

# A Path Not Chosen

Phillip N. Hancock, Sr.
The following book is totally fictitious and any resemblance to actual places, characters or events is a product of the writer's imagination.

_Text copyright @ 12/23/2011 Phillip N. Hancock, Sr._

**ISBN:** 9781370084999

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Note: The beautiful cover photo was taken by Loretta Abel at their beautiful home in Washington State. My thanks goes out to her for allowing me to incorporate this scene into my work as this path holds many fond memories for me and my family. It's a path that I have happily chosen many times.

Table of content:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Prologue:

Other Books by this Author

Before You Go

Prologue:

There was very little noise as sufficient ether had been administered to mask the obvious pain involved in the cesarean delivery. He was methodical and the procedure was completed in almost record time that is if records were being kept.

He lifted the newborn out by the feet and held him upside down. He used his gloved hand as he cleaned out the baby's mouth insuring there was no obstructions. He swatted the baby's tiny rear end causing a quick intake of breath and then a reassuring wail told the doctor all is well in the breathing department. After a cursory check and clean up, he laid the new baby down on a fresh blue blanket. He then placed the infant in a nearby crib. As he removed the surgical gloves and gown he whispered goodbye to the sleeping mother then tossed the used items in a waste receptacle placed near the room's only door.

Time waits for no man so he hurriedly left this current location as other almost identical procedures were already demanding his attention. This day will be long but if all goes well the results should be rewarding. He smiled to himself as he opened the door and left the room and headed to the similar room just next door.

Twelve years had passed since that cesarean. Now it was a small gathering with friends, co-workers and family. They all sat in a semi-circle facing the small stage that had been set up in the corner of the room. The spotlight was intense while the room's lights had been lowered placing the audience in semi darkness. The young man, not yet a teenager, stood in the center of the spotlighted circle. He was wearing a small mask that simply surrounded his eyes but left the rest of his face exposed and recognizable. His dress was magical with top hat and cape. In his hand he held a small slender black, white tipped, wand. The cape swept around as he moved across to the box his assistants had pushed out onto the edge, on the other side of the stage.

His assistants, all dressed in tights with full mask hiding their identity, moved the medium sized box out into the middle. The young caped individual followed the action with arm and hand extended toward the box as it was moved. His emphasizing hand's action drew the audience's attention to the moving apparatus as he followed it across. Once in place in the spotlighted center of the stage he opened the small doors on the front and rear of the box. Sweeping the small wand back and forth up and down inside the box, he showed the box was empty and there was no place inside to hide.

With considerable flare he walked around the box several times as if deciding just how to enter. Once he decided he stepped up and into the tight fitting enclosure. His four assistants turned the box around so all could see the back of the box. Two of the assistants closed and locked the rear of the box then they turned the box back around. The other two assistants closed and locked the front of the box.

The magician inside stuck his hand out a small opening, that had been left in the front door of the box, and gave a small wave. Suddenly a small explosion with considerable smoke enveloped the box followed by both doors flying open, front and back, as if the explosion had blown them open. As the smoke began to dissipate all could see the interior was completely empty.

A small explosion behind the guest made them jerk around and watch as the smoke behind them cleared exposing the young magician in top hat and cape. He moved from the back into the audience slowly tapping his wand in the palm of his hand. He ascended the steps that lead back on stage as they clapped in appreciation of his clever deception. After numerous bows to the audience the spot light was extinguished and the room lights were restored.

The, too many, question about how he did it were rebuffed, "A magician never reveals his secrets." was his persistent and final answer to all of them, then he followed his assistants off stage and out of sight.

Chapter 1

The Pumpkin Patch

The 1988 annual school play, The Pumpkin Patch, is lasting longer than we expected. We, the audience, sit in subdued lighting while the actors stand on a raised, well-lighted stage in their clever makeup. The costumes and the grease paint seem to give the performers a feeling of anonymity, and the excellent job contributed by the set builders leaves the participants with the idea that nothing is real. The clever young thespians thus find the confidence they need to ad lib some very humorous lines. These supplementary quips and the audience's appreciation push the final curtain later than its predicted fall.

Jazzmin, my granddaughter, is squirming in her seat. A trip to the bathroom is fast becoming a necessity. My daughter, Jazzmin's mom Nicole, is the director of the play and I feel she should be present for the entire performance so I'm the one who will take Jazzmin to the bathroom. Jazzmin is soon to be ten years old, and a very independent young lady, but the bathrooms are some distance down the hall from the auditorium. Nicole and I cannot, with any peace of mind, allow her to go that far this late at night without some type of supervision.

But when Jazzmin and I walk down the hall, we find an "Out of Order" sign posted on the door of the first floor facility. "Use the restroom on the second floor," the sign adds, so we turn around and ascend the stairs.

Stopping at the top, I promise Jazz that I will not embarrass her by standing at the door of the girl's bathroom. I will wait here at the top of the stairs and pretend I am short of breath from the climb. If someone sees me here, I will take a couple of hard breaths and slip into the men's bathroom, this way she won't be embarrass and I won't be seen as some type of leech or pedophile hanging around the little girl's restroom.

I remain at my post for the better part of ten minutes before I become concerned that Jazzmin is taking too long. Before I can knock on the door, however, Nicole comes up the stairs.

"Hey, the play is over, what are you two doing up here on the second floor?" She asked.

"There is an out-of-order sign on the facility downstairs." I explain.

"But there's no sign downstairs," she says, and without knocking or calling out, she opens the girls' bathroom door and walks in. She, too, wants to find out why her daughter was taking so long.

It only takes a few seconds for the screaming to start. I ram the door with my shoulder and find Nicole on her knees on the cold tile floor, rocking back and forth on her heels, both hands over her mouth, though her screams and sobs are still pouring out.

I grab her by the shoulders and lift her up to eye level. "What happened?"

She doesn't acknowledge my question and something is gnawing at the edge of my consciousness. I continue to try to reach Nicole and find out what has her in such a state. That's why it takes me several minutes to realize it. Except for Nicole and I, the bathroom is empty. And that's when it hits me—Jazzmin. She isn't here. That's also when I see the other door.

I drop Nicole and start looking for my granddaughter. I can see the whole bathroom except for the stalls. One by one, I push the narrow doors open. Nothing. No one. It is in the third stall that I see the writing on the back wall. It is in red and has started to bleed, running down the wall as if the writing was crying. I know my face has lost all of its color as I turn and look back at Nicole. She is trying to pull herself together as she holds up Jazzmin's coat. It has a note pinned to it.

I grab the coat and read the block printing ,"She is Mine", scribble on the torn piece of paper, it is also in red.

The paralysis I suddenly feel lasts only for a moment then I charge out into the hall. The father of a young actor is just coming out of the men's room. I ask him to come and take Nicole back downstairs. I will join them shortly and explain.

Not even waiting for him to reply, I run back into the girl's bathroom, out the other door, and start down the hallway in the opposite direction from where I had waited. Another set of stairs leads back down to the first floor. I take these stairs two at a time and explode into the hallway at the bottom. The main floor of the activities building is nearly empty now. A pair of double doors to my right leads back toward the auditorium. On the left, a hallway leads to the rear of the building. I know there will still be a crowd in and around the auditorium, so I run down the hallway toward the back of the building. Where is Jazzmin my mind is screaming?

Only one door leads to the outside, and it is locked, so I kick it open and rush through, frightening two derelicts who are hunched down in a large cardboard box, their only protection from the chilly north wind that sprang up during the play.

The area is not well lighted, but the clear night and the full moon illuminate the rear of the building and the moon is even bright enough to cast some shadows.

"Hey!" one of the derelicts shouts at me. "Watch out! Don't you people have any respect for people down on their luck? All you people should leave the same way you came in, by the front door." The amount of cheap wine in his bloodstream makes him look like he's writhing on the ground, although I think he's only trying to stand up.

"What do you mean by 'all you people'?" I shouted back at him, grabbing him by the torn collar of his dirty, second-hand coat that reeks of stale cigarettes and spilled beer.

He mumbles and slurs the words but they still hit me hard.

"All you people," he repeats. "You know. You and the tall guy, the one in the funny beard who left with the young girl."

"The young girl?"

"I think we frightened her," he says, backing away from me, trying to shrink out of my grip. "She started crying when she saw us."

"Were they in a hurry?"

"No, man. They had a key. They took their time locking up after themselves. He made sure to lock up, even though the girl was crying. Mr. Funny Beard picked her up and tried to comfort her, but it didn't help much. She cried even louder. That's when some of the other people in the van got out to help. They seemed very concerned about her. That's probably why they left in such a hurry." He blows his nose on his coat sleeve. "They wanted to be far away from us as soon as possible."

I know they hurried away for a different reason. But I don't say that to the vagrant. I let go of his coat and rush past him and his buddy. Standing in the middle of the street. I look both ways for some sign of a van, but there are no taillights in either direction, and I can't hear an engine running that might give away a vehicle without lights.

I'm just standing here for some time, looking both ways as if looking might make things change, as if a clue to the disappearance of my grandchild would suddenly appear out of nowhere. My hopes for my granddaughter are crashing to the ground. How can I go back and tell Nicole that her daughter has disappeared and I don't have much of a clue of why or how it was done? The only evidence I saw was the writing on the wall of the bathroom stall and the statement made by the drunk in the cardboard box.

I head back into the building through the broken back door, past the two derelicts getting comfortable again in their makeshift home. I fuss with the broken door, trying to close it. Perhaps I am just delaying seeing my daughter again. I don't know how I can explain what happened or comfort her. She knows I was responsible for her daughter at the time of her disappearance.

As I retrace my steps, my mind is reeling. I'm having trouble breathing. My chest is tightening up as the cold facts of the situation settle in. Suddenly my knees no longer support me. I slide to the tiled floor. The light is being sucked out of the hallway and a thick black veil is rushing in at me from all sides. A thick curtain of darkness falls as I fall down. The last thing I remember is the absolute cessation of noise and the almost solid blackness. It is as if my life is ending because the life I had always known was now gone.
Chapter 2

Seven Years After

October, 1995, seven years later

"Although I am only fifty-six years old," I say to the man who runs the antique and curiosity shop, "I feel like a hundred. I have been on the bottle now for almost seven years and I live in a shelter with others of my kind. My daughter has followed in my footsteps. I watched her transformation. She went from being a fun-loving parent and teacher to a boozing, drug-addicted stripper who performs at one of our local juice bars."

The shop owner keeps his hands busy while I talk. He is straightening up some display items, but I can tell he is listening to me.

"Nicole has given up. Her reasons for pursuing a life of any meaning or quality are, just like her daughter, gone. She sleeps so little she is now only a shell of her former self. She tolerates me when I force myself into her presence, but she doesn't respond to conversation unless she's intoxicated or under the influence of strong drugs. When I see her, I am reduced to a mumbling, hunched, pathetic, worthless, almost inhuman being. I am now lower than the two derelicts that witnessed the abduction of my granddaughter on that dark night, seven long years ago. Will I ever get over it? I don't know. Can I even try to get over it? Only time and circumstances will decide."

The bell attached to the door tinkles, causing both of us to turn. We see the door closing but the customer has evidently decided not to enter so I continued.

"I remember the kidnapping so clearly," I say, "well, that is, up to the point where I passed out and went into a coma for about a week. Then I was awake but unresponsive for almost two months. I wished so often that I had died, but my health was too good then, and my body just kept on functioning, no matter what I wished. The doctors said I had suffered a shock my sanity couldn't handle. I closed myself up, like in a cocoon, so nothing else could hurt me. I couldn't feel, see, or hear. I was like a vegetable for almost three months. I'm not sure, and the doctors haven't ever said, why I ever returned to what they considered normal. I think their definition of normal meant I could feed and clothe myself."

The shop owner is still keeping busy, rearranging some delicate pieces inside a glass case. I am pretty sure his attention is still on my tale.

"The police did their best to find some clues to the crime," I assure him. "They spent two very active years in the pursuit of the abductors and followed every lead and investigated everyone and anyone who had had any contact, no matter how minor, with Jazzmin for the year before the kidnapping. I think they gave Nicole's ex-husband, the prominent doctor, the worst time of all. In a small town like this, when a toilet is flushed at one end of town, the flush is heard at the other end. Everyone knows the problems that any of our married couples have."

The shop owner simply nodding his head gives me the idea that he is still listening.

"With the good doctor leaving immediately after Jazzmin's birth, the authorities figured he had no love for Nicole or their new baby daughter. His farewell speech is still recorded in the memories of all who lived in our small town. His words about his loathing for his do-gooder wife he was forced to marry, due to her pregnancy, and his wishing her all the misery of life that could possibly come her way and, believe me, this is the cleaned up version. His unshakable alibi and presence six hundred miles away did finally get the police off his back, and they seemed to eliminate him as a suspect. I pushed and pleaded with them to continue investigating him due to his previous debilitating outspoken attack on my daughter. After two years of daily or weekly questioning, he got a lawyer who persuaded a judge to stop further 'harassment' unless they had some solid evidence exhibiting his involvement with the disappearance of his daughter."

The curator motions me to follow him as he moves to another display case, that needs his attention. Once we are there I continue.

"I was not excused from their prying eyes and questioning for a considerable time, either, but the police could find no reason or clue as to why or how I could be involved. If they could only see inside my head and see the love and the loss I still feel, they would never have doubted me. However these small doubts and their investigation of my supervision of Jazzmin that night drove a wedge between my daughter and myself."

Even though he does not comment, I wonder if the shop owner is wondering why I am laying all this on him.

"Why am I telling you about this? In my depressed and lifeless existence I can still hear and think. One thing I have heard was that you may have ways of dealing with problems such as mine. During the past seven years, I have followed every lead that suggested hope. I have tried all kinds of voodoo and witchcraft. I will continue to try anything that makes itself known to me, and I don't care if it has only the slimmest chance of positive results. If there is the slightest possibility of success, I will try it."

And so I end my long speech to the old man who runs the out-of-the-way antique and curiosity shop located on a back street in the middle of Old Sacramento. I take a closer look at him. His clothing, at first glance, looks tacky and carelessly thrown together. While I was telling him my sad tale, however, it occurred to me that his appearance was a planned look. His apparel and demeanor fit the mold of the owner of a quaint old curiosity shop. This was from his shorter-than-medium stature to the mundane colors of his clothes. His wisp of graying hair, combed across his balding head, make him look older than he no doubt is, and the gold wire-rimmed glasses that sit too far down on the end of his weathered nose to be of any use are probably only embellishment. His unbuttoned, threadbare, cotton vest adorned with a gold pocket watch and chain add just the right touch, and his soft, comfortable, well-worn brown shoes, laces secure but askew, supply the consummate stroke. Stir all these ingredients together and his appearance gives his customers the conviction that they have the upper hand and that he, the proprietor of the shop, is only their servant, completely trustworthy, loyal, and honest.

As he gazes at me, still without having said a word, I feel that he is looking inside me and somehow rerunning the events of seven years ago. I know this is just a feeling I have, but his eyes seem to bore into my very being and, layer by layer, remove the years and reveal what I once was. He, as well as I, can see the school play, the stairwell, the bathroom, the stalls, the writing on the wall, the rear door, the two derelicts, yes, the complete scenario of that night.

As if we were slowly rewinding a video tape, I watch as he moves the scene back to the stall and the writing on the wall. With him, I read the seven fatal words, HE IS WITH ME I AM HIM.

My vision turns inward and again I watch the police go through their investigation. I see my frustration and the loss of exuberance for life that led me to the bottle. I watch again as my daughter goes through the highs and lows when the police tell her they have a clue, when there are only dead ends, I see the results of the test of what we thought at the time was paint. It turned out to be blood, not Jazzmin's, but a dog's. I hear the detectives explaining how they tried to duplicate the application of the seven "painted" words without success. I again see the despair in my daughter's eyes, and I see this happen repeatedly until she just never returns from her low point. I watch as she accepts the loss of her daughter. I am sure this is where her mind said, enough is enough of this roller coaster ride and I'm not going to take it anymore. And I watch as she walks through her days as if in a dream that will never end. She, at this point, was completely lost.

The bell above the door tinkles again, and my attention comes back to the present. The proprietor of the shop hurries to assist a new customer.

I am weak from the rerun of the day of the abduction. I can no longer concentrate on the present. Nothing in the shop interests me, and so I pick my jacket up off the floor—did I drop it? When did I drop it? —and turn to the door. I do not want to go through any part of that awful day again. I want to crawl back into the bottle that seems to dull my loss. I don't want to relive those seven years and watch my self-destruction. I need to hide from prying eyes. Most of all, I need to get away from myself. I know this was impossible. I've been trying to do it for years.

Even though he is attending to his customer, the shop owner glances at me. His eyes catch and hold mine. I should not go, he seems to be signaling; I should wait until he has finished with this lady.

In my weakened condition, I let myself fall into the nearest chair and put my head in my hands, still contemplating the upcoming return to yesterday. When I lifted my head for a minute, I see the customer being helped. I see a woman about forty-five years of age with dark hair cut in a pageboy style. She is wearing a jacket of many colors, square blocks of blue, green, yellow, white, and red, with black lines dividing the squares. Her jacket looks like one of those Rubik's cubes with the patterns not in any order. I wonder if it's possible to pick her up and move the squares until they lie in the proper pattern. At this point, deciding I really need a drink, I start to rise and leave the shop, but the customer beats me to the door and the owner heads back my way. The woman stirred a memory in me, a memory I couldn't quite grasp, but my fleeting thought vanishes as her heels click on the walk outside. The small bell tinkles again as the door closes behind her.

As the shop owner approaches me, he offers me a timid smile that barely wrinkles his eyes. His voice is soft and soothing. "I think that I might be able to assist you with your problem," he says. "First, I must find out exactly what it is that you wish."

I am stunned by his words. What I wished, what I wish. I'm not sure what I wish. I don't want him to tell me that Jazzmin was dead. I don't know if I wanted to know the truth or not. Seven years is a long time, and if she were still alive.... What is her condition now? What is her attitude toward her mother and me? Is she angry with us because we lost her? Has she been brainwashed to think that we threw her away and went on with our lives?

I keep coming back to the primary question—Is she dead? Just learning that she is dead will not help me. Nor do I think this knowledge will help my daughter or give her any reason to live. What I need, what my daughter needs, is for these seven terrible years to never have happened. Is that it? Can he make this to never have happened? Is it possible to go back and prevent these last seven years from happening, these seven destructive years, these terrible, terrible years of constant misery and despair?

To get my daughter and granddaughter back, I will give anything and do anything humanly possible, or even the inhuman and impossible if that will work. I say this to myself not knowing what, if anything, might be required of me. I know I'm filling my head with hope without the slightest clue about what can or must be done. I cannot let my imagination run wild like this. There has to be something to cling to.

Though this little man has said nothing of this possibility, my mind is boiling with the prospect of changing the last seven years. If I tell him my wish, I might find myself back in the gutter, being laughed at for even thinking such thoughts. However, I cannot stop myself from building a wall between my flimsy hopes and what happened. I am riding a tidal wave that can clear away the past like it's a sandcastle constructed too close to the surf. Left behind, after the wave breaks, will be a flat, clear surface. All the previous footprints and signs of disturbance will be erased and now a clean slate will be waiting. I want to use new and beautiful words and take paths that point in any direction.

On the alternate path, those seven ominous words—HE IS WITH ME I AM HIM—will never be written. My daughter will continue to teach. My grandchild will write her own scenario by her actions or lack of actions. Most important of all, her life will be her writings, not the writings of some vile son-of-a-bitch.

If I could go back, how far do I go? Do I go back to the time before Nicole got involved with her ex-husband? If I go that far, do I have any guarantee that I can stop that affair? I would probably just drive Nicole away long before Jazzmin was even born. Maybe if I went back further and moved to a different town...or could I go back even further to while Nicole's mother was still alive?

Wait a minute, wait a minute. What about Jazzmin? Our lives are in a sorry state because we lost Jazzmin. If I go back to before she was born and can stop Nicole's affair, Jazzmin will not be born. No, I can't even think of going back before her conception. I don't think this is what I wish. I wish for things to be as they were the day of the play. If I have any choice, the day of the play is the time I would like most to return to. Can I stop the abduction? I know that I would give my life trying.

"What is your name?" I ask the shop owner, who has been waiting patiently as I think all this out.

"Most of my acquaintances call me Redo," he says with another tiny smile. "Spelled R-E-A-D-U."

I reply, "I am probably the most selfish person you will ever meet and will, more than likely, sound like a complete fool. I cannot, for the life of me, even consider what I am about to ask, in my deranged imagination, to be made possible. I don't know if this is my own thought or if you've planted something in my head to make me look like a fool by asking of you this impossible task." These things I blurt out while casting my hands and arms about in meaningless gestures and looking down at the floor.

Readu raises one hand, palm toward me, in a gesture to stop talking and listen to him. "I want you to return here tomorrow night at eight o'clock," he says. "I'll be closing my shop then. I'll be able to listen without interruption. We will see what can be done." He shakes his head and wags his finger as he continues. "Do not tell me now what you want to do or how you want to handle your problem. I want you to think about what you want, so any snap decision made by you will not come back to haunt you later. We will delve into all of this tomorrow evening." This said, he turns and heads for the door, which he courteously holds open for me.

All I can say is, "Thank you and good night." I start up the street, my mind in a state of turmoil.
Chapter 3

New Hope for a New Path

Even though I stay at the local Salvation Army housing for the homeless, I am not destitute. I still have my wealth and pay quite handsomely for my room and board at the shelter. I stay here because I don't deserve any better. I tried to help pay for Nicole's living, but she would have none of it. I know she didn't want to feel obligated to me or give me any reason to want to go on living. I understood this and didn't push her. Instead, I stood by and watched her spiral down into the drug-induced cellar of a life that she now lives.

Dinner was, as usual, served early. All of us who live here have very little to do, though some who eat here, live or sleep somewhere else. Since most of us travel only on foot, early supper gives everyone time to get home before dark. I went through the serving line and got some bread and a bowl of beef stew, which had been making my mouth water since I returned to the shelter earlier today. While I was sitting and enjoying the stew, I saw a man enter and begin talking to Mrs. Fields, the manager of the shelter. The man was well dressed and seemed well-to-do, but something about him brought back memories of the past. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was there only a few minutes, then he was gone. I can't remember seeing him leave, but my attention span is very short. I returned to my stew, ate hungrily, and then took my dishes to the kitchen.

I thought I had trouble sleeping before. That was nothing. This night is unbearable. My mind is running wild with thoughts of what could have been and what might be. I feel like Scrooge in Dickens' A Christmas Carol as he wondered through the past, present, and future. Are these the things that will be? In my dream state, I wonder if the past is written in stone. Or can it be changed to the way we would like it to be?

Then another thought hits me. If I could prevent that kidnapping that already happened, who's to say that unless I catch the person doing it, it won't happen again at a later date? If it does happen again, and the little shop I will soon visit again doesn't exist in the future that is created by my going back to the past, then I will only have delayed the inevitable for a short time. Then these years of bitter hopelessness might still be ahead of me. If I return, will I remember why I'm there? Will I know the culprits? Can I stop them?

So many questions are running through my mind, and I have no answers, not even one, not a single promise to lean on. I need to sleep. I can't do anything until eight o'clock tomorrow evening at the little shop. I try to empty my mind and relax my muscles and shut down one system at a time. First my limbs, then my mind. I shut them down, permitting no thoughts. Sleep begins to close in.

I must have been successful. It is seven a.m. and I feel rested for a change. Is this a good sign? I don't know. And now the thoughts from the previous evening are starting to arise again. I've got to do something to get my mind off the impossible things that I keep conjuring up. Magical happiness abounds in my dream state. Visions of beauty parade through my fog filled brain. Jazzmin ballet dances in and out of the puffs of clouds as I attempt to follow her every step. Music fills the air as she floats toward me, pirouetting round and round on her pointed toes. As she passes, I turn to follow her...and she is suddenly transformed into one of the old homeless women I see so often on the street. She is walking away from me. The clouds and music are gone. I see only this shabby, run-down facility I reside in.

I must do something to fill my time. I must do something to try to stop these visions. I know what I'll do. I'll go see Nicole and try to have some type of meaningful conversation with her.

"She's not here," her boss at the strip club says, "and she hasn't been here for three days."

He dismisses me, slamming the door in my face. His dancers are a dime a dozen and none of them has a life other than her presence on his stage. They come and go like the days of the week, and he has no problem replacing the ones that go.

Neither my appearance nor my demeanor commands any respect. I am not recognized as a human being. Most people just past me off as one of the invisibles, one of the undesirables. This is how Nicole's boss treats me, and this is what I expect at her place of residence.

Today I am met by the landlady, who is standing on the stoop of the large apartment building and wearing a simple flowered dress and apron. She is wringing her hands in despair. When I ask for Nicole, explaining that I am her father, the landlady replies that Nicole has never mentioned that she had a father living. She, the landlady, has always assumed that Nicole has no living relatives at all. With a sympathetic look, she now informs me that Nicole passed away two days ago from an overdose of drugs. When no relatives could be located, the county cremated her, and her ashes were mixed in with those of numerous others who had died in her situation. I am too stunned to comment. I leave the landlady standing there on her stoop.

I wander for hours with no direction, thoughts of Nicole torturing my mind. With no direction, I am surprised to arrive at a destination. I have walked from the apartment building to the dance studio where Jazzmin was a student from the time she was about six years old. I look in through the screened window and gaze upon the current class. These girls are somewhat familiar but older than I remember. Their dancing is smooth and their routine clever and well choreographed. Several of the girls have been taking lessons for eight or nine years. Most are in their late teens or early twenties. My eyes begin to water as I recognize one or two of the girls. Seven or eight years ago, they were in Jazzmin's class.

I want so badly to see Jazzmin dancing that my mind starts playing tricks on me again. The older girls are suddenly gone, and now Jazzmin and her young classmates are going through their barre use exercises. The warm up is accompanied by music that was new and fresh when she was young.

I am looking at the girls, and then my gaze slowly turns toward the waiting parents, who are watching from a small alcove off the dance floor. I can only see the knees and hands of a few past the wall that blocks my view, but the hands and knees of one man sitting there look so familiar that I crane my neck around to get a better look. But before I can see more of this man, the spell of the past is broken. Ms Lucy, the dance teacher, has seen me. She comes to the door and asks me, "How are you doing?" She has always been one of the friendliest people I have ever met. All these seven years, whenever possible she has made occasional efforts to check on Nicole and me. We speak briefly, and then I excuse myself so she can return to her class. The girls stopped dancing and are staring at me. As I walk away, I see Ms Lucy crying over the death of Nicole.

Now I am more determined than ever to change what happened and rewrite the past. I know I've gone over the edge by thinking I can rewrite history, but I also know that if it can't be done, then my life is over. I no longer wish to live. All I have ever known and loved is gone now. My responsibilities on earth are finished. My daughter was the only reason I haven't already taken my own life. I also believe she was the reason I didn't die while I was in that coma seven years ago. I guess I always hoped that one day she would snap out of her delirium and try to return to a normal life. When and if she did, I wanted to be there to assist her in any way she would let me. With her passing, I have no expectation left. This life holds nothing for me.

The only thing that keeps me going is the eight p.m. meeting tonight with Mr. Readu in his little shop.

How I got through the rest of the day is still a mystery to me. I don't remember anything or anyplace. Did I eat? Did I sleep? Was I in the park or back at the shelter? I have no recollection.

It's almost eight o'clock now and I am approaching the little shop. But I see lights flashing from the police cars and the fire trucks that have closed the block where the little shop is located. There are barricades to keep out cars and pedestrians. Falling cinders and smoke make my eyes smart. It seems as if the fire is close to where the shop is located.

I stand at the barricade and try to get a better feel for the layout of this area, but the emergency vehicles and their strobe lights give it an alien look, and I'm not sure of which real estate is which. The firemen are opening up some of the walls so water can be put directly on the fire that still smolders inside of one building. As one chops, he tosses pieces of the doorframe back toward the temporary barrier. I watch as they land nearby. Upside down, right in front of me, lies a segment of a sign I saw yesterday, part of the placard that hung by wrought iron chains and identified my destination. The little shop has been reduced to ashes, cinders, and burned debris. My only reason for living has gone up in flames. Confused and angry at the loss, I look around and see nothing hopeful. Now I will never know if my dreams and wishes could come true.

Standing there, unable to walk away, I watch as the firemen go about the business. Saving the other buildings is the main concern as they apply water to the outside walls of the burned out structure. While the firemen work, the police keep the crowds back and allow only emergency vehicle access to the scene. The hiss of the dying flames, the static of the handheld two-way radios, and the rush of water under pressure fill the air. The glow of the dying flames, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, and the movements of people slowed by the strobe lights all make the scene look like an animated cartoon. I am mesmerized. I am brought back from cartoon land, however, when, from the darkness of an alley, I hear a sound similar to a sputtering air leak, a "pssst, pssst.". I turn and look into the darkness. My eyes barely penetrating the pitch black passageway, I realize someone is standing there, motioning for me to follow. I enter the dark alley and, as my eyes adjust, I realize I am again in the presence of the owner of the little shop, Mr. Readu.

"Come with me," he hisses. "Quickly now, before someone finds out I'm not inside." Without waiting for my reply, he turns and starts deeper into the alley.

I follow, hurrying along, glancing back toward the street once or twice. Soon I can no longer see the emergency vehicles, though flashes of their lights reflect off the sides of the buildings and lend some little light to the dark alley. I have no idea where we are headed, no idea what happened to the little shop, no idea how Readu escaped. Was he inside when the shop burned? I don't know this either. However, from his words, I gather that he had evidently been expected to be inside the shop. I hurry behind him, hoping that I might still salvage my fantasy about rewriting history. As we proceed, I can feel these hopes sliding down into a deep, dark void. This void has no bottom. Things that fall into it are never recovered.

Soon I hear the jingle of keys and the sound of a rusted lock being unlocked and complaining about being moved from its place of rest. The unused, not lately oiled hinges of a door protest the work they were designed to accomplish, and the door slowly swings open, though only a crack. There are no lights inside. I step inside, and when the door closes behind me, I don't dare to move. The darkness is so thick that I'm sure that if I raise my hand, I would surely touch a solid, pitch-black wall.

But I hear movement. Perhaps, I tell myself, it's Readu moving around, looking for the light switch. I hear a scratch and see the flare of a kitchen match as it springs to life. My pupils are fully dilated in the darkness, and the sudden brightness of the match leaves bright spots before my eyes. Readu has found and lit a candle, and as my vision is returning, he explains that the fire interrupted power in this part of the building.

I am finally able to look around. The room we're standing in is small and has no windows. There is one other door, and I also see two overstuffed chairs upholstered in dull colors arranged to face each other. The walls of this room are lined with bookshelves with antique books.

Readu gestures. "Please, take a seat, sit, sit." I move to the closest chair and sit down. The picture in my mind of this meeting is still as clear as my memories of a cold, crisp, sunny day on the farm in North Dakota. As if I am floating above the ceiling, I see Mr. Readu and myself sitting in the chairs. I see his gestures and I see my reaction to his remarks. This is completely unnerving, as if I am in two places at one time. I am facing him up close, and I am also floating above him. Which scene is an illusion? Which is real?

Suddenly Readu makes a lowering motion with his hand, as if to bring me down from my floating position above a shelf and back into the chair. My vision returns to singularity. I now face him straight on. The vision from above is gone.

"What the hell was that?" I can't help but ask.

"Sometimes that happens when you first enter this room," he replies calmly. "It is an illusion factor I myself have yet to comprehend." He gives me a small smile. "I personally have never experienced it, but I recognize it when it happens to other people." Another small smile. "Now we must attack your situation and try to find the answer you seek."

"Answers?" I say. "Wait a minute! Hold it! That fire, that fire out there. That didn't have anything to do with me, did it?" I hear myself stammering. "Are we in some kind of danger? What the hell's going on? Your shop was used as a fire pit and all those valuable curiosities are now charcoal toast, fit for nothing and nobody. Can you tell me what's going on here?"

Suddenly my body slumps and my eyes get heavy and close involuntarily. I float out of the chair. I can feel no pressure of contact on any part of my body, I can't see anything, and I'm just floating in an open void with no awareness. It seems endless. My questions have been stopped, my mind ceases to boil with questions that have no answers. Then I come back to rest in the chair and can feel the roughness of the fabric, the weight of gravity. My eyes open. I am still facing Readu, I suspect that I moved only in my mind.

"Strange sensation," I say, almost offhand, not requiring a reply.

"I think you are almost ready to tell me what you wish." Readu speaks softly, as if any volume would break the current mood. "Have you considered things?" he asks. "And figured out exactly what you need and exactly what you would wish for?" He pauses, but before I can speak, he continues. "The road taken can only be traveled once, but the choice of roads may, under certain circumstances, be made twice. This is according to a very old, exceedingly rare book owned and studied by myself for many years and now almost destroyed by today's fire."

"Does this mean I can go back and change the results of what happened yesterday?" I ask him. "That I can rewrite history? That the past is not carved in stone, but is an erasable palette that can be painted over with new and brighter colors?" I fall silent, realizing that I am ranting again.

"I do not know," Readu begins. "I never will know the results of...or if you can return to a time before this. If you do return, I don't know if you will have any memory of things to come or not. I can only do what I have learned from the book. The results are never revealed, and they cannot be revealed. If history is rewritten, then this timeline doesn't exist to you anymore, and history will have always been another time line." Knowing I have more questions, he pauses.

I must speak. "It doesn't matter to me what the results of changing paths are as long as they are different. I just found out my daughter died two days ago of a senseless self-inflicted overdose of drugs. No one at her apartment knew or cared if she had relatives. I didn't get to attend the funeral she was deprived of by the county." I heave my shoulders and try not to weep. "With her death, my only reason for living expired. Someone other than us chose the path that we took those seven long years ago."

"If it is at all possible," I say with great emphasis, "this time, I would like to have a say in the laying out of the road ahead. I am a dead man in this life, so any road I take from back there has got to be better. You said we can only travel down any path once. Well, I won't be going the same way, no matter what happens."

I let my words lie there while I tried to make my wishes as clear and precise as possible. I wanted no mistakes in the future or would it be the past? What do I call it? Past present tense? I am tense, but which tense am I now? Which will I be tomorrow?

"Before we go any further," I say, "I have to know about the fire. Was it set? Did it have something to do with me? I've got to have these answers before I can make a responsible and knowledgeable request of you regarding my past future." I am pleading with Mr. Readu.

Placing his hands on his knees and rocking forward, he looks into my eyes. "You and your daughter have been watched closely these past seven years," he replies, his voice frank and without expression. "Some of the decisions you and she made were not of your choosing. If you can double your pleasure, your misery can also be doubled."

"What does that mean?"

With the slow shake of his balding head, he says, "I'm not sure, but it's important and hopefully you will always remember it."

Well, I think to myself, does this have any bearing on the wish I must make? I don't think so. I don't believe anything can change the direction I am about to take. So, oh well, here goes. "Mr. Readu, I wish to be back where I was thirty days before the kidnapping of my granddaughter, Jazzmin."
Chapter 4

Return to the Present

"Good morning Sacramento," I hear the disk jockey say. "It's six a.m. and time to rise and shine with the Eagles and "Hotel California." It's a bright, clear morning. Septembers are always like this. Use your day to the fullest...." The Disc Jockey rattles before starting the record, but I just roll over and hit the silence button. I love the Eagles, but I simply have too much to do. Nicole is going out of town to a teachers' seminar and Jazzmin will be spending the day with me at the firm.

This little nine-year-old wonder, ten in three days. She's intelligent, curious, inquisitive to an extreme. If you want to get any work done and if you want to prevent her from being totally bored, you must carefully plan your day. "Totally." What a word. I've heard it used in that kind of California-speak maybe twice, and here I am using it like a teenager in my thinking.

All of a sudden, a small part of last night's dream resurfaces accompanied by the noise of a fast passing car. It gives me a start. It's just enough to make me catch my breath and pause.

"What the heck?" I say out loud. "What a frightening dream!" I shake my head to clear it and then dismiss the dream as I proceed to get ready for the day.

After showering and shaving, I start to brush my teeth when my reflection in the mirror suddenly alters right before my eyes. Wrinkles dig in all around on my face, a dull brown film covers my teeth, streaks of gray race through my hair, making it almost white. The room is deathly quiet, a silence was so heavy it seems as if my ears are plugged. I'm finding it hard to breathe in the fog that is suddenly filling my bathroom. Everything goes out of focus, except for the mirror. I stand before it, stunned, staring at the worn-out derelict reflected back at me. Gaining control again, I pick up my towel and furiously wipe the mirror. I've got to erase that ghastly spirit.

Afraid to look again, I hesitate then move the towel. It's my own face, my not so beautiful face that is staring back at me with only a trace of the fear I just felt.

"Wow," I say to that familiar face. "Hallucination, hallucination. Can senility be far behind?" Even to myself, my attempt at humor is lost in the memory of what I just saw. But there are no recurrences of the dream or the specter.

I finish dressing, eat breakfast, and head out to pick up the little one, Miss Jazzmin, daughter of my daughter and light of my life. Today we will make special. I feel as if I have been looking forward to this day for a very long time. This feeling I don't understand; she was with me yesterday for almost four hours.

Traffic on Route 160 to downtown Sacramento is always heavy and fast. You have to keep up and pay strict attention because accidents are only seconds away and, at this speed, they usually involve fatalities. Thoughts of the dream and that reflection in the mirror run through my mind as I drive. I can't stop them. I pray that they will not return while I'm on the freeway.

And they do not. I arrive safely at my daughter's home and see Jazzmin jumping up and down inside the screen door as I park in front.

The house Nicole lives in is the only thing she got out of the divorce. It's a one-level, 2600 square-feet, two-year-old house that is hers, free and clear. The house is in lieu of alimony and childcare from her ex-husband so his visitations with Jazzmin are not limited or restricted in any way. He visits two or three times a month, and most of his time is spent irritating or embarrassing Nicole. He exerts very little energy on his daughter, pays her almost no attention. Jazzmin recognizes this, but she doesn't understand it. After every visit, she asks her mother why daddy doesn't like her. Nicole reassures her that it is not her that daddy dislikes. My daughter tries her best to make her understand that Mommy and Daddy are the ones with the problem. She says it over and over to Jazzmin. "Daddy likes you. He just hates Mommy."
Chapter 5

A Day with Jazz

Both of us now safely buckled up, Jazzmin and I head out. We have decided to take the light rail down town. Getting off the freeway at Roseville Road, we drive back under the freeway and look for a place to park not to far from the ticket dispensers. It's a bit of a challenge because it's a little past rush hour and most of the parking places are taken.

When we find a place and park, we have a good walk back to the ticket machine. This was no problem, however, because we're in no hurry. We're the only ones at this stop. I let Jazz buy our tickets. She reads each step of the procedure out loud to make sure she's doing it right before she pushes the final button. My ticket costs $1.50, and Jazz gets the discount ticket for children and seniors, which costs only 85 cents. The tickets give us one and a half hours of riding time on the light rail, which is enough to travel from one end of the line to the other.

"Here it comes, here it comes!" Jazz exclaims, pointing back toward Watt Avenue. The bell clangs, warning motorists and pedestrians that a train was approaching. The train is silent, though, so the warning bell is really to prevent waiting passengers who are not paying attention from wandering onto tracks during the train's approach. The train stops and we cross the yellow line that shows where the doors will open.

Jazzmin pushes the button next to the door and the doors fold back on themselves. "Hurry up, Grandfather," she urges me. "Get on before they leave us and we have to wait for the next train." She pushes me down the aisle and we plop down in two empty seats as the train suddenly powers up.

Staring out the window, Jazz ducks back as a power pole flies by at 50 m.p.h. about a foot from the train. "Wow. That scared me," she says. "It was so close I thought it was going to hit the train." Another pole races past. It seems as if bare inches separate the train and whatever is on each side of the tracks.

This is a teaching opportunity. "They can run the train that close," I say, "because, unlike our automobiles, the tracks keep this train car traveling on a straight line on a certain path. The train can only turn where the tracks turn and they do not turn the tracks into power poles or any stationary object."

"Excuse me." An elderly African-American man turns to me. He wants to talk. "I'm Randy, and this is Hal." He nods

I smile. "Hi, I'm Phil. And this is my granddaughter, Jazz."

"Here's the thang," Randy says. "Me and Hal, we love to bet. We only bet a dollar, and we bet on anythang. We placed a bet on how old your little friend is."

"I can tell them, Grandfather! Let me tell them?" Jazzmin squeezes my arm.

"Go ahead, sweetheart. I'm sure that's what they want."

"I am nine years old," she tells the men, "but I'll be ten in three days." She sits up as straight and tall as she can.

"Rats!" Hal hands Randy a faded dollar bill.

"OK, now Mr. Phil," Hal turns to me, "how old were you when you got married? You were married, right?"

"I was twenty-two at that time." I clearly recall my marriage.

"Gimme back that bill," Hal tells Randy. "I was the closest."

"OK, last bet for today," Randy says. "I'll bet you that at the next stop the first person to get off the train will be an African-American."

"You're on." Hal sits back in the seat, looking out the window as the train slows for the Arcade stop.

Unseen by Hal, Randy stands up and slinks toward the exit. He pushes the button and steps out of the train, then walked over to the window where Hal is sitting. Knocking on the window, he shouts, "You owe me a dollar! I'll see you later." He walks across the platform and disappears.

Hal just laughs and mutters something under his breath that we can't hear. He gets off at the next stop, saying goodbye and thanking us for playing along.

"They were nice," Jazz says.

At the next stop, one of the passengers behind us gets off and walks up to one of the ticket machines and relieves himself in clear view of those on the train. I'm glad when the train pulls out and leaves him there, still going.

"What was that?" Jazzmin asks me, blushing. "He isn't nice at all. How could he do that?"

I am embarrassed and glad when he's out of sight. "You never know what's in a person's mind," I tell her. "Sometimes what people think or do is unthinkable."

We spend about an hour at my office, but things are slow today, so we decide to take a walk over to old Sacramento. We'll just stroll over and then come back and finish off the day. Then we'll ride the light rail home along with the everyday commuters.

As we approach the mall entrance, Jazz runs ahead and acts like she's playing the big guitar that stands in front of the Hard Rock Café. Several people laugh at her antics.

Going up the escalator and down in the glass elevator I follow her as she meanders through the three story mall. At the exit at the other end of the mall, we walk down toward the passageway under Interstate 5, which runs through Sacramento. Entering the passageway, we can hear the piped-in music and gaze at the walls, that are covered with murals that show the ocean on one side and pictures of people famous in California history on the other. Their contribution are written out under the drawings. They're in chronological order. I walk, but Jazz dances to the music and entertains everyone else in the passageway.

Our stroll through Old Sac is uneventful, as are the rest of the day and the ride home on the light rail. The train is full of commuters during rush hour, so Jazz and I have to stand and hold on to straps until we've passed Swanston Station. I push into an empty seat there, but Jazz remains standing, rocking back and forth to the movement of the speeding train.

With everyone trying to get home at the same time, leaving the parking area at our station is almost as hectic as leaving the small arena parking after a Kings game. All in all, I think, watching traffic and pulling into the fast lane, the day was good. The most rewarding thing, to me, was that I didn't have another visit from the old derelict I had seen earlier in the mirror.
Chapter 6

Visions and Reality

It is almost three weeks since that day I picked Jazzmin up for our outing. These have been weeks of nightmarish visions and half-baked dreams that occur at any time, day or night. They seem to be from a different life, or at least from a life that I cannot otherwise envision. The derelict looks a lot like me, but he's years older than I am. I've also seen an older version of someone who looks like Nicole but is a ragged, run-down stripper. I can see that she has a drug habit that will one day probably kill her. I have also seen, in these visions, where the people I'm seeing live and what they do. Sometimes it's as if I see these things through the eyes of the old derelict.

I keep thinking about these visions. Am I seeing things that will come? Older versions really of Nicole and me? If that's what I'm seeing, where is Jazzmin? Is she not to be with us? If not, then where is she? What's happened to her? I cannot think of a life or world without her present in it. In my deepest consciousness, I know this could happen, but I won't accept it. If I can help it, I won't let it happen.

As each day goes by, the visions and dreams seem to intrude more often and last a little longer each time. You'd think that their effect would be diluted with repetition, but this is not the case. The immediate and lasting effects are more violent with repetition, and the trauma they cause me lasts longer. The effects are varied but, oh, so real. This morning, I was left with the taste and smell of cheap wine in my mouth and nose. Yesterday afternoon, my vision was impaired. In fact, I had double vision, as if I were drunk and had been drunk for weeks.

I have the feeling that time is running out. What time? Time till what? I have no answer to these questions. Another question also pops into my head from time to time and, like the visions, it has no meaning. It sounds something like the chewing gum commercial—"Double your pleasure, double your fun." Although I keep thinking the second line is wrong, I have no idea of a line that would fit.

For the past few weeks, Nicole has been working on the annual school play, The Pumpkin Patch. She's the director, and most of her early evening hours are spent at school with the young actors. This leaves me with the task of taking care of Jazzmin. It's a task I asked for. I suggested it because I knew it would be good for both of us. I would get to spend some extra minutes with my granddaughter and save Nicole a few, childcare bucks at the same time. I also believe Nicole will gain a little peace of mind if she knows her daughter is with someone they both love and trust.

When I arrive at Jazzmin's school to pick her up, I park in the visitor's lot and start toward the entrance of the building. But as I approach, the building suddenly changes. I am no longer standing in front of Woodridge elementary school. Instead, I'm heading into a rundown four-story building with Salvation Army painted in red on the dirty glass door. It's impossible to see through the glass door because of all the grease and grime on the glass. Stunned, I keep walking, not stopping until I reach the door. I wipe at the grime, but the door is no cleaner. The residue covers both inside and outside. I slowly open the door and look in. All motion inside is as slow as if the gears of some torpid clockworks are controlling the heads of the people who turn to look at me. It's as if they are all connected, all timed to move at once.

The slow motion returns to normal as a matronly woman looks up from the front desk. Taking in my appearance, she asks if she can help me with something. I look around. Most of the people sitting around the tables have already returned to the task of spooning down the bowls of stew sitting before them. Most, that is, except for the man of my dreams. He is staring at me as if he'd seen a ghost. He doesn't rise, he just stares. I turn back to the matron.

"What place is this?"

"It's a shelter for unfortunates," she replies in a quiet, reverent voice, not quite a whisper. "Those down on their luck, the homeless, those simply withdrawing from society. We provide a free bed for those that can't pay, and we allow those who can pay to stay for a substantial sum. All of them are equal. They receive identical treatment. The food is good and wholesome, and the beds have clean sheets. Most of our guests find the beds comfortable."

"Who is that gentleman who is staring at me?" I tilt my head in his direction.

She looks briefly at him, then back at me. "Well, first of all, we never discuss our patrons. But if we did, I'd say, take away the clothes and add a couple of hard years, and it could be you." She smiles, but the smile is only on her lips. The look in her eyes relays a different message.

The man does look like me, older, run down. But as I stare at him, he and the shelter become as transparent as clean glass and slowly fade away. The sounds of soup being slurped are replaced by the sounds of shoes running on the wooden floor of the school's hallway. The shouts and laughter of children running past me on their way out into the sunlit October air is a welcome relief.

Now I see Jazzmin approaching, waving and running toward me. I must look bewildered, troubled, because the first thing she asks me is if I'm okay. I'm fine, I assure her. Just fine, and ready to head to the dance studio for her afternoon class. This is something we do twice a week. I think ballet gives Jazzmin a good sense of balance and flexibility, more self-awareness and confidence. Her dance teacher is a good friend of the family and once lived across from us on the same street. I take Jazzmin to dance lessons because the lessons were a birthday present from her grandmother and myself. True, the dance studio moved, but it's still no more than five minutes from home.

When we arrive at the studio, I spend the first few minutes talking to Ms Lucy, who has a bit of time between classes. Jazzmin uses this time to change her shoes and put on her leg warmers. While we chat, I watch Jazz prepare for class. Her movements are learned and graceful. She automatically turns into a dancer the minutes she comes into the school. I have noticed that quite a few of the other girls make the same movements as they get ready for class. These skilled movements are a tribute to Ms Lucy, whose cheerful demeanor and undeviating reminders that a dancer should know exactly what every part of their body is doing at all times have paid off in spades. I notice that as we chat, she is also keeping one eye on the girls.

As class begins, I take a seat in the alcove off the dance floor. From there, I can see the girls as they go through their warm-ups, then I watch as they practice their parts of the performance they will give later in the year. The music and dance go well together, and I'm sorry to see the class time nearing its end.

During the final stages of the instruction, the class begins to change and an older group of girls is now dancing to a song I haven't heard before. I scan the dancers. Some look familiar. They look a lot like the mothers of some of the students in Jazzmin's class, but the similarity ends there. These girls are eighteen or twenty years old, but the mothers are actually in their mid-thirties. Suddenly a realization hits me: these older girls are the young dancers as they will look seven or eight years down the road.

As I am pondering this, something moves and blocks the light coming through the screen door. I turn to see what is casting a shadow. For the second time in an hour, I am looking at the specter of the old man. He is standing outside the screen door and talking to an older version of Ms Lucy.

I turn back to the girls, who are still dancing, and try to pick Jazzmin out of the group. She is nowhere to be found. It's as if she doesn't exist in the future I'm seeing.

Why do all of these visions of the future, if that's what they are, not include the older version of Jazzmin? Where is she? What has happened before the future arrives?

I get a sort of déjà vu feeling every time this happens. Something I am supposed to remember is just out of reach of my debilitated mind. Something dreadful is rushing toward me, and it has a lot to do with Jazzmin.
Chapter 7

To Be or Not to Be

The days are incredible. The specter of myself is expected but not welcome. I now accept the visions as premonitions of what may happen in the future. I am again reminded of the similarity of my visions to Dickens' Christmas Carol, in which old Scrooge saw what might be, not what would be. My only wish is that the similarities are true, and that my glimpses of the future are of what might be and not what is to be. Maybe if I had an interpreter to explain and analyze my visions I could plan an alternate path for the future to take.

I haven't told Jazzmin or Nicole about my dreams. This matter is something I must handle in secret. If they knew, their reactions might take them away from me, and if that happened, I would have no way of preventing whatever's to come and the future I've been seeing might become fact. Since all my visions seem to surround the absence of Jazzmin, this is where I must concentrate my efforts. Without making it seem deliberate, Nicole or I must be close by her at all times. I must convince Nicole that we must be a little more aware of leaving Jazzmin unprotected. I can use recent acts against children in the news as my catalyst. Even though we haven't experienced any abductions in our town, there have been several in the greater Sacramento area. These abductions took place within the past few months. They're still in the back of Nicole's mind.

Jazzmin has been in bed for about an hour now. I think she is probably asleep. I also think the time is right to pursue the subject of her safety. "Nicole," I cautiously begin, "I've been watching the news. There are far too many crimes occurring in our vicinity. It seems as if decent people have zero protection. The more affluent a family is, the more vulnerable they become, and," I add pointedly, "the more likely they are to be targets."

"Yes, I know." Nicole agrees. "What is this country of ours turning into?" She sets down the coffee she is sipping and looks directly at me. "I worry about our safety. I'm also concerned about the attitude of the kids in school. This is one of the reasons I became a teacher at the school Jazzmin attends, you know. I feel a lot more secure being within minutes of her at all times."

I understand her fears and realize that the suggestions I will now make will be readily accepted. "Now that you mention it," I say, rising to stoke the fire in the fireplace, "you are quite correct to be concerned. Defenseless children are prime targets for morality lacking perverts. One moment of careless inattention could result in years of anguish and self-incrimination. From now on, when I accept responsibility for Jazzmin, I promise you I will be the most attentive grandfather you've ever seen." I stare into the fire, now burning with new life, and hoped that my sincerity shows in my words. I take my seat on the couch again and pick up my cup of coffee. It's cold, but I take a sip anyway.

Nicole's face grows sterner as she stares at the flames that are now giving the room a cozy glow. "Do you feel I've been inattentive of Jazz?" she asks me.

"No way!" I reach over and pat her knee. "You're the most attentive of parents. If anything ever happened to Jazz, it would not be your fault. I only say these things because of the increase in crime and to remind myself of a caretaker's responsibility."

Nicole seems to accept my quick reassurance. "I would never forgive myself if I allowed something to happen to my daughter," she says. She picks up our cups and starts for the kitchen. "I'll say goodnight," she says, "and head on up to bed. Do you need anything before I go?"

"No. I'll just sit here by the fire for awhile and then let myself out. I'll see you tomorrow after school." As she nods and goes into the kitchen, I return to the fireplace and readjust the burning logs. Then I return to the couch and sit and stare into the flames.

The flames no longer come from the fireplace in Nicole's home. They're now rising out of a rusted fifty-five gallon oil drum. Holes have been punched around the middle of the metal container to allow air in to assist combustion, and the top rim is no longer round. It's been bent and blackened by the wood and assorted trash (anything burnable) tossed into it. A cold wind blows at my back, but I can still feel the scant heat produced by whatever is burning in the drum tonight. The odor is offensive but endurable, so I move closer, trying to get warmer.

I'm alone in this dingy, dead-end alley. The arms and hands I extend toward the fire are not mine. The sleeves of the coat covering these arms are dirty, and the hands have soot and ash visible on the palms and fingers. As I look down the alley toward the open end, I can see a very busy street, but I can't make out the vehicles whizzing by. My vision is impaired. I'm seeing double, and standing here I feel unsteady, perhaps somewhat intoxicated. The stench and taste of cheap wine have permeated my palate. The environment I'm in has a depressing effect, and my spirits have taken an express elevator headed straight for the dumps. A sense of loss, unexplained loss accompanied by unrelenting guilt, has saturated my being. I have misplaced my direction in life. I am in a stagnant pond of self-denial and self-punishment.

I'm not sure how long I stand there in that dark, cold alley before I return to the family room of Nicole's house. I noticed that the cozy fire I just stirred has died, its ashes producing very little warmth. Shaking my head sadly, I quietly retrieve my coat, let myself out, lock the door behind me, and drive home. As usual, sleep is a fleeting ghost that offers very little genuine rest. What little sleep I get is riddled with nightmarish visions of the future.

Today I'm keeping myself occupied during every waking hour. As long as I don't have a chance to daydream, the revelations I've been experiencing are less apt to take over. However, I feel as if the prophecies are backing up like a plugged toilet. I'm apprehensive. I'm sure that when they get unblocked, the deluge will overwhelm and incapacitate me. No matter what action I take, I know I must face the apparitions, and face them alone. An interpreter—that's what I need. Someone that can translate my dreams and visions into an understandable scenario.

I grab the old, dog-eared yellow pages and start thumbing through them. What do I look under to get some type of reputable...whatever? Hey—maybe a hypnotist. Maybe this is all in my subconscious. Maybe if I could be put under hypnosis, the visions could all be laid out and studied. Who knows, maybe the source of these apparitions can be isolated. I guess my goal is to find out why these visions all of a sudden started happening.

I start turning the pages looking for H. Let's see. Health. House. Hydraulic. Hydromulching? What's that? Here it is—Hypnotherapists. But these all deal with habit breaking. Wait. Here on the second page. Hypnotists. There are only five listed. How do I pick which one to lay my situation on? It looks like two of them are father and son. I'll pass those two. That makes it three to choose from.

I am drawn to one of the names. I don't know what it is, but I must choose this one.

J.A. Readu, PHD, MFCC

4210 Suite A 4th St.

Old Sacramento, CA 95727

I don't understand. He's just the same as the others. They all have the fancy initials after their names and everything. Oh, well, it just seems that this J.A. Readu is the right one.

The phone number listed is local and is answered on the second ring. I ask for an appointment, a woman's voices gives me a time and date and hung up. I realize that she had asked no questions, not even my name or phone number. I'll be a nervous wreck by the time I get there. The date and time? Tomorrow afternoon at 1:15.

My calendar is empty, my desk is clear, and my secretary is on maternity leave for one more month. The young man from the secretary pool is excellent. He has filed or placed all correspondence on my desk. He's temporary and doesn't know about the files and clients I work on when all the current fires are put out. He doesn't know about the ones that don't have a set deadline or completion date and have to be marked "not completed." With these I spend some time.
Chapter 8

Strangers and Safety

Another day has crept by. I've stayed at Nicole's for dinner. I think this night will present the perfect opportunity to talk to Jazzmin about strangers and safety.

Standing on the front porch, I watch as the wisp of the day is crushed down on the western horizon by the ominous hands of night. The darkness makes the light-sensing relays light up row after row of mercury vapor streetlights. The dim glow of each light slowly brightens as it chases away the creeping shadows that nestled around the bushes and in the alleys of Nicole's street. There are no clouds, so my view of the night sky is disturbed only by the glow of the streetlights. Even reduced by the city lights, my view of the stars is still as breath-taking as ever. The domestic sounds coming from the kitchen and the panoramic starlit umbrella chase my anxiety away, making it retreat into a small corner of my mind and giving me a brief period of peace and quiet. The ghosts of yesterday and today are forgotten for the moment, and I think to myself, how nice it would be to be in the middle of the desert in Arizona, somewhere between Gila Bend and Yuma. There the nights are so dark and the sky seems so big that the heavens are supercharged with uncountable points of light. The twinkling stars and the steady glow of the visible planets make any planetarium show of the night sky look like the sketches of a child in comparison to a painting by Norman Rockwell.

As I stand here and gaze at the stars, they begin to dwindle and fade. The atmosphere is being compressed, multi story buildings close in from all sides, blocking my view of the night sky. The flames from the oil drum full of trash are reflected on the walls and in the windows of these buildings. The sky is invisible. My specter has returned. Or I have returned as the specter.

But I'm not alone. I look at those gathered and accumulated with me around the drum. The orange-red glow of the flames lights their faces, but the trash fire gives off an eerie gleam that seems to eclipse their faces and make them all look older. Instead of "the Young and the Restless," I think with a smile, the area is occupied by "the Old and the Reclusive." I accept the bottle in the brown paper bag as it's passed from filthy hand to filthy hand, and after taking a healthy swig, pass it along. The next guy takes his drink and keeps the rapidly emptying bottle moving. The lid once removed was tossed in the barrel, there would be no further use for it.

"Phil, tell us again about your granddaughter." Jack, known like the rest of us only by his first name, is standing directly opposite me across the burning drum. There's no malice in his words, only curiosity.

My vision blurs as my eyes water. I can hear the specter of myself speaking. Well, the voice is mine, but it's hoarse and cracked when I speak. In my mind, I can see the thoughts that precede my words.

I can also see Jazzmin. She looks like she does today. Ten years old, full of life, glowing with confidence and grace. She's sitting on a playground merry-go-round as it spins around and around. I can see myself, too, pushing and pulling it to create a false gravity that tugs Jazzmin to the outside against the guard rail. This rail keeps her from falling off. As she's pinned against the rail, her black curly locks fly out, her blue-gray eyes open wide, and small gasps of delight come from her smiling lips. I knew her tummy is feeling the funny effects of the tug of centrifugal force. After several turns around, I stop the merry-go-round by grabbing the rail and running alongside while braking as fast as I can. Jazzmin gets off and tries to walk in a straight line, but she doesn't have her land legs yet and she almost blunders into the nearby teeter-totters. She collapses into a giggling heap and lies there until her dizziness goes away. I flop down beside her and we both laugh until we're exhausted.

Although I'm talking about laughing, tears are running down my face and being soaked up by my unkempt beard. The tears of loss then spill down on my dirty suit coat. The pain accompanying this memory is so intense that my voice quavers. I continue to tell them of my lost grandchild, but the pain is almost unbearable. The only relief I have is in retelling of the good times and my fond memories of Jazzmin, Nicole, and I had before—before Jazzmin disappeared. God, if I could only hold those little hands in mine again. Hear that sweet voice as she calls, "Grandfather, Grandfather," or listen to the music her giggles are to my ears. To see her dance, run, jump or just watch her...that would be a most welcome miracle.

There is a clash like thunder and the buildings are gone. My view of the sky is unobstructed again unblocked and the clamor from the kitchen has returned. I can hear Nicole and Jazzmin talking about the events of the day, the clatter of dinner being prepared, the clink of glassware as Jazzmin sets the table. I can smell the beef and peppers and rice as Nicole sets the dishes on the table. It's almost enough to erase the recent visitation from my mind. Jazzmin has disappeared and the words "Grandfather" were in the old man's mind leaving me with a feeling of extreme loss. This feeling of loss is permanently imbedded and it scares the heck out of me. I am more determined than ever. These premonitions must be stopped. This loss must not occur.

I have told Jazzmin about strangers and how she must keep an escape path open at all times. I have tried to explain this without scaring her or making her feel threatened by everyone she sees. She watches television and is aware of some of the dangers. She says, "Can't I just look into people's eyes and tell if they're good or evil? I've seen shows on TV that say we can do this."

Her assertion concerns me no end. I have to get it across to her that outward appearances are no guarantee of an individual's inner demeanor. So I tell her about Jim, a man I used to know.

"Jim was a magician," I begin. "A hypnotist. He used to experiment on his friends and found that he could put just about anybody under hypnosis. He would have them do funny things, to the delight of his audience. He knew he was good. He thought he could put anything under his spell. He could look deep into their eyes and immediately tell when they were in his control. He tried this with cats, dogs, all sort of pets and it seemed like he did have ultimate powers."

"One day," I continue, "Jim was in southern California at Africa USA. He decided this was the perfect time to show his friends the magnitude of his amazing powers. He stopped his car in the lions' area of the park and looked around. There was only one lion nearby, so he opened his door and got out. His friends tried to stop him. They begged and pleaded with him to return to the safety of the vehicle, but without success. Jim hushed them with a finger to his lips and began to stare deep into the lion's eyes. Jim thought he was hypnotizing the lion. The lion was thinking, what's to eat for dinner? Jim and the lion are now one in body. That lion ate him up." I told her as I grabbed and tickled her while growling like a lion.

I then let her go and spread my hands in a story-finished gesture. "My point being," I explain, "you may think you know what a person is thinking, but what a person thinks is only known to himself. Even people we know," I continue, "may really be strangers in their thoughts and deeds. Their lack of dirty or foul deeds could only be lack of opportunity." As I said these things I realized they might be a little bit over her head.

With considerable concern in her voice and on her face, Jazzmin asks, "Well, who do I trust? Mommy? Daddy? You? My teachers? Police officers? Who do I trust?"

I know this is way too obscure for a 10-year-old but I have to try to make her understand. I take both of her small hands in mine. "I wish I could tell you who you can always trust, but I can't. I know that you can trust your mom and you can trust me. But other than that, I have no idea who is safe. I think you can trust your dad. I think you can trust your teachers, and hopefully you can trust the cops you meet. But there's no guarantee." I watch as Jazz mulls these things over in her mind. I don't know what she' come up with, but the wheels are turning.

She sits down beside me and looks at her mom as if she expects Nicole to make some comment. Without further words from Nicole or me, she must be assuming that Nicole feels the same way that I do. Jazzmin simply filed our conversation away and goes to whatever is next in her life.

Today, it's showing us the latest addition to the growing routine at dance class. She moves to the cassette player and starts the music. When it comes to her part, she starts her performance. I watch as she goes through the steps, the point and turn, point and turn, followed by three split leaps. It's so pleasant to watch her as she does these moves. She occasionally stops and says, "That's not right," then stops the music and rewinds the tape and does the steps again. Her steps have to be done expertly before she will go on with the rest of her program.

Jazzmin does her routine until she is exhausted. As she heads for bed, she assures us that she will be extra careful and that we should not worry because everything will be OK. I only hope the fears and visitations I keep having are just products of an overworked imagination.

Nicole and I talk for the better part of two hours after Jazzmin is in bed and fast asleep. I try to feel her out about any problems she might be having and ask her if anyone or anything in particular has given her any problems. I try to keep my questions low key and conversational. I don't want her asking me a lot of hard-to-answer questions about my paranoia. If she knew the questions I'm asking were spurred on by visions of the future, she'd have me netted and taken away for evaluation. This is why I try to keep my question as unspecific as possible. That way, the question appears as mere parental concern.

The only thing out of the ordinary is the ordinary way Nicole's ex-husband acts when he comes to see his daughter. It isn't as if anything has changed, it's just that they remain the same day after day, whenever he decides to visit. The things he says seem to be rehearsed and spoken line by line up to a certain point. Each time, he covers the things he and Jazzmin did during his last visit. This, she believes, is to see if Jazzmin remembers them. Although Nicole cannot point to a single situation, comment, or independent act that made her bring this up, something about this repetition has lodged in her memory and is nibbling at her subconscious.

I leave when Nicole starts tidying the house and preparing for the next day. I take the long way home and stop for a cup of coffee at Brookfields so I might think for a little while. Two tables over from me, a customer has ordered one of their apple pies à la mode. The aroma is heavenly and my mouth starts to water. I get the attention of my waitress and tell her I would like a pie with ice cream. Apples with a touch of cinnamon inside freshly baked piecrust are placed on my table in short order, my coffee cup is refilled, and the waitress is hurrying to assist another customer.

I place my hand around the dish and lift my spoon for that first delicious bite. My eyes are tearing and the smoke is blowing my way. The bean can I'm holding is almost empty. I take another spoonful. The beans taste strangely sweet, I almost taste apples. I quickly washed them down with the contents of the metal cup I'm also holding. The harsh liquid leaves a flaming trail down my throat into the pit of my stomach. I pitched the residual left in the cup into the fire and watch as the liquid whooshes and burns like gasoline.

"Excellent year—I mean week, huh Phil?" The scruffy old man standing next to me says as he raises his cup in a salute before he too slams down the fiery shot in one gulp. "Mighty tasty and Smooth!" The undiluted strength of the liquid leaves him with a voice barely above a raspy whisper and his breath reeks of alcohol and charcoal. I look around. The seedy clothes, the shopping cart, the fire in the oil drum, the building surrounding the alley all speak volumes about my circumstances. I rub my hand across my mouth and feel the growth of hair and the weathered features of my face. I drop my head as the loneliness starts closing in on me again. I had the feeling I was alone, even though it's clear I'm in the presence of this other older guy.

I set the now empty can of beans down and the waitress picks it up. "How did you like your pie?" Not waiting for a reply, she adds, "Would you like more coffee?" She holds the pot above my half-empty mug, but I cover it with my hand. Shaking my head, I say, "Just the check, please." She sets the coffeepot down as she pulls several tickets out of the pocket of her color coordinated apron and thumbs through them, then sets mine on the table, bending the corner up like a tab.

"Thank you," she says, "and please visit us again, sir. May I suggest, if the smoke bothers you enough to make your eyes tear like that," she indicates my tear stained cheeks, "you should probably sit in the No Smoking Section?" She picks up the pot of coffee and my cup and proceeds to the carts holding the used dishes. I multiply the calculated total by fifteen percent, place that amount on the table, then walk to the cash register and pay the check. The cashier says, "Good evening," I returned the courtesies, find my car, and head home.

"I can't take much more of this flashing back and fourth, present to future, future to present. I have got to get help!" I'm speaking aloud to myself.

Chapter 9

A Mind Meeting with the Hypnotist

I have kept busy all morning. Three times I have returned or gone to the future, Derelict City, as I call it. I cannot wait until this is all laid out in front of the hypnotist and see what he has to say about my situation. I just know he'll fix my problem. He'll suggest something I can do that will alleviate my symptoms and let me lead a normal life without the side effects of future visits. If I could just lead an ordinary existence and be able to relish what we have, I would be so grateful. I hope I'm not placing too many expectations on this little audience with the hypnotist. It sure would be a shame to be in the same predicament after our tête-à-tête as I'm in now. If that's to be the case, I might just take a long walk on a short pier.

My watch stopped. I can't seem to get it started again. Actually, it's still advancing, but it's gone into slow motion. It's like it has been 12:15 for at least twenty minutes. One o'clock will never get here. I tap my watch, put it against my ear, and then stare at it, trying to get it to advance. Of course tapping it does no good, listening to a digital watch is useless, and staring at it is like watching for a pot of water to boil. The digital watch is suddenly gone, in its place is the large digital clock located outside Sacramento's River City Bank. The numbers, indicating seconds, change so slowly that I think time has stopped. I stare at the clock. It's now showing the temperature, seventy-two degrees. The time appears again, seconds now clicking off as they should.

I continue down the sidewalk and head for the subway passage that leads from the K Street mall to the port town of Old Sacramento. I am frightened by one of the trolley cars as it comes up behind me and rings its loud bell. As I move aside and it goes by, the kids riding on the car lean over the side and make rude gestures at me, calling me a bum and other unrepeatable names. This helps to make me feel a lot better, I think sarcastically. As I continue into Old Town, the trolley turns the corner down the first street and goes out of sight. I cross the street and proceed up toward the Sacramento River. I turn and swing down the street past the old school house, I see the railroad museum in the distance. I observe the shops as I pass, reading the signs. I think I'm looking for one in particular, but for the life of me I can't remember its name. I wrack my alcohol-soaked brain, but the name just isn't there. I sure hope I recognize it when I see it and if it's still here in Old Town.

I am walking pass the shopping area—paraphernalia shops, T-shirt shops, ball cap shops, and all types of ceramic shops. Numerous fast food and ice cream nooks are tucked among the souvenir outlets. I guess you're supposed to buy something to wear, something to eat, something to look at, then something else to eat. I guess you could continue this until you shopped and ate your way out of town.

Here's a store different from the rest. It's a curiosity shop, but not one of those print-while-you-wait businesses. This one has objects that have some intrinsic value other than "I survived a trip to the California capital." You know the ones I mean. The trinkets you show your neighbors to make them envious after you return home.

I stop outside the large picture window that showcases some of the more elaborate and expensive items that lure customers inside. Most of the customers that are enticed in by the excellent pieces in the window are disillusioned when they find that the cost usually parallels the beauty of the ancient masterpiece. These items look to me to be of museum quality. I stand and watch as customer after customer enters and leaves the little shop after a short conversation with the manager. I watch, in fact, for fifteen slow moving minutes while zero purchases are made. From the looks of the display, one sale per day would yield sufficient profit to keep the little shop in business.

The owner stands behind the window and looks out at me. I feel his eyes boring through my skin and probing directly into my consciousness.

It's 12:25 by my watch. I'm back in my office. I take a long look around my department and kind of mentally pinch myself to make sure I'm awake and functioning properly, then rise and retrieve my coat. It's time to leave. It's not that far to Old Sacramento, but due to parking problems I want to leave early so I'll have time to look for parking. I sure wish they would finish the rapid transit system so I could take it into Old Sacramento. I think that would be the best way to travel to that area.

But wishing for something doesn't make it happen. I take the I-80 over to the I-5 and then take the exit to Old Sacramento, and with a couple of additional turns, I find a parking lot. There are lots of spots open, so I pull into the first one I come to. I collect the ticket and head for the wooden sidewalks of this antiqued, faux-rural venue. The streets are paved, but horse drawn carriages are used to convey tourists willing to pay the fare. Canvas manure catchers that are strapped under the horses' rear ends protect the streets from droppings. If they didn't have these devices, I can just imagine the size of the pooper-scooper they'd use to remove the debris. The town is small, however, and walking is the most efficient way to travel, even though the horse drawn vehicles fit in with the wooden sidewalks and storefront façades that conjure up thoughts of the past.

I crossed 2nd Street as I left the parking lot and now I am crossing 3rd Street. The office of Mr. Readu is located in the next block. As I turn down 4th Street, I immediately see a black and white sign. Perfectly round, it dangles from a wooden four by four and is held by two black wrought iron chains. The circling design is not unusual, but it seems to spiral into infinity. It's the same type of gimmick used in those horror B-movies of the 1950s and 1960s. You know. The image that spins and is supposed to put you under a spell so you will do the evil master's bidding. I think to myself, Is this some kind of joke for the tourist, or is this person so good he doesn't have to look reputable or respectable? Or maybe he's just trying to put customers at ease with this comic book approach.

Whatever the reason, I feel a little less burdened as I open the door. It has the number, 4210, in three-inch gold foil labels pasted on it. Once inside, I read the sign that points me toward the second floor suites. I hold on tight to the stairway railing as I climb the steep, narrow, wooden staircase. The closeness of the walls in this stairwell remind me of the movie Up the Down Staircase because this one should be a one-way. Anyone else using this route would have to wait at the top or bottom and allow the user on the stairs to pass. These stairs are, in fact, so steep as to be almost a ladder.

I am reminded of Humphrey Bogart as I stand outside the hypnotist's door. Sam Spade is definitely somewhere in this building. The door is old and has frosted glass. In black letters in a half circle I read, "Dr. John A. Readu, PHD, MFCC." Directly below and across the center is the single word, "Hypnotist." It could just as well have been "Private Eye" and I could be in Chicago in the 1930s. I expect to see Edward G. Robinson appear, exiting the stairwell and followed by two or three muscle-bound henchmen. This does not happen, so I just open the office door and go in.

Lo and behold, it was a live person who gave me the appointment time for this visit. I've been wondering how she listed me in her book, since she didn't ask for my name on the phone. My unasked question is answered when she nods at the open door to her left and says, "Your one-fifteen is here." I heard the squeak of a chair and footfalls as someone approaches the room I'm waiting in. The secretary is busy with paper clips, a nail file, or something, and never acknowledges his presence.

"I am Dr. Readu." He extends his manicured hand to me. I took it giving it an impersonal shake, taking in his appearance, as I'm sure he was doing to me. I see a man of fifty wearing a three piece, well-tailored suit. He has a neatly trimmed beard and is slightly balding, with strands of gray at his temples.

As our eyes meet, I feel as if I am standing in one of those clear glass shower stalls, as if he can see everything inside me, as if my exterior is as transparent as cellophane. My thoughts and deeds are laid out for his inspection and comments. I turn red and avert my eyes as he turns and offers me entry into his office.

"No calls please," he says to the secretary. She neither makes any sign of acknowledgement nor gives any other outward evidence of comprehension.

The doctor closes the door behind him. He apparently never expected a reply from her.

The room has one small window with half-closed plaid curtains. The little window is clean and sparkles in the sunlight, and I get a view through its four small panes of the side of the next door building. There is also a small part of the roof visible, aged and weathered shingles angling down and away to the side of the connecting structure.

The hypnotist's small oak desk, which sits to the right of that single window, is littered with files and a Subway wrapper left over from a fast food lunch. The almost empty cold drink has collected considerable perspiration and some of the moisture has trickled down the sides of the cup and left a water ring on one of the manila folders. A white writing pad with blue lines lies in the middle of the litter of files, and three or four yellow and red pencils lie on top of the tablet, sharpened and ready for use. A large pink gum eraser has also been tossed carelessly into the nucleus of this collage.

Against the wall opposite the window and desk sit two overstuffed chairs. Dr. Readu indicates that I should take a seat, my choice of the two. After I seat myself in one of the chairs, he takes the other one. Thanks to the furniture arrangement, we are facing each other and separated by three or four feet.

"Shouldn't I be laid out on a couch for this to work?" I ask as I stretched out my legs and lay my head back as far as it will go.

"That's only in the movies," Readu says with a smile. "Now, if you are comfortable, what can I do for you?"

"Let me rush through this so I don't lose my nerve and walk out the door." I stop, then continue more slowly. "I have a recurring vision, it appears at any time. I'm at a loss to understand what it means."

I then spell it out for him, ticking the episodes off on my fingers as I recount the strange happenings. I speak without interruption for the better part of two hours. He watches and listens as I speak, making a few notes as I spin the tale of how I have lived for the past twenty-five days. He makes no comments, and the secretary seems to have followed his instructions, for there are no ringing phones, no knocks on the door, just me running off at the mouth in my facts-only voice.

Eventually, I finish and sit in silence for a few minutes. Has he fallen asleep? He finally stirs and calmly addresses me with a number of questions.

"Do you believe these visions are the real future?"

I nod to indicate an affirmative without having to say yes.

"What would you like me to try to do for you?" He is holding his pencil poised above the lined tablet retrieved from the littered desk.

I have, of course, expected this question. I had my answer on the tip of my tongue. Now I hold my index finger in the air as I start counting off the things I want. I tick off the first finger. "My hopes are to find out if these are truly visions of the future." The second finger. "If so, how can I possibly see into it like this?" Third finger. "If what I'm seeing is the future, since the future hasn't happened yet, is it carved in stone?" Forth finger. "In other words, are these future visions changeable? Can they be rewritten?" I have asked four questions. Now I raise the fifth finger.

The light coming through the small window is almost gone. The room is dark. It seems to be twilight, and I raise my left hand so I can see my watch. I stare in disbelief. It says 8:20.

The chair across from me is now empty. I hear the rustle of paper and turn toward the desk. The doctor is writing on the lined tablet. I watch for a little while, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts, but when I can stand it no longer, I clear my throat.

He looks up, smiles, and holds up a finger to show me that he has to finish what he's writing. He forcefully dots the final period, drops the pencil across the tablet, and rises from the chair. Casually walking around the desk taking his seat in the chair across from me again, he drapes one leg over the other. "Well," he says, "how do you feel?" He moves one hand in a sort of sweeping gesture.

I don't know where to start. I feel as if I should apologize for falling asleep and wasting his and my time. "I feel well rested," I say at last. "But I am at a loss to explain my dropping off like that. This has never happened to me before. I can't believe I slept for six hours."

"Slept?" He chuckles. "You talked for five hours straight. I ran out of tapes and had to take notes in shorthand to record all the information you spilled. It's going to take days to try to arrange this in some logical sequence. You've been going back and forth like this for...how long?"

"I'm not sure," I reply. "Maybe twenty days. Twenty-five? It just started one morning and now it happens, without warning, several times a day." I put my head between my hands. "I don't know if I can continue this time travel for much longer and not go off the deep end."

"You come back and see me day after tomorrow," he says. "Make it the same time as today." We both stand up and he leads me to the door. "No more sleeping in my office. Next time, we work on today's information."

Chapter 10

Dinner with Lily and Nicole

"What's with Jazzmin?" I ask Nicole as I enter the front room. "She's floating on a cloud."

"Danny Roberts called her on the telephone after school today," Nicole replies. "She's been beside herself with the thought that he might call and ask her to the Fourth Grade Halloween Ball." Holding up her hand to stop my questions, she continues, "He called, but he didn't ask her yet. I think he was working up his courage and the phone call was the first step."

Nicole drops her hand and prepares for the flow of traffic, the traffic being my input, of course. Well my engine is revved up and I'm ready to engage the clutch.

"What?" I ask her. "A date to a ball? This isn't Cinderella we're talking about. This is our little girl, my little granddaughter, that is. She's only nine, ah, ten years old. She's not going on a date with some sexual deviate, not at her young age. How old is he, anyway? Twenty-something?"

Oh, I'm ready, and I'm getting ready to shift into a higher gear when Nicole takes one of my hands in hers.

"Now, calm down, Grandpa, ah, Grandfather" she says in her most calming voice knowing I don't like to be called Grandpa, "calm down. You're getting all worked up over nothing. This ball is nothing more than a well chaperoned punch social at the school gym early in the evening. Dates will be picked up at the door." I start to interrupt her again. "Wait," she says. "Wait just a minute, let me finish. Dates will be picked up at the door of the gym as they arrive with their parents or guardians. Dates will consist of conversation, dancing, snacking, and playing games. The date ends at the gym door. The social will be two hours long. Everything will take place inside the gym area. Boys' and girls' restrooms will be manned and guarded at all times. They're accessible only from the gym area."

I can't think of any comment, so I just stand there with my bare face hanging out. If she knew about my calamitous visions, she would understand my unequivocal concern for Jazzmin's safety, but the only thing I can do now is play the distressed grandfather. I must not overplay this, however. I must not demonstrate some unusual paranoia on my part. Releasing some of the tension that wrapped itself around me, I sit down at the dining room table. "What's for dinner?" It's best to change the subject.

"Beef, that's what's for dinner," Nicole announces in a deep voice mimicking Robert Mitchum's popular commercial. "We're having broiled steak, baked potato, steamed carrots, iced tea, and for dessert, Cherries Jubilee over Dryers Praline Mist Ice Cream." She waves a motherly index finger in my face. "So do not stuff yourself on bread and seconds."

"Wow, what's the special occasion? Are we having company or something?" I ask the question jokingly, even as I realize I might actually be hitting the nail on the head. "Someone's joining us. I can feel it." I state this bluntly, and as I think about what I just said, I am sure who it is. "I thought we had discussed this previously and decided it just wouldn't work."

Nicole nods her head. "Yes, we discussed it, and maybe you decided, but I never agreed with you. Come on, Dad," she cajoles me. "Lily is a lovely woman, and she likes you very much. It'll do you good to have someone to talk to, a person of the opposite sex who is not a relative. You fill your life with work, Jazzmin, and me. That's all you do. Day after day, work, then here with Jazzmin and me till bedtime. Then you go home, sleep, and start all over the next day the same way. All of a sudden, a week's gone by, then a month, then another year. You have to live a little for yourself."

No matter what Nicole says, before these visions of mine started, I did not always go home after leaving the girls. I can tell she's sincere in her concern about my well-being. She continues with dinner preparations as she speaks, and I think she expected an argument from old and lonely Dad.

But this time I fool her. "You know I love you both," I reply in my sweetest voice. "What time will our guest arrive? I'll have to hurry and make myself all clean and beautiful for this special occasion." I lay the honey on thick as I depart the kitchen and head for the guest room, where I keep some other-than-work clothes. Frankly, I really like Lily, but I don't want to let on to Nicole about my interest. I'd like her to think that she's the instigator of this liaison and give her the illusion of lack of interest on my part. Yeah, I tell myself, I like Lily, but I also enjoy the time I spend with my child and her child. Since the visions began, the minutes I spend with them have escalated in value. At present, they're the most precious commodity I have stock in.

I close the door to the guest room. But it doesn't sound like a bedroom door closing. I look at the door. I'm suddenly standing outside a ladies' rest room. Someone inside is screaming! I slam the door open and take in the scene. Nicole is on her knees on the cold tile floor, she's crying, her hands unsuccessfully muffling her screams, which turn into deep, frame shaking sobs.

I grab her and try to get her attention, but to no avail. She doesn't see me. Her eyes are glazed over. I hear myself asking what's wrong over and over. I look around and realize we are alone. But we are never alone. Jazzmin is always with us. This room is quite small and I can see everywhere except inside the stalls. I start opening the stall doors one at a time. On the back wall of the third stall is stenciled a seven word message: HE IS WITH ME I AM HIM.

Nicole sobs, "Jazzmin's gone."

I run back out through the door into a hallway and look both ways. I don't know where I am. I don't know which way to go. I just pick a direction and head that way. I come to a door and force it open. In front of me are a medicine cabinet and a mirror. To my right is a shower stall. I turn around. The bed is right where it should be. In the guest room. I'm covered with sweat and my hands are shaking so much I'm afraid to try to shave. I undress and get in the shower and turn it on cold to try to calm myself down and regain some composure.

As I shower, I think about this new development. In this vision, Nicole is no older than she is now in real life. She isn't one of the invisible people. The loss of Jazzmin is current. It just happened. It seems the visions are narrowing down the timeframe surrounding Jazzmin's future, or lack of future.

I've got to find out where I was without raising Nicole's suspicions. If I get the chance, maybe we can play a game, like "Where Am I?" Then I'll describe an area and see if the others can guess the location. The area I was in seemed so common. I'll have to remember the colors, the tile on the floor, the way the stalls were arranged. There's so much to remember and I only saw it for a minute. The hallway outside the door should help isolate the location, and I think I also saw an elevator. I know something unusual. This restroom is located on the second floor. That in itself is very unusual. If Nicole has been there, then I have it made as to the location.

I finish my shower, get dressed in cleaner clothes, and go downstairs like a lamb to the slaughter. A happy lamb, that is. As I attain the bottom step, the doorbell chimes. "I'll get it." I headed for the front door. Swinging it open in a grand manner, I say, "Will you please enter, Madame." I sweep my left arm in an arc as I prompt our guest to come in.

"I'll enter," she says tartly, "but you all better stop calling me Madame, or I'll just blush my little old self to death." She's spoofing me in a darn good Southern accent that sounds more like a question. I color slightly and, just for good measure, kiss her hand before escorting her into the dining room. Nicole comes out of the kitchen to greet her.

"Her Royal Highness, the Queen of the Antelope News, Ms Lily Hill." It's a grand old courtly introduction to the masses. I'm continuing the charade I started.

"Stop that, Dad. You're embarrassing Lily with that silly royal introduction stuff." Nicole's lighthearted scolding does nothing to dampen my enthusiasm. I drape a dinner napkin over my arm and show Lily to her chair.

"Would Madame care for an appetizer?" I inquire. "And perhaps something from the wine cellar?" I'm really full of it tonight. I remove the napkin from my arm and sit down beside Lily. Nicole has returned to the kitchen to complete the dinner preparations, so Lily and I are alone. In a low voice, almost a whisper, I engage her in conversation.

"It is so nice to see you again, Madame. I'm very glad it's you that came to dinner. Nicole is always trying to set me up with a female companion, and it usually doesn't go very well. This time, however, she did it right."

Lily smiles at me and I go on with the spiel.

"I think I will have to pay her back in a very positive manner. I played indifferent tonight when she told me we had a guest for dinner. I would like to continue that way until she catches on to the fact that I have been quite taken with you from the first time we met. If you will just help me and pretend to have googoo eyes for me, it should be fun." I see the question in Lily's eyes. "Now don't get discouraged," I assure her, "no matter what I do."

"I know I haven't seen you, except for lunch, for a week," I tell her. "I would like to get with you, at your convenience, and explain why. You may be qualified in more ways than one to assist me with a little crisis I'm having, Shush." I place my index finger on my lips. "Nicole's coming."

"Dad," she says, "will you get Jazzmin down for dinner?" I jump up and start up the stairs when Nicole adds, "And check her and make sure she's presentable before you bring her down."

I call back in the affirmative and continue up the stairs and knock on Jazzmin's door. When she asks, "Who is it?" I reply, "It's Grandfather." Entering her room, I find her up to her elbows in finger paint. She's kept all the mess in one place, so it's easy to put everything away. I send her to the bathroom to get her hands clean. She's wearing her painting smock, so her clothes underneath are still crisp and neat, and washing her hands should only take a moment.

I don't want those two ladies down there to come to some understanding and try to put one over on me. Like any two women alone, they're tricky and must be watched at all times. I must say, however, that Lily is easy to watch. Quick as a wink, here comes Jazz. I offer her my arm and lead her down the stairs.

At the bottom I stop, execute a smart ninety-degree turn, and face Jazzmin.

"Her Royal Highness," I announce to the dining room, "the Queen of the Louve, back from the dedication of her new watercolor masterpiece, Ms Jazzmin Brie." I then usher her to her chair. "Something from the wine cellar?" I ask her.

Giggling, she replies, "No, thank you, kind sir. The Pasteurized White Two Percent Moo Juice will be sufficient."

I have to giggle myself as I sit down beside Ms Lily again.

Dinner conversation goes smoothly. I'm surprised to find that Nicole and Lily have so many things in common, including attending the same graduate school, though at different times. After graduation, Ms Lily tells us, she took the road to journalism and started working for the local newspaper, whereas Nicole pursued a teaching career. I can see where they might be very good friends and share in many interests. The conversation is so interesting I forget about trying to trick Nicole about my interest in Lily.

I always try to keep the conversation light, but sometimes my attempts at humor fail, as some of my jokes are clinkers. I do, however, get milk to come out of Jazzmin's nose one time tonight when I tell them about the lady at work who asked me if I rode a motorcycle. No, I told the lady. Why do you ask? The lady then said, Well, you're wearing a motorcycle jacket. I thought for a moment and said, That's true. But I am also wearing Jockey shorts, but I'll bet you there's no racehorse out in the parking lot.

Chapter 11

Driving Miss Lily Home

Since Nicole invited her for me, I volunteer to take Lily home. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Nicole calls from the door as we get into my car.

Lily turns around and calls back, "Thank you for the lovely dinner and for the visit to your lovely home." As I open the passenger door for her, she adds, "Please let me return the favor and have all of you to my apartment very soon. I'll call you and set up a date, OK?"

"I'd love that," Nicole replies. "Don't wait too long. I find you so easy to talk to. Good night."

"Good night." Lily gets into the car.

I close her door, go around and get in my side, close the door, and start the engine. Pulling away from the curb, I nod to my passenger. "I, too, find you easy to talk to. And you're also very easy on the eyes."

"I'll bet you say that to all your dinner guests.' As she adjusts her skirt, I get a glimpse of her slim legs. After that, I have trouble keeping my eyes on the road."

I clear my throat. "I don't usually volunteer to drive the dinner guests home," I say as casually as I can. "I made an exception this time, but it was for my benefit as well as yours. You get a ride home, and I get to be with you a little longer. I'm sure I'll get the better part of the bargain." I place my hand on Lily's leg.

Lily turns in my direction and puts her arm on the seat behind me, then leans toward me. I can feel the swell of her breasts as she comes closer. She speaks softly in my ear. "I'll let you know later who got the best of this bargain." It's almost a whisper, and it leaves a glow that runs through my body.

But I have to speak of other things. "Before this goes any further," I tell her, "I have some things to tell you. There have been some events going on that you're not aware of. As a matter of fact, only two people are aware of them. That's me, the one they've been happening to, and a hypnotist in Old Sacramento." I glance at Lily out of the corner of my eye as I drive. While I don't see a reaction in her body language, I hear concern in her voice when she replies.

"That sounds ominous. You are not gay, are you?" She smiles.

"Of course I'm not! I hope I'll get a proper opportunity to answer that question later." I give her thigh a little squeeze. "The last time we were together should have given you a definite clue." I can feel her skirt slip against the nylons that cover those fine extremities. This, too, stirs something in me.

Lily takes my hand and pulls it further up her skirt. I obligingly allow this transgression. I can feel some of her body heat. I speak again. "I've been having some, I don't know exactly what to call them, future visions, for lack of a better description. I went to see this hypnotist in the hope that he could assist me. I spent about seven hours with him yesterday, but I only remember two of them. He said I talked for five hours. He is now trying to arrange my comments into some meaningful order. He hopes to assist me in finding an explanation for what's been happening to me." This little speech has brought us to Lily's home.

I park the car in her allocated spot, get out open her door and escort her up the flight of stairs to her apartment.

"Come in," she says. "I'll make some coffee for us."

Of course, I'm in the door as soon as she unlocks it. I want to be as close to her as possible. The fresh smell of her hair and the faint fragrance of her perfume have intoxicated me and pushed the thoughts of my visions into some small recess of my mind. I lay my coat on the sofa and approach Lily from behind. I reached around her abdomen and pulled her roughly against me. She places her hands over mine and assists me in the crushing squeeze. I'm sure she can feel me rising to the occasion. She leans her head back on my shoulder and brushes my face with her fragrant hair. Her lips are partly open and I can see the tip of her lovely tongue as it moistens her parted lips, which now gleam like dew on a rose in the early morning of a bright spring day.

Lily is just turning around to face me when the phone rings. "Oh, no. Not now, not now." She pulls away. "It can only be my brother. I have to get this."

Stepping to the phone she glances back at me and mouths, "Sorry."

"It's OK," I tell her. "I understand. I have family, too. Go ahead. I'll get myself a glass of water or something." I wave her toward the phone.

A short time later, I can feel the tension as she enters the kitchen. The night has come to an end. I set my glass on the counter and turn to hear her news.

"I don't know what to say," she begins. "I have to help my brother. He has some personal problems and needs to talk. I have to help him. We're all that's left of our family." She makes a helpless gesture. "We only have each other."

"I understand completely," I say as gallantly as I can. "I'll get out of your hair, well, at least for now. I do need a rain check, though." Giving her a good-night kiss, I pick up my coat and leave immediately, not wishing to add any more pressure to an apparently difficult family situation. I still have hopes of getting a chance in the future to replay this night. She nods her head, agreeing to a continuance at a later time.

I drive home with the radio on KSSJ, a smooth jazz station. Every time I hear the D.J. say, "smooth jazz," my thoughts return to my granddaughter. It's a connection I can't control. As soon as the music starts, this time it's Sting and "The Fields of Gold," I remember Lily and our first meeting.

That particular evening I was in a pickle. First, I had a run-in with some adolescent on the way to my favorite restaurant. A little pushing and shoving because I had invaded his space, but no actual blows were exchanged. After he got his point across, he left. Then, after ordering my meal, I discovered I no longer had my wallet. Maybe the earlier scuffle had not been an accident. It must have been a planned pick-pocketing routine disguised as an impromptu meeting.

I was wondering how to handle the situation when I noticed the hostess pointing at me. The lady she was talking to was looking at me and heading my way. Wow, I thought, what would this lovely lady want with me? I looked around to see if maybe she was headed for some other table. There were no other tables in this direction. No, for whatever reason, I was her target.

"Excuse me, Mr. Goodhand?" She said in a soft voice.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Actually, I thought I recognized you. But just to make sure I asked the hostess, and she confirmed it."

I was confused. "Do I know you?"

"From your picture," she said, "you look just like your picture."

"My picture? What picture?"

"Your driver's license. The picture on your license," she replied as if the answer were obvious.

I still didn't understand. "Oh, I see. You must work at DMV. Or you're with the police." Those were the only two answers I could think of.

"None of the above, actually. I found this outside on the sidewalk." She held out my wallet. "I came in on the chance that the person who lost it was in here."

I was at a loss for words. I was sure I sounded like a fool as I replied. "Wallet. My wallet. I just this moment found out it was missing. That's great, just great. I was sitting here thinking all kinds of bad things. I was sure I was robbed on the way in here."

"I'm sorry," she said, laying my wallet on the table. "I didn't mean to intrude on your thoughts. I'll just go. Sorry." She turned to leave.

"No, no, wait, don't leave." I rose and caught up with her. "Come back and sit down. You're not intruding. Please." I took her elbow and guided her back to my table. I pulled out the chair across from mine and she sat down, then I went smartly back and sat down. I'm sure the smile I pasted on my face looked more like a smirk, but my intention was to show open friendliness.

It must have worked. I persuaded her to stay for dinner and we spent the next four hours talking about ourselves. She was such a good listener, and, if I remember correctly, most of the talk was about me. I think I told her my whole life history right up to the very minute we met. I did find out before she left that she had worked at Nicole's school for a short time before joining the local paper. We had both commented on what a small world it is, when the next I knew she was showing up at Nicole's for dinner, and now here I am, driving home from her apartment. And I've had no visions for the last couple of hours.

I know this small escape from the visits of the future will be short lived, but if they could just hold off for a little while....

I don't know how it happened, but the night is uneventful. Now it's morning and I am fully rested. Last night's diversion was the answer to my prayers. It gave me a full night's sleep. I know it is not to last however. The visions return on my first visit to the bathroom. There in the mirror is the derelict looking at me through his vacant eyes.
Chapter 12

The Jazzmin Connection

As usually happens after an unusual night, I fix myself breakfast. As I am preparing my Eggs Benedict, Lily telephones.

"When you were talking about your granddaughter last night," she says, "I couldn't help but notice the almost visible connection between you and Jazzmin. Is this because she is your only grandchild?"

"You're not the first to notice that," I reply, "or to ask that question. From the very moment of her birth, there has been a more than biological attachment between us." I turn my eggs out onto my plate. "Tell you what," I say to Lily. "You promise to spend the whole day with me, and I'll enlighten you about that connection."

Lily quickly promises, and I sit at the table, my telephone still at my ear, and begin my explanation.

"Nicole was having trouble with her husband," I say, "and had been staying with us. She was there the night of Jazzmin's birth. About three in the morning, my wife heard Nicole. She was in the guest bathroom. She got up to see if something was wrong and came running back to me with the unexpected, expected news. The baby is on its way." I pause to pour myself some more coffee.

"I got up and rushed into the bathroom. Nicole was lying on the floor of our very small guest bathroom. I'm no doctor, but even I could tell it was too late to go to the hospital. When my wife said, 'The baby's on its way,' she meant, The baby is really on its way.

As I knelt down and helped place Nicole into a position that, I hoped, would make delivery easier, my wife got on the phone to 9-1-1 and relayed instructions back and forth between the emergency operator and me. With the emergency operator's assistance, I delivered Jazzmin, right there in that bathroom. I cleaned out her mouth and spanked her little bottom. I made sure she was breathing and crying as a baby should. I held her first before anyone else did, and I held her for what seemed like an eternity. Well, I'm sure it wasn't even ten minutes till the paramedics arrived. I, the grandfather, was the first ever to hold this seven pound, eight ounce baby girl. Are we attached? You bet we are."

After a pause and a bite of eggs, I continue. "The paramedics have a scale of 1 to 10 to classify a newborn's condition. They put Jazzmin's condition at a 10. She wasn't even a day old and she was already at the top of her class." I can hear Lily chuckling at my obvious pride. "She was also the first delivery this new fire station assisted in. Once they completed cutting and tying the cord, they spent some time taking pictures of each other with their first baby. Finally, they put Nicole on a stretcher, tucked Jazzmin on her chest, and transported them to the hospital."

Lily says it must have been a scary situation for an old man like me.

"The birth was so quick," I protest, "I didn't have time to panic. I am sure glad I took some classes on child birth while I was in the Air Force, though."

I continue with the story as Lily listens with considerable interest.

"Did you know," I say to her, "there is no doctor listed on Jazzmin's birth certificate? I am listed as the attendant. There's my name and my title. Grandfather. They're printed on the certificate right below my signature. How many grandfathers can boast about that?" I ask and, as usual, my eyes moisten. Describing the event still leaves me in a very emotional state.

"I'm sure there are very few." Lily replies. "I know you're the first one that I've met."

At noon, I pick Lily up and, true to her promise, she spends the afternoon with me. I have two flashbacks (or flash-forwards) while she is with me.

I think Lily now understands a little of my paranoia about Jazzmin needing to be protected. She tells me that she can't see anything thing wrong with me, it just seemed to her that I blanked out and wouldn't answer her for a short period of time. I made no sounds or movements, and my eyes were fixed but unfocused. But when she shook me and waved her hand in front of my face, there was no response.

I'm not there to respond when she is trying to get my attention. I'm in another place at another time. I'm in that girls' bathroom again, looking for Jazzmin. The closing and latching of the second door has my full attention. And again I see the writing on the wall. The future is narrowing. I feel like I'm being funneled into a place and time as yet unknown to me. The actual event that is to take place is gaining strength. Hopefully, knowing what is to take place will help me prevent it.

Lily offers to go with me to see Dr. Readu for my second visit. She seems very interested in what I might learn, but I assure her that it will probably be very boring. I'm certain that the info I get will be of no use in my pursuit of future occurrences. She reluctantly accepts my assurance and bids me farewell at the door as I leave in the afternoon for my appointment.

I have a lot on my mind. I have to get myself ready to see the hypnotist. Dr. Readu promised to be ready to try and explain my problems. I also must be ready and rested so I can do as much as I can to assist him. It's for my benefit that we find some way to analyze the visions and their expected results. I feel that I'm at a pause in the action. I need to consider what action I can take, even if the results are explained. I still don't know if knowing the problem will offer me the ability to change the way things come down.

Right now, it doesn't matter. I must take some action, even if the results don't change the outcome. To attempt nothing is foolish and almost immoral. And not seeing Jazzmin in these visions disturbs me no end. Helping to bring her into this world warrants me to do everything possible to see that she has a long and as useful a life as possible.

I cannot say that I wouldn't feel the same if I had other grandchildren. But right now I only have the one. I have spent time with her nearly every day of her life. I have seen her go from helpless infant to toddler, I watched her go into day school and through kindergarten and into grade school. She is now a very productive member of her class. I hope the future will be as bright for her, and for me, as the past has been. However, I'm equally sure that without some interference from me, her future looks very dim.

I must make sure that whatever is scheduled to happen does not go as scheduled. My life would be unbearable if I allowed Jazzmin to be harmed or taken away from us. I have to find the solution to the mystery of the flashbacks and break up this madness I've been experiencing lately.

I'm sure that the derelict I see in the mirror must be me. And will be me, if I don't find a way to change things.
Chapter 13

Bathroom Visits

It's been a very rough day with numerous flashbacks. But I still survive.

I park my car a block away and head for Dr. Readu's office. As I round the corner, the first thing I see is the rear of a fire truck. I guess I've been blocking out the noise and the flashing lights, but now I look back and see the flares that prevent entrance to this block. Several building are blazing. Black smoke is billowing out of broken windows on the second and third floors. With the wail of sirens, another large fire truck appears at the other end of the street. Yellow saw-horse barriers are being hastily erected, and one of them is set directly in front of me. "Stay behind the barrier," a fireman instructs me.

With the sound of a car's tires sliding on wet pavement, the light of day is sucked out of the scene I'm watching. Through tear-filled eyes, I find myself witness to another fire. The buildings look a little different and it's night instead of day. I look down at myself. I'm wearing rags. I'm back in Derelict City.

The hypnotist I'm here to see no longer exists. What I see are the burnt out remains of what looks like a pawnshop. I hear a psst! that requests my attention, and I turn to see an older, different, version of Dr. Readu. He is motioning for me to follow him into the alley.

As I enter the alley, the set changes to daylight and I'm back in Old Sacramento in an alley adjacent to Dr. Readu's office. The hypnotist is standing beside me, looking at his previous place of work that is now in total ruins.

"Some one is watching you," he says. "Someone's afraid of what you might learn from me. That's the reason for this pillage. I'm afraid, however, that I don't have much to tell you. All my notes were destroyed in the fire and now I'm afraid for my life." He sadly shakes his head and we turn together to walk away from the smoking ruin of the building.

"The only thing I know for sure," he says, "is that Jazzmin is the key. She must be protected at all times. Losing her will, in all likelihood, hurl you down the path you have seen. It will ensure your destruction and ultimate demise. Once set upon this path, the future will be written in granite." He turns away, but I reach out and catch his sleeve.

"Do you have an explanation for the writing on the bathroom wall?" I ask him, my voice almost desperate. "And the double your pleasure comment?"

He stops and half turns toward me. "The words on the wall are very confusing." He scratches his head. "HE IS WITH ME I AM HIM." He repeats the words that came from my dreams. "I can only speculate," he says. "He is there but not completely whole. A greater part of the being is not present, or the other is with him by some form of communication. I really don't know what it means. The writer of this message could be someone with a split personality. Or possibly a twin. He is there but his other half is not, or something of that nature." He shakes his head, as if shaking such thoughts out. "Well, it doesn't matter which way it is. The danger is just as real. He's doing this with the full support of the other, and the consequences are the same." There's a slight pause before Readu finishes his exegesis. "The double your pleasure will also fit this scenario. I must go." He hurries off to an unknown destination.

My hopes are dashed. The hypnotist has run away and I am left with the same old problem of not knowing what will happen. I do, however, believe that the direction my life will take depends on my granddaughter's future well-being. I know I must protect her with all my ability. I have to learn her schedule. I have to be there, no matter where, to make sure nothing happens to her. If I can get some clue to her schedule, I can check out the places she will be going and make sure they don't match my dreams or flashbacks or flash-forwards. Hopefully, that will be a start in the right direction. It won't relieve me of the responsibility of being there at every turn to insure her safety, but it will alleviate some of my concerns.

Starting now, I will check out, in advance, every place we will attend and every facility we will be in. I can leave no stone unturned.

The first place I check out is the ladies' bathroom at Brookfield's. This is a restaurant we frequent, and even though I know what the men's room looks like, I have no idea if the ladies' is the same. I manage to get a peek inside. No surprise. They're very much alike, except there are no urinals in the ladies' room.

I continue my search at gas stations near the routes close to home. I check out the grocery stores in our area. I check out her gymnastic center and the dance studio. I investigate bathrooms at McDonald's, Taco Bell, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Long John Silver's, Burger King, Subway, Togo's, Church's Chicken, Popeye's Fried Chicken, Carl's Jr. and Wendy's. All the fast food bathrooms are on my list. While I get some real unusual looks and weird body language from some of the store managers, they all comply with my request and allowed me to personally check out each facility. I also consider our church, and promptly discard it as the possible location of a pending crime.

What crime? I don't know.

I go to Jazzmin's school and check out the bathrooms she uses during class and recess. With the upcoming presentations scheduled for the auditorium, I look in there, too. I even check out the facilities near Nicole's classroom. Sometimes Jazzmin has to wait for her mother and she'll use that bathroom. Every bathroom I see, I eliminate because none of them resemble the facilities in my visions. The one I almost forget is the one at my office. But a thorough check of that one also removes it from the list.

During these facility checks I am still having blackouts and flashbacks. They give me a clearer picture of the stall where the writing is. It's easy to tell that I haven't found the correct place. It's as if I've been given a transparency to place over the current picture to see if it fits. But nothing fits. What now? Where do I look now? How do I prevent what I don't know might happen?

Days go by, and the visions increase in intensity. The time between them is still not stable, but I think they seem to be getting closer together. I've checked and rechecked the facilities in all the places we go to. The school's bathrooms are closest to the one in my visions, but they still don't quite match. I guess I'll just have to play it by ear and make sure no matter where we go, I check out the nearest bathroom.

Well, tonight we go to the play that Nicole will direct. Jazzmin and I will be in the audience as spectators. They're champing at the bit to get there. I'm driving. As usual, I'll watch over Jazzmin while her mother supervises the performance.
Chapter 14

The Pumpkin Patch Revisited

The 1988 annual school play, The Pumpkin Patch, is lasting longer than we expected. We, the audience, sit in subdued lighting while the actors stand on a raised, well-lighted stage in their clever makeup. The costumes and the grease paint seem to give the performers a feeling of anonymity, and the excellent job contributed by the set builders leaves the participants with the idea that nothing is real. The clever young thespians thus find the confidence they need to ad lib some very humorous lines. These supplementary quips and the audience's appreciation push the final curtain later than its predicted fall.

Jazzmin, my granddaughter, is squirming in her seat. A trip to the bathroom is fast becoming a necessity. My daughter Nicole is the director of the play and I feel she should be present for the entire play so I'm the one who will take Jazzmin to the bathroom. Jazzmin is ten years old, and a very independent young lady, but the bathrooms are some distance down the hall from the auditorium. Nicole and I cannot, with any peace of mind, allow her to go that far this late at night without some type of supervision.

But when Jazzmin and I walk down the hall, we find an "Out of Order" sign posted on the door. "Use the restroom on the second floor," the sign adds, so we turn around and ascend the stairs.

Stopping at the top, I promise Jazz that I will not embarrass her by standing at the door of the girl's bathroom. I will wait here at the top of the stairs and pretend I am short of breath from the climb. If someone sees me here, I will take a couple of hard breaths and slip into the men's bathroom, this way she won't be embarrass and I won't be seen as some type of leech or pedophile hanging around the little girls restroom.

It only takes a minute. I'm waiting in the hallway when I have a vision of an empty bathroom. "Oh, God," I hear myself shouting. I've never checked out this second floor facility. I never thought the first-floor girls' bathroom might be out of order.

I am overcome by feelings of anxiety. I have to take action, any action. Jazzmin must be in trouble.

Pushing the door open, I quickly survey the bathroom. It's easy to see that the room is empty. "Christ," I mutter as I look around, "I didn't know this bathroom had two doors."

The second door was still closing as I came in the first door. With my feelings of anxiety increasing, I run out the second door and spot the stairs that lead down from this hall. I run down, two or three at a time.

Exploding onto the first floor, I skid to a stop, trying to look both ways at once. If I turn right, I'll be back at the auditorium, whereas if I turn left, I'll find the back of the building. I am just starting a fast jog toward the back when I hear a door slam in that direction. I push my jog into a sprint and reach the back door in seconds. I look out through the dirty window.

Jazzmin is out there. She's struggling with someone wearing a dark furry mask or funny dark beard. He's literally dragging her toward a black van that has been backed into the alley.

Kicking the door open and dislodging a large cardboard box propped against the wall of the building, I run for the van. Its engine is running. I can hear and see the rear sliding door opening. Thank God for Jazzmin's ballet lessons. Being a strong dancer, she's making it very difficult for her abductor. He's having a lot of trouble getting her over toward the waiting vehicle.

Although he doesn't see me coming, the driver waiting in the van has turned and is looking out through the open sliding door and sees me. Just as I go to tackle him, I see the driver's multi-colored sleeved arm move to the steering wheel and lay on the horn. The perpetrator turns, and his movement is just enough for my flying tackle to give him only a glancing blow but sufficient enough to separate Jazzmin from him..

I take a bad spin and land, sprawled and sliding, on the pavement. The perpetrator, whom I've knocked sideways, falls hard against the van, and Jazzmin spins around and away from the vehicle. She lands on the pavement and rolls toward me. I'm scraped and scoured by the surface of the alley and roll into a concrete parking block that knocks the wind out of me. As I struggle to rise, the bearded individual shouts, "I'll see you later, Grandpa!" as he jumps into the van. The van's engine races and its wheels spew loose pebbles spraying Jazzmin and I as it speeds away up the dark alley.

The short glimpse I had of the drivers apparel bothers me. There's something very familiar about that outfit but the van is around the corner and out of sight before I can get another peek. I take another deep breath and slowly try to stand up. Suddenly my heart seems to skip a beat and I sit back down. I know that voice and I can tell that Jazz has recognized it also. She turns to me and mouths a single word: "Daddy?"

I push myself up, reach down, and pick her up, pulling her into my arms and holding her as she begins crying. I brush her hair with my hand, removing some of the debris she picked up while she was rolling across the alley. The tears that spill out of her eyes leave dirty streaks down her cheeks.

Several moments pass. Jazz clings to me as tightly as I hold her, and now we're both crying. It was a close call. I finally get my wind back and Jazz and I take a few unsteady steps.

We're just getting our bearings and starting back toward the auditorium when Nicole comes running out the building's back door. I can see the questions forming in her mind from the expression on her face. I hold up a hand hoping to save the questions for later.

She runs to Jazzmin and pulls her close, then starts back toward the broken back door of the auditorium. She turns to stare at me, both of us temporarily speechless. I know she wants to find out what just happened.

To forestall her questions, I say, "Let's get inside and make Jazzmin comfortable first. Then I'll tell you what happened or at least what I think happened."

I know she's not going to take what I have to say very well. I am about to accuse her ex-husband of attempting to kidnap his own daughter, a daughter he has full access to just about anytime he wants. For what purpose would he do this? I shake my head. I wish I knew.

I now hear the sirens of approaching police cars. I assume someone witnessed the altercation and called 9-1-1. As I look back up the alley, I see a white car with flashing lights go past the entrance. Its brake lights come on as it makes a sudden stop, then I watch it back up and turn into the alley. Letting Nicole and Jazzmin continue into the building, I stop and wait for the approaching vehicle.

The alley has now taken on a surreal appearance as the police car's flashing lights bounce off the walls of the buildings. The car slides a little on the loose pebbles as it skids to a stop and both front doors are flung open. Two uniformed officers climb out, inserting their police batons into the holders on their black leather belts. I can hear additional cars arriving at the front of the auditorium. The officers complete their survey of the empty alley and approach me.

I talk to them for thirty minutes telling them that I think the abductor was wearing a fake beard. I wasn't sure and had to guess at the number of people inside the van. I told them I didn't get a license number, I don't know the make or model and I don't know the year of the vehicle. I explain, I was in a hurry and my only focus was to remove my granddaughter from danger.

One of the officers calls the incident in. A minute later he tells me that an All Points Bulletin has been issued, but without the license plate number, they're not sure of what the results will be due to the limited description.

I ride downtown with the two officers and spend the next few hours talking to the detectives who are formally assigned to the case. I have some doubts about them believing me, especially since I am accusing a highly respected doctor of this attempted crime. But I know what I know, and I repeat my statement as often as I am asked. I give it to at least three different detectives and then answer their questions as they try to tear my account apart. I don't think they're trying to trip me up in some statement, however; I just think they're being as thorough as they possibly can. The only thing I have going for me is the fact that the incident actually happened and it was witnessed by several people, including my daughter, who saw the van leaving, and my granddaughter, who was the intended victim. There is also the person who called 9-1-1, enabling the prompt arrival of the police. I have no idea who that person is. As for as I know, he or she has not come forward.

That was Friday night. Now it is Monday afternoon. I think the police are starting to believe me about the doctor. Things are changing, however. The news media have somehow gotten wind of my accusations. They broadcast some file footage of the doctor receiving an award while they report my accusation, me accusing him of an attempted kidnapping. It isn't fifteen minutes later when the station starts receiving calls about the doctor giving a lecture at UCLA on Friday evening. This places the doctor 600 miles south of the scene of the kidnapping attempt. Even he could not be in two places at one time.

This evening I watch the next news broadcast. I still can't believe that I may be wrong about the doctor. I can still see the abductor wrestling with Jazzmin. The man's movements and stance are a perfect double for the good doctor. Add the voice. I know his voice. It can be no one else.

I know I'm under considerable pressure, but can I be that wrong? I wouldn't wrongly accuse someone of such a crime, no matter how much I like or dislike them. But here I am, watching a tape of the good doctor giving a lecture at UCLA, and the time and date are printed right on the tape. There's no way that I can convince anyone of what I think happened.

Well, I can't even be sure myself anymore. If it wasn't the doctor, who could it be? And why Jazzmin?

The cops now say it was a random, unplanned kidnapping. Their reasoning was: how could anyone know that this one little girl would go to the bathroom at this particular time or even be at this location at this particular time? They believe the kidnapper was waiting for any child, and whoever went into that bathroom at that time would have been the victim. Jazzmin just happened to be the unlucky little girl.

The detectives assure me that they will continue the investigation with vigor and won't rest until they get to the bottom of it. They admit, however, that they have no leads and will be doing a lot of routine leg work. I don't have a lot of confidence in what they're doing, but they assure me that many cases have been solved this way. I have very little faith that they will conclude this case in a timely or satisfactory way.

Chapter 15

Replay the Night

Well, it's now been several days since the attempted kidnapping. I have spent these days driving Jazzmin to and from school. I'm making a complete pest of myself and spend most evenings at my daughter's house. When I do go home to sleep or try to sleep, I don't have much luck. No matter what the police say, I do not believe this was a random crime. I replay the whole thing in my mind every night. It's almost like an exercise in virtual reality: I can turn my head and look around and stare at things that were only peripheral when they were actually happening. Now it seems that, as the old cliché has it, Hindsight really is 20/20 and, now in my bizarre state, it's also 360 degrees. I think this unusual ability has something to do with the visions I've been having. However, as strange as it may seem, I haven't experienced an episode or vision since the attempted kidnapping.

I have had this dream several times. We're back in the auditorium and the play is in progress. I can see the school principal leaning against the far wall, watching the play and also watching the audience for anything unusual. I see him turn to look at something that caught his interest. I follow his gaze. It's a woman. She has just entered and is walking up the aisle. She's wearing a very unusual dress. It looks like a giant version of a Rubik's cube. You could just pick her up and twist her until the colors line up. She's also wearing peculiar, mismatched earrings. One seems to fit into the ear canal and hangs at a funny angle, forward, toward her chin. She sits down behind Nicole and me, but not too far back. Something to my left moves, I turn that way, but it's only the piano teacher returning to her seat. I guess no music is required at this time.

As before Jazzmin tugs on my sleeve and says she has to go to the bathroom. I signal Nicole what we are about to do, and Jazz and I rise and make our way down the row and head toward the door that leads into the hall and the elevators.

This time I use this new virtual reality ability and have to look around as we leave the auditorium. The only movement I see is the piano teacher returning to the piano bench. No, I also see the lady in the Rubik's cube dress standing up and going back down the aisle. As she leaves through the auditorium door, she is talking to herself. Just as she goes out, she glances over at us, still talking to herself.

I awake in a cold sweat. I remember the dream. Except it's not really a dream. It really happened. The thing is, it didn't happen with the clarity I now see. The multi-colored sleeve I saw on the arm in the van was the same color and design as the Rubik's cube dress. Maybe the lady wasn't talking to herself. Maybe that earring was a microphone. Maybe she was talking to someone else.

Hey—maybe it was like the Secret Service. The thing is, she was definitely involved in the incident.

I describe this dream, and the others, to Detective Walker, who is in charge of the investigation. He will check on the woman and find out if anyone else in the audience noticed her and her timely departure. He says he will get back to me.

Again, I leave the police with the feeling that I've just been dismissed, that no one believes me. I have this notion that the only way to find out what really happened is for me to work on it myself. I know it wasn't a random crime. It can happen again. The next time, I may not be forewarned. This is not acceptable, and I must not allow it. My future depends on preventing this abduction, of that I am sure.

Back at my office in the city, work continues as usual and I am loaded down with assignments. Concentration is something of a problem now, but I continue to push the paperwork and ensure that projects are completed on time. I try to avoid interruptions of any kind while I'm working. Train of thought is extremely critical in my line of work. Line by line of code has to be checked, so when the intercom goes off, I am really thrown for a loop. I lose my place. Now I'll have to start over with this program.

"What is it, Ms Simmons? I am quite busy, you know."

"Sorry, Mr. Goodhand," my secretary replies, "but there's is a visitor here demanding to see you."

"I don't have any time for visitors right now," I reply, trying to maintain some calm in my voice. "Can you ask what this is about?"

After a moment, she comes back on the intercom, "She says she's a patient of Dr. Warner and—"

Before she can say another word, I've got my door open. I address my visitor. "Hi. I'm Phil Goodhand. Won't you come in please and have a chair?"

I offer her my hand as she rises from the settee where she is waiting. She takes my hand for an impersonal, handshake and crosses into my office. As I close the door, she seats herself in one of the chairs in front of my desk. I walk to the other chair and, turning it slightly to face her, I sit down. "Now," I ask, "how may I help you?"

"My name is Wilma George. I am sixty-nine years old and I have been, and still am, a patient of Dr. James Warner." She makes some gesture with her right hand. "I have been with the doctor for twelve years. He is the reason I'm still here, alive and independent." She continues without any prompting from me. "He is the most caring doctor I've ever seen. The best. He's dedicated to his patients and never leaves our care to others. He takes the time to make sure he sees me anytime I have, or think, I have a problem." In her earnestness, she leans forward. "Oh, believe me, I've had doctors before that will slide some of their patients onto interns or PAs without a thought, that is, if they feel the problem is minimal or unimportant. Not him. When I show up, even unannounced, he appears from whatever he's doing and personally takes care of me."

"I agree," I say. "He is an excellent doctor." There is a question in the tone of my voice.

"Then why," she asks, "are you and your daughter trying to cause him trouble with your accusations? I know he could have no part in any kidnapping. I want you to make a public statement to that fact." I could tell from her voice and body language that she was on the edge of completely loosing her composure.

What can I say? "I apologize for any inconvenience I have caused you," I tell her in a quiet voice. "I will apologize in public for my accusations. I want to thank you for the time you took to come and make me aware of the insensitivity of my actions. You will see my words to this fact in print shortly." Standing up, I gently escort her to my office door and out into the waiting area. My secretary looks up. "Carol," I tell her, "would you make sure that Ms George here has transportation—"

"I have my own car and I can find my own way out. Thank you." Ms George opens the outer door and goes out.

"Thank you again for bringing this to my attention and look for the statement in the very near future." I say to her back. Then I immediately return to my office and restart the program I'm editing. I put her words on the back burner for the time being I have too much work to do.

Even with my increased workload, I still leave work in time to pick Jazzmin up at school and get her to her dance class on time. Ms Lucy is always happy to see us and always welcomes Jazzmin as if she were her own child.

Since the dance school is a very secure area, away from the hustle and bustle of downtown, I feel comfortable leaving Jazzmin here for the duration of her class. This gives me three and a half hours to do some investigation of the good doctor. I know it's possible that I'm nuts, but he's still my personal choice for perpetrator of the attempted crime. I don't care if the details and facts eliminate him as a suspect.

I have been working on Nicole, trying to convince her that he's the only logical suspect. Was he in two places at the same time? There has to be an answer to that. How is it possible? I don't know, but if I do enough digging, maybe, just maybe, I can eliminate him in my own mind and get on with my life.

I have a brainstorm and Nicole reluctantly agrees to go along, so now we're headed to the newspaper morgue to check old newspapers for any previous incidents of the good doctor being in two different places at the same time.

"What do we look for in the papers when we get there?" Nicole asks me.

"I'm not sure," I admit. "However, I think we should make a chronological list of any articles that mention the good doctor's name, his location at the time of the news about him, any note of a time frame for the event."

The street at the newspaper building is deserted and all the parking places are empty. "No money in the meters at this time of the evening," I say, as I park right in front and we both exit the vehicle.

The double doors of the building are dimly lit, but I can see a receptionist sitting behind a counter inside. There is a night watchman leaning on the counter, no doubt involved in some rapport with the receptionist. As we enter, he removes himself and heads down the left corridor. The receptionist, whose name is written on the paper nameplate sitting on the desk, acknowledges us.

"Hi Carroll," I say, tapping the nameplate to let her know that we are not acquainted. I don't want to start by misleading her. "My name is Phil Goodhand, and this is my daughter, Nicole Warner." I indicate Nicole with a gesture.

"We're writing an in-depth article on my husband, Doctor Warner," Nicole says. "We came here to gather information on his brilliant career by looking at any articles that have appeared in print. We are also looking for any info on speaking engagements. You know, who he spoke to, who sponsored him, where, when. The topics he may have given speeches on."

Carroll gives us permission and directions to where the information we requested might be located. Our search for evidence begins.
Chapter 16

Newspaper Morgue and Beyond

We scroll through page after page of print on microfiche, most of it of no interest to Nicole or myself. An occasional hit, however, gives us the info we need. On one or two of the incidents reported, the dates are so close together and the location so far apart, we wonder how he could have been in both places. We print, copy, and make notes on each and every item in the newspapers that mention Dr. Warner, and by the time we leave the morgue, we have quite a pile of paper. This is not our last stop. Next, we will hit the magazines and colleges for any mention of events or lectures attended by the good doctor.

For the past three weeks, we have been scouring the media for info on Dr. Warner. It's incredible how many speaking engagements he's had. Our task now is to go through this mountain of info and put it in chronological order so we can look for any anomalies or overlapping dates and times.

As we do this work, I keep thinking this man must be made of iron. He's on the go day and night. It's a wonder that he's had any time to attend to his practice. Suddenly it occurs to me—if I remember correctly, Dr. Warner does not freely pass his patients along to other doctors. He's always been kind of paranoid in that respect. He's also a control freak in almost all facets of his life, whether family or patient. So who's been taking care of his patients while he's been on all these speaking tours?

Now that I've thought about it, how do we find out about who his patients are? Looking at a patient's record is not something easily done. We can't just go in to the office and pull them as if they were public records. Is there a log showing which doctor saw which patient on which date? If there is, it's probably protected by a patient's privacy act, and trying to get those logs can bring the DA down on us. I've got to tell Nicole about this new idea. Getting patient information can give us an avenue that we haven't yet considered. Maybe she'll have some brainstorm on how to accomplish this.

Two of Dr. Warner's lecture tours stand out to me. I point them out to Nicole:

April 18, 1988, Dallas, Texas, lecture ended at 8 p.m.

April 19, 1988, Columbus, Ohio, lecture began 9 a.m.

June 21, 1988, Honolulu, Hawaii, lecture ended at 10 p.m.

June 22, 1988, New York, lecture started at 10 a.m.

"How did he get from place to place so quickly?" I ask. "It's true the lectures are just one day apart, but the actual time between lectures is critical. Dallas to Columbus is probably doable, but Honolulu to New York is very questionable due to time zone changes and flying time. The time difference between those, Hawaii and New York, is six hours and the flying time, west to east, is eleven or twelve hours nonstop. That means ten at night in Honolulu to ten in the morning in New York is twelve hours on paper, but the time zone difference subtracts six hours." I show her my calculations and the time zone chart in the encyclopedia. "That makes it impossible for him to make both lectures unless he traveled by the supersonic Concorde or in a military fighter aircraft." I zoom my hand high in an arc. "Even then it would take a minimum of eight hours of flying time, and with the six hour time zone change, that's fourteen hours, minimum." I tap the paper with my calculations. "That would put him well past the times he spoke at the lectures as proclaimed in the newspapers and magazines."

Nicole thinks about this a minute and nods.

"I think we have something solid here," I tell her. "Something that proves that our young Dr. Warner can be, and was, in two difference places at the same time. If this theory holds any water, and we can somehow confirm these dates and times, maybe, just maybe, we can get someone in authority to take another look at this case and our suspect."

This is, I know, hard for Nicole to accept. She loved someone enough to marry him and have a child with him, and now she discovers that he is perhaps a malicious criminal. This is going to take some getting used to.

I have doubts of my own. On the one hand, I recall the incident and have no problem assigning the blame to Dr. Warner, but then, on the other hand, I read about his accomplishments in the field of medicine and I'm turned around. How is this possible? It's as if two different people were involved in the attempted abduction, and they could in no way be connected.

However, this is the only lead that presents any possibility of solving this puzzle. I have to follow it until it comes to a complete dead end and either totally clears the good doctor or proves that he's the culprit. Resting before this is accomplished is not an option for me. I can't live with not knowing why Jazzmin was selected as a target or who tried to take her.

Putting our lists of times and dates together and presenting them to the authorities is more difficult and time consuming than we expected. Our hopes are that they'll examine our findings and agree that there's room for doubt.

Well, we tried.

As the detectives keep saying, "Before we start investigating and questioning such an important person as the doctor again, we need more than conjectures and time tables. The doctor has an airtight alibi. Airtight."

The truth is, he was in front of hundreds of people, hundreds of miles away in Los Angles at the time of the incident. Why am I stuck with this overwhelming belief that he's responsible? I have several reasons. I was there. I heard his voice. I know how tall he is. His daughter recognized his voice. I'm positive that, even if he had the phony beard as a disguise, his daughter would certainly be able to tell him from a stranger.

I hope I'm not stuck with tunnel vision on this just because I was there. I have tried to leave doors open for another answer, but none are forthcoming. No one else has presented a different scenario that is acceptable to me. I hope my dislike for the good doctor and his shabby treatment of Nicole hasn't poisoned my mind against him. If so, any little thing could lead me down a false path.

Now that I think about it, I have told the police how I feel about the good doctor. Maybe that's why they're a little resistant to any suggestions I may have made that point in the doctor's direction.
Chapter 17

A Visit to the Mansion

Nicole and I leave the precinct with our ton of paper, our time tables, and our, what they considered, baseless conjectures. Being shown the door is almost as bad as having salt rubbed in our wounds. I know the evidence isn't irrefutable or proof positive, but we tried to give them our best honest effort. I won't give up on my search for a better explanation than, "She was just a random target." That is not and never will be acceptable to me.

Guess what we've found out? Patient records and appointment schedules are guarded better than Ronald Regan's bedroom at the White House. We've tried several different ways to gain access to them, not the bedrooms, the files, but no matter what route we take, there is always someone who becomes an impassable obstacle. Even after being passed on by one or another of the record keepers, we still bump into this stonewall. They're not unreasonable people. They just take their job seriously. They know we have no business in patient records and office logs.

Neither Nicole nor I have approached the doctor and asked him about the incident. We've been relying on others to question him through his attorney. We've accepted that the answer we get is the same answer that the doctor actually gave. But what if what someone told us is not what the doctor said? Maybe it's time for some face-to-face questioning.

Nicole thinks this may give us something to work on, even if the answers we get from him aren't the answers we want. Some slight deviation from the info we have might give us something else to look at.

Nicole has been to the doctor's mansion several times and knows the way, so she drives the car tonight. As we approach, I see a wrought iron fence surrounding a structure three stories tall that probably has too many rooms to count. The fence, with its spear points, is beautiful yet menacing. It surrounds an estate spread over a wooded area of three square miles. The trees at this time of year are glorious.

"How can anyone live and possibly use this kind of space?" I ask rhetorically. "After all, there's only the two of them in that house, the old man and David, your ex. Neither one of them is married now that your divorce is final."

I have some questions for Nicole about her previous visits to this mausoleum. "Did you get the full tour of this place?" I ask her. "Or did you just see the dining area inside?"

The private drive starts behind the strong iron gate that has an iron monogram with a very large chrome W in the middle. The entrance is not manned, however; there is an entry code unit that is accessible to the driver of any vehicle coming to the gate. Nicole pushes the "talk" button at the top of the telephone style keypad. While we wait for a reply, she answers my question.

"I've been in the front rooms. I wanted to fit in, so when I was invited here, I just accepted what I was given. Things were civil, but not in any way did it ever seem that I was part of the family."

We hear a click and know by the hollow electronic sound that a circuit has been opened for conversation. Next, a very proper, "Yes?" comes from the speaker.

Nicole smiles. "Hello," she says. "Hi, Leonard...uh, it's Nicole Warner here. I would like to speak to David."

"Is Master David expecting you this evening?"

"No Leonard, he isn't."

The box is silent for a minute. We sit patiently and wait while a, what I imagine is a long and very intense, conversation is going on inside the mansion. Will they let us in or keep us out?

Eventually, we hear a clunk and the chrome W begins to split as the gates swing open. At the same time, a slight mist begins to fall from the clouds that have been hanging over the city all day. The sun has set and dusk this time of year is very dark. As the gates open, lights come on along the driveway. Each light stand is about two feet tall. They rise, perhaps twenty feet apart, out of the turf along both sides of the sparkling flagstone drive. The sparkle comes, I see, from tiny, glasslike, fragments embedded in the stones. These glass fragments reflect the light and make the surface of the road look like a stream of crystal liquid. The mist makes each light glow like a jewel on an extremely large necklace. As we drive to the mansion, I count the lights. There are about 200 of them. The opening of the gates and the domino rising and glowing of the lights are so quiet and impressive that they induce silence in Nicole and me. We drive to the house and park without conversation. The front door of the house is lit with bulbs topped by ceramic hoods that keep the rain off the bulbs and force the light to shine down only. The lighting and the mist makes our path from our car to the door look like we will be walking through a glowing tunnel. We get out of the car and hurry across the walk and up the front steps.

The tall, elaborate front door is still closed. You would expect, if the occupants knew someone was coming, that the door would be open and waiting, especially if it's beginning to rain. It seems to me that every step we will take tonight will be met with deliberate hesitation. Our reception here will be just polite enough not to be rude, but it will also project an understanding that this intrusion is not now welcome, nor will we be welcome in the future.

Nicole and I glance at each other. The door opens. There is no sound of the lock being drawn, no sound from the butler now standing in the open doorway.

"Hello," I say, just to see if my ears are still working. Yes, I hear myself speaking.

"Follow me, please," says Leonard, the butler.

Cavernous is the first word that comes to mind as we enter the foyer and see ceilings the full three stories high, with indirect lighting that leaves the impression that all walls and decorations were individually wired and internally lit. There are four entryways to other parts of, well, it wouldn't seem right to just call it "a house." We are led through the first entryway on the left into what looks like a formal reception area. The furniture I see is one of a kind, expertly hand-crafted, and obviously expensive. If I were a curator, I'd bet I could put a name to the artist who made each piece. I'm not a curator, so I am just in awe at the intricacies and details. If this stuff were mine, I would leave a price tag hanging on a couple of the pieces just to satisfy the curious.

"Please wait here," Leonard intones. He leaves us alone. This is just another indication that we are neither expected nor welcomed.

Nicole takes a seat while I pace and ogle the furnishings. I'm half-way around the room when I hear footsteps. It's the good doctor.

"Nicole," he said, "so good to see you." David extends his left hand toward my daughter. Nicole rises and shakes his left hand with her right hand. "And, Mr. Goodhand," he continues, still gesturing with his left hand, "welcome to my home. Please, please, be seated." He's cradling his right hand. Looking at us, he explains, "I burned my hand in the lab working on an experiment yesterday. It's quite sore. It may have a minor infection, but it's being treated and should be of no consequence." He gives a frosty smile and takes the seat next to Nicole's ornate chair. "Now. How may I help you?"

I must admit that his cordiality takes us back a little.

"Well," Nicole begins, "I...er...we—what I mean is...everyone is...ah was."

"Doctor," I butt in, "uh, David," I begin, "we personally have never sat down with you and talked about the night that Jazzmin was almost kidnapped. We have always dealt through your lawyers and have only had their secondhand answers to our questions. That's why we feel it is necessary to come here unannounced and try to put our questions and fears to you personally. Hoping this would put to rest in our minds that you had no part in that terrifying event."

Another falsely cordial smile appears on his face. "You know, I have been cautioned by my attorneys not to do this, this face-to-face, one-on-one, without legal counsel present." He rises and takes a few steps toward the entryway, as if he is leaving, but he suddenly stops and turns, gesturing with his left hand again.

"I don't think I can, with just words...I don't think I can put your mind at ease. I believe you have come to your conclusions and there's nothing I can say that would alter your considering me not a suspect." Pointing his finger at each of us individually, he continues, "I will tell you this one time. I did not do this. I did not plan this. I had no idea that this would happen. I was away at a conference when this occurred. Now, if you will excuse me, Leonard will show you out." Without a backward glance, he walks out of the room.

Other than a thanks to the butler, Nicole and I don't speak until we are back in the city and almost home.

"I thought he was sincere," she says as she opens the car door and gets out. She turns back to me. "Good night, Dad. See you tomorrow." She starts up the steps to her porch, then turns again. "Oh, Dad, if you don't mind, would you give the sitter a ride home for me, please? It's on your way, and I'd have to wake Jazz if I did it."

I move into the driver's seat and wait at the curb until the sitter comes out and gets into the car. I ask her how the night went and what Jazzmin did. The drive to her home is short, but I find out that the sitter knows all the steps of Jazzmin's dance routine. I guess they went through the dance, a gazillion times.

As I drop her at her house, I say good-bye and wait in the car until her parents let her in the front door. Then I head home to tonight's attempt at sleep.
Chapter 18

A New Opportunity Presents Itself

The next morning, coffee in hand, I open the front door and venture out into the already bright sunlight. I always look both ways, as if I was going to cross the street, even in my own front patio. "Boy," I say aloud to myself, "boy, do I need to remove the leaves from this patio before they stain the concrete." I set my coffee on the small wrought iron table. Talking to myself is not unusual lately. Since the attempted kidnapping, it's become a habit, hopefully giving my movements some validity.

I pick up my coffee and take a sip, then hold it and gaze at the traffic through the steam rising from my cup. My thoughts return to the lack of results of our intense investigation.

"What do we do now?" I'm still speaking out loud. Maybe it helps to hear myself think. "What other avenues do we travel to get some satisfying results? Answers, that I can live with."

I notice a folded newspaper lying just off the sidewalk near the front steps. It's partially covered by fallen leaves.

I retrieve the paper. "Must be another of the paper boy's attempts to get me to be a customer."

I return to my chair, remove the clear plastic bag, unfold the paper, and lay it on the table. I'll just sit here and read the paper for a little while. Yes, I like the info, but I dislike the apparently one-sided view on politics in this paper.

A failed robbery, a string of residential break-ins, a traffic fatality, a state official recalled. These are the stories that fill the front page. I skim each one to make sure it contains nothing applying to me or mine. I then turn to community news for local happenings. Several things draw my attention and I promise myself that I will read everything. But not right now. The article I will read right now is this one:

Local doctors, father and son, join each other at a convention in New York City.

Their names are right there. Dr. James David Warner and Dr. James David Warner II will travel to New York next week to present their research in human cell structure. The convention will last for three days.

To me, it looks as if the mansion will be empty except for the staff. Who knows? Maybe they'll go on holiday during the week while their masters are away. If Nicole and I can find out, maybe we can take another look at the house and find something that will help with our investigation.

It takes one call to find out that the mansion will be empty. The phone rings twice and Leonard answers. "Yes?"

"'ey mate," I say, "I 'ave a delivery and plan to take the lorry and make it to yo stoop mid-week coming. Can do?"

A short silence, then, "Please hold that until Monday week, if possible."

"Right-o, mate. May be a small fee involved for the maintaining."

"Quite expected." Then the dial tone in my ear.

Leonard hasn't said that the staff will be out, however, it's clear to me. I dial the phone again.

Several rings, a transfer, and Nicole answers.

"Hey, honey, it's Dad. I need your input on this. In a newspaper article I just read, it says the Warners will be out of town next week at a convention in New York."

"And how will that help us?"

"I just called the mansion and got the idea that the staff will also be away."

"You just asked them if they're going to be away? I don't think so! They wouldn't give you that information over the phone."

"Of course they wouldn't," I say. "I told Leonard I had a package to deliver and he asked me to hold it till the following week. That gave me the idea that they would be out of town and that big old house might just be empty."

"OK," she says. "Maybe it's empty, but, still, how does that help us?"

I give her an upbeat chuckle. "How about we break in for a look around while the nest is empty? You know. Search the closets for skeletons. Dig up the basement. Have a look in the attic or browse the mad doctors' laboratory for clues." I wanted to add a mad scientist laugh, but that may be too much.

My suggestion isn't getting the quick support I hoped for. I don't want Nicole to think I'm losing it, so I sit quietly, holding the phone, and let her think about what I said. She always weighs things carefully before making decisions. I have to be careful and make sure she'll follow my lead. She was not, after all, outside the school during the attempted kidnapping. She's been taking my word that it was the doctor.

She finally replies. "I'm not sure we would gain anything by going up there. I don't even know if we could break in."

"Look, honey," I say as persuasively as I can, "just go up there with me and look around, even if it's only outside and there's no one there to let us in. You do this," I add, "and if we don't come up with something, I'll just have to give up my quest, no matter how sure I am about your ex's involvement." I hope this doesn't sound too much like I'm begging. But I mean it. If we find nothing, I promise I won't involve Nicole again in this matter.

"I'll think about it," she says after more thought. "Give me a call later. I hope I have an acceptable answer for you. To go or not to go, that is the question, as Shakespeare would say." It's her turn to chuckle. "I have to go now. I have a class coming in." She hangs up.

I replace the receiver and open my appointment calendar. It's clear for the day. This will give me time to catch up on some neglected paperwork and make some follow-up phone calls. Working will take my mind off the waiting for Nicole's answer. But whatever she decides, I'm bound to make that trip to the mansion and look, even if I go by myself. "Stop this," I say out loud. "Get to work!" I follow my own suggestion.

I hear from Nicole later in the evening. After considering all aspects of my request, she has agreed to accompany me. It will be a long week before we get to go on this hopefully rewarding escapade. I will have to do business as usual and try to forget what may or may not come. I have to remind myself that there's no concrete proof that we'll find anything of value, even if we make it over the fence and inside the mansion.
Chapter 19

Doctors in New York

"So as you can see from these two slides, the actual cell structure of a healthy human baby is quite distinct from the structure of a fetus that is born deficient in some matter." Young David Warner said as he used his laser pointer to indicate the minor, as before undetected, different areas of the displayed cell.

"I am sure this is not a one case cell study, so I was wondering, how many subjects were studied to reach this conclusion?" A very young Asian doctor asked from a few rows back from the front.

"We had the opportunity to canvas one thousand newborns. I'm sorry that is one thousand on each side, diagnosed either healthy at birth or born with some defect." He paused but held up his hand to let the audience know he was not finished. "These diagnoses were verified by one of the nations leading diagnostic teams before we would accept the results."

"When you say defects, can you specify what was considered as a defect? I mean, what severity is a defect in these cases, Asthma, Crack babies, Downs Syndrome or what?" The head of Pediatrics from the Mayo Clinic asked.

"We held our research to those newborns that were diagnosed with a disease that could be life threatening in the future but not those with problems that were chemically induced." David Warner replied.

The questions were many and most were handled well by Doctor Warner II. There were a few questions that came from left field and with these the doctor stumbled and was bailed out by the Senior Warner.

"In your clinic where you do heart and lung transplants, how in-depth do you screen the donors? I know you match the blood type and many other factors, but do you go into the actual life habits of the gifting individuals?

"Well, I, uh, could you, ah, please." David Warner II froze on stage for a few moments and then looked around at the Senior Warner as if pleading for his assistance.

The Senior Warner, more mature but closely resembling the younger, rose confidently and walked to the podium gently moving the younger Warner aside as he placed himself in front of the mike. "Could you please confine your questions to the subject at hand. Any questions on other procedures or topics should be kept to your selves and asked when we are actually in conference on those topics."

They, the two of them did handle the remaining questions with the exception of two others that were off this particular subject. The conference ended and most doctors were positive about the outing. The two Warner's returned to their hotel and went directly to their room.

"Why do they do that? Why can't they stick to the subject? They always go off on a tangent about some other field of study. Why did they come if they were not interested in what was on the agenda?" David Warner II went on as his attitude spiraled down into a sullen almost childlike mood. He removed his tie and jacket with just a touch of anger showing in his movements as he tossed them at the open closet. He crossed the room and flopped down on one of the beds placing his arm across his eyes.

"Snap out of it, don't be a baby. You don't help yourself at all when you fold up like this. You have to learn to deal with these things as they will continue to come up. Good grief, you are a renown doctor in your field so grow up and act like it." The senior doctor paused as he poured himself a drink. The ice tinkled as he swirled the liquid in the small crystal goblet. This bar and many other amenities had come with the exclusive suite provided by the conference. "We still have two days of conference left, and you have to be at your best. As you know I want except anything less."

The last statement hit hard and the affect could be seen in the young Warner's face. He rose from the bed but dropped his eyes as he faced the Senior Warner. Both knew who was in control.

The conference continued with the doctors having excellent reception from their audiences. The beginning of a new week and the end of the conference seemed to coincide . A new week started and the conference ended at the same time causing the young Warner to brighten up a little.

After the conference was finished they toured the city for one day then packed up, checked out and headed for the air terminal heading back home. Boarding as first class passengers was a breeze and they both had a chilled libation in hand before the rest of the passengers boarded. They had no worries, they were relaxed and ready to get back to a normal routine. The flight had several stops on the way and they should arrive Sacramento International by late Wednesday afternoon.
Chapter 20

An Unauthorized Visit

Tuesday evening ten o'clock, with Jazzmin safely placed with the neighbors, we again make our way up the hill to get into the hopefully empty mansion. We're very quiet and speak in whispers as we drive. I think we both feel bad about doing this, but I see no other way to circumvent the obstacles that the doctors and their staff presented when they were present. Either way, I've promised her that this will be it for Nicole, even if we learn nothing new.

"The main problems we're facing are the fence and the gate," I say to Nicole. "Any suggestion?"

"Well, when we first got married," Nicole began in a voice that sounds like she's speaking in a dream, "David seemed so dedicated to me. I really felt he loved me unconditionally. He wanted me to be a part of his family. During that first week of our marriage, he gave me some things and I kept them. After the divorce, I never imagined I'd ever have any use for them. But I kept them. No one asked for them back. I dug them out after our conversation yesterday, Maybe they'll be helpful tonight." She digs into her purse. "Of course," she adds, "things may have changed since the divorce."

"Changed? What might have changed?"

She smiles and holds up a yellow Post-It note. "The gate code, for one thing. They probably changed that as soon as I was out of the picture. There's no way they'd leave it with me knowing it and me being an outsider."

"You have the gate code?"

"I'm sure I didn't need it written down," she replies, "but I brought it along to double check and make sure I have it right." She shrugs her shoulders. "Well, anyway, if this code doesn't open the gate, we can go to Plan B."

"What would make you remember the gate code after your divorce?"

"Well, it was 364#47. It's easy if you hear it over and over as a joke."

I'm not sure I hear her right. "He made a joke of the gate code? Well, this I've got to hear."

"He didn't use the numbers," she explains. "What he said was DOG POUND FOR SEVEN. You know. Look at a telephone key pad. The number 3 is used for the letters DEF, 6 is MNO, and 4 is GHI. The pound sign is POUND, and the number 4 is sometimes used as FOR. Like in advertising." I nod and she continues. "I don't understand the FOR SEVEN part, but he laughed himself silly every time he said it. Maybe they have seven dogs around the mansion and tonight we'll meet them." She shivers at the thought of seven Doberman Pinchers surrounding us just as we leave the car. "Well," she says in a quieter voice, "he must have just thought of it that night, because he said he couldn't wait to tell the family the code joke."

"You said he gave you some things," I say. "What else did he give you?"

"He gave me a Chippendale piece." She giggles, but I don't understand the joke.

"He gave you a piece of furniture? We're going to be helped by a chair with spindly legs?" I shake my head. "I don't think so."

"It's one of the things that I loved about David when we first met," she says. "He would take the simplest thing and turn it into something humorous. Once he took some pieces of straw from a field of hay and wove them into a tiny basket with convex sides. Then he hung it over his pen and announced he had a 'basketball point pen.'" She chuckles at the memory. "How young was I? I laughed and laughed until I cried. I guess his being on the basketball team added to the joke at that time."

"What about the Chippendale chair?" I ask her.

"It's not a chair, Dad. That was another of his jokes. It's a key, a key to that big front door." She shows me the key. "Well, it was a key to it back then when he gave it to me. I'm sure they've changed the locks by now."

"I am still stuck on Chippendale."

"Dale, or Dalle, is the brand name of lock hardware used on the doors of the mansion. The 'chip' part refers to the computer chip embedded in the key to silence the alarm system. A few very expensive vehicles have that same technique in their keys to prevent vehicle theft. David told me this when he gave it to me." She tucks the note and the key back in her purse and closes her eyes for a moment.

I can tell she is holding back tears, but I don't want to intrude on her thoughts, so I drive the remaining miles to the mansion in silence. I'm sure that the emotion Nicole is experiencing is stronger than I realize. It's been a long time since she has dealt with things that remind her of her wedding and married life. I am positive that she and the good doctor were both very much in love when they married and looked forward to a very long and happy life together, and I still don't know what could have turned things around in such a short time. One day, very happy. Then a sudden decline into a miserable existence that neither of them could tolerate. Separation followed, then divorce. Without this union, however, and the few years they had together, there would never have been a Jazzmin. For this, I will be eternally thankful, though I still feel that I must protect her and us from the threat I feel from David, whether founded or unfounded.

The trees seem to whoosh by as the moon races us up the winding road to the top of the hill. The moon zigzags from one side of the car to the other as we drive up the winding road. My father used to joke about roads with turns like this one. "The road was so crooked," he used to say, "I saw my taillights twice on the way here." As a nine-year-old, I never could figure out how he could see the back of the car looking out the front windshield. I understand the joke now, of course, and have repeated that same line to Jazzmin. On one occasion, on a very curvy road, she stared unblinkingly out the windshield for almost half an hour, trying her best to see our taillights.

The silence seems to be crushing the energy out of our mission, but our first view of the wrought iron fence seems to send a minor jolt of electricity into us.

"There's the fence." I mutter as I turn the last curve.

My words wake Nicole up from her doze. She opens her eyes and gives a quick glance at the fence, then looks at me. I can see she's coming back on board. I slow the car and pull up as near as possible to the keypad. Then I stop the car and sit for a moment before lowering the window. I reach out to enter the numbers Nicole repeated, which are still echoing in my mind.

She grabs my arm. "Try the call button first," she says. "Someone might be here. It would be better to make sure the house is empty."

That makes sense. I cautiously push the call button and we sit on pins and needles as we wait for a reply. Moments pass. There is no response from the house. I push the call button again and wait a reasonable time before I turn to Nicole.

"I would venture that the house is unoccupied and we have the place to ourselves."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," she replies. "Full speed ahead. Fire when ready."
Chapter 21

Dog Pound for Seven

3,6,4,#,4,7.

I repeat each digit as I punch it into the keypad. How long does it take an electronic signal to go from here to the house and come back to the gate control motor? It takes an eternity if you're waiting and not sure if what happens is what you want to happen. But there's a slight hum and the large W begins to split as the gates silently sweep open. That endless line of majestic lights rises as before and shows us the way to the front door.

Awe-inspiring, the light sequence prevents speeding and removes all desire to speak. I gasp. My exclamations of surprise are uncontrollable, even though I've seen this magnificent light show before.

We stop at the front door and sit still, waiting for the Dobermans. Several minutes pass. There is no sign of the vicious canines. Maybe they, too (if they even exist), are on vacation.

Finally, asking "Did you hear a bark?" I scan the area out my side of the car. I try to look past the lighted area into the darkness, but I see nothing moving and hear nothing menacing, either.

"I think we're OK," I tell Nicole. "I am going to get out and walk to the door. You wait here till I'm sure there's no danger." As quietly as possible, I open the car door and, closing it as quietly, walk to the front steps. As I reach that enormous, magnificent door, I'm still looking both ways to be sure nothing approaches without my knowledge.

Standing on the porch, I have a good view of the driveway, and so the change catches my attention immediately. The darkness is slowly making its way up the drive toward our car. The lights are sinking back into the ground. Well, now one of my questions is answered. I was wondering if the driveway stayed lit as long as someone was parked on it or if it was timed. Now I see the approach as less beautiful, as something ominous and threatening. I again feel the need to avoid drawing any attention to myself.

"Nicole, Nicole," I call in a loud whisper, "come on and bring that key. Jeez, I hope this works! Hurry up. I feel a need to be inside the house or back in the car." The darkness is crawling silently up the drive.

"What's the rush? What happened?" When Nicole turns, she sees what I'm staring at. Now she, too, feels the need to hurry.

She has the key in her hand and slips it into the lock and turns it in one quick motion. There is no resistance. She thumbs the latch and the door silently swings open. Now we're facing a very dark entrance hall. The silence around us smothers all noise and advertises the emptiness of the mansion.

Still moving with great stealth, I slowly close the door and begin feeling around the doorframe, trying to find a light switch, but Nicole simply lifts a small Mag light out of her purse and searches for a lamp, or something to illuminate the foyer. We find the control panel for the lights, the main gate, the speaker, and almost everything else above a small table in an alcove. All the lights in all the room are controllable from this single location.

All controls indicate off, except one. "Hey," I say as I read the panel, "I didn't know the doctors had a laboratory here at the house, did you?"

"No," she replies. "How would I know that? David never mentioned doing any work here at home." She traces the letters on the panel and reads them aloud. "Lab. Well, they are doctors, you know. I'm sure they have room here to have a lab and, with their resources, I am sure it's as flamboyant as everything else is about this house."

"Notice anything unusual on the panel?" I ask her.

"The lab indicator light is lit."

I nod. "Everything else is dark, indicating no presence. I wonder if that means someone else is in the building and at present in the lab." I look around as I say this, wondering which hallway leads to the lab.

"Well," Nicole says after a minute, "we know this door leads to a sitting room. That's where we were the other day. So no need to check that door. Let's try the other three and see where they lead. I just wish I remembered more about this place, but we're in here now and we might as well make the best of it."

Choosing one of the dark hallways, I separate from Nicole and head off by myself. What I find are the dining area, with the kitchen off in one wing, and stairs leading up to the second floor. I don't even consider that a lab would be on the second or third floor. I'd put a lab on the first floor or maybe in the basement. I am just returning to the foyer when I hear Nicole calling me.

"Dad, I think I've found something. Come here and take a look." She's peering out a doorway.

I cross the foyer and come to where she's standing. There's a very solid wall with a door that resembles a small garage door in the center. Right beside it is a small stand protruding from the wall. It features a flat ten-inch-square panel, tilted and lighted on the top. This is about three feet off the floor and situated in a way to make it comfortable to place your hand on it. I guess that it's a palm reader that allows authorized personnel to enter whatever is beyond this door. When I place my hand on the lighted palm outline, I get a negative buzz, which makes me laugh in spite of myself. "I guess I'm not authorized."

"Let me try," Nicole says. "Who knows? Maybe I'm authorized." She lays her right hand on the glowing plate.

There's a soft ping and the door glides upward. We're still standing there with our mouths open as it reaches its full open position. The area inside is well lit, and we can see that it is not only very large but that it also holds an unusual array of equipment.

Taking a deep breath, we step forward into the lab.
Chapter 22

Another and Another and Another

It is a lab...and more. We see several lofts around and above the primary lab floor. Each loft has its own staircase and view of the entire area. A few of the lofts are lighted, but most of them are dark. Seven lofts in all I count as I stand in the entrance.

Nicole is already walking off to the side and is standing in front of some liquid-filled tubes that I estimate to be about seven feet tall and two feet thick. There are two of them. As I join her at these tubes, I can see the stunned look on her face. I follow her gaze and feel the blood rush from my face. Each tube holds a body. Not just any body. They both hold James David Warner, II. Bubbles slowly rise from the bottom of each tube and burst as they meet the air at the top of the tubes.

Coming closer, I see brass nameplates on the tubes. One reads #4, HUSBAND. The other nameplate reads #2, PARENT.

Almost unable to believe my eyes I am momentarily stunned motionless. As my mind races with what this could implicate, I leave the lab and head back into the foyer where I had seen a phone. I dial Detective Walker. Just these two tubes are enough to make the police start a new investigation of the Warner's.

"Walker," came the voice in my ear.

"This is Phil Goodhand," I say. "I'm in Dr. Warner's mansion."

"Oh? And the reason you called?" He sounds annoyed.

"I wasn't invited out here," I tell him, "and no one knows I'm inside their house. Both the Warner's are away in New York City, so I guess you could call what I'm doing is a breaking and entering. You might call it a B&E?"

"If you really are inside their home without permission," the detective says, "you are in deep shit, Goodhand, and you are going to do some time."

"Well, Detective, why don't you just bring your little old police squad up here and arrest me? Do you know how to do that? How to arrest people? You've been so inept with this investigation so far. I have to wonder if you know how to make a simple arrest. Tell you what." I'm challenging him. "I'll leave the gate open so you can just mosey on in and get me. Oh, uh, do you need directions to get here?" I hope I'm pushing the right buttons to get the police up here I want them to see what I'm seeing.

There is no reply, only the dial tone sounding in my ear. I smile as I replace the receiver. I think I've got his goat. Hopefully he'll be here in a few minutes.

I go back into the lab where Nicole is still staring at the tubes, pondering what they must mean in regard to her marriage. I take her arm and lead her away, into another part of the lab.

"Honey. Nicole. It's OK. We'll find out what this means. The police are on the way here." I guide her to a chair so she can sit down. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for this," I say. But do I believe my own words? "Just relax and we'll find it. Somehow."

I leave her for a minute and walk back to the foyer. I want to make sure the gate and the front door to the mansion are still open, plus the door to the lab, so when the police arrive, there are no obstacles in their path. I want them to come right into the lab. I check the control panel and select lock open for the gate. As soon as I push the toggle switch, the driveway again becomes that glowing crystal river that flows toward the front door.

"If the cops can't follow that path," I say aloud, "then we truly are in a world of crap." I head back toward the lab.

But as I approach the door, I hear voices. One is Nicole's; the other is male. Who could that be? The male voice is raised, but doesn't sound violent. Just concerned. I stop outside the lab and listen. I don't know if the speaker is aware that Nicole is by herself or not.

"I'll ask you again," he says, "what are you doing here?"

"I, uh...I came to see you." Her voice is very soft.

"How did you get in? Who let you in here? This place is protected. Only authorized personnel are allowed inside."

"I'm in here," she replies, her voice louder, "so I must be authorized. So, David, how are you?"

David. I can't believe it. David is in New York at a convention with his father. I peer around the door. That's David in those two tubes. Now he's here in person, and he's talking to Nicole.

"You are not authorized," he says, "and don't try that Miss Nice routine on me. I'm not in the mood for your smug answers and I resent you being in here. You will leave immediately." He's almost shouting now.

But Nicole is not to be intimidated. "I am not leaving here until I get some answers from you. You have some tall explaining to do." She points at the tubes across the lab.

"I don't have to answer to you about anything," he says. "And, besides, you wouldn't understand if I did. It's not something that common people would understand. I will not explain or try to justify anything to you or anyone else."

It's good to hear that Nicole has recovered from some of her initial shock at seeing the tubes. I can tell that she has almost totally regained her composure. She's ready for a fight. Then I begin to wonder how long she can hold her position before David physically forces her to vacate the lab.

"Who else is here?" she asked.

"Er, no one. I am here alone."

"Oh, yeah? Then who just turned on the light in that loft?" She points. "I can see a shadow moving around in there."

I peek around the edge of the door. The loft that she's talking about is now lit up. As I watch, the door opens and, oh, man, David comes out. He's wearing pajamas and is still half asleep.

"What's with all the racket?" He calls out in a surly voice. "I need my sleep, so please, hold it down." He goes back inside and closes the door behind him.

Nicole looks from the closed door to the two tubes to the man standing in front of her. "Oh, shit. What the hell is going on? David, what have you done? How can this be? You're here, you're up there, you're in those two tubes. You can't be in all those places, and yet you are." Another thought comes to her. "And, I presume, you're also in New York with your father?"

David's glance returns from the loft to her face. "Pay no attention to him," he says with as much authority as he can muster, "and leave now."

"David! David! Help, help, help!" Nicole is shouting as loud as she can.

The lights in three of the lofts come on. Three doors fly open. David steps through each door. Are they apparitions out of a ghost novel? Davids are standing in front of the three lofts. All of them can see Nicole down in the lab, Nicole with David standing over her, his fist raised. All three Davids come down their stairs.

"Why did you bring her here?" one of them asks.

"I didn't bring her here," the first David replies. "I just found her in here."

"OK," says another David, "so how did she get in if you didn't let her in?"

"I don't know. She hasn't answered that question yet."

"She's seen us, you know. All of us."

I've lost track of which David is speaking.

"I can't help that," the David who had raised his fist now lowers it. "I don't know how this happened. Dad will be furious with us. He won't understand how this could have happened."

A David shakes his head menacingly. "She has to leave. We can't have her here, or everything will be destroyed. She has to leave now!"

"Wait, wait," the first David protests. "If she leaves, we'll be exposed." His gesture takes in the whole lab. "All of this will be destroyed." Now he's looking distressed. "She has to go, but she can't leave. What do we do?" He's looking at the other Davids, who refuse to meet his eyes.

"Hold on, hold on," Nicole intervenes. "Can't we, here, here—" she pulls a couple of chairs away from a lab bench, "—sit down and talk about this?"

One of the Davids sits, shaking his head. He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "This can't be. We can't let this be. How could we have slipped up like this? We were protected! Securely locked in here. Nobody, nobody should have been able to get in. Nobody can know we're here."

The first David takes a step toward the circle of chairs. "It's too late," he says. "It's over. Everyone will know. There's nothing we can do but face the reality of our upcoming exposure to the world." He looks around. "This lab and our little universe will be eliminated."

"Come on, One," another David, the one in pajamas, says. "One, help us out. We can't just call it quits. We've come so far and done so much. There must be something we can do to prevent exposure."

"Sorry, Three. I have no idea how we could stop this from getting out."

Yes, I think, numbering is a simple solution. It's almost funny. They can't just go around calling each other David. No one would know who was talking to whom. Numbers 2 and 4 are in the tubes, and 1 and 3 have just spoken. This means the other three are 5, 6 and 7. A simple numbering system makes identification a breeze, thereby turning a complication into simplicity.

Nicole speaks up again. "Can you at least tell me what is going on? I won't tell anyone," she promises them. "I just need to know. I just need some answers to some questions."

One of them turns on her. "Quiet! You just be quiet! You're ruining everything. I knew you were trouble, I just knew it. When we first found out about you, I knew we were in danger of exposure. Everything we've done to protect ourselves, it's all been for naught. The terrible things we did, the things we thought we had to do," he is nearly in tears, "will now be our undoing. Why couldn't you just leave it alone?" He is gesturing wildly, pacing back and forth. Now I see tears forming in his eyes. He paces the floor for a minute, then stops right in front of Nicole. "Why couldn't you—look, we had it handled. You and your daughter were in no further danger. We had it handled."

One of the other Davids steps forward. "Five, Seven, what do you guys think? You can't just stand there," he says. "This affects you two as much as anyone else."

"Three is saying what I'm thinking," either Five or Seven replies, "and I don't know what to add. What can I add? It's hopeless." Three or four of the others nod.

"Who is in New York?" Nicole asks.

"Six. Six is in New York. He'll be in the clear," Three replies. "He won't be blamed for this. Why couldn't I be in New York with the old man?" I believe he must be the worrier for the whole group. Three looks around. "Someone has to call him. One, you should do it. You're the oldest."
Chapter 23

Calling the Chief

Standing outside the lab, I hear the patrol cars as they pull up at the front door. The closing of a vehicle door, followed by the footsteps in the foyer, is a welcome sound. We are about to be rescued.

"Over here! I'm over here!" I shout, and as soon as the police come into view, I run into the lab, sure they are right behind me.

All the Davids turn to look at me as I dash across the room and put an arm around my daughter. Then they see the police.

The Davids are not the only ones who are stunned into silence. Several uniformed officers wearing Kevlar vests and holding their weapons in the firing position enter the lab. As they look around, they see four identical Dr. Warners. This sight causes their weapon's aim to drop noticeably then, seeing no danger, lower completely to a standby position. Detective Walker, following the uniformed officers in, seems almost mesmerized as he stares at the Davids, four identical men standing where there should be only one. Actually, where there should be none. There should be only one, and he should be across the country in New York City.

I give Detective Walker a few minutes to get his bearings, then I get his attention and motion him over to the two large tubes and point out the two additional Davids floating inside. I let him stare at the bubbling concoction. I can see the wheels beginning to turn in his mind as the realization of what all this might mean dawns on him.

"This is not possible. This can't be true." He is beginning to believe that it is true. And possible.

"Did you read these, too?" I point to the brass nameplates on the tubes.

He looks, then touches the brass nameplates, fingering the letters cut into them. "I don't understand. What do they mean?"

"I think what they mean," I say, "is that the good doctor really could be in two places at one time. Although I'm not sure, I believe that this David here, #2, the Parent, is the one that tried to kidnap Jazzmin."

I look around at the other Davids, then face the detective again. "What about them?" I ask him. "Do you have any idea what or who they are and why they're here? Will you be taking them in? Or is there a reason to take them in?"

Walker slowly shakes his head. I can see he's overwhelmed. "I am at a loss here," he admits, "and I don't have the faintest idea what to do. I see two dead bodies and four live bodies." He shakes his head more briskly, as if to clear it. "I'm going to play this by the book. I'll call my boss. The chief can make the decision." I see the beginnings of a grin on the detective's face. "However I don't think he will. He'll probably call the mayor." Walker laughs out loud. "The mayor, who can't decide when to take a piss without a committee, will probably call the governor." Walker looks at the Davids again and heads out to the foyer to make that phone call.

I cross the lab and take Nicole's hand and lead her back to the formal reception area, where we find chairs and sit down to wait for the police to decide where they will take this bizarre situation.

"Hmm," Nicole says after awhile, almost to herself. "No wonder he laughed. If I'd known, I would have laughed, too."

"Who laughed?" I ask her. "When?"

"David did. One day, when we were still happily married, David and I were playing golf at the country club, and one of our foursome, Mike, hit a shot from the tee that sliced into the adjoining fairway. David's attention was on me at the time and he didn't see the shot. Anyway, Mike yelled 'Fore!' because the ball was heading for some players in the other fairway." She smiles. "You see, Mike yelled 'Fore,' and David yelled, 'What?' and Mike gave him a funny look. At first, David seemed embarrassed, but then he doubled up in laughter. I didn't get it. I think I do now, though. That David was number four, and he was just responding to being called by his lab name, Four." She suddenly got very quiet and tears spilled down her cheeks. "I think that David, Four, really loved me. Maybe he paid for it with his life."

We're both contemplating this when Detective Walker crosses the room. "Hey, there you are, excuse me I was looking for you," he says. "The chief is on his way out here. He didn't understand what I was trying to tell him. This I can understand. How do you describe something like this on the phone? I'm having problems believing it, and I'm on the scene."

He walks back toward the lab and has a brief conversation with one of the officers there, then comes back to us. "The chief also ordered me to protect the scene and take no steps until he arrives." The detective faces me. "Seeing more than one Dr. Warner," he tells me, "I may have to reevaluate your statements on the attempted kidnapping of your granddaughter. I may owe you a huge apology for not believing you."

I understand his feelings. "How could you accept my account of the situation when the newspaper and the TV ran a piece that showed the doctor hundreds of miles away at the time of the kidnapping attempt? Their lead story the next day is permanently etched in my mind." I repeat the story.

A foiled kidnapping at a school play last evening left a renowned doctor's daughter shaken and bruised but safe and back with her mother. Dr. David Warner, shown here receiving an award at the State Medical Annual Awards last night in Los Angeles, was not available for comment. Dr. Warner's associates assure us that he is aware of this alleged kidnapping attempt and shocked at this invasion and attack on an unsuspecting family and an innocent child.

I return the detective's gaze. "I, myself, began to doubt what I saw. However, when I remembered what Jazzmin said and how she reacted to the voice of the assailant, that led me right back to my original conclusion. I knew Dr. Warner was involved in the attack. But I had no idea of the path that this investigation would take nor of the secrets that would be uncovered."

The chief and several additional detectives arrive now and take charge. It is some time before we are allowed to leave.

The four David's are not taken into custody at this time. No one is sure if they have individually committed any crimes. Their being in existence may be a illegal, but the chief says they didn't necessarily break any laws by being who they were, so until the investigation is complete, they will not be charged.

The police seal the lab and send all of its occupants into the main part of the house until everything can be sorted out. Police are left at the scene to protect any evidence that may be found inside the house and lab. Detective Walker assures me that someone will be waiting at the airport for the other two doctors when they return from New York.

Shortly after his arrival, the Chief, as expected, does call the mayor. I'm thinking that Walker is right on and the next call will go to the Governor.

Chapter 24

Riddles are Answered

It has been three weeks now since the discovery of the additional David Warners. Progress reports from the police are slow in coming and are simply not informative. The newspaper ran headlines on the arrest of Warner, Senior, who was arrested on two counts of murder but has yet to be arraigned due to the on-going investigation.

There are multiple problems. They are not sure who actually put the two men in the tubes, and there are some laws that were broken that have no previous rulings. These infractions have no precedence for the district attorney to go on.

The D.A. got a court order for blood tests on all the people found in the lab as well as the senior Warner. The only records they can find are on the senior and only one dependant. The DNA tests on them all leave no doubt that the seven Davids are not the children of the senior. In fact, they are not the children of anyone. The DNA of the seven Davids is identical to the senior, meaning they are the same individual, meaning, according to the D.A., they have to be clones of the old man. Seven clones, one for each day of the week. Seven individuals, all living in the lab, with only one allowed out each day.

It's a wonder only one of them went a little haywire but it's easy to see how they could make all those meetings around the country and never get tired. At Medical School each clone must have studied a different area of medicine and all became experts. At graduation, however, it was only one, Doctor James David Warner II, who received the Medical Degree, a degree in seven specialties.

While they were young and unknown to other doctors, they could be in different cities at the same time, though, of course, they can't do that now because of Dr. David Warner's reputation. How careful they must have been and how like a prison the lab must have seemed.

I don't know why he wrote them but I now think I know what those seven words on the bathroom wall meant. HE IS WITH ME I AM HIM. Number two, and all the rest, are one and the same, and where one went and what one did involved them all. I also know how they must have put the message on the wall. The cops tried to duplicate the application, but to no avail because they didn't know the paint was applied by a physician. If they had known, they might have used a syringe to apply a clotting agent and canine blood mixture to the wall while spraying it with liquid nitrogen, but I doubt it. The spray from the liquid nitrogen canister froze the blood as it was applied and changed the consistency of the application as the nitrogen simply evaporated. They found trace evidence of the blood mixture in a small container along with an empty nitrogen canister hidden away in Two's loft. That's when they understood how the writing was theoretically done. In a twisted way Two must have thought it was quite a joke.

The jingle I was concerned with was, "If you can double your pleasure you can double your trouble." and as I mentioned before sometimes hindsight is 20/20. The saying should be, however, more like "septuple your trouble." not just double it.

Knowing who the culprit was and that he is no longer a threat means I'm sleeping better than I think I've ever slept. I didn't know how tired and rundown I was. The feeling of sitting on the edge of an abyss, while trying to sleep, has gone away, now I feel like I'm floating on a soft but solid cloud and resting peacefully. Work is easy now, and my leisure time? Well, I even got in a couple rounds of golf. I hit the little white ball and while walking between shots I actually thought about my next shot, not about Jazzmin's safety. It has been weeks since I've thought about anything but her safety and our future. On the other hand, I did think about David just for a moment when an errant shot was hit and someone shouted 'Fore!' It made me smile and I had to explain the smile to my golfing foursome.

So much has been explained but so much has no explanation. I think I can venture a reason for the visions and preventing the kidnapping was the action that ended them. This, however, doesn't tell me why those peeks at the future, started in the first place. Would knowing change anything, I don't know but whatever the reason I am so glad that I had them.
Chapter 25

Suspect Accepts DA's Plea Bargain

"Nicole," I call, "Nicole, it's all here in the paper." I am sitting here on her front porch with a fresh cup of coffee as the paperboy comes by. The headline jumped out at me.

DOCTOR ACCEPTS DEAL OFFERED BY DA

Nicole comes out and I show her the headlines and then read the story aloud to her.

After pleading guilty to two counts of manslaughter, Doctor David Warner, Sr., made the following statement.

"Yes," Warner told the judge, "I put them out of order. They were defective."

Nicole is floored at the cold bearing of the senior Warner. His detachment from the seven Davids he created is not what the medical profession means when it says, "First do no harm." This rule has been violated at least twice, and if "the deviates" were similarly dispatched, then it is at least four times. Dr. Warner, Sr., has seen his last patient, unless he is allowed to doctor in prison.

The story continues on a later page:

No charges have been brought against the younger Warners, as they appeared to have done nothing against the law. Their being cloned was not of their doing and, from the looks of things, they were innocent bystanders in the deaths of their siblings.

The newspaper does not elaborate on this but I presume the Warners will have to become individuals somehow. I would think the public and Social Security would require this. All I can say now is that it is over and I feel that a major weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel as if I have been freed after being locked up for many years.

There have been no repeats of the visions for me. Jazzmin and Nicole still live here in their house, although they live now without visits from the Davids. The court ruled that Nicole's husband died before they were divorced and his wealth now belongs to her. This is one sixth of the total value of the Warner estate, which is valued at better than $30 million. Nicole received $5 million. Although it is considerably less after taxes, this is still quite a lump sum.

I'm hoping to continue seeing Lily and maybe there will be some kind of future for us. The problem right now is she has disappeared into thin air. Her apartment is still furnished, but her landlord has no information on her whereabouts. I have filed a missing person report and am now waiting for the police to go through her apartment. Detective Walker has assured me that I can participate in the search when they arrive.

It's a small complement of personnel that arrive. I've been picturing a CSI team with lasers, Luminal, latex gloves, Mag lights, and numerous other highly complex pieces of equipment.

What has actually arrived are Detective Walker and one other individual, Officer Link, who looks to me like a CPA or city librarian wearing thick eyeglasses and a well worn tweed suit, a derby hat, and plain brown loafers. He is carrying a cane, several plain brown paper shopping bags, and a worn leather, briefcase with secured buckles. His voice, quiet and almost squeaky, matches his attire, but his attention to detail is matchless.

As Officer Link walks through Lily's apartment, he finds things I never noticed the few times I had visited. "I haven't found any personal effects in my search as yet," he reports as he completes his inspection of the desk in the living room.

"No," Walker replies, "nothing personal here."

"Well," says Link, "her clothes are still here in the closet." He uses his cane to slide the hangers, one at a time, back and forth. Then looking down, "Her footwear is also here," he says a minute later, "and it is arranged in some order." He picks up a couple of shoes and notes Lily's size. "If I had to guess from what I see, I would say they are all here but, you do realize, some women have a thing about shoes." He points with his cane and Walker and I both look down at the closet floor. "Running shoes, evening shoes, everyday shoes." He holds up a pair of slip-ons. "These are the most worn and, I would guess, her favorite."

But something is bugging me. Something in the closet has caught my attention. I'm not sure what it is, but something in there is ringing a bell in my head. I step back and peer around Detective Walker to get a better view of the entire closet, trying to figure out what set off this alarm in my head.

"What's the matter?" Walker asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"There's something in there bothering me," I reply. "Could Officer Link go back through the same motions that he did before?"

Link looks at me. "What motions?"

"Just bear with me," I tell them both. "Pretend you're just entering the closet and do the same things you did before. Maybe that'll clue me into what caught my attention."

They comply. "That's it," I say. "Close the door and start again. Let's see if that will do it."

Link closes the closet door and nods at me to let me know he's going to go in again. He opens the door and looks up, then down. Using his cane again, he slides the hangers to the left, then to the right. Next he uses his cane to move one article of clothing at a time back to the other end.

One by one, he moves Lily's clothing, and as he slides the fourth item to the other end, I see it. The next hanging item is what rang the bell in my mind. If I hadn't seen this myself, I'd never believe it. Feeling like I might pass out, I hold up my hand.

Link slowly slides it into full view. "So this is the little item that is bothering you." he says. "The dress is unusual but not dramatically so." He removes it from the rod and holds it up. It is a simple long-sleeved dress with small squares of various colors arranged in a random, non-repeating pattern. This is the same sleeve I saw in the van. It's the same dress I saw in the auditorium.

A complete search of the closet reveals other incriminating items, all of which I can easily link to the attempted kidnapping. A short haired wig. A mike with an ear piece and transmitter. A parking stub that later investigation will reveal to be assigned to a dark van that had been stored for several months.

All doubts of a planned deception are erased when we find the photo strip. Evidently, taken at a carnival, the photos clearly show two individuals who are comfortable with each other. The woman is Lily. In one of the photos, she is licking the face of a young man. The young man is the adolescent that accosted me at the restaurant where I first met Lily. Phone records for this apartment will also show many calls to the Warner lab.

All of this leaves me with no doubt about Lily's involvement with someone at that lab, probably the David, # 2. I'm at a loss, and when I tell Nicole, she will be blown away because she, too, was taken in by Lily. How could I have fallen for this? Lily is either a really good actress or has multiple personalities. I thought we had ideas in common, that we had a really good thing going.

I continue to be close to Jazzmin and spend as much time as possible with her. I know soon that she will consider me just a grandfather and her priorities will change. She'll have girlfriends and boyfriends. Hopefully she will still have a little time for me in her busy life. Nicole continues to teach. If she didn't enjoy it, she could retire early due her unforeseen windfall.

One of the supermarket rags printed an interview they had with the Senior Warner after he started his sentence.

"Doctor David Warner Senior told this reporter the following from his cell."

" Yes, I retired them, they were defective. It all started when Four hid his little affair with that woman. Then he went and married her when she got pregnant, putting us all in jeopardy. Then due to Four's infatuation with her. the rest of the boys were sentenced to the lab. I had to do something. He was totally out of control, defective, and of no use to our project. I retired him, but now all the others were stuck with appearing to be married to this woman. After I retired Four, the others slowly made sure that a divorce was in the near future. By the time we got the divorce, we had another problem. Two was so attached to the child that he could not bear the separation and took steps to have the child all to himself. He acquired some other deviates to assist him in this task. Fortunately the child's other grandfather, foiled the abduction that night. Those deviates that helped him were dealt with and will no longer be a problem. Two cried that night like a baby. I knew he could no longer be of any use to us. I could not bear to get rid of Two or Four, so I put them in those tubes. After all they were a part of me, and this way they would still be with us. I supposed I also wanted them visible to remind the others to stay the path to our goals."

I didn't mention the article to Nicole and hopefully she didn't read it. If she did she hasn't mention it to me.

I visit Old Sacramento one day, and, unlike I expected, things have changed. The building where Dr. Readu's office was located has been leveled and construction of a new, old looking, building is underway. A Coming Soon sign lists future occupants, but no hypnotists are listed. I look further down the list. A unique pawnshop will be housed here. The proprietor will be a Mr. Readu.

What does the future hold? No one knows. That's why it's called the future. It hasn't happened yet. Or has it?
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