Fall Camoflage

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=90 BGCOLOR="#CC9900" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="047005a0dwnjzk.gif"> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U><B>home</B></U></A><B>     | </B><B> </B><B> </B><B>  </B><FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFCC66" FACE="Arial" ><B>Cassie's Writing</B></FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id87.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="All Hallows Eve"><U><B>All Hallows' Eve</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><B>Fall Camoflage</B><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id89.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Puzzle Pieces: Cyrus"><U><B>Puzzle Pieces:  Cyrus</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id90.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Puzzle Pieces: Roxanne"><U><B>Puzzle Pieces:  Roxanne</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id91.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Puzzle Pieces: Claude"><U><B>Puzzle Pieces:  Claude</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id92.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Christmas Magick"><U><B>Christmas Magick</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id93.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Puzzle Pieces: Maggie"><U><B>Puzzle Pieces:  Maggie</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id94.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Winters Deep Freeze"><U><B>Winter's Deep Freeze</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id95.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Puzzle Pieces: Sabrina"><U><B>Puzzle Pieces:  Sabrina</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id96.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Frostbite"><U><B>Frostbite</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id97.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Puzzle Pieces: The Collins Family"><U><B>Puzzle Pieces:  The Collins Family</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id98.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Biding Time in Purgatory"><U><B>Biding Time in Purgatory</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id99.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Puzzle Pieces: Quentin"><U><B>Puzzle Pieces:  Quentin</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id100.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Family Secrets"><U><B>Family Secrets</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id102.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Vortex"><U><B>Vortex</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id101.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Spring Whirlwind"><U><B>Spring Whirlwind</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id103.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Den of Vipers"><U><B>Den of Vipers</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id104.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Puzzle Pieces: Angelique"><U><B>Puzzle Pieces:  Angelique</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id105.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Converging Forces"><U><B>Converging Forces</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id106.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Flames of Purification"><U><B>Flames of Purification</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id85.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Adam in Parallel Time"><U><B>Adam in Parallel Time</B></U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>Fall Camoflage</B></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=390 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> Adam paused a moment to breathe in the fresh cool air of the mid-afternoon November day. He sighed with contentment. Every day continued to seem like a miracle to him, and now the leaves which had been so beautiful just a few weeks ago were dying and falling off the trees. Halloween, that is what his new friends had called the day he appeared here in this time. He didn’t mind that the leaves were piled all around him, ankle deep, and needed to be raked into neat piles. He enjoyed the hard work. Besides, he had learned from his old friend Professor Stokes in “the other world” that the leaves had to die in order for new ones to grow. He began raking again, looking up to see the pretty young volunteer Roxanne Drew strolling arm in arm with one of the elderly patients.</div> <div> “Hello, Roxanne. Hello, Mabel!” Adam called in greeting.</div> <div> Both women stopped. Roxanne was very pretty, Adam thought, and very nice. She wasn’t like some of the girls he met, who pretended to be nice to him and then laughed at him when they thought he couldn’t hear. He knew he didn’t know a lot, but he was smart in ways people didn’t realize. Roxanne wasn’t like that. She was always pleasant to Adam and always spoke kindly to him. Mabel had been a patient—no, a “resident”--Adam reminded himself for many, many years. </div> <div> “Oh, Adam!” Mabel called with delight. “What do you have for me today?”</div> <div> “Here—for your collection,” Adam said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large acorn, still wearing its “hat”. Adam had carefully painted a face on the acorn. This one was a little girl with freckles and blue eyes. “Little girl. I think she looked like you when you were little, right?”</div> <div> “How remarkable,” Mabel crowed. “Yes, it’s me!” </div> <div> When Adam had discovered that Mabel liked collecting acorns, he’d taken to saving the largest for her as he did his yardwork. He also discovered that Mabel loved it when he decorated them as people. He’d made about a dozen for her now, and she would play with them at night. Roxanne smiled at him and said, “That’s so sweet of you, Adam.”</div> <div> “Do unto others,” Adam replied. Roxanne gave a little start and then smiled again. As she and Mabel began to walk off, he said, “Bye bye.”</div> <div> “See you later, Adam,” Roxanne replied. Mabel was too engrossed with her new acorn face to respond, but Adam didn’t mind. A lot of the—“residents” here were like that. They all liked and accepted him. Adam had been raking and piling leaves up for a while before he heard the soft rustle of someone approaching. He looked up and smiled. It was Roxanne. “Hello, Roxanne. I am happy to see you.”</div> <div> Roxanne hesitated a moment and then said, “Adam, I know that you live here on the grounds. Do you have family here?”</div> <div> “No family,” Adam replied, wondering why she wanted to know.</div> <div> Roxanne cleared her throat and said, “I don’t have any family, either. I don’t live that far away.” She hesitated, and then went on, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”</div> <div> “Thanksgiving?” Adam echoed.</div> <div> “Yes—in two weeks.”</div> <div> Adam hated to seem stupid in front of people and racked his brain for memories of what Thanksgiving might be. He had a vague memory of a story Professor Stokes had told him about people coming to this country a long time ago. They were hungry, but the Native Americans helped them by burying fish. Adam wasn’t sure how that had prevented the people from starving, but they had had a big party and had eaten a lot of food. It didn’t sound very appetizing. “No plans,” he said cautiously. He wasn’t sure if his friend Dr. Cyrus would visit or not. </div> <div> “Well, I thought I would ask a friend to come and have Thanksgiving dinner with me,” Roxanne ventured. “Would you like to come?” </div> <div> Surprised, Adam stared at her speechlessly. She blushed. “Unless you’d rather not—or maybe you have a special friend you’d like to invite?”</div> <div> “I would like to come,” Adam said instantly. “Another friend? I don’t know—maybe…”</div> <div> Roxanne looked a little confused but continued to smile and said, “Good. Next time I come, I’ll tell you how to get to my place.” They stood looking at each other. Adam thought he should do something. He’d watched some TV programs, and he knew that usually the man would do something like kiss the woman at this point. He didn’t want to offend or upset Roxanne. Then he remembered something he could do. He took her hand and gently shook it. He’d learned from Sabrina, Quentin, and Dr. Cyrus not to squeeze so hard when he was shaking hands. “I’ll see you later, Adam.” Roxanne smiled again and then walked off. Adam went back to work. A little later, he looked up to see Maggie Evans sitting outside in the sun with her mother. It had been a tremendous shock to him when he’d first seen her here. He’d almost fled and probably would have if Dr. Cyrus hadn’t been visiting that day. The last time he’d seen Maggie was in that other world. He’d hurt her and killed her father, his friend Sam, unintentionally. He’d been so frightened…However, this was a different Maggie. She seemed sweet, like Roxanne, but Adam was still a little intimidated by her. Her father had died not too long along. Her mother had been here for some time, but that was supposed to be a secret. He was finished for the day and would have to pass Maggie to get to the path leading back to his cottage. He nodded and smiled at her but didn’t stop to talk. He still felt guilty and nervous around her, even though he understood that this was a different Maggie. There was a Volkswagen parked outside his cottage. Pleased, he began to walk a little faster. It was his friend from Collinsport, Dr. Cyrus. Adam was always happy when he came, and he faithfully visited once a week. Sometimes he brought Sabrina with him. Adam could see Dr. Cyrus behind the wheel of the car, already beginning to open his door and climb out. The passenger side opened too, and Adam gave a delighted chuckle. It was Quentin—the first time this friend had come to visit. The chuckle died in his throat when he saw the looks on their faces, though. Something was wrong.</div> <bR> <div> Adam invited his friends in and sat them at his little table. His cottage had a front room with a living/dining area and a small kitchenette. The back room was where Adam slept and read. He had a little dorm-sized refrigerator, almost entirely filled with Pepsi. Adam found he couldn’t get enough of Pepsi and pizza. He realized he’d eaten all the pizza, but he could at least offer his friends Pepsi. “How are you, Adam?” Cyrus asked pleasantly, when Adam had served them and was sitting across the table from them. “Do you have enough of the compound?”</div> <div> “Oh, I am fine, Doctor Cyrus,” Adam answered, smiling gently at his friend. He was truly grateful to have found a friend who was kind and cared about him—as Professor Stokes had. Dr. Cyrus had helped him find the caretaker’s job here and had suggested a last name for him: Knight. The name had come from the fact that he had been sucked into this world on Halloween night, and because the only other names he knew—Stokes, Lang, Collins and Stoddard—were being used by other people. “Yes, I still have enough of that burny drink. The container has this much left.” He indicated that he had about three fourths of the mixture left.</div> <div> Quentin picked up his glass of Pepsi and looked at it glumly, wishing it was whiskey. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to ask if Adam had anything stronger to drink. The man was like a giant child—he probably didn’t even know what whiskey was.</div> <div> “Something troubles you, Quentin,” Adam observed. “What is wrong?”</div> <div> “Angelique is dead,” Quentin said flatly.</div> <div> For a moment, Adam didn’t move. He was shocked at the news. He frankly would have been less surprised if Quentin had told him that Angelique had gone on a killing spree and murdered everyone at Collinwood. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, Quentin, but I’m not sorry.”</div> <div> Quentin laughed bitterly. “Neither am I.” Adam saw the odd look on Cyrus’ face. Dr. Cyrus thinks Quentin killed her, he realized. He realized Quentin was asking him a question: “Adam, do you mind if I ask you some questions about the woman you knew in your world?” </div> <div> “You can ask,” Adam replied, shuddering. “I will answer you, but I don’t like to think about her.”</div> <div> “I understand. I just need to know some things.”</div> <div> Adam looked closely at his friend. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. “Her death troubles you. How did she die?”</div> <div> “Stroke,” Cyrus said quickly. Quentin looked at him sharply and then looked away.</div> <div> “What is ‘stroke’?” Adam asked.</div> <div> “It’s something that usually happens to old people,” Quentin said. “Not enough blood or oxygen to the brain—something like that. And the person sometimes dies, sometimes is paralyzed. You know, can’t move. Sometimes they can’t talk. Well, Angelique just died.”</div> <div> “Something else happened,” Adam guessed.</div> <div> “They were having another séance, and she collapsed.”</div> <div> “That again? Why so many of these things called séance?” Quentin and Cyrus exchanged looks again; both seemed extremely uncomfortable. “When did Angelique die?”</div> <div> “Last week,” Quentin answered. “About this other Angelique you knew…” </div> <div> Sighing, Adam listened while Quentin asked about the horrible person he preferred to forget about. He told her everything he could remember about Angelique-in-the-other-world, and noted that Cyrus and Quentin listened to him raptly, with undivided attention. When he told them everything he knew, he sighed. He hoped he’d never have to talk about her again. “What will you do now?” he asked Quentin.</div> <div> Quentin frowned, wondering what Adam meant. He knew that Cyrus thought he’d killed Angelique. God knows, he’d talked about it enough times to make his friend suspect him. But he hadn’t done it—he wasn’t capable of </div> <div> it. He wondered if Adam suspected him too. “About what?”</div> <div> “Thanksgiving.”</div> <div> Quentin and Cyrus were both astonished and looked at each other. “Thanksgiving? Uh—what about it?”</div> <div> “I have been invited to go to a friend’s house. She said I might bring a friend. If you will be alone, you may come,” Adam offered. Then he looked at Cyrus. “You and Sabrina, too.” Adam’s kind offer moved and surprised both men. He has no clue, Quentin thought, thinking of the sumptuous Thanksgiving feasts of years past at Collinwood. How dreary and tedious they were! Hoffman, of course, was superb at organizing the huge feasts and managing the seating of all the guests. Cook was more than competent, too. Quentin hated Thanksgiving, though, because everyone had to be there, full of their petty resentments. At least one person—Will—would always drink too much; sometimes other family members would have too much to drink too, and there would be the usual unpleasant arguments.</div> <div> “That’s awfully nice of you Adam,” Cyrus was saying, breaking into Quentin’s thoughts. “Won’t your friend mind, though? You’re asking three of us to come with you.”</div> <div> “Roxanne is kind,” Adam replied. He was sure Roxanne wouldn’t mind.</div> <div> “Well,” Cyrus began, clearing his throat and looking at Quentin. Daniel wasn’t going to be home, Quentin thought. The boy had been overwhelmed with grief and anger at the death of his mother. Quentin was hurt to realize that his son blamed him in part for Angelique’s death. Daniel demanded to go to Boston to visit his great aunt Nancy—who had been like a mother to Quentin. Quentin had agreed, and the boy was expected to stay with her until after Thanksgiving. It would probably do him good, Quentin hoped. Quentin’s cousins lived in Boston, too—Aunt Nancy’s children—and they had children of their own around Daniel’s age. Better for him to be there than at Collinwood, Quentin thought. In fact, there’s no real reason for me to be there either. Why? Just to listen to Elizabeth and Roger bicker and complain and to listen to Will and Carolyn fight? “I accept your invitation, Adam,” he said suddenly.</div> <div> Adam grinned. “Good! Good, Quentin!”</div> <div> “If it truly isn’t an inconvenience for your friend, Adam, then Sabrina and I would be delighted to come, too,” Cyrus said.</div> <div> Adam was pleased. He hoped Roxanne would be, too.</div> <div> Cyrus hid his troubling thoughts from Quentin on the drive back to Collinsport. After he dropped his friend off, he brooded as he drove back to his house. He was genuinely concerned about Quentin’s mental state ever since Adam had suddenly appeared on Halloween. He knew that the marriage between Quentin and Angelique had been strained for a long time. It had become impossible after Adam left. Cyrus cringed when he thought of the shouted threats between the two of them which frightened even the indomitable Hoffman and sent her scurrying off to the kitchen to hide. Less than a week later, Angelique was dead… As medical examiner, Cyrus was supposed to have performed an autopsy. If anyone found out that he hadn’t, he would go to jail for a long time. He’d been protecting Quentin, of course. He didn’t want anyone to find out that his friend was a murderer—even if was justifiable. There was a darker reason, though—one that was even worse than conspiring to cover up a murder. As he pulled up in front of his home, his heart sank at the sight of the real reason he had not completed an autopsy—or even had the body embalmed. Timothy Stokes stood waiting for him under a tree. “I’ve been waiting a long time,” Stokes complained in his unpleasant, demanding manner.</div> <div> “You’ll have to forgive me. I had a long appointment,” Cyrus said, nervously, resenting and hating the man.</div> <div> “Do you have any information for me?”</div> <div> “It takes time, Stokes—I told you that.”</div> <div> “But you’re a doctor. Surely you have someone in your practice who fulfills the requirements I need!”</div> <div> “I have ethics, too, Stokes!”</div> <div> Stokes laughed, a very evil unpleasant sound. “Ethics, eh? And you are being ethical every time you nip on that little drink of yours, isn’t that right?”</div> <div> “We weren’t going to speak of that!” Cyrus lowered his voice in a panic.</div> <div> “And we won’t, Doctor—as long as you fulfill your end of the bargain.”</div> <div> “Yes, yes, just give me a little more time, please!”</div> <div> Stokes put his hand on Cyrus’ shoulder. “Not too long, my friend. I haven’t much time.”</div> <div> Cyrus shuddered. Stokes removed his hand, laughed again, and then turned and staggered away. Obviously he’d been drinking heavily again. What is that lunatic planning? Cyrus wondered. Stokes wanted to know the name of any young female patients in Cyrus’ practice who might be an orphan—unmarried and without a family. Why? He never would considered providing Stokes with any information at all except that the evil old man knew something that everyone else didn’t: he knew that Cyrus was actually experimenting with splitting his personality into their good and evil components. </div> <div> Cyrus himself had no idea what had happened after he drank a similar concoction to the one he’d made for Adam to sustain his life force. He’d awoken on the floor of his laboratory to find Stokes bending over him, a gleeful look on his face. In this way, the blackmail had begun. Well, I won’t do it anymore. This way I won’t have to give the old bastard any information at all. Even as he thought he would never try the concoction again, he knew he was just kidding himself. Although he couldn’t remember what had happened, he did remember the sense of exhilaration he’d felt upon awakening—as if he’d had a very satisfying night. He wanted very badly to be able to ask Stokes about it, but knew he couldn’t trust the man. He had never had such a feel of fulfillment before, and it had been so heady and wonderful…well, he didn’t think he could give it up without trying it again at least once more.</div> <div> Roxanne looked a little overwhelmed when Adam told her that he’d invited three people to come with him to her home for Thanksgiving dinner. “I did something wrong?” Adam asked, immediately sensing her discomfort. She blushed painfully. She was a shy, sensitive person and it had taken her a good deal of courage to ask Adam to come for Thanksgiving dinner. She had a certain gift for sensing information about people. When Adam had touched her hand, she hadn’t understood the flood of impressions she’d gotten from him. She did understand one thing, though—he was kind and gentle and misunderstood. She felt very drawn to people like that. </div> <div> “Oh, no, Adam, it’s all right. If they are your friends, I am sure they are wonderful people. I am just—shy.” She hoped her assumption about these friends was correct.</div> <div> “Shy?”</div> <div> “I have a hard time making friends, Adam. I don’t know what to say.”</div> <div> “Oh.” He didn’t really understand the concept, but he did understand her discomfort. “Dr. Cyrus and his friend Sabrina are very nice. They are kind to me all the time. Quentin is, too.”</div> <div> Quentin. The name sounded familiar. “Is Quentin married? Or does he have a girlfriend?”</div> <div> “No,” Adam replied. A thought occurred to him. Cyrus had Sabrina to talk to. Roxanne was Adam’s friend. Who would Quentin talk to? “Do you know someone who doesn’t have a boyfriend or a husband?”</div> <div> Roxanne laughed. Adam smiled, thinking that her laugh was the most beautiful sound he’d heard in a long time. Carolyn’s laugh sounded beautiful, too—very much like Roxanne’s. “So, I’m to have a houseful of strangers and play matchmaker for your friend, Quentin, too?”</div> <div> “Is that wrong?” Adam asked. “I wouldn’t want him to feel lonely.”</div> <div> “Actually, I do know someone that I could invite,” Roxanne said with a smile. It would make her feel a little more secure to have Maggie there with her. She and Maggie weren’t close friends, but they’d attended the same college for a while. She knew Maggie was on her own and would probably want to come to the sanitarium to see her mother for a little while on Thanksgiving anyway…</div> <div> When Cyrus woke up, he was lying on the couch in his lab. He had the same warm, sated feeling he’d awoken with the first time but couldn’t remember anything. He became aware of an unpleasant odor and looked down at himself. He’d seen these outrageous clothes before—a brightly colored leisure suit. Polyester—ugh! He thought. Worse, someone had vomited on the clothes and they had dried to a sickening consistency. He got up, immediately stripping the nasty garments off. He saw that several flasks and containers in the room had been broken. He wished he could remember what had happened.</div> <div> He went upstairs to take a shower, carrying the fouled clothes with him. He found a plastic bag to stuff them in and intended to dispose of them later. He got a fresh change of clothing for himself and went into the bathroom. Turning on the hot water, he adjusted the temperature and then kicked off his briefs, which were stained with something—it looked a little pink. Just before he got into the shower, he looked down at himself and was horrified to find dried blood on himself. How had that gotten there? He thought, frightened. That had happened one other time—the first time he and Sabrina had been together. He had felt totally disgusted with himself afterward, giving in to such sinful impulses. He got into the shower quickly, feeling panicky, scrubbing himself hard. What had happened? After he had washed himself thoroughly, he went back and soaped himself all over again. It was as if he had been covered with filth that wouldn’t wash off. Finally satisfied, he got out of the shower and dressed. He went downstairs and was horrified to find Stokes stretched out on his sofa, snoring loudly. How had he missed him?</div> <div> “STOKES!” he called loudly, shaking the man. The strong stench of alcohol seemed to emanate from the man’s every pore. Cyrus wrinkled his nose in disgust as the huge man roused himself.</div> <div> “Wha—what?” Stokes blinked his eyes blearily, looking up. Then he smiled craftily and began laughing. “Ah, so your friend is gone again, eh?”</div> <div> “What friend?” Cyrus demanded, his blood running cold with terror.</div> <div> Stokes winked at him. “It’s no wonder you wouldn’t want to claim him as your friend—but he’s a closer friend than you seem to realize.” He looked at Cyrus closely. “You don’t remember, do you?”</div> <div> “Remember?” Cyrus echoed, like an idiot. His eyes were huge. Whatever it was that Stokes was hinting at must be terrible.</div> <div> “You’ll read about it in the paper, no doubt. Don’t worry—I won’t tell what you did. And the police won’t find the man the poor young lady describes.” Stokes laughed again, evilly. “I will tell you this, my friend. We started out together at The Eagle, you and I. I saw what you did. Everything you did. It’ll be our secret—as long as you come through with your end of the bargain.”</div> <div> “But why?” Cyrus whispered. “Why is it so important to you—that this ‘young lady’ have no family connections?”</div> <div> “I’ll tell you that when you tell me why you feel the need to do what you do. When will you give me the name?”</div> <div> “I’m still looking for someone who fits your—requirements,” Cyrus hedged.</div> <div> “I must have the name before the end of this month—or I will expose you. I promise you that, Dr. Longworth—and I have sufficient evidence to discredit and disgrace you, as well as put you into prison for the rest of your life!” Stokes got up and swayed a little, holding his head in his hands. “My! I really must have tied one on, too! My head aches—surely you have a little hair of the dog that bit me?”</div> <div> “Which dog was that?” Cyrus asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. All he wanted was for the man to go—and quickly.</div> <div> “Rum, of course,” Stokes looked up at him and winked. It was as if this was something that Cyrus should know.</div> <div> “I don’t have any rum,” Cyrus said, shocked.</div> <div> Stokes laughed again, very unpleasantly. “Oh, but you do, my friend, you do!” He led Cyrus back downstairs to the lab. Cyrus was horrified to think that Stokes was this familiar with his home. Stokes went to his filing cabinet and opened the bottom drawer, triumphantly pulling out and displaying a bottle of Puerto Rican rum. “You see? Would you like to join me, Doctor?”</div> <div> “No, no!” Cyrus exclaimed. “I have an appointment I must get to—here, why don’t you take the whole bottle with you!” Alarmed now, he propelled the repulsive old man toward his back door. Stokes was still laughing. “Very well, dear Doctor! But I’ll be back—and don’t forget, you have only a week to give me the name that I need!”</div> <div> Cyrus slammed the door shut and locked it, leaning against it. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running very fast. He’d broken out into a sweat as well. What had Stokes said? Read the crime section of the newspaper? He bolted back up the stairs, looking for the paper. Crime! What crime—in Collinsport? There’d been none—other than the murder of Angelique Collins which he had effectively covered up. Yet, when he turned to an inner page, he saw what Stokes was referring to immediately:</div> <div> WOMAN ASSAULTED NEAR EAGLE TAVERN</div> <div> Oh, my God! What have I done? Cyrus thought in horror, reading. A young woman, a resident of Rockport, had been attacked in an alley way after leaving the Eagle at closing time. She’d been badly beaten and hospitalized. Reading further, Cyrus felt his heart almost jump into his throat. The victim had been sexually assaulted. They were looking for a man named “John” with dark hair and a moustache. John? Who inGod’s name is John? The man described looked nothing like Cyrus, with his shaven face and golden curls and yet—and yet—the blood…. He dropped the paper and ran to the phone. He called the cannery, hoping to find Quentin at work. “He’s on the phone right now, Dr. Longworth,” his secretary said. “Would you hold a moment?”</div> <div> “Yes,” Cyrus whispered, wanting to tell her to run and tell Quentin that it was urgent. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, however. What am I going to say to him? How can he possibly help me? Cyrus thought suddenly, with despair. </div> <div> As he heard Quentin’s voice say, “Hello, Cyrus?” he quietly pushed his finger down on the buttons and hung up. </div> <div> I’m never doing this again, please, God! Cyrus thought. This time, he meant it. He’d only use that compound for Adam. In fact, he was going to go downstairs now and lock it up.</div> <div> The night before Thanksgiving, Quentin showed up at his door looking wild. “Why’d you hang up on me the other day?” He asked truculently, brushing past Cyrus to come into the house. “Oh, uh, it really wasn’t important enough to bother you about, Quentin,” Cyrus answered, following Quentin into the living room. His friend had thrown himself full length onto the sofa. “What’s wrong?”</div> <div> “Don’t you keep anything to drink around here?” Quentin complained. Cyrus cleared his throat hesitantly. “I do have a bottle of Pinch for special occasions. What’s wrong?”</div> <div> “My loving family—they’re so concerned about me, Cyrus!” Quentin retorted bitterly. “It’s so touching, you know?”</div> <div> Cyrus knew some of what Quentin was going through and empathized with him. “You want to tell me about it?” he asked. “No! I didn’t come here to whine and cry! I want a drink—I want several drinks. Then I want you to be a good friend to me, take my car keys and hide them, and let me sleep here tonight.”</div> <div> “All right,” Cyrus agreed. “Have you eaten?”</div> <div> “As much as I could stomach, which is why I’ve got such indigestion!” Cyrus understood this to mean that the most recent trouble had erupted over dinner. Well, as long as Quentin had some food in his belly to soak up the alcohol…He went and got the Pinch, which he’d bought when he and Sabrina had become “engaged.” They’d each had one drink from it. He poured a generous amount for Quentin and added some ice and water. He brought it back out to the living room and gave it to Quentin. His friend sat up and glared at him. “What’s the matter?”</div> <div> “You’re not joining me?”</div> <div> Cyrus cleared his throat. “Not right now. I may in a little while.”</div> <div> “I never liked to drink alone,” Quentin complained but Cyrus noted that wasn’t stopping him. He sat back to listen to his friend talk about his most recent family woes. It was the same almost every time; it was just that there was a different twist each time. The basic problem in that family was jealousy and resentment, Cyrus reflected. It really was too bad that a family with so much money didn’t have more of a capacity for love. What a waste! “After all these years, they don’t really accept me,” Quentin complained. “They never will. To them, I’ll always be the upstart that came and took it all from them.” He looked at Cyrus. “I never asked for all this! I never tried to influence my Uncle Jamison to name me his heir—hell, I don’t even think he knew about me until I was almost ten!” Quentin was brooding again. “You know, Cyrus, I’m glad not to be having Thanksgiving with them. They’re like vultures—all of them. And if they resent me so much and they don’t want a handout, why don’t they just go? I’m not holding a gun to their heads!”</div> <div> “Money like that isn’t easy to give up, Quentin,” Cyrus said reasonably.</div> <div> True, Quentin thought. How many times had he thought about walking away from all of it? How many times had he thought about telling them all to stuff it? Too many to count, he thought bitterly. He gulped his drink and held the glass out to Cyrus. “Want to make the next on on the rocks?”</div> <div> “Only if you promise me not to guzzle it like you just did the first one,” Cyrus answered mildly.</div> <div> “Oh, hell, don’t worry about it Cyrus—I can buy you a case of Pinch!”</div> <div> “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about the way you’re drinking. I know you—you don’t have a hollow leg. I don’t want to be taking you to the emergency room.” Cyrus took the glass and refilled it. When he returned, he made one for himself--a splash of scotch with a generous amount of Coca-Cola added to it. Quentin made a face as he watched Cyrus mix his own drink. He sipped his own, deliberately slowly down. “You’ve been a good friend, Cyrus. You’re not after my money.”</div> <div> “We’ve been friends a long time,” Cyrus agreed.</div> <div> “My father was a hero,” Quentin said, veering down another path that Cyrus knew well. However, he also knew that Quentin needed to talk. “He would have married my mother if he’d known. Did you know he was killed blasting a way through the German fortifications on Omaha Beach?” </div> <div> He looked at Cyrus. “Ah, hell, you know all this.”</div> <div> “That’s all right,” Cyrus said. “He was a man to be proud of, Quentin.”</div> <div> “I’m proud to have his name,” his friend answered softly, lost in thought. He sighed. “You know, they never think that if they’d taken any responsibility for themselves or shown some gumption that Uncle Jamison wouldn’t have had to go looking for family bastards. No, they just like to point out that my mother was just…” he broke off, his eyes filling with tears of resentment and self-pity. “My mother was not a slut, Cyrus!” he said angrily.</div> <div> “Of course she wasn’t,” Cyrus assured him. “Your mother was a kind, decent woman, Quentin.”</div> <div> “With more morals than dear Cousin Roger. He’s had more partners than a tomcat!”</div> <div> “He certainly does keep a harem of young men about,” Cyrus agreed. As Quentin spiraled further down into his funk, Cyrus found that the only way to reach him was not to argue with him. As long as he kept his voice light and agreeable he could usually manage to keep Quentin from exploding.</div> <div> “I miss my family, Cyrus, I miss them.” Quentin sounded grief-stricken. He hadn’t sounded this way at all when Angelique died and seemed not to miss her at all. He was wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands now. “Those people in that house aren’t really my family. They’re not upset that I won’t be having dinner with them tomorrow because they’re going to miss me. It’s because they’re afraid I’m going to cut them all off or some crazy paranoid thing like that! They don’t love me like my aunt and my mother and my brother did.” </div> <div> He stared off into space, obviously remembering the deaths of his mother and brother Gabriel. Gabriel had been killed at a young age; a genuinely friendly, attractive all American football star who just wasn’t a very brilliant college student—one of the very few of his graduating class who had actually volunteered to go overseas to war. Cyrus remembered Quentin’s destructive grief when he heard his idolized older brother had been killed. He’d punched several holes in the wall of the dorm room before Cyrus was able to restrain him. “Angelique was his girl, not mine.” He’d muttered this so softly Cyrus almost didn’t hear him. That was something new.</div> <div> “What did you say, Quentin?” Cyrus asked.</div> <div> “We only got together because she wanted to get rid of his child. Didn’t want a bastard…” Quentin broke off before he spoke the unuttered words: “like me.” He looked at Cyrus. “I couldn’t tell you, Cyrus. I hated her for not carrying his baby all the way through. I told her I’d marry her, to give the baby a name. She just thought I was funny—just a kid. I don’t know why she wanted me to go with her. She had her pick of studs.”</div> <div> Just for the benefit of the doubt, Cyrus said comfortingly, “You and Gabriel looked alike. Maybe you reminded her of him.”</div> <div> “Maybe,” Quentin mused, sipping at his drink again. “I think Daniel blames me, Cyrus. I think he thinks I had something to do with what happened to Angelique.”</div> <div> “He’s just angry—he misses her,” Cyrus said, uncomfortable now. He thought Quentin had something to do with Angelique’s death, too.</div> <div> “Angelique,” Quentin said softly. “Do you remember when Adam came? He said she was a killer in his time and in ours, too? I really think she killed my mother, Cyrus.” Before his friend could say anything, Quentin looked at him with a very bitter expression in his eyes. “I don’t mean she poisoned her or stabbed her. I know my mother had a heart attack. I just think she was ‘killed with kindess’. It’s the same kind of killing kindness that infects that whole family. She would have killed me, too.” Cyrus was worried about the direction the conversation was taking. He was afraid Quentin was going to confess that he’d killed his wife.</div> <div> He cleared his throat and stood up, abruptly. Quentin looked up, surprised. “Excuse me, I uhm—have to go,” he explained. It sounded lame, especially to his own ears. As he turned to leave the room, he stopped. He knew Quentin was hurting and felt he had to say something. He half turned and said, “You’re in charge now. You don’t have to let the poison spread, Quentin.” He left the room, hoping Quentin would think about what he’d said. After he washed his hands in the bathroom, he called out to Quentin, “I just need to check on something.” He went downstairs into the basement, looking at his flasks and containers. He hadn’t made any of that compound for himself to drink since that awful morning of discovery. He felt sorely tempted now, and closed his eyes. He counted slowly. He always listened to Quentin or Sabrina when they need to talk—or to anyone else for that matter. He was a very sympathetic listener. He was not a talker, though. He didn’t share the things that bothered him.</div> <div> His friend wasn’t the only one who was glad to have another place to go to on Thanksgiving. Cyrus claimed not to having any living relatives nearby, but that was not true. He had parents he chose not to visit because he knew that he was a sinner, always would be in their eyes, and would never be able to redeem himself to them. He bore the Devil’s mark, that’s what his mother said. She’d prayed and prayed over him and tried to exorcise his demons even as his father tried to beat the demons out of him. Nothing worked. He was a lost soul, lost to the Devil. He picked up one of the flasks and looked at it closely. If I could find a way to split off the evil side forever, then I could be a ‘good son’, he thought. I could visit them again, and they would love me. The evil one wouldn’t have to go, of course. We’d just go our separate ways. There must be a way to figure out the correct formula! He set the flask down gently, feeling a sense of deep frustration over his warring feelings inside. A part of him wanted to mix the concoction up and drink it down. Another part said no, not tonight—wait! That part of him won—for now—and he went back upstairs feeling resentful and somewhat angry. He was in a confrontational mood when he stalked back into the living room. He stopped short, though, when he saw Quentin. His friend had passed out from exhaustion and drink. He sprawled back on the sofa, his outstretched hand still holding the empty glass.</div> <div> At about the same time, Adam came to a little house he’d never been to before. It was modest and old-fashioned. Adam thought hard. It was called a Cape Cod house—that was right! Pleased with himself, he knocked at the door. Within a few minutes, Roxanne opened the door and admitted him, smiling. “Hello, Adam, I’m glad you found the house with no trouble.”</div> <div> “It was easy,” Adam declared, balancing the two bags of groceries he carried in his arms. Roxanne led the way into the kitchen.</div> <div> “Thank you for coming over to help with dinner,” Roxanne added.</div> <div> “I invited so many people, I thought it would be mean to make you do all the cooking,” Adam replied. Roxanne smiled at him again, and he felt himself blush. He realized that for the first time since leaving that other place, he was beginning to forget about Carolyn. He was thinking about Roxanne more often. Her red hair that shone in the sunlight like a red wine called…oh, what was it called? He’d have to ask Dr. Cyrus. Her eyes were so clear and honest—never filled with contempt toward him. “Smells good here,” he commented.</div> <div> “Yes, I started making the turkey and some of the entrees already,” Roxanne said. I thought you could help me with the stuffing. “Yes, how?”</div> <div> If she was surprised that he didn’t know how to make stuffing, she didn’t reveal it. “You’ll need the things you’ve brought. Bread?”</div> <div> “Stale—as you said. I don’t understand.”</div> <div> “I know, but it’ll make the stuffing more tasty. Here’s what we do.” She pulled out a large mixing bowl and took one of the dry loaves of bread he’d bought. She began tearing it into little pieces. “You see? Like this.”</div> <div> He laughed, delighted. Playing with food—and it was acceptable! He took the loaf of bread from her and began shredding bits off, throwing them into the bowl. Sometimes he pretended he was throwing a basketball. Roxanne laughed and put her hand on his. He turned to look at her. She’d suddenly become very serious. “You’re so nice, Adam. You’re a stranger here, too, aren’t you?” Speechless, he nodded at her. “I know that you’re different, Adam, but I also know that you are a kind, good man. You can be happy here, Adam.”</div> <div> “Do you like me?” he asked in a very soft voice. He’d been rejected so often, he’d been afraid to ask the question. He didn’t know what he would do when she said no. Maybe cry.</div> <div> “Yes, I do,” she whispered back. She stood up on her tiptoes, and Adam realized that she wanted to kiss him. It was all he could do not to crush her into his strong arms. How often he’d wanted to kiss a woman—Carolyn—and be a normal man! He leaned down and kissed her, trying not to press too hard. He was afraid of making a fool of himself. Her lips tasted sweet, like the red wine he’d been trying to remember the name of. He felt overwhelmed. “You do like me?” It was hard to believe.</div> <div> She looked at him with compassion as well as affection. “Yes, I really do like you. But we need to make the stuffing now.”</div> <div> “And we can talk,” Adam added enthusiastically.</div> <div> “Yes—I like a man who wants to talk with a woman. We can talk a lot more tonight.”</div> <div> Adam was pleased. She really liked him—and he wasn’t making a fool of himself! She was right—he could be very happy here, indeed!</div> <div> Cyrus had just thrown a blanket over Quentin when he heard a rapping at the door. Sighing, he picked up the Pinch and hid it in his cabinet. He didn’t know how much his friend had filched while he was in the basement. Cyrus hoped Quentin wouldn’t wake up with a hangover in the morning. He really couldn’t seem to tolerate a lot of hard liquor very well. He opened the door and was displeased to see Stokes. “What do you want?”</div> <div> “To tell you you’ve got just a few days left in the month.” Stokes began to come in, but Cyrus blocked the way with his body. The older man tried to peer over the doctor’s shoulder. “Got company, eh? Another lady?”</div> <div> “No! Now go away—I’ll be in touch with you when I have some news to give you.”</div> <div> Stokes gave him a baleful, displeased look. “You better. I know where the young lady is. And I know that the police are still looking for John. I can tell them who knows where to find John.”</div> <div> Quentin stirred and muttered. Upset, Cyrus said a little frantically, “Please—just go! I’ll get you a name in a few days!”</div> <div> Stokes patted Cyrus on the cheek. “Good boy. I’ll look forward to hearing from you then!” He turned to go. Relieved, Cyrus pushed the door shut. Revolting animal! Cyrus thought. He could certainly understand why Angelique had been such a bitch. How Alexis had been so totally different was a complete mystery to him… Quentin muttered again in his sleep. Cyrus stepped closer to the sofa to make sure he was all right.</div> <div> “Goddam you to hell, Angelique,” Quentin mumbled, quite distinctly. Alarmed, Cyrus backed up out of the room. He didn’t want to hear any more.</div> <bR> <div> At the knock on the door, Roxanne called, “Would you get that, Adam?” Adam lumbered to the door and opened it, expecting to see his friends. Instead, there was a man he didn’t know standing there. They looked at each other, Adam mildly puzzled and the other man suspiciously angry. </div> <div> “Who are you?” the man demanded.</div> <div> “Adam. Do you want to come in?” Adam stepped aside to let the man in. Perhaps this was another friend of Roxanne’s. </div> <div> “What are you doing here?” the man demanded.</div> <div> Adam frowned. He didn’t think this person was very nice. He couldn’t possibly be a friend of Roxanne’s.</div> <div> “Who is it--?” Roxanne began, coming in from the kitchen. She stopped and froze at the sight of the man. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice sounding a little frightened. Adam looked at the man with suspicion now. He’d been right—this was no friend of Roxanne’s.</div> <div> “Who is this—person, Roxanne?” the man demanded, ignoring Roxanne’s question.</div> <div> “He’s my good friend, Adam Knight,” Roxanne answered with some defiance in her voice. Her chin went up as she gazed at the man steadily. “He stayed here last night, Claude. He is my good friend.”</div> <div> The man called Claude looked at Adam with shocked disbelief. “You must be joking! How could you do this?” he asked, outraged. </div> <div> “You are not a nice man,” Adam stated flatly. “You have not told me who you are. That is rude. And you are not speaking kindly to Roxanne.”</div> <div> “You’ll have to excuse Claude’s bad manners, Adam,” Roxanne said. “Adam, this is Claude North.”</div> <div> “Roxanne, what in God’s name are you thinking of?” the unpleasant man burst out.</div> <div> “What do you want, Claude? I didn’t ask you over,” Roxanne replied testily.</div> <div> Adam looked back at Claude. So. Not only did this unfriendly little person speak rudely, he was also an uninvited guest. North felt his eyes on him and looked back at him. He backed away a little. “You are not welcome here,” he said simply. “You are not nice to Roxanne. You’ll have to leave.”</div> <div> North looked at Roxanne again. “You’re making a mistake, Roxanne!”</div> <div> “You don’t control me, Claude. Please leave,” Roxanne replied coolly, taking courage from Adam’s presence.</div> <div> When North hesitated, Adam said firmly, “You must go.”</div> <div> “I won’t let you go this easily, Roxanne,” North blustered, glancing at Adam as he backed out. Adam shut the door on him and turned back to Roxanne. She looked very pale, so he went to her and put his strong arms around her.</div> <div> “Don’t be afraid,” he assured her softly. </div> <div> “I’m not—I just didn’t expect to see him.”</div> <div> “Who is he?”</div> <div> “Someone who knows about my—‘power’. He’d like to control me, and if you hadn’t been here—I don’t know if I would have been strong enough to resist him.”</div> <div> “I don’t understand.”</div> <div> Roxanne sighed. “He’s not a bad man, Adam. He’s just greedy. He knows I have a power, and he wants me to use it to help him become more powerful.”</div> <div> Adam was still puzzled. “Did he kiss you, like we kissed?”</div> <div> “I didn’t care for him that way,” Roxanne explained. “Not the way I care for you.”</div> <div> Adam pulled her closer to his chest and stroked her hair. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him hurt you.”</div> <div> The next time the bell rang, it was Maggie, and Adam let her in. He fidgeted nervously until his friends arrived. He didn’t dislike Maggie, but she still made him uneasy. Maggie seemed to sense that and stayed in the kitchen with Roxanne. Adam was very relieved when his friends from Collinsport arrived. They’d brought pumpkin pie and wine to go with dinner.</div> <div> After everyone had been introduced around, Maggie looked at Quentin curiously and said, “I was sorry to hear about the death of your wife.” </div> <div> Quentin nodded and shrugged, obviously uncomfortable under Maggie’s scrutiny. “I know you from somewhere else—you lived in Collinsport when you were a boy, didn’t you? And then you went away?”</div> <div> “Prep school,” Quentin agreed. He looked at Maggie a little more closely. “Did we go to junior high school together? You were in seventh grade? You had a sister, Jennifer?”</div> <div> Maggie ducked her head and smiled as if pleased that he would remember. “I thought I knew you,” she said with a little laugh. “I was surprised that a Collins would come to public school.”</div> <div> “I didn’t like my governess,” Quentin replied. </div> <div> “Jennifer appreciated that.”</div> <div> Quentin laughed. “I appreciated Jennifer. Whatever happened to her?”</div> <div> “She got married and moved to New York. She’s still very beautiful. She was popular all through school.”</div> <div> And fast, Quentin thought, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he heard the unspoken I wasn’t popular. “You’re beautiful, too,” he said gallantly, and Maggie blushed.</div> <div> “Did you go to the same school, too?” Sabrina asked Roxanne, mostly to be polite.</div> <div> “No, I’m not from around here.”</div> <div> “Where does your family live? Are they far away?”</div> <div> “I’m afraid I’m the only one left,” Roxanne explained.</div> <div> “That man Claude North isn’t family?” Adam asked.</div> <div> “Oh, no! Not at all!”</div> <div> Adam was pleased at the way everything was going. He held up his glass of wine. “I want to give a…” he looked at Cyrus. He saw Cyrus giving Roxanne a speculative look but assumed it was polite curiosity. </div> <div> “Toast,” Cyrus said helpfully.</div> <div> “Yes, toast. This is the first time I remember having a day like this to be really thankful for. I am grateful to my friend Roxanne for letting us come and have a good time at her house. And I am also grateful that this wine looks like her hair. What is it called?”</div> <div> “Rose,” Cyrus said, as everyone else laughed. Adam didn’t mind. It wasn’t a mean-laughter. Everyone was happy, and that made him feel happy too. He didn’t realize that everyone but himself was taking a short holiday from the dark secrets they carried inside themselves.</div> <bR> <div> At the end of a very pleasant (for a change) Thanksgiving evening, Cyrus and Sabrina said good night to everyone and drove off. Cyrus was not surprised when Quentin decided he would like to see Maggie home. Sabrina seemed surprised when Cyrus pulled up in front of her house and waited expectantly. “Don’t you want to come in for a while?” she asked. Clearly, she either expected he would come in with her or that he would have taken her home with him. Cyrus cleared his throat uncomfortably. She just didn’t seem to “get” it. Even if they were engaged, it wasn’t proper to engage in that until after marriage—even if they’d already done it twice from lack of self-control. He gave her a very chaste kiss and explained lamely, “I need to check on a patient. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll probably just go home.”</div> <div> “All right,” Sabrina said, clearly disappointed. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Happy Thanksgiving, Cyrus.” She got out of the car and made her way toward her house, fumbling for her keys. She wondered what was wrong with her—why wasn’t she attractive enough? Of course, Cyrus had proposed marriage—which had been a great shock to her. Before their engagement he’d been shy and fumbling in his attentions to her; since they’d become engaged, he’d seemed to become more and more distant. She just didn’t understand.</div> <div> Relieved, Cyrus drove straight home and let himself in the back way. Again, he looked at his compounds and decanters, pondering. Perhaps if I decreased the proportion of the compound in the mixture…No! I’m not doing that again! He turned away from the shelves and made his way to the phone, putting his hand on the receiver. He thought and thought hard. I don’t know that girl; I don’t owe her a thing. It’s not unethical—she’s not my patient. And yet, and yet—why did Tim Stokes want to know about someone like her? Just a few more days to December, though, Cyrus—and then what? He picked up the phone and dialed Tim Stokes’ number.</div> <bR> <div> Adam and Roxanne lay entwined together. He’d never felt so peaceful in his entire short life as he did now. Roxanne sighed with contentment. He looked down at her, so delicate and beautiful. “I am glad it was such a good day,” he said. “I am glad I am here. I was afraid when I first came here, Roxanne. I’m not afraid anymore. I am…” he stopped, trying to think of the right word. </div> <div> “Happy?” Roxanne asked, trying to be helpful.</div> <div> “At home,” he answered. It was the closest thing he could think of to describe how he felt. “Don’t worry about that man Claude North. I am your friend now, and I will protect you.”</div> <div> “My knight in shining armor!” Roxanne snuggled a little closer to him.</div> <div> Adam didn’t know what that was, but the meaning was clear. He smiled into the darkness. He had no idea that his good friend, Dr. Cyrus, was already setting into motion a plan that would shortly rip Roxanne away from him and turn his world upside down. </div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id87.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="All Hallows Eve"><U>All Hallows' Eve</U></A>    <A HREF="id89.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Puzzle Pieces: Cyrus"><U>Puzzle Pieces:  Cyrus</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id85.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Adam in Parallel Time"><U>Adam in Parallel Time</U></A>    <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U>Cassie's Writing</U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>