled facial features. Women considered him handsome and single men viewed him as competition. Although he wasn’t as lean and fit as he was in his college sports days, he was still strong and agile.
Monday through Friday, Michael dressed in either a suit or sport coat and slacks. On weekends, his choice was to get out of his “uniform” and into denim and un-tucked flannel. That morning, he also wore a jacket.
After the yard sale diversion, Michael set out for the first of his two Saturday morning destinations, The Coffee Shop. Not a clever name, but there is no doubting what they sell.
The Coffee Shop was on a corner. During the 1930s, the building was a drugstore and soda shop. The two floors above the business still housed renters. Or, as The Coffee Shop’s owner called them, “built-in customers.”
The owner had refinished the original oak cabinets and counter. Customers enjoy sitting at the counter and talking with the baristas.
On the two exterior sides of the shop, the original wood casement windows stretched from the ceiling down to table height.
The builder had set the front door in the building's corner, where the two windowed walls met. Customers entered the door from two sidewalks.
Every time Michael entered The Coffee Shop, it reminded him of waking up to the good-morning aroma of coffee in his grandparents’ house.
He ordered coffee and a chocolate filled croissant, then wound past several tables to a window table he had spotted when he entered. He placed his things on the table and returned to the counter. His grandmother came to mind as he waited for his order. She had not allowed him to drink coffee until he was a senior in high school.
I’ve more than made up for what I missed.
Back at the table, he ate his croissant and placed his lips on the rim of the cup, blew, and sipped. The coffee cooled as he made his way through the mid-week Oregonian newspaper, which he’d saved for that morning.
He had access to the daily on-line editions, but enjoyed holding the real thing, snapping it open, and taking in the fusion of ink, newsprint, pastry, and coffee.
Smells like weekend mornings.
Tomorrow morning, he would be back having coffee and a chocolate croissant with Sunday’s Oregonian, the second of the two weekly printed editions.
He opened the sports section first and read a report on the latest Blazer game.
That was a good game, Blazers 111, Kings 108.
He recalled hearing a co-worker say with sarcasm, “Just give each team 100 points and two minutes on the clock. The results would be the same.”
While sipping his coffee, he looked out the window. The dark, threatening skies brought Gwen to mind. He loves basketball and wished he could have seen that gamesitting in his season-ticket seats.
But that ended with Gwen’s divorce settlement, or as Michael said too often, “Gone with the Gwen.” He told his mind to go elsewhere, nothing good to see in that storm cloud.
His mind jumped.
Why is that book taped shut?
Jacob is a sharp 12-year-old. I’m impressed.
Blood or wine stains?
His coffee and croissant gone, he checked his phone. It was 9:50, 10 minutes until the record shop opened.
Most Saturdays, he left his newspaper on the table for the next Saturday morning coffee junkie. But the skies were getting darker and more threatening. He folded the newspaper in half and placed his yard-sale sack between the fold.
Might need an improvised umbrella.
Michael stood and turned to leave. He noticed Stephanie Clark sitting at the table behind him. His face lit up.
Stephanie was in her mid-thirties. There are people who would say she is plain. Michael found her attractive. Freckles crossed the bridge of her nose, and her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. She was always up and positive, although a touch sarcastic, which Michael enjoyed.
“Hey, Steph, I didn’t see you come in. I thought you hadn’t shown. How goes your morning?”
She looked away from the window and smiled. “Great.”
Without a doubt, that smile could push aside my search for old vinyl records.
“Even better now,” her smile growing. “When I walked in, your newspaper had you engrossed. I hoped you’d look around before you left.”
Stephanie had pulled back her auburn hair. It cascaded over the hood of her rain jacket.
“You’re prepared for what the sky’s threatening—beautiful color,” as he pointed to the rain jacket.
“It’s called ‘Wild Geranium’.”
“Whatever it’s called, you make it look good. Auburn hair and blue eyes against wild geranium… stunning.”
Her face became the color of her jacket. “Be still my heart.”
They hurried into their typical small talk.
Though not unusual for a professional photographer to carry, Michael pointed to the camera on the table. “I don’t think I’ve seen you with this camera.”
“It’s new. I bought it to use with a 300 MM, f2.8 lens… blah, blah, blah,” as she waved her hand as if brushing the camera off the table.
“I think I mentioned I’m teaching a Saturday afternoon photography class.”
“That’s right, you told me that two weeks ago.”
Well, the vinyl record search is back on.
“Today, I’m teaching my last session. I meet my students downtown for lunch and give them feedback on the photos they’ve shot during the past week. Then we’ll be on the streets of downtown Portland until dark.
“I’m hoping the rain holds off, but then again, rain can make for interesting shots. I must walk back home to get my car. So, just in case, I’ll grab an umbrella.”
“I hope it goes well for you, rain or no rain.”
A white-haired man approached them. “Excuse me.”
Stephanie and Michael both looked up. “Hi.”
