All Things Return

by W.H. Harrod

Terrance’s following morning wake up experience surpassed the previous day on the scale of early day miserable events. The way he felt, he hardly slept at all. This time neither human nor machine traffic outside his door caused the problem. Instead, his sleepless night resulted mostly from his resurgent paranoia run amok. Every time he heard the slightest noise, he expected it to be followed by shouts of Mexican banditos bursting through his motel room door demanding to know the hiding place of the gringo Douglas. His subsequent dreams during the short times when he slept, of being bound, gagged, and carted off via a cantankerous burro to a hideout in the high desert south of the Rio Grande for serious interrogation, helped matters even less. More and more, it became apparent that a job in the field of big time investigative journalism might not be the right career move for him in the near future.

  It came close to striking the 8 a.m. hour before Terrance forced his body into the hot shower. Somewhat reinvigorated, he gathered his gear and headed for the checkout desk. A disconcerting thought occurred to him as he stood at the desk awaiting authorization for use of his credit card to pay for the room’s use for two nights. He’d used a credit card with his real name and address as well as listing his real license plate number. So far, if he evaluated himself as an undercover operative, he received a failing grade. As far as he knew, the cartel owned this motel. The newspaper articles had mentioned they maintained ownership of hundreds of businesses and commercial properties in this country. Great work moron, you may as well have come into town driving a parade float! This thought ran through Terrance’s mind as he signed the credit card receipt while trying to pay particular attention to the motel manager’s accent.

  Terrance did do one thing right. He remembered to get a lid for the extra large cup of scalding hot black coffee when he again stopped at the nearby truck stop. With each sip of the hot liquid, his ability to think rationally improved. Before long, a whole host of thoughts vied for attention in his awakening brain. He gave first priority to that part of his consciousness demanding to know the cause for all the activity so early in the morning. He resolved the issue by recalling that, very possibly, any number of unsavory characters in and around this community still waited for some klutz like him to come stumbling back into the unfinished Whiting affair and provide them with the information that would allow them to close out certain accounts forever.

  Having resigned himself to this most unpleasant possibility, Terrance determined his first destination would be Howard’s old condo unit for a couple of photographs. From there, his route took him outside of town for a look at Whiting’s former mansion. Then, barring any difficulties or last minute brainstorms, he intended to swing by the graveyard where Whitney was buried and spend a few moments there. Why this last item remained on his agenda, he still wasn’t sure, but a little voice inside his brain kept telling him to do this. Right now, he only hoped he listened to a wiser voice than the one that urged him to jump up and run out of the library yesterday or the voice that told him to go ahead and use the credit card with his real name at the motel.

  Confident as to his sense of direction by now, he allowed his mind to go back over the events of the previous day while he drove through town towards his first stop. Working backwards, he recalled that once he arrived back at the motel at about 8:30 p.m., his paranoia grew exponentially. Every noise coming through the motel room walls constituted a potential threat. It all started on the way back from the library to the motel.

  On the lookout last evening for anything unusual, Terrance took notice of a vehicle that appeared to be making every turn he did. He purposely stayed on the major thoroughfares but after making a couple of turns, one particular vehicle stayed with him at a suspicious one-hundred-foot interval. Normal drivers never follow that far behind the car in front of them anymore. One, two, three, car lengths, at the most, are all one ever gave. Something odd was going on, and Terrance knew it. The last straw came when he sped up and turned into the motel parking lot and came to a sliding halt in front of his room. He turned off the headlights. As he expected, the suspicious vehicle behind him slowed down and, likewise, turned into the same motel parking lot.

  Terrance’s heart stood still for a long moment as he watched his fears materialize. He was right. They were on to him. It must have been the suspicious-looking desk attendant at the library. He had to be one of them. He probably figured it out after seeing what editions of the newspaper Terrance requested for his research. Or, it may have been the goof-up he made when he responded with, “Who?” when the attendant addressed him as Mr. Walker after Terrance returned the last folder to the main desk. No matter, they were on to him now, and he needed to come up with an escape plan. Considering all his options, he decided to fall back on his old favorite. He would wait until they approached his car and then jump out and run. It went without saying he had to devise another contingency plan. Common sense told him that jumping up and running might not be the most appropriate solution on every occasion.

  With hand on the door handle, Terrance poised himself to make a break. The lights of the threatening vehicle came closer. Just as Terrance prepared to pull the lever, the vehicle passed on by heading in the direction of the motel bar, another twenty car links beyond where Terrance’s Cherokee sat. He turned to watch the vehicle pass and noticed the sign on the side of the truck. BUFORD’S PEST CONTROL, We Kill Bugs Real Good.

  He definitely needed to maintain better control of his initial impulses he reasoned as he thought back on the incident. You don’t know for sure that anyone knows you’re here in relation to Howard Douglas’s past. So, try to not act like such an idiot, okay?

  Up ahead, if he calculated correctly, would be the turn to Howard’s old condo. He forgot about the previous day’s events and reached for his camera. As he turned into the now twenty-plus-years old condo complex, Terrance started to look among the well-maintained units for Howard’s old address. He stopped the Cherokee across the street from Howard’s former unit where he would have a clear shot. Picking up the camera, he paused for a moment to consider how the life of the man formerly known as Howard Douglas changed since the night he left these premises so hastily over twenty years ago.

  I wonder if he ever imagined how different his life was going to turn out. Terrance thought about this as he lifted the camera and snapped several pictures. Moments later he returned to the main thoroughfare and headed in the general direction of Richard Whiting’s former estate located approximately five miles outside of town, if he estimated correctly. Again, not expecting to experience any difficulty finding his way to the next stop on his short list, he recommenced his mental wanderings. His first idea related to calling Mrs. Bidwell and telling her about the things he found out, but as soon as he recalled her telling him that under no conditions would she ever talk to him on the phone, he decided against it.

  Next Terrance’s thoughts drifted to Jess and his conflicted feelings regarding their relationship. What course of action made sense there? He certainly held strong feelings for her and even that monster dog. But, did he love her? Sometimes he felt that he did. He’d not been interested in any other women for sometime now, including the great-looking female attorney who seemed to be calling him a lot lately. She merely represented another option for him. More than one older woman had turned and looked in his direction from time to time. His good looks often attracted the attention of the opposite sex. This lady possibly represented a valuable connection for him one day as he went forward to secure a law degree. But, as far as being emotionally involved with a female—only Jess counted. This is going to be a tough one, he admitted as the former Whiting estate came into view.

  This had to be it. No other mansions appeared on the horizon for miles. It fit the description—a red brick structure with a now green copper mansard roof and miles of white wood fence. The main house sat about a quarter mile off the road on a small hill overlooking the countryside. He pulled to a stop across from the heavy closed metal gate that displayed the street number
verifying the correct address. He hesitated before taking photographs. What kind of fool were you to get involved with international criminals? What did you do to cause someone to want to murder you in such a violent way? Only the sound of another car passing by broke the silence. Adjusting the telephoto lens to bring the distant mansion’s impressive features much closer, Terrance snapped the shutter repeatedly.

  He then prepared himself for last stop on his list, the one that made the least sense of all, especially since it required him to travel twenty-five miles out of his way to get there and back. But, his inner voice insisted he make this stop, and hopefully, the reasons would become clear later on.

  This time, the drive through the rolling hills of the countryside allowed him to relax completely. Still early fall, the many different varieties of trees displayed the early signs of seasonal changes. Soon, they would exhibit a veritable feast of vibrant colors most enjoyable to the eye of the fortunate beholder. Terrance pondered this and many other things as he drove along. He imagined a time when Howard and Whitney lived happily together in this place, before whatever went wrong interrupted their young lives. They must have driven these same back roads many times and saw exactly what he saw. Maybe they thought days like this would last forever?

  The appearance of a church steeple in the distance interrupted Terrance’s pleasant reveries. His sense of distance suggested to him that he might be arriving at his destination. He slowed down to pull into the gravel parking lot in front of the old white wood-sided church building and couldn’t help but notice off in the distance a group of tall trees forming the backdrop for a white picket-fenced graveyard. The entire scene could easily have been taken from the pages of a Currier and Ives collection; it appeared so serene.

  With his vehicle safely parked in the empty lot, Terrance retrieved his camera and headed for the graveyard, some one hundred fifty yards away. A well-tended path from the parking lot led him in that direction. Along the way, wooden benches provided places for visitors to sit and meditate. As Terrance traversed the distance at a slow pace, he absorbed as much of the areas sounds, rhythms, and smells as possible. He wanted the experience to be completely sensory, to know the true essence of this unique location.

  Terrance arrived at the entrance to the graveyard and stood for a moment, gazing upon the open eight-foot-tall double-wrought iron gates. Passing through the gates, he started walking towards the least populated area of the cemetery, a section located in the back corner closest to the biggest trees. As he neared the area, his attention focused upon a modest headstone carved out of gleaming white marble. He carefully navigated his way around to the front of the grave, as he eagerly sought out the inscription on the marker.

  A shiver ran up his spine as he started to read:

  “Here lies a child of God. Whitney Ann McClain. Born Aug. 21, 1954—Died May 11, 1981.”

  The only other inscription on the marker read:

  “No one ever keeps a secret so well as a child.” V. Hugo

  Terrance slowly sat upon the grass; his gaze fixated upon the inscription.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR