by Bill Clem
It appeared the elder Baxter was ahead of his time. Paul marveled that he had mentioned antibiotic possibilities for the use of certain plants. Then he came to an entry marked with asterisks: Fountain of Youth?
Paul noted that it was the very last entry for the Amazon. The next entry was written back in the United States. Paul’s mouth fell slack. The entry read:
Have arrived back home.
Feeling better than ever!
C.B.
Still wide-awake an hour later, Paul checked the time: 3 A.M. Sleep was out of the question. Getting up, he went to the window and gazed out. The gated entrance to Harbor View was cast in an eerie glow of moonlight. At that instant, a car pulled up and Paul recognized the black Mercedes belonging to Phillip Baxter. Baxter reached out of the car, punched in the security code, and let himself through. How did I miss him going out? And what the hell is he doing out this time of night?
Paul watched as Baxter parked and opened his trunk. Reaching inside, he pulled out a large black zippered bag. It was the kind a coroner uses to pick up dead bodies: a body bag!
Maybe one of the residents died?
Paul frowned. He had been waiting for Baxter to leave, but he had apparently slipped by, unnoticed. Now Baxter was back and heading inside the building. Paul stayed at the window, his gaze fixed on Baxter’s car. Suddenly, Baxter emerged from the building’s rear exit. He no longer carried the bag. Finally, Baxter opened the gate again and drove off.
Paul weighed his options. Should he try to get in there tonight? His nerves were frayed and his fatigue was pressing down on him like a lead weight.
After what he’d witnessed tonight, and what he’d found in the diary, he knew he didn’t have a choice. He no longer trusted anyone at Harbor View. He wanted some answers.
Stepping out of his apartment, he made his way down to the administrative lobby and into a wide hallway on the opposite side. At the far end of the hall, he could see the massive oak doors of Baxter’s office. His doors, like the rest of the administrative offices, were secured by conventional keys, an electronic key pad, and an alarm system.
He knew if he could get inside, even briefly, he would find all the answers he and Jennie were looking for. Moving toward the heavily secured doors, Paul had no illusions of getting through them.
He had other plans.
Ten feet from Baxter’s office, Paul turned sharply to the left and entered the bathroom supply closet. He reached up and ran a hand over the doorframe. A key clattered to the floor. Hudson Cregg seemed to evaporate every time there was a shortage of paper towels or toilet paper, leaving the residents stranded in the stall. Finally, tired of being caught with their pants down, they had taken matters into their own hands and secured a supply-room key for ‘emergencies.’
Tonight qualifies.
Paul opened the closet.
The interior was cramped, packed with cleansers, mops, and shelves of paper supplies. Two days ago, Paul had been searching for paper towels when he’d made an unusual discovery. Unable to reach the top shelf, he’d used a broom to coax a roll to fall. In the process, he’d knocked out a ceiling tile. When he’d climbed up to replace the tile, he was surprised to hear Baxter’s voice.
Crystal clear.
From the echo, he realized Baxter was talking to himself while in his office’s private bathroom, which apparently was separated from this supply closet by nothing more than removable, fiberboard ceiling tiles.
Now, back in the closet tonight for far more than toilet paper, Paul climbed up the shelves, popped out the ceiling tile, and pulled himself up into the void.
So much for Baxter’s security. How many laws was Paul about to break?
Lowering himself through the ceiling of Baxter’s private bathroom, Paul carefully placed his feet on the porcelain sink and then dropped gingerly to the floor. Holding his breath, he exited into the main office.
* * *
Phillip Baxter, like most doctors, survived on four or five hours of sleep a night. Over the last few weeks, however, he had survived on far less. As he drove, the stress of the evening’s events slowly began to ebb. Baxter felt the late hours settling in his limbs. He normally resisted the urge to take sleeping pills, for fear of other effects they might have on him. Tonight, though, he decided he would try one and attempt to get a full night of sleep even if that meant sleeping well in to the afternoon.
Now as he wrestled with his fatigue, he realized he’d left his sleep medication in his desk.
I’ve got to go back. Godammit!
Baxter found the first turnaround he could, and sped back toward Harbor View.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Paul’s heart was racing as he crossed the darkened office of Phillip Baxter. The room was as expansive and elegant as Paul remembered from his interview–ornate wood-paneled walls, oil paintings, Persian carpets, leather rivet chairs, and a gargantuan mahogany desk. The room was lit only by the glow of a small desk lamp.
Paul moved toward the desk. Phillip Baxter had embraced the computer age, eschewing the overflow of file cabinets for the compact simplicity of his personal computer, into which he fed huge amounts of information–patient records, meeting notes, personal medical information. Baxter’s computer was his sacred ground, and he kept his office locked up at all times to protect it. All this information had come to Paul via several residents who made it their business to know everyone else’s, including Baxter’s.
Paul slipped behind the doctor’s desk and sat down. He took a deep breath, looking at Baxter’s computer. If he’s hiding anything, it will be in here.
Baxter’s screensaver was a plain blue screen with the Harbor View logo emblazoned across it in large white letters. Paul jostled the mouse, and a security dialogue box came up.
ENTER PASSWORD
Paul Grant was about to try a password when he heard footfalls coming down the hall. His bowels nearly let loose. Someone was putting a key in the door!
He hit the escape key, and the dialogue box instantly evaporated. Diving under Baxter’s desk, he pulled the chair in and plastered himself as far back as he could. Holding his breath, he heard the metallic click of the door lock, followed by the shuffle of footsteps coming in his direction. Baxter!
Paul heard the top desk drawer open and the sound a pill bottle being shaken. The drawer closed and Paul heard more footsteps, then the heavy mahogany door slammed shut.
Thank God.
Paul finally let out the breath he’d been holding and sank down. He knew he had to get out of there now; he couldn’t chance Baxter coming back again. He would just have to tell Jennie there was no way he could get those records.
Paul sat in the darkness under Baxter’s desk and realized he had no idea what to do next. What if Baxter was still in the building and would return?
Preparing to leave, Paul realigned the chair at the desk and stood up. With his blood pumping hard, he returned to Baxter’s private bathroom and climbed back out. Baxter’s visit had left Paul rattled and he wondered if he should just leave Harbor View. Just get the hell out of there. Dropping back down into the janitor’s closet, he heaved a heavy sigh as his feet hit the floor. He pressed his ear to the door. Silence.
Paul slipped out, replaced the key and hurried back to his room. As he plopped down on his bed, Paul Grant wondered what the hell else could possibly happen tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The next evening, Paul sat on a stone ledge near the entrance to Harbor View and peered out at the road. Seven thirty had come and gone, and Jennie Bradford still hadn’t shown up. It was now eight o’clock. Dusk was fast approaching and the fading light cast ominous purple shadows across the grounds of Harbor View.
Jennie was half an hour late and, although she had confessed to not being punctual, Paul’s innate fears and insecurities often gave way to panic. He couldn’t help it. He had waited at the airport for his parents the day their plane slammed into a ridge in Berryville, Virginia. Waited and waited! Fin
ally, three hours later, an airline official called all the families together to tell them the horrific news. His parents and everyone else on the plane were dead. Ever since that day, if anyone was even a minute late, Paul felt the signs of an anxiety response.
He already had beads of perspiration forming on his brow, worrying about Jennie and where she might be. Did she have car trouble? Had she changed her mind and decided to go home and be done with that wench, Margaret? Surely she would have at least called him. Paul’s run-in with Hudson Cregg, followed by Baxter nearly finding him in his office, had left him in an uneasy mood. Cregg seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, then vanished just as quickly after he told Paul things only another drunk would believe. Delusional with alcohol, Baxter had claimed. Had Cregg amused himself by trying to scare Paul?
One thing he’d said, though, still troubled Paul. His reference to the ‘others.’ Did he mean former employees? Paul had found some documents the previous nurse had left at the nurses’ quarters. Her name was Colleen Brady. According to Baxter, she’d quit unexpectedly, which probably fueled Cregg’s delusions about people disappearing. Paul had to admit that Harbor View was eccentric, but Cregg’s overblown imagination, powered by a fifth of cheap whiskey, was just too much. Unfortunately, now that Jennie hadn’t showed up, Paul’s own imagination was a jumble of bad thoughts playing in his mind. Earlier, he had tried to call her cell phone, but was unable to connect. He cursed hit-and-miss cell phone reception. For all the hoopla about good service, it seemed to be just a matter of luck if you got a connection.
At eight-thirty, Paul decided to go back to his room and call her hotel. If that didn’t work, he’d have no choice but to go look for her. Paul got itchy when he was nervous and he’d already started to get welts on both arms. Suddenly, headlights fell on him and jerked him from his unpleasant reverie. He ducked behind one of the stone columns by the gate and flattened himself against it. At first, he thought it was Baxter’s Mercedes. Then he recognized the outline of the VW beetle. It was Jennie!
She pulled her car under the light of the Harbor View sign and grinned. Her soap-polished complexion shined in the shadows.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m sorry, Paul. You missed me?”
“Very funny. I was worried. And yes, I missed you.”
Jennie batted her eyes. “Paul, you like me.”
“Come on, Jennie, be serious.”
“Okay, jump in. I’ve got some stuff to tell you.”
“You and me both,” Paul said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jennie drove west on Rt. 103 away from Cutting and Harbor View. A half hour later, they found a diner just off the highway. The old-style eatery was encased in shiny aluminum with thick glass-blocks that framed the doorway. Inside, a long counter with orange vinyl-coated stools held pies and cakes in plastic containers, and several patrons sat sipping coffee. Booths along each wall were equipped with their own jukebox selector.
“I feel like I just stepped back in time,” Paul said.
Jennie nodded. “Yeah, very nostalgic.”
They slid into a booth and Paul flipped through the jukebox selections.
“I can’t find a single song later than 1975.”
Jennie smiled. “That’s the best music anyway.”
A waitress in a white uniform and paper cap appeared out of nowhere, carrying a glass coffee pot. “You like some coffee?”
Paul and Jennie turned their coffee cups over in tandem and the waitress filled them. “I’ll be back to get your order in a minute.”
“So, what’d you find out?’ Paul asked.
Jennie paused. “I don’t know where to start. First, I stopped into Cutting’s Hall of Records. No help there. But tenacious as I am–“
Paul grinned. “You are that.”
Jennie took a gulp of coffee. “Anyway, I got hold of some old court documents. It seems Charles Baxter owed a fortune in back taxes. Right before his trip to the Amazon.”
“But I thought he–”
“He did. Poor guy was getting it from both ends. Like they say, nothing in life is certain but death and taxes. He was under inducement on both counts. He may have been dying of cancer, but the IRS was about to take Harbor View away from him. Unfortunately, I came to a dead end after that. Still, it raises some interesting questions.”
Paul leaned in close. “Yeah, like what happened to the place after he died?”
Jennie drummed her fingers on the table. “What I want to know is how the current Baxter fits into the picture.”
Paul went on to tell Jennie about Hudson Cregg and how Baxter had stopped him in the hall and tried to discredit Cregg.
“I’ve been thinking,” Paul said, “Maybe I could take a trip up to the state capitol and do some research. They’ve got records for the whole state and I’m sure it’s more concise than the small office here in Cutting.”
“Maybe you could go up Monday and I could stay here and snoop around some more. You can drop me off in town”
Paul shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”
The waitress materialized again, this time with a huge plate of bacon and eggs for Jennie, and an equally large portion of meatloaf for Paul. She made sure they were set, then excused herself.
“This looks good,” Paul said.
Jennie flipped her napkin open. “And how. Let’s eat.”
When the first chords of Hotel California came on the jukebox, Jennie and Paul looked up at the same instant.
“I used to like this song up until a couple of days ago,” Jennie said. “Now, it creeps me out.”
Paul put his fork down. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Paul’s eyes blinked open. At first, he was disoriented and didn’t know where he was. There were unfamiliar curtains over the windows shading the early morning sunlight. Turning his head to the side, he saw Jennie’s sleeping form. Then it all came back in an instant.
Paul smiled and shook his head. “Hypocrite,” he whispered to himself. Just yesterday, he vowed not to get too close to this girl. Now, here he was waking up next to her in her hotel room. Strangely though, he had to admit he didn’t regret it. One thing was certain. He never knew a girl who moved as quickly as Jennie.
He tried to slip out of bed and get dressed before Jennie woke up, thinking he needed to get back to Harbor View. Suddenly, he remembered it was Saturday. He was off!
Jennie shook herself loose from the covers and sat up.
“What time is it?”
“A little after six.”
“Why are you awake so early?”
“I thought I had to work, but I just remembered it was Saturday.”
Paul moved over and put his arm around Jennie. They didn’t talk for a minute, then Paul broke the silence.
“This is all new to me, you know.”
Jennie cocked her head. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“No, of course not. It’s just moving so fast.”
“I’ll slow down if you want.”
“I’m not sure I want you to.”
“Good. Then come over here,” Jennie said, pulling the covers over them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Paul called in sick on Monday so he could ride to the state capitol to visit the Historical Society. He was convinced that, if he was going to find out anything about Baxter, the historical society and its vast archive of records would be the place to start. Jennie, on the other hand, wanted to stay in Cutting and talk to some locals, maybe the Sheriff.
As Paul headed toward Burlington, he had to smile. His weekend with Jennie was full of wonderful surprises, the least of which was her amorous attitude toward sex. Paul found it embarrassing at first, but quickly realized how much he enjoyed her. She had been the first woman he’d been with in two years, but she made him feel like Rudolph Valentino.
The pleasant thoughts evaporated as he neared Burlington and remembered why he was here. Som
ething ominous cloaked Harbor View, and he kept hearing the words of the old drunk, Hudson Cregg. “Leave while you still can!”
Paul left the car in the parking garage and walked to the Vermont Historical Society, an association housed in a group of refurbished buildings in the center of town. It served as a repository for documents and genealogical history.
A receptionist directed Paul to the library, a few steps up on the second floor. The library was housed in an early nineteenth-century building with high ceilings and dark wood molding. The main room had several brick fireplaces and a glass chandelier. Huge oak tables with captains’ chairs dominated the floor. The smell of old books prevailed. Paul was surprised at the amount of material available. Everything was carefully catalogued.
Paul began his search by looking up genealogical information from Cutting, refining it by adding the name Baxter.
This time he found a wealth of information.
In fact, there were several drawers full of information. After a half hour, Paul found what he was looking for: a reference to Charles Baxter. He was born December 8, 1885, the son of James and Elsie Baxter. He died on April 24, 1946, the husband of Barbara Baxter. No cause of death was given. No children of record. Paul raised his head and stared out the window.
No children of record! Then who was Philip Baxter?
He could feel tiny gooseflesh rise up on the nape of his neck.
They must be mistaken, Paul surmised. Perhaps Charles Baxter had adopted Phillip and it never made it into the public record. After all, there was a thriving industry of baby sellers back in the thirties. But, the resemblance between the two...
Going back to the generalized information, Paul got a book that summarized the history of Charles Baxter. Apparently Baxter was recognized at the time as the foremost expert on medicinal plants and their relationship to indigenous cultures. His PhD. was from Harvard where he was a part time botany professor.
