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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 - she 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: 572
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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Debts Unsettled
A Mystery Across Time
Hollis Oliver
All Rights Reserved. You may not reproduce, store in any retrieval system, or transmit any part of this publication in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded, or otherwise—without the prior permission of the author and the publisher.
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 979-8-9894368-2-8
First Edition: April 2020
Second Edition: August 2023
Printed in the United States
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Contents
I dedicate this book to SuzyShe has loved me beyond reason
Iinviteyouto sign up for my mailing list. I will not send out frequent emails, only those that announce a new release or an offer. Also, I will not share your email address with others; it’s between you and me. I am producing a recording of the song I wrote for this book and will use the mailing list to notify you when you can go to my website to listen to it. That notification will only be sent to people who are on my reading list. I also offer deleted scenes, and a Novella related to this story. They will not be for sale. Again, these are exclusive to only those on my mailing list.
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“There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.”
— Robert Louis Stevenson
Santiam State Penitentiary
Thursday
Danielstruggledtoremember what freedom felt like. The tastes it brought. How it smelled.
But he knew freedom hadn’t smelled like the odor of confined men—an odor that assaulted him every time he stepped into the prison library. It clung to him, even permeated his hair. In his nightly shower—where he hoped to find solace—he first applied the shampoo, wanting to get past the release of the stench that would stream down his face; past his nostrils. It was a sickening daily reminder.
For 10,950 days, that stench had been part of his existence—a constant confirmation of where and who he was.
But every day, the foul odor awoke a hunger—even more so, a craving. He craved the scent of women: in their hair, on their skin, woven into their clothing... even their breath.
Especially ‘her’scent.
Each year, from August 9th to August 7th of the following year, he studied and stalked a different ‘her.’
He repeated that ritual five times before he lost his freedom.
August 8th hadn't been the same since.
But his love of using a blade hadn't changed. And his craving for the scent of women only amplified the hunger for his knife.
From the age of twenty-five, a USMC KA-BAR knife had been Daniel’s preference. He loved the heft of the seven-inch blade; it felt true.
At that very moment, he longed to apply truth to every whining convict in the prison library.
He loathed their complaints. The sniveling. Their excuses battered his senses and reminded him of his mother, who brought on similar emotions. She would bend low, mocking him with that jutting lip, sneering: “Boo hoo!” Then stomping away, shrieking, “Get over it, you big baby!”
He had heard every blame-shifting sob story inside the concrete walls: failed parenting, false friends, wrongful charges. It made him sick.
I’d be doing them a favor, he thought. And myself one too. Win-win!—I've got to get out of here.
White knuckles emphasized his clenched fists. His mind screamed: All those years. Wasted. Surrounded with nothing but losers.
What never occurred to him—even after three decades—was that he belonged among them. Twelve jurors had labeled him a loser—a word he detested!
He had never accepted law enforcement's collection of the evidence against him. Not for a second. The police? No way they were smart enough to catch him.
He thought, they must’ve had help.
Daniel spotted an open computer in the corner and sauntered across the black and gray checkered linoleum floor.
He knew the eyes of the inmates were tracking him. He caught the guard glancing toward him, then looking away. Daniel smirked. As he sat, he thought, Coward.
The State of Oregon moved the penitentiary to its present location in 1866, back when the land was just forest and field. For over three decades of walking prison grounds, Daniel had witnessed the transformation of trees into parking lots, and wild brush into neighborhoods.
But none of that progress ever touched him. He didn’t read newspapers. Didn’t watch TV. Didn’t care who was famous or which gadgets were trending.
He had two priorities; they were clear and focused; first, his investments. Second, what he’d do with his money once he's out.
Daniel avoided reading pop culture. Instead, he read classics. His favorites were Louis L’Amour and Wilbur Smith. Stories of men who survived by their wits and weapons.
Prison hadn’t changed his nature. It had preserved it.
Daniel still had the heart of a killer—a serial killer.
Because of his daily workouts, he was as lean and fit as he was the day he shuffled in wearing an orange jumpsuit. Ankle chains and matching wrist adornments had accessorized his outfit.
His pockmarked face, thinning white hair, and weak chin were in stark contrast with his arrogance and swagger. No one mistook him for soft. Not the inmates, nor the guards, nor his network of enforcers.
Thirty years had sharpened his hatred. Every August 8th, his rage escalated, but remained unavenged.
Six times, he’d tried to ease that fury by attacking men who identified as women. It never worked. Using a convict-made shiv just wasn't the same. The hunger remained.
He leaned forward, tapping the keyboard. The computer hummed awake.
Six months ago, he wouldn’t have had a clue about how to use one. Mandatory training and his intellect resulted in his tech knowledge exceeding that of most of the prison population. Not quite sixteen-year-old savvy—but he could manage his investments. That was all that mattered.
He avoided social media. Ignored news feeds.
But that day, something shifted. The likely agent of that shift was the hope surrounding his parole hearing the next day.
For the first time since he had begun using computers, he typed in the name of the woman the State had convicted him of murdering.
Her profile came up. He scanned the information he found, then paused.
She'd had a daughter. That was new information.
He searched deeper. The other four women—unsolved cases the cops had suspected him of murdering—also had children. One women's son died by suicide. Two women's children had criminal records and addictions. All four women's children had failed marriages.
But Deborah Mays’s son—he was different.
His name was Michael; he became an attorney.
That discovery caused Daniel to stiffen and sit up straight. His jaw had dropped.
He found the law firm’s website and clicked, 'Our Team.’
The moment the photo loaded, he called out, “What the!” and slammed hard against the back of the plastic chair. It echoed throughout the room.
Everyone looked up.
The guard stepped toward him.
Daniel looked at the guard, clutched his lower back, and winced. “Spasm,” he groaned.
The guard watched, waited, then backed off.
Daniel leaned forward again, staring at the screen.
That face! From thirty years ago!
He was sure of it.
While stalking Deborah, her twelve-year-old son had been with her. Several times, Michael Mays, the man on the computer monitor's screen, was there.
Daniel had stood toe to toe with him, had looked him in the eye, had even grappled with him.
It made no sense.
He rubbed his face. Blew out a slow breath. Then whispered aloud: “Thirty years ago. This can’t be true.”
He closed his eyes, ran his hands through thinning hair.
Will I face him again?
He looked back at the screen.
Daniel's mouth twisted.
He growled, “Michael Mays.” Then, glaring at the screen, he whispered low and slow, “if we meet again—”
Daniel sat motionless, staring into the past.
For the next hour, he sifted through memories, trying to find a logical explanation.
But the facts remained the same. And the facts… made no sense.
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.
But that wasn’t why he sat in a waiting room that day.
After losing his job at a major L.A. law firm—and everything else to his ex-wife—he was smart enough to know he needed help.
Dr. Downing stepped into the room and smiled. “Michael, give me a minute, please.”
“I’ll be here,” he said, with a nod.
He shifted in his chair. His six-foot-four frame, though lean, didn’t mesh well with waiting room furniture.
After the promised minute, she stepped out, and said, “Please come in, Michael.”
Her office breathed a harmonized femininity. A warm blend of cinnamon and vanilla lured him in. Bouquets of fresh flowers, floral-patterned fabrics, tasteful furnishings, and classical music in the distance created a soothing ambiance.
A sofa stood near a built-in bookcase; the books seemed to have a mind of their own. Michael imagined they had intentionally disordered, rebelling against the office’s otherwise calm symmetry.
The doctor shook his hand and gestured toward a floral chair facing the bookcase.
Dr. Jennifer Downing—close in age to Michael—was dressed like her office: composed, elegant, controlled. But her scent wasn’t cinnamon or vanilla. It was gardenia—just a trace.
She sat in a matching chair facing him. Michael glanced past her; the unruly books seemed to have switched to resisting the doctor's collectedness.
“Michael,” she said, “when we first met, I noticed you took in my entire office before sitting—just like today.”
“Doctor, your office is calming and peaceful,” he said, “but it’s not my style.”
“Does it make you uncomfortable? Second thoughts about seeing a female psychologist?”
He shook his head. “No… no both of my law firm partners—men—recommended you. But I’m fascinated by the emotions your office stirs in me.”
“Do you sense why you feel that way?”He paused. “I’ve got two whys. First, when we shake hands, I catch a hint of gardenia. My mother wore that perfume. Someone murdered her when I was twelve.”
He hung his head for a breath, then looked up while saying, “I still have the bottle she used that day.”
“Should I avoid wearing it next time?”
“No. Please wear it. It’s a good memory.”
She smiled softly. “And the second?”
“My grandmother—the woman who raised me—decorates with a similar feminine touch. More Victorian, but just as intentional.”
“We haven’t talked about her. Is she still with us?”
Michael perked up, smiled, and said, “Yes. Ninety years old. And very much alive.”
The doctor nodded. A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “You make me want to meet her.”
“When we last spoke, we covered your parents, but not that your mother died when you were twelve—or who raised you. So, your grandmother is your mother’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“How has she dealt with her daughter’s death?”
Michael lowered his eyes. “If you had a daughter who was murdered,” he brought his eyes back to the doctor’s, “how would YOU deal with it?”
Dr. Downing looked down and gently shook her head. “That was a clinical, detached question. I’m sorry.”
Michael leaned in, holding her gaze for several seconds.
“Doctor, my grandmother is the most important person in my life. If I could do one thing for her before she dies, it would be to find the person who killed her daughter.”
She studied him, then nodded. “If I could help with that, I would. But I’m not a clairvoyant or a detective. Last session, I sensed you were also trying to understand why your father left you. Is that correct?”
Michael touched his chin. “You’re more of a detective than you think. Yes, I want closure—on both.”
“Do you believe that’s possible?”
“Honestly? No.”
Dr. Downing said, “Maybe together we’ll find a path to closure.”
She glanced at her notes. “Let’s continue from last week—your job loss and failed marriage. Reviewing my notes, I found myself curious about your communications with your ex-wife. How would you characterize them?”
Michael leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “If we were driving to dinner, I’d ask a simple question—took about a quarter-mile. Her answer would take three miles. Her follow-up question, another mile. My answer would turn the car back home.”
Dr. Downing suppressed a smile. “Is that your experience with friends too?”
“No. We jab and joke. It creates laughter, not tension.”
She made a note.
“Tell me about your friends.”
Michael tilted his head. “What do you mean?”“Not a trick question. Just describe your relationships. Start with two friends.”
He rested his chin on the knuckles of his right hand and stared into a corner. “My grandmother—”
Dr. Downing smiled and said, “She doesn’t count. She’s family and your guardian. Someone else.”
He nodded. “Okay. Matt, we met in law school.”
“When did you last see him?”
“A couple of months after the divorce.”
“Michael, wasn’t that two years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Have you reached out?”
“No. Life got in the way.”
She studied him for a couple of seconds, then jotted something on her yellow pad. “Tell me about another friend.”
He pursed his lips and exhaled. “Kenny; we belong to the same golf club, and play as a team in our Tuesday morning men’s club golf outing.”
“When did you last talk?”
“About a month ago.”
“When will you see him next?”
“Spring. When the season starts.”
He leaned forward, hands open. “What do my friends have to do with me being here?”
Dr. Downing stayed silent. Letting the question simmer.
A minute passed.
“Michael, we’ll stop here for today. Before our next session, I’d like you to journal your observations, especially about those two friends. Frankly, they sound more like acquaintances. Meet with them. Use the same skills that made you a Partner at your firm in under three years.”
Michael offered a faint smile.
“At the end of each day, jot down what you learn from your personal interactions. Is that okay with you, Michael?”
“Ending the session, or the acquaintance thing?”
“Ending the session and journaling your daily thoughts and observations.”
He looked down, hands clasped beneath his chin. “Yes.”
“You said ‘yes,’ but your posture says otherwise.”
Looking up, he said, “I thought maybe you’d have answers today. Instead, it feels like I’m on trial.”
“Michael, I’m making no accusations. 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 say lawyers use cryptic language.”
She smiled. “I’ll be out of town for six weeks. You’ll have plenty of time for reflection.”
She offered her hand and said, “Michael, I look forward to our next session.”
Michael shook her hand. “See you in six weeks.”
* * *
Driving through Portland, his thoughts churned like a blender on high-speed. He felt emotions tugging at him like bramble thorns.
He tapped his assistant’s name on the Favorites screen.The car speaker came to life. “This is Trevor, Mr. Mays’ assistant. How can I help you?”
“Hey Trevor, Michael here.”
“Hi, Mr. Mays.”
“No appointments until after lunch, right?”
“That was correct. But your 2 pm, and the partners’ meeting, were both canceled. Just three phone messages to return.”
“Text me those. 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 made the calls before Salem. One client sounded promising. The other two were nothing special. “Intellectual Property 101”, he thought.
Just like his early years in the L.A. firm.It was his third year when his work began getting interesting—until his ex-wife lit a fire that the firm's partners extinguished quickly.
Move on, he thought, I will not spend five and a half hours with that cyclone in my head.
He refocused on the therapy session. By the time he turned onto the highway toward Sisters, the truth slugged him in the gut. Dr. Downing was right. Other than his grandmother, his relationships were few and shallow.
A roadside sign announced an exit in a fourth of a mile. No need to keep driving, he thought. I’d just be rehashing what I already know.
The exit would take him back to Salem, near the Oregon State Capitol building, to a restaurant he loved.
I have better relationships with restaurants than I do with people. That thought stung.
While taking the exit, he looked to his right, across an open field. The Santiam State Penitentiary loomed behind chain-links and razor-wire fencing.
While staring at the prison, his tires drifted onto the shoulder. He jerked the wheel back to center and thought, Life could be worse.
Michael did not know the magnitude of the “worse” contained behind that chain-link fencing. And the worst of the worse was up for parole.
Santiam State Penitentiary
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? If I'm remembering correctly, each time I saw him, 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, “Please, let me finish, Daniel. This could 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. “Hey! 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 one more time.”
Scary-ugly sat up and also glared. But two hundred and seventy-five pounds backed his glare.”
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.
Daniel scowled, “Lead the way.” He buttoned his shirt as he followed the guard.
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.
Not waiting for an invitation, Daniel sat.
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 began pulling 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 and picked up a pad of yellow sticky notes. He removed the pen from a wooden years-of-service-award pen holder. He wrote on a sticky note, peeled it from the pad, turned it to face the warden, and stuck it on one of the photos. As he leaned back in his chair, he tossed the pen and sticky notepad onto the desk. The pen rolled across the photos and fell to the floor.
The Warden picked up the note.
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… 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 laying 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. As he cut off and speared a piece, he said, “My reputation is what I want it to be.” Looking back up, he shoved the meatloaf into his mouth. “And I have people who build it and protect it forme.”
Russell studied Daniel for several seconds, then said, “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. Pale 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 finding my grandfather 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 digging around in 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,” he said, “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. I think he is. But the only way I can be sure is to get out of this hellhole.
“And when you get out,” Russell said, “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!”
Santiam State Penitentiary, Oregon
Friday
Priortohisparole 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 windblown.
Her 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 inhale deep.
As he studied her, he fantasized about adding her photo to the Warden’s desktop.
“Mr. Wygal, my name is Sam Grant.” She removed her backpack and placed it on the floor next to the door. She pulled out a file folder, 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.
“Mr. Wygal…” she faltered, “I can… I can help you.” As she shook his hand, her grip strength did not represent the weakness she felt in her gut. She looked at the file 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… 2008?”
“Sam, I can tell these questions sound absurd to you, but I’ve been in here 30 years. I know nothing about phone technology.”
“Mr. Wygal, 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.
He moved his head side to side slowly as he thought, 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 praises from the Department of Corrections' report.”
“Sam,” Daniel placed both hands on the table, and asked in a husky voice, “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, Sam.”
“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. But 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 to let 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
Laying on his bunk after lunch, 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 and down the street. 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.
He whispered, “Thirty-two years ago.”
He hadn't seen or thought of Louise since that day.”
He thought, I wonder if she ever talked to her daughter again?
Therestofthe 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
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 mock 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
Daniel breathed deep as he walked out of the penitentiary, then threw his head back and let the autumn 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.
He took a deep breath and whispered, “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. Using the same gruff voice he used behind concrete walls, said, “Hey, taxi man. I need to buy a van. Any used car dealers nearby?”
The driver asked in an accent Daniel couldn’t place. “How new do you want?”
Daniel shook his head, and said in the same gruff voice, “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. His behind-the-concrete-walls voice was still there. “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.
He glanced at the cash in his hand and thought, No guards telling me what to do, where to go, or 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. Waving cash in front of the uncle 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. He thought, 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 Michael’s grandmother’s 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, thinking, 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 the 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 that 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. He growled, “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. It reminds her too much of the past, so she 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?” Daniel snapped, “Maybe I can buy the book for us.”
“I don’t know, Daniel. She moved… years ago. She didn’t give her new address 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. Daniel, 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 first see if Michael had already bought the book.
He thought, 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.
In his van, Daniel pounded the steering wheel and snarled, “If Russell lied, he will be dead before day’s end.”
Finishedwithhisshower 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 lavished 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, it was me who supported us. And I supervised the 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.”
Without waiting for a response, he ended the call, 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, he thought, 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!” 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 Matchbox 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. He found the phrase alien.
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. But more importantly, who he hoped was there.
TheCoffeeShopwas 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.
After ordering coffee and a chocolate filled croissant, he wound past occupied tables to one next to a window 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.
He smiled and thought, 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,” he said 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, he thought, 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.”
