| Redbridge, Vermont™ by Justin Lacche Edited by Susan E. Locke |
Procter stood up and went to the door.
“I need to run, Justin. Have a good afternoon,” she said.
“Karen?”
She stopped and turned back to face him.
“How do I know that you didn't kill Jennifer Maxwell and are playing me to see how much evidence is
floating out around town?" he asked. ('Jesus Christ, Justin, did I really ask that question?')
Procter grew very serious. “Call Winslow, tell him everything I said. I don't care. I have nothing to hide about
Jennifer; it's our research that I am trying to protect.” Procter turned away and walked briskly out of the
restaurant.
http://www.max-oil-gas.com/login
MaxwellJ
gze169485thl
It looked so simple that Walterovich tried to convince himself it might be the single greatest source
document of his 13-year career in journalism. The one question mark was why the apparent email log-in
information was written on a cheap and coffee-stained note card when sealed in a classy purple envelope
and a snazzy red-wax seal. “But how many times have big clues turned out to be normal daily activities?" he
muttered.
Walterovich went to Yahoo! and typed in the address:
http://www.max-oil-gas.com/login
An impressive, complicated web-page appeared that rivaled that of Pepsi, Coke or even Champlain
College. There was no option for employee log-in.
“Well, maybe I should forget the whole thing and go back to the office," he chuckled quietly, starting to
enter keywords in the site's search box.
*Employee login*
*Employee email*
*Employee communications*
*Maxwell family email*
“Bingo!" he yelped loud enough to be heard outside the office. Walterovich thought his saw Thetford's
silhouette stop for a moment.
The reporter clicked an icon of an envelope with calligraphy "M". A creamed-colored page appeared with
only two input boxes: log-in name; password. Walterovich scrolled to the bottom, where, in bold red font,
said: “Please enter log-in name and password carefully; if mistyped, you will be unable to log-in to your
account for 12 hours.” It didn't seem like a difficult challenge.
Walterovich was spared the curse warnings that oozed over Sir Arthur Clark, but unlike the great
archaeologist, Walterovich was dyslexic and such spelling exercises were down right scary. The writer
breathed deeply and exhaled slowly and sparingly.
M-a-x-w-e-l-l-J
He read it over 12 times slowly and wrote it down four more checking each letter to that on the note card.
After convincing his mirror-reverse parts of his brain that the log-in was a match, the reporter moved to the
second confidence course test.
g-z-e-6-1-9-4-8-5-t-h-l
He read it 12 times slowly and wrote it down four more checking each letter and number.
“OK, Justin, you're in the clear. Just hit ‘submit’ already,” he whispered
“No, no, no. Something doesn't seem right,” he answered himself. Walterovich breathed deeply again. He
resented his funky information processing mechanisms.
“Just hit 'submit'," he ordered himself again. The reporter stopped.
“Fine, Justin, one more check and then the hell with it,” he compromised.
g-z-e-6-1-9-4-8-5-t-h-l
“Oh, Jesus Christ," he said more at normal levels. "I flipped the one and the six. Dummy!”
Walterovich corrected his entry to g-z-e-1-6-9-4-8-5-t-h-l and hit ‘submit’ to get on with his life. ‘Oh, God,' he
thought, finally taking his dialog within. The reporter gazed upon the e-library in Jennifer Maxwell's account.
“Jesus, it would take our whole department at least two months to go through all of this,” he whispered.
‘You better not whisper so much, Justin; this here is the real deal,' he added in thought.
***********************************************
Welcome Jennifer!
INBOX 28
BULK 11
FILES:
*Book
*Research
*Permission/waver
*Business
*Personal
*Other
“Where to start? Where to start?” the writer pondered, already in violation of his personal goal of trying to not
weird-out the town by talking too much to himself. ‘I wonder what is worse: people who talk loudly to
themselves or people who whisper to themselves?'
The permission/waver file caught his eye; Walterovich always looked to cover his bases with legally
obtaining information. The reporter had two personal rules: never quote “unnamed sources” and never print
information obtained illegally. He had bent the latter on occasion but nothing enough, he reasoned, to throw
out the rule completely. He clicked “permission/waver.”
1 UNOPENED: Permission to use information in this account: Aug. 1, 4:49 a.m.
“Well, this is a little too convenient, isn't it?” Walterovich clicked open the email.
_________________________________________________
From: Maxwell, Jennifer
To: Maxwell, Jennifer
_________________________________________________
I, Jennifer Maxwell, being of sound mind and body authorize the full public use and viewing of any and all
emails in this account.
I authorize that anyone with proper access to this account (via the log-in and password that I specifically
provided in writing), to share any and all information included forthwith without impediment or prohibition
from my family or our company Maxwell Oil.
A handwritten copy of this email is in my personal safety deposit box, which I authorize to be opened under
court supervision if needed to authenticate my request.
Jennifer K. Maxwell
____________________________________________________
‘This is turning out to be a very interesting day,' Walterovich mused internally, refreshing his own email
account only to see a new message from Chief Trevino. “Ah, the plot thickens...”
***
Scott’s General Store had seen many owners in Redbridge over the decades, but still remained an
important cultural outlet for many residents who just needed to get away for a few moments. The floor plan
had the quaintness of a Harry and David outlet, with the item selection of both a local green COOP and a
makeshift 7-11. Anyone who was taller than 6’2” (and you’d be surprised how many local men fell into that
category) or weighed more than 200 pounds had to twist, turn or contort some part of their body many times
to navigate through the snug aisles. It made for good performance art, though, for any on-looker who sat on
the waist-high ice cream refrigerator, which had the best view in the house – save the three security
cameras, which were never plugged in and fooled no one within the City Limits.
Scott’s General Store and the Redbridge Post Office competed with the local Church as the hub where
underlying waves of information were spread, distributed and shared with fellow residents. Each had their
own particular flavor and flair.
The Church was the best venue to find out community news: whose children got their grades up; how a
senior was handling a hip replacement; which “pagans” sang best in the choir.
The Post Office was more the society page: which teenagers broke up for third time in the season; who
was mulling over a separation; which nubbies to town had a “past” back in Massachusetts.
Scott’s was where the folklore spread, where the true Vermont anthropologist wished she could get a year-
long grant to immerse herself by the eggplants, where the best theories of missing billionaires were fresh
and abound.
“It wouldn’t be the first time that someone drove to another town without phoning in for permission,” said
Alan Hansen, 48-year-old, fit local church-grounds gardener, speaking in his best library voice, holding a
box of Apple Jacks.
“I understand that, but you can’t not mention the fact that she is a billionaire. She’s a part of a different
universe. A lot of dark secrets follow that kind of power, even if the person is good at heart,” retorted Dave
Millard, 33-year-old, overweight administrative assistant at City Hall. “I can hardly breathe in these aisles.
You’d think they’d open up the place a little.”
They both chuckled.
“OK, OK, or I could try the vegetable section for once,” Millard conceded.
“I heard that Justin is in town,” remarked Mary Clemens, 68-year-old first-edition book collector, holding
some corn.
“Which Justin?” asked her life-long friend Kim Lear, who was born only 15 hours after the bookworm.
“The reporter.”
“Ah…he’ll be the last to know,” chuckled Lear.
Alan Hansen never apologized for being a gardener and handyman, and rarely complained about working
80 hours a week in order to support his family. Hansen became a widower when he was 24 and raised his
three daughters in Redbridge, despite the deep feelings of loss which still haunt him to this very day.
Therapy was making sure the church grounds looked photogenic; the school parking lot didn't have a
single cigarette butt; the copper piping in the bread-and-breakfasts in town both held up and stayed within
budget.
Redbridge became Hansen's grieving grounds and living legacy to his young wife who promised at the very
end to watch over him and their "three little flowers". Maxwell's disappearance was a thick, hypothermic
sleet over the comfort blanket that Redbridge had become to the handyman. He felt more burdened in
some unexplained ways than his first morning as the only adult in his household. Hansen wanted this
billionaire to call a TV station and "go-away" the problem. He didn't want Walterovich on-the-clock. He didn't
want to wait for some big announcement.
Alan Hansen had done a very good job of “keeping on”, and his life had no more room for theatrics.
Dave Millard did well in Redbridge, because he never fought with the deeper laws of genetics, religion or
the universe. Before even reaching double-digits in years, the fifth-generation Redbridge resident made
peace with the fact that he always was going to be overweight, and that people in town would let him lead
via some office in government.
It made for a refreshingly calm teenage experience. While he heard his fair-share of fat jokes throughout
junior high school and high school, he also was elected class president his sophomore, junior and senior
years and won praise for his collaborative efforts with other stakeholders in the student body.
Millard’s first serious girl friend, Kelly Rourke, came into his life his senior year and by graduation had
accepted his wedding proposal in exchange for his agreement to follow her to UVM instead of going to
UCLA.
“It was the best decision of my life,” Millard always said when sharing the story of his courtship. “Besides, I
never really felt very comfortable in a bathing suit or on a surfboard anyway.”
Kelly’s passion was theatre, a field in which she earned her PhD and also won multiple regional wards for
her scriptwriting. She never minded Dave’s working evenings, because it gave her the political capital, so to
speak, to run rehearsals from 6-9 p.m.
Dave had finished two-years before with a Master’s in Political Science. He worked in West Champlain for
Congressman Bernard Dean. The couple decided to have a daughter when they returned to Redbridge
after Kelly’s graduation, and to their credit, they did 10 months later.
“I never did figure out what we would have done if we had a son,” David remarked with a chuckle. “I guess I
always figured Kelly knew what she was doing.”
And for the most part, Kelly did.
Mary Anders-Clemens was born in 1937, a time when just about everyone in Redbridge grew vegetables
and raised chickens for his or her very survival. Had the child openly said that she only wanted stunning first
edition books during World War II, she would have been assigned to shovel cow shit all over town during
planting season.
But the third-generation Redbridge resident knew early on how to keep a good secret and slowly built up
her passion until she was married in 1954 when she told her husband, Tyler Clemens, that she would
collect first-printed museum quality literature or sleep alone in the master bedroom until death did them
part. There were three immaculate hardcover first-printings waiting for her on their wedding bed. Tyler
always knew when he was beat.
Mary’s paternal grandparents came over on the boat from Denmark in 1887. They brought over the printing
business they had tried, unsuccessfully, to go back in Scandinavia. Grandpa Derk printed his own books
as did Mary’s mother, Katha and, together both nurtured a family library of original material with hard leather
gold-leaf covers, as well as such comparable aesthetic and substantive works for other fellow scribes.
They were Orange County’s unofficial first-source library, by invitation only.
“Papa, why do you spend more time putting together a book than you do sometimes writing it?” the wide-
eyed, polar-white-haired child asked.
“Because books are the closest thing that people can come to the elements,” the old man responded in
Danish. “Books are stronger than volcanoes, more potent than the angry seas, the best seven-year soil to
plant your crops, the strongest storms on top of a winter mountain.”
“But…it’s just paper Papa, the smallest spark could destroy the whole work.”
“The largest armies have failed miserably against the papyrus empire,” he responded passionately.
“Maniacs, monsters, liars and thieves all have tried to create a world where truth, spirit, thought, and
empowerment were wiped clean from soft, flimsy pages. Don’t be
fooled little one, the book is the closest thing you or I will ever come to touching God in this life. We might as
well pay the proper homage and bind them with the art, grace and reverence in which they so richly
deserve.”
Mary was hooked. She felt a religious duty to collect and study books. Paperbacks were insults, if not at
least signed personally to her by the author’s hand, and cheap cardboard hardcovers became an affront to
everything she loved and respected. Mary Anders-Clemens didn’t just begin collecting first editions, but first
editions whose content and presentation were worthy – WORTHY—of the craft. There was no room in her
life for mediocrity in this one sacred endeavor, and nothing would stop her from building her biblio-empire.
“Close your eyes and smell the pages; smell the infinite charge that permeates every page,” she would
instruct each grandchild when their hands were washed and demeanor controllable. “This is what heaven
smells like—a first edition book with gold leaf and leather covers and stories so magnificent, they conquer
death itself.”
Kim Lear was born just 15 hours after Mary Anders-Clemens, her best friend, but the two rabble rousers
couldn't have been further apart. Where Clemens life was in rare books, Lear was the queen of the swap
meet and the garage sale. For the town, her thirst for discarded treasures made her something of a guru
amongst fellow swap meet archaeologists, although for Lear, her life's passion was nothing to snicker at.
“It was an ice-cold rainy Saturday and I knew that the cold October chill was going to scare away the early
business," she told to a couple recently, honeymooning from Bethpage, Long Island. They hadn't asked for
the story, but merely inquired as to what there was to do in Redridge. Serves them right to ask such a silly
question. “I was 11 years old but already a consultant to thrift hunters thrice my age.” Lear loved using the
word thrice. It made her feel like a sage.
“The Hunterby family was having a sale for the estate of Grandma Carol who died peacefully in her sleep at
the ripe old age of 99,” she whispered with respect and reverence. “Well, the Hunterbys went through every
piece of Carol's property three or four times and decided what ‘leftovers’ (Lear shook her head in pity) to put
up for sale.
It was raining coats of awful ice and sleet by the time I snuck my bike out and peddled over the bridge. I
knew my parents would kill me, but I was called, I tell you; I was drawn to that estate sale by forces far
outside my control. It was 10 minutes before 10 in the morning and the sale wasn't scheduled to begin until
11. This is a big deal; there are codes and unspoken rules, but being that I was a minor and it was an
estate sale, not a garage sale, I was given first pick."
Lear took a deep breath, looked off at the distance and wet her wrinkled cigarette-laced lips. Her exhale
was one of an old woman having pleasure and a very hard time respirating. “I knew something was there,
and I looked at every piece deliberately, efficiently, and methodically.”
“What were you looking for?" encouraged the new groom now firmly into Indiana Lear's tales of treasure
hunting.
“You never look for a ‘thing’ son, you look for value. I saw a wax purple kangaroo,” she revealed as if
sharing the ending of the Da Vinci Code with fellow book club members who hadn't the patience to wait.
“A purple dinosaur?” asked the New York bride, between gum chews.
“Kangaroo!" Lear snapped back, insulted that anyone would suggest the sage would ever buy a purple
dinosaur -- unless it was eight cents on the dollar. “It was a wax purple kangaroo and I looked over it thrice,
and I saw what looked to be a penny in the middle of it semi-lucent belly. I went and gave the family the
nickel asking price right away, and I gave a poker stare something fierce when Billy Huckleby looked it over
good.”
“What's that in the middle?” he asked me suspiciously.
“A rare coin that will make me wealthy,” I responded coldly. “Billy, oh, I'm sorry, that was one of the
grandsons, about 20 years old, chuckled and sold me the wax kangaroo."
“What...happened?” the Long Island bride whispered.
“I hid that kangaroo in my bedroom and later that night, I burnt it half way and liberated the coin out from its
honeycomb tomb. The copper was tired but ready for salvation, and I gently scrubbed the relic with fresh
water from my water basin, each stroke getting me closer to the truth until finally...finally...”
“FINALLY?” the couple begged.
“It was revealed: a copper coin in wonderful condition, minted in 1785 for the Republic of Vermont.”
“Oh my God...oh my god...” the New York bride gasped. “Did you...did you return it to the Hucksters?”
“Hucklebys?" correct the treasure hunter.
“Yes, the Hucklebys...did you return the coin?" asked the youthful husband.
Lear laughed a good, hearty, long, cough-filled laugh and went to the Post Office to catch up on gossip. “Did
I return the coin?” she was heard laughing from the middle of the street. “I mean really!”
To: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
From: editor@WestChamplain.news-times.com
Subject: Good start.
Walterovich,
You have a good start to this story. We have a solid jump even if the Free Press gets wind of this, which I
am assuming they will since the Sheriff’s Office is holding a press conference at 9 a.m. tomorrow. There is
a chance that they’ll wait until tomorrow to send down someone, but we need to assume they’ll be in
Redbridge relatively soon. Either way, you’re the winning horse.
Now we need to get some real answers. Why exactly was she in town? How does it happen that a
billionaire picks a small Vermont town to stop or research? What kind of research are we talking about?
People know, make them talk and on the record! Go to work Walterovich. This is your town. These are your
people. They trust you. You can talk to them. Take control of this situation here.
I don’t often say this, but this is a story that has the potential to be career making. I’ll even be more specific:
A kick ass story in tomorrow’s edition will make you an assistant editor by next week. I have the ear of the
publisher, the balls, too.
Now bring me something stunning,
Trevino
The reporter’s breathing slowed as he read the email twice, three times and another time after that. It was a
five act play written in only a few hundred words from his editor: ‘What you’ve sent is fluff’; ‘this is your
chance to scoop the Free Press’; ‘do your job’; ‘you have a guaranteed in-with-a-win; ‘surprise me’.
Walterovich studied each line of the email from Trevino. “It’s not adding up,” he whispered. “She usually is
protecting herself in writing and now she’s telling me to play hardball. How did she find out about this story
in the first place? Someone with Maxwell or with a stake in her obviously called, but why Trevino?”
The reporter came to the conclusion that his editor was on the take. Someone had gotten to her and now
the question was who, why and how did it really changed things for Walterovich?
‘I’m still working hard on this story anyway,’ he thought. ‘But if the Free Press sends down one of their guns
and they get the story, Trevino will can me. I know that much. I’ll be unemployed by breakfast.”
“Damn, I am boxed in,” he whispered in continuance. “If I don’t deliver the goods I am out of a job. The Free
Press wouldn’t hire me because they would know that I held back. What a mess. Where is Joseph Heller
when you need him?”
‘Now the question is how much should I tell Trevino about Maxwell’s emails?’ he pondered. ‘What a mess
this story is turning out to be.’ Walterovich stared at the monitor screen for eight minutes running over the
scenarios.
To: editor@West Champlain.news-times.com
From: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
Subject: Update
Chief,
I read your email and I have made headway in this article. I’ve obtained a long printed email that is
reportedly from Maxwell’s company account as well as a typed waver form reportedly from Maxwell giving
the media permission to publish it in the event of her death or disappearance.
I’m not sure who sent it to me. A third party, who wouldn’t tell me who sent it, delivered it just a few minutes
ago. The file/transcript is rather long and I just got it so it will take some time for me to make sense of it all.
Please advise how you would like me to proceed.
Walterovich
“That should wet her beak for a little bit while I make sense out of everything,” Walterovich mumbled as he
clicked the “send” icon. “What a mess this is turning out to be.”
“I need to take a walk," the reporter said, logging out of all emails, including the billionaire Maxwell's. He
felt a sense of dread knowing he would have to pass the dyslexia gauntlet again to return, but the reporter
was tired, overwhelmed and disillusioned.
He exited from a side door in Andi's kitchen and started walking the slim road back into the heart of town.
Walterovich felt a clear and pressing desire to get his wife and daughter and run away back to Redbridge.
The outside world had become thoroughly unimpressive. Yes, the weight of small-time life was suffocating
many times a year, but at least the Redbridges of the world had soul, meaning, purpose and integrity.
All Walterovich had heard during his early years in the News-Times was how honorable the craft was and
the importance and high standards by which journalists and editors had to live.
At best, he was disappointed. At worst, he was utterly deceived. The reality of being a staff reporter on a
fairly healthy-sized daily was that the pay still sucked, and reporters were expected to fill up copy with juicy
stories that either kept their readers away from bottom-wrung television or raised awards on the walls of
editors.
“I have every right to be here. This is a real story,” he said to himself, feeling the winter sun try in vain to
warm his exposed neck. “That's not the point. It just so rotten...all of it. The media, government, churches,
charities. Reporters for small weekly papers have no idea have lucky they have it.”
He was right. At a small weekly, reporters covered city council meetings for the sake of finding more
meaningful layers to issues that were very relevant: School budgets, water safety, dog-lease ordinances.
There was no room for mediocrity because one faced one's very sources every day on-line at the checkout
counter, at the bank, jogging after work. Maybe the actual newspaper didn't have fancy color graphics or a
whole floor of mid-level copy editors, but a reporter could still report without feeling like a prostitute who still
professed to having standards.
“I feel like a need a shower,” he said, waving politely to Bill and Fanny Ashton as they drove slowly in their
lime green "vintage" pickup truck. “What a mess this story has become. Or maybe it's me.”
Bill Ashton wanted to fight in World War II. He would have, had not the war ended in 1945 when he was12
years old. The youngest of seven siblings – five brothers and two sisters – Ashton had to grow up fearing
every mail delivery or black car in town that might have brought home the unthinkable news about one or
more of his four brothers fighting in the Pacific. Ashton’s view of Redbridge was unique to a very select
group of youngsters during the revolutionary war, the War of 1812, the Civil War, World War I and at that
time, what was sure to be the last of all wars, World War II.
Ashton’s sisters ran the house and raised their smallest sibling. Such was true in 1943 when the family
was helping with the war effort.
“Why is there war?” the young Ashton asked his older sister Cara, who was collecting usable tin from
homes in Redbridge to be sent off to the war effort.
“There’s war because men are inpatient and unwilling to compromise,” the 16-year-old future state senator
and college president told her kid brother. “That’s the truth of it, when you really look at the issue.”
“That isn’t true, Cara. Men fight in wars. We’re the brave ones,” Williams responded, trying to keep up with
his sister’s fast pace pulling a wagon of soup cans.
“I’m not saying that our soldiers aren’t brave, William, but soldiers don’t declare wars,
they only fight them. World leaders start wars and then get some legislature to endorse their madness with
a fancy stamp and some flashy parades.”
The boy stopped, dumfounded. “How could you say that, Cara? Mike, Tom, Jerry and Jack are fighting for
us, for our freedom right now. How could you say those awful things?”
Cara turned back and shook her head. “If you don’t want to hear what I have to say, then don’t ask me Billy.
Jesus! Let’s finish up. It’s going to rain soon.”
The two walked briskly in silence for 100 yard before the youngest sibling started up again.
“They…leaders…men don’t let women fight wars, because…they want them safe,” the boy argued.
“No Billy, men don’t let women fight wars for a couple of other reasons. Either, we will show them up and
make them feel inadequate; or we will be smart enough to not shoot each other; or we will negotiate a
settlement that doesn’t fill their pockets with money and land that they don’t deserve. Any way you cut it,
women are too complicated for a man’s war.”
William knew he couldn’t out-debate his oldest sister, yet the child had enough genuine curiosity to want to
hear her rationale. He’d take one for the team. “So what are you saying? We shouldn’t fight Hitler? We
shouldn’t stop Mussolini? We don’t need to stick up for Pearl Harbor?” he asked.
“Billy, I hate Hitler. I hate Mussolini. I hate what happened to Pearl Harbor. You are I are taking about
different things,” Cara responded passionately. “You are talking about combat. We both love our troops. We
both want our brothers to be safe and come home tomorrow. We both want our side to win the war. What I
am talking about are the reasons why there are Hitlers and Mussolinis, Pearl Harbors and the whole damn
lot of it. Who starts these things? Billy, look at me for a second. Do I look weak to you?”
“No,” the boy answered quietly.
“Billy, what would I do if any animal or person tried to hurt you?” she asked.
“You would do anything you could to stop them…to keep me safe,” the boy responded proudly. “You’d kill
them if you had to.”
She nodded in agreement. “Exactly. I’m not a weak woman Billy. I’m not a weak person. I’m just mad. I’m
mad at this war. I’m mad at governments, churches, husbands, fathers …the whole lot of them who tells
every girl from birth the stay pretty, get married as a virgin and serve warm dinners until our skins turn to
prunes. I’m mad about sitting in class and hearing about our forefathers and having to kiss every President’
s ass in history class as if women were incapable of strong and constructive leadership. Every boyfriend I’
ve had has cried three times more than I have, Billy. Mom is the one who keeps Dad going and don’t be
mad, because I’m not saying hurtful things about Daddy, Billy…I just mean, this insanity has been going on
for tens-of-thousands of years and I’m not sure it will end, even when this god-forsaken war does. Do you
understand what I mean, Billy? Do you understand what I’m telling you? Don’t you see the deeper pattern of
it all?”
The boy shook his head, ‘no’ and started crying. Cara went up and hugged him. She sighed and starting
crying too.
“Do you see what you’ve made me do?” she said with a chuckle between sobs and tear-wiping. “You’ve
made me give up Redbridge’s biggest secret.” The red-eyed lad looked up at his sister.
“I should be President,” she laughed, hugging her kid brother as rain soothed their foreheads.
Francis "Fanny" Conners Ashton loved dish towels. It seemed such a simple remedy for most of the world's
problems. Every family holiday she would debut her New Year's dish towels and explain their origin and
purpose with such passion and sincerity that many thought they were witnessing the Shroud of Turin.
“A dish towel has so many responsibilities,” she would say mid-Thanksgiving dining. “It makes a statement
about the colors of the kitchen; its texture leaves imprints on the hands; its utility dries the dishes for
another serving. Most people don't come close in their own lives to making the impact that a dish towel
does. It's true you know.”
Ashton had developed multiple levels of dish towels over the years from the one-time recyclable types, to
the five from 17th century France which she had locked away safely in her South Royalton safety deposit
box. During holiday dinners, Mrs. Ashton would tearfully remark that her dish towels were in some ways like
the children she never had. Her relatives found that comparison heartbreaking and disturbing, since Fanny
had four children who lived in central Vermont, and were always in attendance at the aforementioned
holiday dinners.
“There is a bond you know, between a woman and a dish towel that I think makes it easier for me during
the holidays,” she would say choked with tears. “It's true you know.”
“Um...Mom..."
“Shoosh son, don't ruin the moment,” she replied joyfully.
Chapter 2
Walterovich walked by the home of Damon and Sandy Grear and Grandma Sandy was chipping off icicles
from her porch. “Hey stranger,” the 58-year-old semi-retired environment lawyer said with a smile.
“Hey, Sandy. It's good to see you. How's the family?" the reporter asked, trying to put on his best game-face.
“Come on inside, Justin," the fifth-generation resident said. “You look like you need a friend.”
The reporter found the Grear house luminous and cozy. He was developing a mild stress headache with
pain directly behind his eyes and truly believed that the hot cocoa Gram Gram Gear served him had some
medicinal value.
“I don't want to sound like a broken record, Justin, but I really think you should move the family back here
and lay off all that newspaper gossip. You'd be happier as a writer,” she said, sipping on her Chai.
“Well I'd love to, but I need either an agent or a willing publisher and for some reason I just can't get a break
either way,” Walterovich whimpered.
“Persistence,” Gear responded. “Remember at the end of the day, if what you write is stunning, it will open
doors itself.”
“Do you want to represent me?" the writer asked half-heartedly.
“No,” the grandmother responded with a chuckle. “I only read non-fiction.”
“Then I’ve got a doozy for you,” Walterovich said.
“Ah...that poor Maxwell girl.”
The reporter raised his eyebrows briefly and then lowered them to avoid being impolite.
“Justin, I hope that she is fine, I just image that the phone tree wouldn't be used in town if she wasn't
thought to be in trouble - at least.”
Walterovich sipped more cocoa. He loved the thick sugary film on the top. “It's a hell of a thing you know?
I'm only 30, but I've been floundering in this business long enough that a women's disappearance actually
helps my career. Can you believe that? Can you believe that I am even saying that? I feel so disillusioned.”
“Why so?” Gear asked sincerely.
“Because the worse fate that befalls this woman, the better it could be for my career. I mean think about it.
What stories have made reporters wealthy? Bundy, OJ, Scott Peterson. I am in the wrong business. My
problem was that I never had time to really understand the nuances of what drives news. I was 16 when I
was first hired by the paper, and let's face it: my family and I were beyond thrilled that I fell into the gig.
I'm disillusioned because I've fallen into the trap of creating news -- and I'm not saying lying -- I just mean
that I have arbitrarily followed news stories and made them page-one items when my motivation was to win
my editor's favor. It's the reality of the business. Word gets around. Editors talk. Publishers are on the take
with key advertisers. And every year they go to colleges and to trade shows and rub their big bellies and
swear empty oaths of honesty and honor.
I stay because underneath all the filth, this truly is my calling, writing at least. I understand it at the DNA
level, you know? I know I do things that peers can't with the written word. I just wish I had the insulation from
all the unseemly elements.”
“Would you settle for a sugar cookie?” the grandmother asked.
“You don't have to ask twice,” the reporter said with a smile.
Sandy Gear was born Sandy Hughes but, other than the name change, has been the same wise soul since
old Doc Klein exclaimed to her parents, “Congratulations, it's a girl.” Sandy Hughes-Grear became the
living historian of Redbridge. Every family holiday, get together and milestone she had since she can first
remember involved Sandy saving and cataloging mementos for future review and enjoyment.
During her fourth Christmas, the future Mrs. Grear pulled some of Santa Claus' white beard and stashed it
in her purple velvet dress pocket (strangely, old St. Nick never even as much as twitched his chin. A man of
discipline that Santa.) When she got home, Sandy glued the DNA proof of the existence of Father
Christmas in her leather journal from Great Uncle Evan, and she wrote: “This is Santa's beard. I believed
he existed anyway. Now I know for sure.”
Hughes always knew that she was driven, almost blinded at times, to keep pieces of history important to
her alive for future days. When the archivist was 14, her Mom confided during a long, lazy, summer walk that
Sarah was in fact a twin, her younger brother by seventeen minutes only lived for 16 days.
“I'm not putting any pressure on you and I know in many ways I owe you an apology for waiting this long to
talk about this with you,” her mother said softly. “I don't think there is any way to correctly deal with losing a
child, but that still doesn't make it right that I waited so long to tell you. Don't blame your father, I told him this
was my duty. I made him promise to let me tell you.
I just...I don't know, I think...I've done reading, a lot of reading about twins and I think you are driven to
somehow live a little for Channing and the life he never got to experience. I don't know if I'm saying this right,
but I think you are really special and your work...it's meaningful, relevant and important. I'm proud of you and
all the wonderful memories your warm heart and smile bring our family.”
Seven years later, Ms. Hughes became Mrs. Grear and four more years after that; it was Sandy Grear, PhD,
Anthropology. When she was asked one Christmas at Redbridge Church how she coped with the loss of
her twin, Dr. Grear noted, “Elvis went through the same thing, so I guess I'm not alone.”
The archivist made a peanut butter and banana sandwich and put a candle on it for her little brother, who
always got a Christmas present from her every year after the news.
Lear came back from the kitchen with another round of hot chocolate.
“You know, I’d be happy to get that myself,” the reporter chuckled.
“I know, but I have Jennifer Maxwell tied up by the refrigerator, so I’d rather bring you your cocoa,” she
chuckled. “I’m sorry; I probably shouldn’t be joking about that.”
“It doesn’t bother me. I may be having a mid-life crisis, but I’m still not that bad…I hope,” he chuckled in kind.
Lear sipped her drink slowly and deliberately again, and both enjoyed a moment of silence where only a
small clock in the study and the laugher of some children outside could be heard.
“You know Justin, we aren’t so different, you and I,” the grandmother said.
“How so, we’d rather be drinking hot cocoa than going around making trouble?”
“Well certainly that,” she said with a laugh, “plus the fact that we both collect stories and events to be
shared with others. I know you know I’ve headed up the archives committee at the library, but I have also
come up with some of the best collaborative living histories of Redbridge, from her own stakeholders. Stay
there a second, I’ll be right back…actually…could you please go over there and bring back the large
burgundy-colored book lying on its side on the fourth shelf over there by the blue glass tea cups.”
Much of the Lear’s personal library looked the same to the reporter, as the archivist had her journals bound
with beautiful hardcovers from Redbridge’s own Danish-American book art experts.
“No, you’re close but one shelf over. Look for the blue glasses. There you go. Now it’s the fourth shelf down.
There it is. Bring it over. It’s a real piece of lumber isn’t it?”
“Tell me about it,” the reporter conceded, prying the book from the shelf and shuffling towards the table.
“This looks a lot like the size of what we use to archive our newspapers at the News-Times.
“I picked that size because I do include some full-length newspaper clippings,” Lear said. “There you go,
just put it down right here and let’s take a look.” The archivist took time to open the cover and rubbed her
fingers over the raised type of the cover page, “Redbridge Living History, 1904-1905.”
“You know I love books like these,” the reporter mused. “I can almost hear people talk to me from the
pages. I love it.”
The archivist nodded her head slightly once in agreement and went to say something, and stopped. Then
she started again. “Do you ever wonder happened on this day back in history?” she asked.
“You mean, what happened this day in Redbridge 100 years ago? Let’s see. I’m the first one to do
something like that,” Walterovich said flipping the pages carefully, following the chronology until he reached
Dec. 8, 1904. “You know when I was a kid I used to…WOW!”
Even before he could say anything more to reflect his amazement, the reporter’s mind was flashing all the
great possible news leads. Silence returned to the room again. The children outside had moved down the
road and even the clock seemed to be clicking at a library whisper.
Walterovich ran his fingers over the copy of the South Royalton Register, the famed area newspaper that
lasted until 1981 when it merged with the Orange County Review.
Millionaire Pennsylvania Train Heiress Disappears in Redbridge
“I’ll be damned,” the reporter whispered.
“It doesn’t end there, keep reading,” Lear whispered in kind.
South Royalton Register
Dec. 8, 1904
Millionaire Pennsylvania Train Heiress Disappears in Redbridge
By Jason Elliot Horne
Publisher
Millionaire Pennsylvania Train heiress, Ms. Mary Agatha Chaucer has gone missing as of two hours before
the printing of this publication. Ms. Chaucer last was seen in Redbridge. Ms. Chaucer was visiting the area
with her cousin, Mr. Harold P. Chaucer of Philadelphia, as part of Mr. Chaucer’s work with his family’s
company, he told The Register.
“Our work here is nothing out of the ordinary for what our business normally deals with,” Mr. Chaucer said.
“My uncle (Mr. P.W. Chaucer, member of the Pennsylvania Train Board of Directors), asked me to escort my
cousin on this trip to show her what Vermont looks like in the winter time.”
The Chaucer family has a home in West Champlain.
Ms. Chaucer was staying in a separate room at the Ice River Bed and Breakfast in South Redbridge when
she failed to join her party for dinner, Mr. Chaucer and the Bed and Breakfast owner Cyrus McDowell went
to her door. After no response after repeated knocking, McDowell opened the door with Mr. Chaucer’s
consent. Ms. Chaucer was nowhere to be found, said Orange County Sheriff Loren Bishop.
“Ms. Chaucer’s fur coat was still in the room. Her window was open, but there were no clear footprints on
the private deck. The snow was shoveled from that spot at lunch, so it isn’t clear if Ms. Chaucer exited or
was taken from that route,” Mr. Bishop said.
Redbridge Selectboard Chair Gus W. Dowling has asked anyone in the community to immediately contact
authorities with any information related to Ms. Chaucer’s disappearance.
“I make this announcement because this newspaper is going to press soon, and it is better to be proactive
in this matter,” Mr. Dowling said. “I hope that by the time everyone reads this, Ms. Chaucer is safely back
with her family. I support any and all efforts to find this woman. Let me assure her family that the town of
Redbridge will leave no stone unturned.”
When Harry Chaucer woke up at 6:47 a.m. on Dec. 8, 1904, he had no idea that he would be crying like his
little sisters by dinnertime.
Harry was a screw up, so renowned for being un-helpable that his college classmates (all of whom knew
that Chaucer’s father bought his seat) as a prank put his fraternity picture by a mock Webster definition of
failure.
Fail-ure, n.
1. A condition of making your parents want to drink whenever they see you.
2. Losers feel thankful when they look at your life.
3. President Roosevelt uses your picture for target practice.
4. When you are given everything in the world and just sit on your ass.
5. See Harry Chaucer.
It was all true and Chaucer himself didn’t deny it, but the young millionaire didn’t particularly care to change
the perception or the reality.
“I don’t understand why I am always singled out,” he wrote in his private fraternity journals, which he was
sure some day, would be published and housed in every respectable library in the country.
“It’s everyone’s goal in this country to be wealthy. Who cares how it is achieved? I’ve never hurt any one,
stolen or take advantage of the poor or dirty. Anyone would trade places with me in a second. What’s wrong
with the fact that I enjoy my life? Anyone else would surely quit their job if they could go travel the world and
wear fine clothing. I don’t apologize for standing up for my rights to comfortable. I know that I am persecuted
but someday the world will know that I am a martyr for all that the wealthy fight for. May God bless my eternal
soul and forgive all those who persecute me.”
His parents were befuddled and twice considered selling him into slavery and writing a heroic obituary in
the American and European Press. They even went so far as to writing down some early drafts.
“Harold Chaucer, beloved son of Millard and Daphne Chaucer lost his life bravely in the jungle, surveying
possible train routes for the less fortunate. Chaucer encountered wild tigers and natives and fought off both
elements to his dying breath, allowing the rest of the executive team from Pennsylvania Train and Railroad
to escape with only moderate injury. His dying words were reported to be, ‘My life is but a single flicker of an
oil lamp; my soul lies with every new track laid down by Pennsylvania Train and Railroad. God bless the
railroad and my family which
owns it.’
A disoriented Harry once confronted his parents when he inadvertently stumbled on a draft of his own
obituary left in one of the family’s smaller private libraries within their mansion.
“Momumz? What is this? What does this mean?” the defrocked young Chaucer pleaded.
“Oh that…” his mother responded. “It’s just a draft.”
“Daddumz?” begged the child for a little support.
“I wouldn’t worry Harry, the board most certainly wouldn’t approve the action,” his father said semi-
reassuringly. “It’s too expensive.”
It was Harry’s epiphany, which actually changed his behavior for three whole weeks when he reportedly
read the New York Times and learned the difference between stocks and bonds. But old friend comfort
returned lovingly, and in no time flat, Harry Chaucer found his future calling: Professional family escort.
It was the first time that Harry ever felt dread -- an emotion so foreign to his nervous system that he
experienced being out of his body, like viewing some macabre train accident which his parents used to
boast about over Thanksgiving dinner.
“The hardest part about having workers run over is that we still need to pay for the pine boxes to bury them
somewhere off to the side,” the father recounted once, while servants carved the bird. “It’s a god-send that
we lose more from dynamite mishaps. Nature takes care of most of the mess after pouring water over the
infected area. Of course, we lose time carrying up the water, but we can’t have the help vomiting all over our
new train tracks.”
“She’s not here,” bed and breakfast owner Cyrus McDowell, said with some heaviness, breaking Chaucer’
s blank trance.
“I don’t…I don’t understand,” the young Chaucer responded searchingly. His subconscious was still at
peace, or closer to shock, which created in him the false belief that his cousin had told him she would be
somewhere else. All he had to do was remember. Remember. Remember. Nothing came to mind.
“Well, I mean. Where is she?” Chaucer asked more helplessly, his tone turning to the venom with which he
spoke to the “working people”.
“Sir, I don’t know.”
“Well what do you mean you don’t know, you hopeless nitwit? My cousin is not in her room; what do we pay
you for?” Chaucer hissed.
McDowell walked away apologetically, but he wasn’t apologetic at all. He smelt weakness on Harry
Chaucer from the first moment that he arrived in Redbridge and knew it would only be moments before he
was weeping on the floor.
“I owe you an apology, it’s just that I’m scared,” Chaucer responded quickly with genuine tears falling down
his cheeks on to the hardwood floor.
McDowell chuckled, for just a slight moment. Chaucer noticed but didn’t call him on it. The bed and
breakfast owner, fourth generation Redbridge resident, had never seen such a wonderful example of why
the wealthy were both running and ruining the country. ‘This spineless mouse can’t find his own cousin
and all he can say is he’s scared?’ McDowell mused in his thoughts. ‘If I held chopsticks to his throat right
now, he would give me everything in his billfold and write his own ransom letter. No wonder why the rich
stay away the rest of us…they’re helpless outside of their own sheltered element.”
McDowell didn’t want to suggest bring the authorities into the matter; no good could come from the
exposure. But this situation smelt messy and it was better to get some local Redbridge blood involved
before things got out of hand too quickly.
“I don’t know what to do,” Chaucer whimpered. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do.”
“Sir, you better come back downstairs with me,” McDowell said with more authority than sympathy. “We
need to take a little walk to Deputy Sheriff La Salle’s house. He lives only four blocks from here. He’ll know
how best to proceed.”
The two walked downstairs to a silent dining party who heard most of the two men’s conversations and
wanted nothing more than to be privy to the local story of the year without soiling their reputations even a
morsel.
“Sweet Jesus, I’m so scared. My uncle is going to kill me,” Chaucer whimpered, to the secret delight of the
McDowell and other guests. “This is so bad. This is so, very, very bad.”
It was the wisest observation Chaucer had ever made in his life.
Deputy Sheriff La Salle and his boss Sheriff Bishop were in the family room planning a hunting trip funded
by the state legislature. Bishop had been awarded a grant to conduct “off-site moving target training” with
the expressed purpose of keeping the Sheriff and a top deputy ready for emergency situations.
“I figure, we have enough for four-days of pay, some good bourbon, new gear and two factory-shipped rifles
that we’ll have to keep back at the station afterwards in case Montpellier sends over some bean counter,”
Bishop said, between shoving large spoonfuls of lemon meringue pie made by La Salle’s wife, Janine.
“You know, I still need to make sure Janine doesn’t mind,” the deputy whispered timidly.
“Oh Loren, Jesus. I should make your wife a deputy. She wears the belt in your family,” Bishop chuckled.
Janine La Salle was listening intently from the hallway. She wished her husband would go hunting for 44
days, not just four. ‘Of course, if I don’t make a fuss, he’ll think something suspicious and call the whole
thing off,’ she mused. Mrs. La Salle sighed loudly so that the law enforcers could hear her.
“You see, my Janine isn’t going to agree on this very easily,” the deputy whispered with the new evidence to
support his caution.
“Well, buy her something extra special for the holidays; and don’t raise any trouble when she wants to go
out Sunday afternoons with the girls from church,” Bishop replied in a tutorial whisper.
The deputy thought for a moment. “Sheriff, you’re a genius,” La Salle concluded.
‘Yes, you are,’ the deputy’s wife thought from the hallway.
All three schemers heard McDowell’s footsteps and a whimpering man from outside the walkway before
the local bed and breakfast owner knocked three times on the La Salle’s front door. The two cops looked
through the window as Janine answered the door.
“This is interesting,” the Sheriff said.
“Who is the blubbering jellyfish?” the deputy asked.
“No doubt someone slumming from New York or Massachusetts,” Bishop noted. The two heard Mrs. La
Salle welcome the visitors in and offer to take their coats.
“They are both in the study. May I get you two something to drink?” she asked politely. “Coffee, thank you
very much,” McDowell said.
“Bourbon, please,” the weeping stranger pleaded.
The sliding door to the lamp-illuminated hallway opened; and both Bishop and La Salle had to adjust their
eyes for a moment.
“Sheriff. Deputy La Salle. I’m sorry to come over unannounced but we have a problem here,” McDowell
explained. At the word “problem” the stranger started weeping loudly again.
The deputy went to offer a seat, but deferred the Bishop’s lead. Even in his own house, Deputy La Salle
was a dutiful solder.
“Come in; sit down,” the sheriff said dryly. Both guests did. No one offered the stranger a handkerchief.
McDowell didn’t speak and all three locals looked at the pale and distraught stranger.
Young Chaucer felt certain he was going to vomit.
“She’s gone,” Harry whispered. “My cousin. She’s…we can’t find her. Sweet Jesus, please help me. I’ll give
you ten years’ salary if you find her.”
La Salle stepped forward and hissed. “Listen, you may think that Redbridge is just a bathroom stop, but we
here give justice equally to the rich and poor. We don’t sell our service…”
“OK, OK,” Bishop said just enough to stop his servant, but bland enough to show La Salle that he agreed
completely. “Go on, son.”
“I…don’t know what else to say…” Harry muttered. “I mean, oh sweet Jesus…”
“Cyrus, couldn’t she just be somewhere in house?” the Sheriff asked.
Chaucer was momentarily offended at the suggestion that a lady Chaucer would be hiding out in some
strange man’s rented bedroom in a country bed and breakfast, but it was an explanation that suggested
she still was alive, well and locate-able.
“Maybe…” the outsider whispered with hope. “Maybe, she’s still in the house.”
“I’ll tell you what, Cyrus. Go back and go through every room. If your guests give you any trouble, blame me. I
don’t mind. Check everything out and then come right back either way. I don’t want you gone for an hour.”
“Alright Sheriff, sounds good.” McDowell responded dutifully. The bed and breakfast owner stood up, as did
the pale, sniveling stranger.
“Where the hell are you going?” the deputy asked with glee. Chaucer looked confused.
“You’re staying here with us, son,” Bishop snapped.
McDowell flashed a smile of satisfaction and returned to base camp. Chaucer slumped back down and put
his head in hands.
Loren Bishop was a good ole boy who still was rather fair and open minded. Bishop bled Redbridge
through-and-through. He never minded leaving school early to help on the family farm, just as long as
three constants remained true: There were three hot meals a day, and one was pancakes; his bedroom
was the one with the private door outside closest to the outhouse; his Mom and Dad bought him a cowboy
picture story book once a month if the money was there. Management agreed with all three demands.
Bishop was the oldest child of Micah and Carol-Anne Bishop who married two days before Micah was
shipped south with Vermont’s volunteer 4th Infantry to help the Union fight off southern aggression. Loren
was born nine months and four days later.
Private Bishop was never shot, but was bayoneted once in combat, losing much of the feeling in his right
leg, although he mercifully ended up keeping his leg when an extra bottle of whisky was poured in his
wound by a field doctor who, that very morning, had sworn off alcohol. (Doc Green returned to the bottle two
days later. Bishop truly was a blessed man.)
From the war hospital, the young private rationed his cup of water to keep his wound clean, walking the tight
rope of complete dehydration and infection before being reassigned to combat.
April 6, 1862
My dearest Carol-Anne
I swear that the wonderful handkerchief you made me has been a good luck charm. As the Army might have
told you, I was injured in battle. My leg is hurt but please don’t worry. I am doing well and Doc Green brings
others around to show his “miracle patient”.
There are so many things that I want to tell you and I never know if it is more important that I share how
scared I am or to make sure you know I am fine. I dream of you and Redbridge every moment my heart
beats. When I eat, I send my soul to you and we sit together at our little round dinner table and talk about
whatever book you are reading and what we should plant next year.
Please kiss our little Loren for me and tell him that Daddy needs him to take care of you and keep you safe.
I promise you this: I will see you again and I will return alive to Redbridge. I’m convinced of it. Despite all of
this madness and a country in flames I know my destiny is to grow old with you, and be a good daddy for
Loren.
I promise to write you again soon, although I have been told that mail will become very slow to travel. Pray
for me Carol-Anne. Pray for our Redbridge. You will see me again…alive!
I love you,
Micah
County Deputy Sheriff Bryan La Salle moved to Redbridge was he was seven years old, during a rainy,
muddy, yet unseasonably warm February morning in 1881. Young La Salle was in walking distance of three
neighboring farms: The Logans, Lairds and McBryces. All three families welcomed the newcomers with
open arms after an initial dinner when Bryan's father, Norman, committed his family to being good and
responsible neighbors, contributing to the general amelioration of the town and its people.
Bryan had contemporaries in the neighboring clans: Hanna Logan, 8; Karen Logan, 6; Alex Laird, 7 (and
born just two days after Bryan); Kelly Laird, 5; Quinn McBryce 9; Sarah McBryce 8; Erik McBryce 7; and Taylor
McBryce 6. (Quite a busy couple, Mr. and Mrs. McBryce were back then.)
Hanna Logan had formed a kingdom, whose capital was housed in a tree and rock fort on the property
divide of her parent's and the Laird's land, although Queen Hanna had written a formal letter of cession
based on her studies of past revolutions and claimed the property as her own. The monarch appointed her
sister, Karen, and subject, Alex Laird, ambassadors of the transition team to serve their respective parents
the written notice of independence. Hanna loved to delegate, especially when facing the prospect of
parental punishment.
“We the people of the Kingdom of Clubia hereby claim our fort to be sovereign land, free of the burden of
taxation, chores and bedtimes. In return for recognition, we pledge to help more around the house and not
be so much of a bother.”
Neither set of parents officially protested Clubia's independence, but there were rumors that bedtimes were
still enforceable if ever challenged in court.
The very idea of monarchical servitude was thrilling to Bryan La Salle, who feared not being accepted into
the small but bustling town in central Vermont.
“Why do you wish to have citizenship in Clubia?” Her Grace asked the applicant La Salle.
“I want to work to help your fort, Hanna,” La Salle respond dutifully.
“You will address me as Your Majesty or My Queen.”
“Yes, My Queen,” La Salle responded, thrilled with the militaristic comfort which the Hanna's structure
provided. “Yes Your Majesty, also.”
“Very good,” Hanna replied with a smirk. Her lust for power was insatiable, even at eight, although she
always tried to model her reign more in line with the compassionate Scandinavian monarchies. “And if you
are allowed to join our kingdom, what will you provide us in return?”
La Salle heard his pledge lift from his body, although it sounded somewhat foreign, yet refreshingly mature
and well-spoken. “My Queen, if you let me into your kingdom I promise to protect you and the kingdom from
invading monsters, children, pets and nosy parents,” young La Salle pledged.
“Very well. I knight thee Bryan La Salle, Sheriff of the Kingdom of Clubia."
It was the beginning of La Salle's distinguished career in local law enforcement where he balanced the
pressures of serving strong leadership while excelling in the art of community security. While himself, a first
generation of Redbridge resident, La Salle felt incredible loyalty for the town being so welcoming, which
made the crying Harry Chaucer in his private study, all the more unwanted and resented.
Janine brought a shot of bourbon to the stranger who gulped it down quickly without so much as pause or
permission from the hosts of the home.
“Say, thank you,” snapped the deputy sheriff.
“Huh?” asked young Chaucer mid-shake as his body twitched in reaction to the smell of the stale booze.
“I said say thank you, you rude little son-of-a-bitch. My wife isn't a maid and this isn't a Bed and Breakfast,”
La Salle continued.
Chaucer, still in shock, was waiting for someone in the room to hush the deputy sheriff, but no help was on
the way. “I'm..I'm sorry...I'm sorry...” he whimpered.
The deputy looked at his wife and smiled a gentle ‘thank you' to her.
The stranger could feel burning and unwelcoming gazes all around him. He felt like confessing, but had no
idea where to even begin. Mrs. La Salle closed the door back to the study leaving the two cops and the
private school-educated jelly fish to their introductions. La Salle handed his boss a small cigar and both lit
up. The slight caramel and cherry odor made Chaucer's eyes sting. No relief came to the stranger's
overworked pupils, already dry from over-salinization. He need more time to replenish his tear reserve.
“Where is she?” the chief said coldly.
“I...I... don't...”
“Don't lie to us, boy,” Bishop jumped back in. “You can make this so much easier on yourself and come
clean.”
“You don't understand I was with..."
“Shut up. Don't talk until we tell you," the deputy barked softly. “And don't talk loudly, Janine spent all evening
putting the kids to bed.”
“Now where were we?” the sheriff continued with perfect synchronicity. “Oh, yes. Where's the girl?”
“And don't say you don't know, either,” La Salle added.
“I...I,” Chaucer looked up in fear. This moment was everything his parents ever warned him about getting
boxed in by the working class. “Someone took her.”
“Someone?” La Salle asked sarcastically. “Son, this is Redbridge. There's no kidnapping on my watch,”
Bishop insisted. “This is my town when it comes to keeping the peace, and I know everything that happens
here.”
“Good, then please tell me where my cousin is?” Chaucer said hopefully with a burst of unconstructive
arrogance. He had heard that working class towns were much less complicated than his world, and
desperately wished for immediate resolution.
“If you get sassy with me again one more time son, I'm going to leave this house and leave you alone with
Deputy La Salle here,” the chief warned slowly. “And I guarantee you that Deputy La Salle is a lot less
patient and forgiving than I am.”
The deputy fought back with all of his power to stop a full, beaming smile. His joy of being warned of by his
sheriff was almost uncontrollable. Chaucer stopped talking. He felt it was his only play.
“Let me say something else to you son,” the sheriff continued in a low growl; a wild dog preparing to strike.
“If Cyrus comes back and tells us he found a body, you won't see the morning. I can guarantee you that.”
The stranger fought for oxygen. “May I please have another drink?" Chaucer whispered looking at the floor.
La Salle looked at Bishop and Bishop nodded, ‘go ahead.' The deputy left the room to refill another goblet
of liquid courage.
Chaucer let his mind escape for a moment and wondered if his parents had indeed saved that obit they
wrote about him.
‘The clock must be broken. Figures,’ the stranger thought to himself, his belly filled with stale booze which
now was sitting conveniently ready for an exit near his esophagus. No one was talking and Chaucer was
deep in near psychotic break. His brief epiphany came: The sheriff would send Chaucer to prison, where
ruffians and murderers would have their way with him. The stranger fumbled through ways of trying to kill
himself, but all seemed far too messy and scary. ‘I can't even do that to help myself, can I?' the jellyfish
pondered.
Crunch. Crackle. Murmur. Laugh.
Crunch. Crackle. Murmur. Laugh.
Both cops went to the window and tried to wipe a line of sight from the internal fog to see which party was
arriving. There were two voices: One clearly the bed and breakfast owner, the other a sweet angelic female
voice of privilege, security, joy and comfort.
She was alive.
Chaucer began to shake his head left and right and joined his scrawny pampered knees in movement
while beginning to work up the courage to celebrate. His bubbling belly sent up a madman's laugh – a
psychotic, broken, joyous cackle that when finally erupted startled both lawmen to turn 180 degrees -
Bishop dropped his cigar, La Salle slipped two steps back.
“Ha,” the stranger whispered, feeling an ill crawl around his skin. Vomit was just waiting for its cue. “Ha...
HA! HA!”
The front door opened and Mrs. La Salle welcomed in the victors. ‘Just breathe deeply, Harry. Don't give
them the satisfaction of losing your dinner in this caveman's hut,’ the stranger encourage himself. ‘I am
going to have both of their badges at the next club meeting.'
The bed and breakfast keeper opened the door, and the three cave dwellers fought to adjust their eyes.
Chaucer looked perplexed as a shapely women with curly brown hair was seen hugging Mrs. La Salle. She
looked so foreign, but sounded so damn convincingly like Harry's missing cousin. The door closed leaving
four men with separate agendas, and the stranger was again the odd man out.
“I...I don't follow?” Chaucer gasped.
“Sheriff, Deputy La Salle. Everyone is cooperating fully. We searched every room. She's not there. I mean is
there some change that she is hiding or stashed...I guess, but I'm tell you, she's not there,” old Cyrus said.
“Oh, but before I forget, did you hear?. The Selectboard Chairman and his wife are parents. Maggie just had
a little girl. Mom and baby are doing just fine. Maggie's cousin Amber, from Barre, stopped by our place to
let us know. She asked to come with me to tell Janine.” The three locals shared a happy moment.
The stranger puked violently on Deputy La Salle's carpet.
“Oh, god damn it, Chaucer!” La Salle shouted covering his nose.
“Take him down to the jail for more questioning,” the Chief said. “Cyrus come with me.” “But what about
my rug?” La Salle pleaded.
“Oh don't worry,” Bishop said, forcibly taking off Chaucer's jacket. The Sheriff, took a full flask of water from
the table and poured it on the mess.
“Start cleaning,” Bishop ordered the stranger, handing him his custom-cut jacket for rag work.
La Salle went to get powdered soap and more water. Cyrus cracked open the study windows by instinct
and lit some candles. Bishop breathed deeply as overweight men tend to do. Vomit never bothered the
sheriff much. He had the stomach for dirty work.
“You know men, I think I need to let the Chairman know about this one. I don't want him blind-sided by any
problems...Cyrus, I need one more favor from you tonight, and I promise I'll leave you alone.”
“Name it, Sheriff,” the sleep and eat provider replied.
“Go down to the newspaper office and let them know we have a top story to give. Don't give them any
details. Say that I ordered you not to,” Bishop asked.
“Chief?” his deputy asked.
“Well hell, we might as get credit for working on the case of the century,” Bishop chuckled. “And if she
shows up, we'll ask for double vacation.”
Chaucer heaved but nothing else came out. The stranger very much wanted to pass out.
The men finally left Casa La Salle, leaving Mrs. La Salle and her contact from the Selectman’s family to
finally get to the important issues of the evening. “It’s a miracle. I just never. It’s wonderful,” the Chairperson’
s cousin-in-law whispered joyfully.
“Well remember Ms. Vale…”
“Please, call me Amber,” the ambassador offered.
“Please remember Amber, you were chosen because of your ability to take secrets to the grave.
Understand that isn’t a choice you make now, it’s an enforceable contract with the Society,” Janine
instructed politely in tone and coldly in demeanor.
Vale shuttered momentarily when she understood theirs was a secret for which the Society would quickly
silence her. The guest felt small and very vulnerable. “Mrs. La Salle, I…”
“Please, call me Janine,” the hostess responded respectfully.
“Jan…Janine, I can assure you and the Society that in every step of my initiation that I proved myself loyal
and trustworthy to the end. I think I proved that to the committee,” Vale said cautiously.
La Salle smiled. “We have no doubt about your loyalty. Look, don’t get overly concerned; this is a joyous
day,” La Salle said. “Stay for a while and warm up. It’s cold outside, and there is already enough traffic
heading over to the Chairperson’s house about that poor woman’s disappearance.”
Vale giggled for a moment and then abruptly stopped, waiting for La Salle’s approval. The hostess cracked
a huge grin and the two women shared a laugh.
“You grow up hearing stories, fabulous stories, about amazing secrets that are held in this world, but you
grow up and stop really believing them, you know?” Vale said. “It just is so unbelievable. I just don’t
understand, how can something this epic have been kept a secret in Redbridge for all of these
generations?”
“Generations? Try tens of centuries,” La Salle said proudly. “Look, every great secret is kept because just
enough truth is release on purpose.”
“On purpose?” the new initiate asked.
“The quickest way to get too much attention on a secret is to try and hide it completely. Any organization that
has members faces some information leak, even if it is the most innocent, wrong expression or slip of the
tongue,” La Salle said. “But giving the right gossipers just enough to wet their beaks, helps quench their
thirst. Those same storytellers take a story and run with it, making up the details as they go. Pretty soon,
their version is the rural myth, and the true secret is buried in a sealed tomb.”
“Brilliant,” Vale whispered.
“Well, I can’t take credit for it, the Egyptians mastered the art,” La Salle chuckled.
“So are we in the clear?”
“We?” La Salle asked.
“The Society,” Vale added.
“We can handle Pennsylvania Train and Railroad just fine,” La Salle said firmly. “They wouldn’t last the first
blizzard out in these parts. Besides, they’ll never find what they are looking for.”
Walterovich let his mind drift as he sat back and let his consciousness bridge together the new layers of
his latest draft. “How could I have missed this?” the reporter mused. “I never heard this before; how did I
never know about this story?”
Lear patted the writer on his left shoulder. “Read on,” she instructed.
Walterovich briskly but gently turned the pages of the archives to the Dec. 15 edition of the Register. The
headline sat and seemed to laugh a child’s bully laugh:
South Royalton Register
Dec. 15, 1904
Much Ado About Nothing
Missing Millionaire heiress turns up safe
By Jason Elliot Horne
Publisher
“She just needed to get away.”
Millionaire Pennsylvania Train heiress, Ms. Mary Agatha Chaucer turned up in Montreal where she is
staying with distant relatives, she said in an official telegraph sent to the Register on Dec. 14. Chaucer’s
identity was confirmed in a signed and notarized telegraph, and follow-up phone call to Mrs. Francis Abbott
Hubert by this newspaper. Pennsylvania Train and Railroad confirmed Dec. 15 that Hubert was indeed part
of the Chaucer family tree, although a Chaucer spokesman said they no longer communicate with the
Huberts.
As for the missing Ms. Chaucer, the millionaire apologized for “causing undo and irresponsible fear and
concern” in Redbridge. “Your beautiful town only welcomed me and made me feel at home and I returned
your kindness by causing fear that some ill fate befell me. For that, please accept my deepest apologies.”
Chaucer said in her exclusive telegraph to the Register. “While I was born into a life of privilege and
comfort, I am a human being. I was faced with private situations that I could no longer bear with my
immediate family and I have finally found peace with my cousins in Montreal.”
For more on the Chaucer story, please turn to page 3.
____________________________________________________________________________
“So it was a hoax after all?” the reporter asked.
“Why do you say a hoax?” Lear responded.
“Well, maybe my choice of words was off.”
“No Justin, I’m curious; why did you say it was a hoax?”
“I don’t know,” Walterovich said, tucking his upper lip under his lower for a moment to process his deep
thought. “I guess it was just reporter’s intuition. Anyway, she ran away. People run away. I do need to tie this
in to my article. This is great. It’s wonderful. I’m sorry…I always get lost in my thoughts…thank you so much
for showing me this. I’ll be sure to give you credit in the article for showing it to me.”
“I prefer you wouldn’t,” the archivist asked. “You know politics in small towns. I wouldn’t want people to think
that I’m a troublemaker.”
“But you are a troublemaker,” Walterovich said with a chuckle.
“I know. I know. But I don’t want to draw more attention on myself,” Lear said with a laugh.
The reporter said his goodbyes while washing out his cocoa mug in Lear’s sink, and walked briskly back to
Andi’s restaurant with a renewed purpose and thirst for the craft.
‘Who cares if my boss is on take?’ the reporter thought. ‘So what if the Free Press is sending out
their big-name reporters? This is a hell of a story, either way. I’m home free.’
“I got a hell of a story and this one is going on the refrigerator,” the writer whispered.
Walterovich ducked into the restaurant’s kitchen entrance. He cracked his knuckles, restarted Thetford’s
$300-a-day rental computer and went to work.
Trevino had sent her reporter six emails since his last correspondence and the subject header was less
cordial with each new email.
“How are we doing?”
“How’s the story going?”
“What new information have you found?”
“Please check in with me?”
“We are you ?!?”
“What the hell is going on!!!”
Walterovich didn’t even bother opening any of them. For the next few hours, he had the power and even if
Maxwell walked in master chef’s door, the slant of it being the one hundredth anniversary…to the day…of
another rich girl going missing in Redbridge, was a story that all Vermont would be foaming at the mouth to
get a gander at. “I love my job,” the reporter whispered. “I’m back.”
Walterovich melded his original story to include the anniversary of the Chaucer reported disappearance.
‘Be careful here Justin, because if something happened to Maxwell, it would look really cheap to compare a
past story where the women turned up OK.’ He warned himself. “What to do? What to do?” the reporter
whispered. “OK, let’s try this.”
Redbridge Faces Unknown Disappearance
Centennial Anniversary of Big-name Disappearance Revisits Small Vermont Town
By Justin Walterovich
News-Times
REDBRIDGE – One hundred years to the day since Redbridge faced the unknown disappearance of a
wealthy heiress, the community again is banning together to find concrete answers.
Billionaire Texas Oil Heiress Jennifer K. Maxwell was reported missing earlier yesterday morning. Even
before the required 24 hours before an official missing person’s report could have been filed, Redbridge
officials in cooperation with the Orange County Sheriff’s Office were proactive in formally initiating a town-
wide search.
These unfolding events mirror many back on Dec. 8, 1904 when a millionaire heiress from the now defunct
Pennsylvania Train and Railroad was reported as having gone missing at a bed and breakfast in
Redbridge. Mary Agatha Chaucer turned up safe one week later in Montreal, where she traveled by choice.
The whereabouts of Maxwell, at the time of publication,
are still unknown.
Redbridge Selectboard Chair, Shelly McGowan, authorized the use of the Redbridge emergency phone tree
to ask local residents to help locate the whereabouts of Maxwell,
after the Texan failed to return phone calls to family and business associates earlier yesterday morning.
“My office has only heard of this reported disappearance through the County Sheriff's
Office as a courtesy since no Missing Persons Report has been filed at this time, or that is my
understanding,” Chairperson McGowan said. “I will say that I authorize(d) the use of the Redbridge phone
tree...to make sure the whole town is alerted that Maxwell has yet to check in with loved ones. I only pray that
she is somewhere safe and will check in immediately to let
her family know she is OK.”
Sheriff Pete Winslow confirmed that the local phone tree had been employed and called a
special press conference 9 a.m. this morning (date of publication) to share what he described as important
developments in Maxwell's disappearance.
“Our office now has reasons to believe that the disappearance of Jennifer McGowan may be as the result of
suspicious causes," Sheriff Winslow said. “We are actively pursuing many viable leads. I will be holding a
press conference at 9 a.m. (today), earlier if the situation warrants it. Until then, I am not at liberty to speak
further on the particulars of this investigation."
Multiple members of the community told the News-Times that they saw Maxwell in passing during the last
week, including famed chef Andi Thetford. “I met a woman who identified herself as Jennifer Maxwell about
four days ago at the Redbridge Library,” Thetford said. “She said she was in town on holiday as well as
doing some research for a book she was
co-authoring. We didn't talk much, but she seemed polite and relaxed...I hope that she is OK and will check
in with loved ones soon.”
Walterovich reread the draft. “It packs more of a punch, now,” he whispered. “It’s a great insurance policy for
my career and against my competition. The Free Press won’t have anything on me no matter how this story
plays out. I’ll email it to Trevino and she’ll have to run with it. No questions asked.”
It bothered Walterovich that he hadn’t replied to his editor, as surely she would make his work experience
very uncomfortable when he returned to the office. But odds were, in Walterovich’s mind that Trevino was on
the take and there was no way of sidestepping that
without getting mud on himself.
“The hell with it,” he said as he opened the latest and most direct email from his supervisor:
To: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
From: editor@West Champlain.news-times.com
Subject: ?!?
Walterovich,
Where the hell are you? You can’t just go AWOL when you are telling me that this is a big story and you
need to use secured line. Call me right away and give me an update. Stop messing around!!!
Trevino
The writer could feel veins twitch in his forehead. It wasn’t bad enough that his boss was playing him for a
fool, or the fact that he had put together a very good story on the fly for tomorrow’s edition, but to think he
was that stupid, was too much for Walterovich to bear.
‘Yeah, but what if she isn’t on the take and is just being Trevino?’ the reporter thought. There was one clear
way to find out.
To: editor@West Champlain.news-times.com
From: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
Subject: Honesty
Trevino,
I was approached earlier today with what looks like compelling evidence that your office has direct contact
with those involved with Maxwell’s disappearance. I’m a professional, and I will continue to work this story –
and I hope I am very wrong about this -- but at this time don’t feel comfortable being directed by you on this
article. I’m formally requesting that I answer directly to News-Times legal counsel Amanda Doreen.
Please advise me as soon as possible with your decision to my formal request,
Walterovich
PS. I will continue to send you updated versions of my article. Enclosed in the attachment is my latest.
Walterovich pressed “send”.
“If she isn’t on the take, she’ll suspend me without pay in the next email and send down another reporter,”
he said as shadows danced around him from the restaurant’s hallway. “Shit, I hope I’m not wrong. I’ll be
out of a jobby job by dinner.”
The writer begrudgingly turned on his cell phone which began hissing, pulsing, and beeping.
“Jesus, I should take this thing to a tent revival for a snake exorcism,” he said, scrolling down the Trevino-
sent cell-pleas for contact. One number jumped out.
“Sheriff Winslow,” Walterovich said, hitting the automatic redial button. For a moment, the reporter felt his
location within the restaurant was poor for such a potentially huge announcement, but there are more ears
than just from potatoes in open-air Redbridge proper.
“Yeah?” Winslow answered, which was better than an angry “what?” which the reporter was welcomed with
the last call.
“Sheriff, it's Justin with the News-Times. You had called me about 30 minutes ago,” the reporter said with
formality, fingers poised over the crisp new Dell keyboard ready to bring the story home.
“It's over Justin. Maxwell is fine. She checked in with me, in person. It's over. Case closed,” Winslow said
with professionalism, but the slightest show of respect for a stalled story he knew Walterovich had worked
hard on.
“I...I don't...I don't understand,” the reporter muttered in complete befuddlement.
“Justin it went down like this: Maxwell phoned in the office and asked dispatch to patch the call through to
me. She drove up and met me at the south Redbridge line. She had all her photo IDs, her registration
matched, hell; she even offered forensic evidence, if we wanted it.”
Walterovich's fingers typed in auto pilot mode. His mind was bruising quickly. “But..I don't understand how...”
“Listen Justin; she said she heard from the phone tree that she was reported missing. She wasn't missing
at all. Maxwell said her family business is going through some intense but personal contract negotiations
and she needed to get a way for a while. She gave me a phone number to reach her and apologized for any
trouble she caused. I told her she didn't have to apologize for a thing, and we hoped to see her back in town
someday soon. That's was it. She drove south and is going wherever she's going.”
“Winslow, please -- I need her cell phone number.”
“No.”
“Please, just listen...”
“No.”
“Just hear me out...”
“Justin, no. No. You are not getting that number. It isn't public information. There was no official missing
person's report filed. If you want to get a lawyer and subpoena my notes fine, but then don't expect my wife's
barbecue chicken at the next holiday dinner,” Winslow said kindly. “I know you are doing your job and I
respect you. But I guard this town my way and even you need to play by my rules. I gotta go. Bring
Alessandra and your sweet little girl over to dinner
in two weeks. I'm taking a three-day vacation then.”
Winslow hung up the phone leaving Walterovich with exactly one, now flimsy, at best, page-three story; and
one pissed off news editor whom the reporter accused, in writing, of being on the take; and one big mess
that had no hope of easy resolution.
“It's going to be a long day," the reporter hissed, turning himself slowly 360-degrees in Thetford’s comfy
leather office chair. “At best, I'll be demoted to obits."
His fortunes had gone from freedom to power to resignation in all of 11 minutes and 19 seconds.
Walterovich needed a plan and a good one… quickly. With Maxwell’s reemergence, even a possible inside
connection by his boss obviously didn’t reach the Kennedy-conspiracy levels that reporter falsely had
believed.
“I need to turn this story around right away,” the writer charged himself. The internal Rolodex start rolling.
Walterovich desperately searched for any instant keyword of salvation.
“Hah, I’ve got it!” he said, speedily opening up a search engine and typing: Chaucer, railroad, foundation,
family, spokesperson.” Fifteen thousand options returned. ‘OK, not exactly surgical precision on my part,’
he thought. The reporter quickly scrolled through the top fifty options.
“Bingo!” he exclaimed finding that choice 45 was the Chaucer Railroad Legacy Foundation. ‘I’ll come
through with a whatever happened to-Chaucer sidebar and bring something salvageable to Trevino. Maybe
she’ll only suspend me.’
Conveniently a fresh email popped in his inbox from said Trevino with a blank subject line.
“Sweet Jesus, I better pull out a miracle here.”
The homepage of the foundation was classic Americana with tan colors, an America flag and wealthy
children playing happily on a parked red locomotive that was built on the blood and failed dreams of
workforces desperate for something better.
Walterovich clicked on “family archive” and saw 147 leaves on the Chaucer family tree with photos and
paragraphs, living histories and vocal recordings, and where possible, with email links to most living
Chaucers.
The reporter found and clicked on “Chaucer, Mary Agatha” and looked at the new window.
Mary Agatha Chaucer, born March 13, 1887, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; died circa Dec. 8, 1904, Redbridge
Vermont.” Ms. Chaucer was the fourth child of Jacque and Angela Chaucer and had a twin sister, Caroline.”
Walterovich shook his head, marveling at the apparent glaring error on the Chaucer’s own family website.
But that wasn’t his main concern. The fact that the Montreal millionaire had a twin sister seemed out-of-play
and conspiratorial for some unknown reason.
‘Jesus, just drop it. That reporter’s intuition probably has already gotten you fired, dummy!’ The writer kept
pressing.
Caroline Grace Chaucer, born March 13, 1887, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; died, unknown. Ms. Chaucer
was the fourth child of Jacque and Angela Chaucer and had a twin sister, Mary Agatha.”
“OK, now I am officially, lost,” Walterovich said aloud, putting his hands up in the air. He opened the email
from his boss out of automatic response, yet shuddered at the unintentional decision for reception.
To: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
From: editor@West Champlain.news-times.com
Subject: RE:?!?
Justin,
I assure you that, while I may get tips form private sources, I am acting in the complete best interest of the
West Champlain News-Times. If you feel more comfortable corresponding with News-Times’ legal
counsel, then please do so. Please continue to send me drafts of the articles as applicable. Trevino
“OK, now I am officially, officially, officially lost,” Walterovich said, stretching his hands higher in the air. “Let
me see if I got this straight: Chaucer was found but she wasn’t found. She had a twin sister. Maxwell is safe
and my boss didn’t fire me for calling her a crook. Yep, I think that about sums it up. It’s the apocalypse.”
The reporter took out his cell phone and skipped over the old pleas for contact from his apparently falsely-
accused news editor, calling the toll-free-number for the foundation.
“Chaucer Railroad Legacy Foundation, how may I direct your call?”
“Media relations, please,” the reporter said politely.
“I’m sorry he’s on the phone right now,” the young and uncertain female voice said on the other end of the
line. Walterovich waited to be offered some other choices, but none apparently were going to be presented.
“OK, well Ma’am, could you please put me on hold. My name is Justin Walterovich. I’m with the West
Champlain News-Times and my deadline is here. I can’t wait for a call-back.”
“Oh…OK,” the woman said with flushed disproval. The line went dead for a moment and some butchered
incarnation of peaceful mood music followed. The reporter continued his web search for a while and
withheld becoming impatient for about seven minutes; suddenly every second was slapping him in the
brow.
The woman’s voice returned. “Sir, perhaps he could…”
“Who exactly is he?” the reporter said coldly.
“Sir?”
“He, your boss. What is the name of the media relations officer at the foundation for whom you have put me
on hold?”
“I don’t…I don’t know if I can tell you,” the woman shot back.
“What do you mean you can’t tell me? Madame, you aren’t the CIA here. I’m a reporter calling the foundation
on an important story and you’re giving me attitude?”
“Sir, I’m not giving you attitude,” the woman retorted.
“Oh really, well I’ve asked the name of your media relations officer since I am with the media and so far I
can’t even get a name…” The three-ring phone dial interrupted Walterovich’s
monologue.
“Media relations, David Fritz Chaucer speaking, with whom am I speaking?”
“Justin Walterovich, West Champlain News-Times, Vermont.”
“How may I help you Mr. Walterovich?”
“I have some questions about Mary Agatha Chaucer,” the writer said. “Hello? Hello?”
The sheltered voice on the other line exhaled slowly with inconvenience turned disappointment. “I was
afraid you were going to ask me about that,” he responded.
The choice of wording interested the reporter. ‘Why did he say ‘that’ and not ‘her’?’ he thought. ‘Let’s find
out.’
“I'm ready, on behalf of the foundation, to finally address this issue publicly,” D. F. Chaucer said with layers
of relief woven with distinct foreboding.
Walterovich put on his poker face and started bluffing away. “Well I know that this isn't easy for you and let
me assure you that I'm not some hack rag writer for a grocery store gossip column,” the reporter insisted.
“I'm not out to embarrass people; it's just time that this story finds the peace it is seeking.”
‘Too bad I don't know what the hell he wants to tell me,' Walterovich thought.
“I've only been on this job for seven months, but believe me, my family has been watching me for all of my
adult life,” the spokesperson said. “But they knew what they were getting. My great uncle preceded me in
this job, which he held for 31 years. He stuck with the family party line as did his uncle and did his father
before them. I can understand, right after it happened, them not wanting to air this out publicly, but we are
long out of the railroad business and it is time to move into the 21st century. I'm ready for your questions.”
‘Don’t mess this up Justin. If he smells a fake he's gone forever.'
“Mr. Chaucer...”
“Please call me D.F.”
“Thank you D.F., what happened to Mary Agatha Chaucer?”
Chaucer breathed deeply. “Mr. Walterovich...”
“Please, call me Justin.”
“Thank you. Justin, I don't think we'll ever know unless a body is found or grandchildren emerge. All we
know is this: The talk that Mary Chaucer gave away every dime she had control of is true. She hadn't
inherited all of her trust, but the Chaucers weren't as savvy with their funds internally as they should have
been. She gave away millions.”
“Millions?" Walterovich asked.
“We think something in the neighborhood of $2.8 or $2.9 million dollars, and mind you, that was 1904
dollars...everything that she had and significant amounts of what disputably were family funds and assets.”
‘This is good. I hope that Trevino does fire me so I can sell this to the New Yorker,' the writer mused. ‘Or
even better, I'll finally write a book.'
“D.F., everyone with interest in this historical matter still asks, ‘What's the Redbridge connection?”
The Chaucer historian chuckled. “She gave it all away on Dec. 8, 1904. Everything,
everything that she could get her hands on.”
‘Walterovich, go for the gold. Don't mess this up. Don't tip your hand.' “But to whom? Who exactly profited off
this action by Mary Chaucer?”
“I'm not going to name names exactly because I don't want to open up that box, but let me say that that the
monies were given to charities.”
“Such as?” Walterovich asked carefully.
“Such as women's rights organizations, women's shelters, scholarships for poor children, clothing, no-
interest loans, the women’s suffrage movement. I don't have the files here, but our family tracked it down as
best as could be expected. Remember, back in 1904, it wasn't like people could do wire transfers from their
personal computer.”
‘Damn, I'm back. This story is golden. I love my job. Love it.'
“D.F. let me ask you this then. What about Mary's twin sister? There's no official date or location.”
“Well, the family story we told the press and high society was that Caroline was so distraught about her twin
sister that she went to her aid and just became so disillusioned that she never returned to the family.”
“Well, was there any truth in that?” Walterovich asked, trying to keep his knees from shaking out of
excitement from his nest in Vermont.
“Well, you could say that, because she mailed the same letter to multiple members of our family saying she
took a large chunk of her personal assets to ‘do whatever it took to find her beloved sister.’
“What's was the problem?" the reporter asked playing dumb.
“All the letters were postmarked Dec. 7, 1904. Caroline sent them a day before her sister went missing.”
“No shit?” the reporter whispered gently.
“No shit,” D.F. Chaucer responded in kind.
Trevino's eyes squeezed as she followed a couple walking along Church Street, her knuckles nearly white
holding her office telephone receiver. “Oh, I understand Mrs. Collonsworth; you haven't bothered me in the
slightest. It's my job to stay informed,” the editor-for-hire said sweetly. “And I know these cell phone things
are a problem. It was better that you called me first. I’ll speak with Justin often and will get him this
message right away. No...not at all...I'm just glad that the woman turned up safely.
Exactly...we don't want to print stories of bad news. There is absolutely too much bad news in the media
today. I'd like to think the News-Times rises above that, myself. OK...it was very nice talking with you and
please thank your neighbors for having a wonderful phone tree. If you were any more efficient, I'd be out of a
job. OK...sounds nice...you too...Good bye.”
Trevino breathed loudly in disgust, not knowing if her cash cow had just become hamburger, or if her horse
had come in. “That's too many damn animals to track for this city girl,” she muttered, picking up her cell
phone and dialing her spoiled sponsor.
“Yeah?” her Texas contact said in exquisitely southern and snobbish drawl.
“They found her, it's over. I want the other half of my payment wired to my account. You said that even if
Jennifer turned up I'd still get all my money,” Trevino ordered.
“And you will, once this is completed. This isn't over yet,” the Texan instructed.
“Listen, I don't know what you good ole boys expect down south, but I can't kidnap someone and FedEx her
to Austin or San Antonio or wherever you are calling from,” the editor said. “I just got a call from a local
resident who told me that the sheriff started a new phone tree to let everyone know that your heiress
showed herself in person. Case closed. That's it. I
want the rest of my money right now.”
“What about this reporter, what did he find out?” the southern gentlemen inquired.
“Look, he is working this case and has come up with some interesting parallels,” she replied.
“Such as?”
“Such as none of your Confederate business, Texas," the editor hissed. “We had a deal. Don't get cute with
me. You know what? The hell with the rest of your money. Good...”
“I'll triple it. I'll triple your payment,” the concerned gentlemen offered.
“I'm listening.”
“I'll...I'll deposit the rest of our initial agreement via the wire transfer and offer you triple if your reporter
locates Jennifer and calls me directly with her location,” he explained. “Payment
comes when she is safely in our hands. That's the deal.”
“Well, how the hell am I going to do that? I can't deputize him,” Trevino asked.
“You figure it out,” the Texan hissed back.
Trevino breathed twice and pondered seriously hanging up the phone and taking the money and running.
Greed though, was always a little too close to the editor.
“First off, transfer the money and then we'll see,” she replied calmly. “But you gotta play straight with me
now. If you want me to help pull this off, I need to know more than you told me. Walterovich isn't stupid. He's
not that smart, but he isn't stupid and I can only hold him at bay so long. Remember, he's a reporter.”
Silence.
“Hello?” Trevino asked.
“She has a twin. Jennifer has a twin sister, Rachel. Rachel has conveniently turned off her cell phone and
her husband and I haven't always been the best of friends, so he isn't helping. We think she is on
sabbatical, so to speak.”
“So what are you saying that Rachel and Jennifer are pulling some switch or something?"
“I don't know Ms. Trevino, that is why I gave you $550,000 so far to find out!” the gentlemen shouted,
completely losing his cool.
‘Hmm...we must be talking about big money here,' Trevino pondered unfazed; For a Texan, he can't play
poker well.'
“Go on,” she instructed.
“Well let's just say that a significant amount of cash and assets that Jennifer Maxwell controls has also
conveniently been...oh how should I say this? Dispersed.”
“How much?” Trevino pressed.
“That doesn't concern you.”
“How much?" the editor continued to push.
“I told you that it doesn't...”
“How much?” she asked undeterred.
“Jesus, you're stubborn.
“Thank you,” she replied.
“Try in the neighborhood of $4.8 billion dollars. It was all transferred this morning to accounts currently
unknown. Much of that money is in gray areas as to which of us Maxwells actually should control it. You
understand my zeal to have more concrete answers than what your Redbridge phone tree contact offered
you.”
Trevino saw an opening. “Now listen for that kind of money, I should...”
“No more negotiations,” the Texan barked. “Find my sisters.”
The line went dead, leaving Trevino with a shopping list of tasks including how to play Walterovich, and
where to start spending $550,000 (and counting.)
“God, I hate this,” Walterovich said, walking outside the restaurant kitchen to make his cell call from the
road. “She's going to fire me. I know it.” It took four rings before Trevino picked up. The reporter's stomach
felt worse than after five cups of coffee and an old cold slice of anchovy pizza.
“Trevino.”
“Chief, it's Walterovich. They found her. It's over; they found her.”
The editor gasped for a moment. “Are you sure?” she said. "I've been monitoring the scanner on vermont-
sheriffs.com, and I heard nothing.”
“Yeah, it's true. Winslow...ah...Sheriff Winslow called me a little while ago and said that Maxwell literally
drove up to him and gave him every piece of identification needed to run for president,” the writer said.
“Well, I'm glad that she's all right. Contrary to what conspiracy theory you are being fed about me down in
your hometown, I'm really not a monster,” Trevino replied, her voice twanging in pain from being accused of
some sort of bribery.
“It's not that chief. I'm...my mind is racing. There is a good story here,” the reporter. “If we can just set aside
any differences for a moment, you'll love this one. I can salvage a front page spot out of this, right now.”
“Well I read what you sent so far about the anniversary disappearance, but still that isn't show-stopping. We
have some good political stories cooking that could sell some papers,” the editor-for-hire professed.
“Yes, but the plot thickens,” the reporter said gently. “I just talked with the Chaucer Railroad Foundation who
has this really in depth family history section and a PR person to boot. He told me on the record that the
woman, who disappeared 100 years in Redbridge, really was never proven to have been found and she
gave away millions of dollars the day she vanished and that's 1904 money.”
“No shit?” Trevino asked.
“No shit, chief. And it even gets better,” Walterovich continued. “That Chaucer girl, the one who they believe
really vanished had a twin sister whom the family feels helped in some Robin Hood conspiracy to funnel
much of the train fortune to the poor and women's rights groups.”
“No shit?” Trevino said with increased interest.
“For real, chief. So I have something here,” Walterovich replied.
“More than you know,” Trevino whispered.
“What do you mean?” the reporter whispered in turn, although he didn't understand since it wasn't his
secret, why he should be whispering in the first place.
“Jennifer Maxwell has a twin sister. Jennifer Maxwell may have given away $4.8 billion dollars with the help
of said twin sister,” the editor announced.
Walterovich physically dropped his cell phone and then just as quickly dove to continue the conversation.
“How do know this, Margaret?” the reporter asked directly. “Private sources or not. I need to know on this
one. This is all running way too fast as it is.”
Trevino seemed to hum for a moment, mulling over the request. Finally she acquiesced. “Walterovich,
here's the story: My husband went to college with Jennifer Maxwell's fiancé. The guy is loaded, not like her,
but he's in the hundreds-of-millions range. He doesn't care about her
money. I believe that. Daddy Warbucks called my husband who called me and asked if we could share
anything because the police wouldn't help for 24 hours. That's the god's honest truth. I'm sorry I didn't tell
you before Justin, but I'm your boss not your friend. You are absolutely right to ask, and I am sorry if I
compromised our professional relationship. As for whatever else you may have heard about me on the
street, I assure you this: I may have ice in my veins, but I'm no crook. Now go out and get me an award
winning page one story.”
“I'm on it, chief,” pledged the reporter, hanging up his phone. “I wish I hadn’t given up smoking.”
The most coveted source had again become Dr. Karen Procter, who so conveniently provided Walterovich
access codes to all of Jennifer Maxwell's encrypted emails. The reporter began to question the integrity of
the emails files, if not the complete authenticity. But if nothing else, Maxwell had to have been involved; if
there were indeed a hoax.
Walterovich didn't bother even calling Procter until he was in his dog-dented black Honda Accord, because
the writer was determined not to take no for an answer. Procter somewhat begrudgingly offered a meeting
at her home, audibly concerned that Walterovich so quickly wanted to press her for more answers she
obviously didn't want to give.
The Procter home was impressive as the doctor and her partner had put years of well-invested salary into
birthing a magazine-feature-quality home. Walterovich parked in front of the house and saw that his source
was already waiting. Procter opened the door and three large, shaggy, gray dogs charged out. Two
promptly climbed on the reporter's warm car, the third sniffed the newsman.
“I really need a company car,” Walterovich muttered, crunching the snow up to the porch, taking his shoes
off before walking in. Procter never once asked her dogs off the reporter's car. Walterovich chuckled quietly
to himself.
“We have some extra tea if you like. Please help yourself,” Procter.
“Thanks, Karen. I'm fine. I appreciate it, but I'll get right to the point. As promised, I'll share with you what I
have so far. First, obviously I guess you heard the Maxwell is alive and well.”
“I got the phone call from the phone tree not too long ago,” she replied dryly.
“I don't follow, do you think it wasn't her?” the reporter asked.
“Why would you ask that?” Procter asked, putting down her tea on a coaster on her coffee table.
“I asked based on the tone of your response,” Walterovich said politely.
“Well you obviously know more,” the host pressed.
“I'm not holding anything back, Karen. We made a deal. My word is good. I know that Maxwell reportedly has
a twin sister and there was a similar case 100 years ago in Redbridge along this same scenario. That's
the story I am working on. I talked with the Chaucer family. Oh, I'm sorry; those are the relatives of the
woman in 1904...”
“I know who the Chaucers are, Justin.”
“Oh, OK. Well the family's spokesperson through the trust said that they never felt Mary Chaucer's
reappearance was authenticated and in fact her sister, her twin sister, had notified the family one-day
before the disappearance was reported,” Walterovich shared.
“That's what our research showed,” Procter shared in kind.
“OK, so then you know that Chaucer family believes Mary gave away a couple of million dollars to women's
groups and charities.”
“Yeah, you are a good reporter,” Procter said with a smile.
“I'm not that good, Karen. I got lucky. So I guess my question is this: since Jennifer Maxwell also has a twin
sister and Jennifer has reportedly donated $4.8 billionaire dollars to charity...”
“WHAT?!?” Procter shouted, trying to stand up and knocking her tea over her glass coffee table onto her
$15,000 rug. “What did you just say?”
“Are you OK, Karen? Can I get you a towel?” Walterovich offered.
“Forget the towel, Justin. What did you just say?”
“Are you sure about the towel?”
“Justin for the love of God!"
“OK. OK. I have it on good authority, albeit third person sources, that Jennifer Maxwell transferred about $5
billion in assets early this morning.”
Procter went pale and sat down. “She found it. I knew I couldn't trust her,” the
homeowner whispered in shock. “I don't believe it. She found it. It is really is here. She found it.”
“Found what Karen?” the reporter pressed.
“I don't believe it. It really is in Redbridge, under our noses all this time,” Procter whispered again, this time
though with the slightest smirk of vindication to go with her disappointment.
“Karen, talk to me. What did she find?” Walterovich begged, trying to make eye contact with his source.
Procter let out a cackle, which startled the reporter, and she followed with more calm but hearty laughter.
After about 45 seconds she composed herself and looked directly at Walterovich.
“The Fountain of Youth, you fool. Jennifer found it. It's in Redbridge, Justin. Right under our noses. I don't
know about you, but I need a real drink,” Procter said, getting up and laughing her way to her study. “She
really found it.”
Chapter Three
Long before Redbridge was Redbridge, before any pale skin walked the green mountains, the town of ten
thousands secrets was known by the indigenous people as Lands with Quick Hills which Look at Long
Distances.
She Who Keeps Us Safe knew every blade of grass in her hometown, if not literally, certainly in a more
flowing, cosmic sense where bushes and flowers to most people were cures and emancipation to the
medicine woman and those in her craft. Only three months removed from her seventeenth birthday, She
Who Keeps Us Safe had carefully and impressively moved up in the political world while being able to
deflect much of the problems that comes with power. Her husband, Honor from Hard Work, was
progressive in his support for his wife’s career, and at home was low maintenance and quite funny.
She Who Keeps Us Safe was still on the books, as the heir-apparent to her 36-year-old mentor, River That
Cleanses, who much like Queen Elizabeth II, had no intentions of voluntarily retiring from the job. Both
teacher and mentor were collecting supplies on a crisp, beautiful December morning.
“I love seeing blue skies this morning,” She Who Keeps Us Safe said, crunching along in the snow, looking
for tale-tell signs of the root for which she was assigned to forage. “I don’t mind the cold, but I need
sunlight.”
“We all need sunlight,” replied her mentor and friend. “It’s not like you are the only one who enjoys long
sunny days, you know.” River That Cleanses stood near her student and cleared away some snow. “How
did you miss this?” the teacher said with smirk. “If you want to have my job, you need to start doing it better.”
“What? How did you know to look there? There was nothing but iced-over snow?” asked the befuddled
student.
River That Cleanses closed her eyes for a moment and let out a wonderful laugh, so infectious that her
pouting student soon was in stitches. “Why don’t you go up the hill some more, where the markings are a
little easier to read,” the teacher chuckled.
“Fine, fine. Have your fun now,” She Who Keeps Us Safe said with a laugh. “This race isn’t over. I’ll show
you a thing or two.”
“Indeed,” the teacher replied.
She Who Keeps Us Safe trekked slowly and carefully up the hill, still laughing from time-to-time, reliving her
mentor’s success and reaction. “I love my job,” the protégé said to herself. “I’m the luckiest person in the all
the lands.”
A hawk cried and circled above, becoming jet-black during the moments when it glided in-between sun and
earth. ‘Don’t look at me,’ She Who Keeps Us Safe thought, musing for a moment that if hawks were big
enough, they would probably go after people too. ‘You do your
job and I’ll do mine.’
The student kept shuffling upward, but let the sun feed her daydreams. She Who Keeps Us Safe
fantasized about a warm spring day when she and her future children could walk the lands and perfect the
craft, removed and carefree of the stresses of everyday life. The student wanted both sons and daughters
and dreamed of someday being both wife to a chief and head medicine woman for her people. “What a
grand life it would be,” she whispered.
She Who Keeps Us Safe felt her footing leaving her; she spun around and knew there was no stopping her
descent. The student began flailing in the air trying to find something to grab, but only could see the sharp,
knifelike end of a broken branch that was perfectly aligned to pierce her chest. “Oh no!” she screamed
before everything went black.
***
“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” screamed River That Cleanses as she frantically clawed her way up the snow
white hill that was rapidly adding a beautiful coat of red to its cover. “Hold on, do you hear me?”
The teacher burst into tears when she arrived at the scene. Her first reaction was to not move the mortally
wounded girl but time was pumping away from them. River That Cleanses was near complete panic when
she had to jerk her student free and didn’t hear so much
as a yelp. The medicine woman packed snow into the deep wound, which promptly lost its white color.
River That Cleanses stuffed some cloth as a last line of defense, but that too seemed little more than
window dressing.
The teacher looked frantically around and found a side clearing ahead. She dragged She Who Keeps Us
Safe by the arms, bringing a trail of red with her. “Please hold on, please hold on. Don’t leave me. Don’t die
on me,” the teacher begged. River That Cleanses felt no footing herself and knew any slip down the hill
would be the last trip for her beloved protégé.
“We’ll make it. We’ll make it. We’ll make it.”
In the clearing, River That Cleanses applied full pressure to wound, running over any scenario that could
possibly pull out a medical miracle. A warm sensation trickled on the teacher’s ankles. She looked at her
dying patient and saw it couldn’t come from her.
River That Cleanses turned around and felt warm water spring water behind her. The teacher looked at her
fingers: the skin, which touched water, went smooth like a pre-teenager.
It made no sense, but the medicine woman wasn’t in a position to argue. She began digging frantically to
expose for heated aqua therapy.
Water spurted, blasting dirt from her hands; River That Cleanses had completely smooth hands now, free
of scratches, wrinkles or impurities.
‘What’s going on here?’
The teacher dragged her student over to the spring, splashing warm water all over her body and clawing
like an animal to expose more water. The red mixture soon stopped tainting the spring; the medicine
woman stumbled back as she froze at the sight before her.
She Who Keeps Us Safe’s wound closed, her eyes opened and she began to smile. The miracle didn’t
stop there. The patient, who was moments from death, began to shrink, becoming a preteen and then a
little girl. ‘Get her out, her out,’ the teacher’s internal voice ordered. ‘She’ll turn to a baby.’
River That Cleanses picked up her now three-year-old student whose squeaky voice was laughing while
she said. “I miss you, Mommy. You keep me safe. I’m cold Mommy. I hungry.”
The teacher held her child for dear life. “What am I going to tell your husband?” River That Cleanses
whispered, wiping her tears of shock and joy with her young protégé’s shiny flowing hair.
She Who Keeps Us Safe was shivering against her teacher’s body as River That Cleanses nervously
headed towards base camp. ‘If anyone sees all of that blood, I’ll never have a moment again to speak in
private to Eternal Setting Sun,’ the teacher thought, trying with all of her
might to both filter out the horrors of the moment while trying to comprehend the magnitude of the warm
healing spring.
‘Half of the people already don’t trust me as it is. They are going to think I’m behind
this. Who could blame them? She Who Keeps Us Safe is a child and my hands look half as young. What
am I going to do? What possibly am I going to tell them?’
River That Cleanses had a sick feeling of guilt because part of her expected a brave and thankful reaction to
the fact that her student’s life was spared in nothing short of a complete miracle. But the sage was also
savvy to the politics of her clan and strong women who had independent power always faced high levels of
mistrust and fear. This story would be impossible to be believed even by the medicine woman’s most
hardened supporters.
“I’m going to have to show them the spring,” she whispered to herself. ‘But then what? What about all of
that blood? Everyone knows I don’t want to relinquish my spot. No one will believe me. No one. I don’t even
believe me.’
She Who Keeps Us Safe tussled under her mentor’s garb, but found a comfortable position and finally fell
to sleep.
“It’s OK. Everything is fine,” the sage whispered. “Mommy’s here.”
The medicine woman played a scenario where she took the elders to the spring, to save both her own life
and to show the miracle that saved her student’s. ‘But it wouldn’t end there. The spring will be forbidden
and soon older warrior men will insist on trying to be rejuvenated and we’ll end up breading new armies
instead of saving the sick. Chiefs would reign for 300 years and wives will never be allowed to age. It will be
the end of us all.’
It was a power far too tempting for everyday man and yet River That Cleanses was in no position to stop the
momentum. With the forensic evidence remaining on the hill, the sage would need to try and cut a deal. Her
only hope was Eternal Setting Sun, her main competition for power within the clan, who sat as wife to Chief
Winter Storm.
“How am I going to get out of this alive?” she whispered, feeling her student’s breath against her breast. “I
feel so alone.”
River That Cleanses literally got only three steps into base camp before every free eye in proximity was
focused on her and the toddler she held, who by the camp’s count, was one more child than the tribe had at
breakfast. Every movement towards the medicine woman made her
walk just that much faster. The sage knew she would be stopped at any moment.
‘If they make a move, just scream out Eternal Setting Sun’s name,’ she thought as a seemingly sea of
possible obstacles seemed to strangle her pathway to the Chief’s residence. ‘Just try to smile. Smile.
Come on, make it believable.’
“River That Cleanses, whose child are you holding?” asked the young but respected hunter, Black Bear.
“It’s a wonderful, wonderful surprise…” the sage said trying to force joy into her voice. “I first must share it
with our great Chief. You’ll all know of this wonderful gift very, very soon.”
“Where is She Who Keeps Us Safe?” the hunter continued.
“Oh, don’t worry. Everything is fine,” the medicine woman offered, desperately trying to stay the course. She
could see the Chief and his wife now. They were not far away, but it might as well be an ocean’s distance.
Black Bear stood himself in front of the medicine woman and the child she was carrying, stopping their
movement in their tracks.
“I asked you a question,” the hunter said respectfully but unwavering. “Where is She Who Keeps Us Safe?
Where is my brother’s wife?”
River That Cleanses took a deep breath, and while holding the now awakened and slightly disoriented
child tighter with one hand reached out and touched Black Bear with her free branch. “I have been sent to
share a miracle of life with the Chief and our tribe. Please let me pass,” she said. “She Who Keeps Us Safe
is alive and well. You have my word. She is safe.”
Black Bear’s mind continued to object but he felt his body gently turn to the side. River That Cleanses
smiled “thank you” to him and walked briskly to the Chief.
Chief Winter Storm was deep in conversation with his childhood buddy Running Elk and seemed the last
the notice all the tribe had stopped with the mysterious entrance of the medicine woman and an unknown
child. Finally, the leader took pause and looked at River
That Cleanses and the guest who seemed extremely familiar. “What’s wrong? What happened? Who is
that child that you hold, River That Cleanses?” he asked.
Eternal Setting Sun made no movement or inquiry herself. “Chief Winter Storm, I have been sent to present
you a wonderful gift. I ask before I make the formal presentation that Eternal Setting Sun setting sun helps
me to make the preparation complete,” the sage asked
‘What ceremony? What are you talking about?’ the First Lady thought without changing her expression.
“What ceremony? What are you talking about?” the Chief asked. “Where is She Who Keeps Us Safe? What’
s going on here? What happened?” the Chief pressed.
River That Cleanses felt her stomach drop to her knees. She desperately looked at Eternal Setting Sun and
tried to convey a look that said, ‘this matter is very much in your interest to get involved.’
“River That Cleanses? I asked you a question,” said the Chief louder. “Where is She Who Keeps Us Safe?”
‘I’m done for,’ the medicine woman thought, now pleading with her face for the Chief’s wife to intervene. ‘I
won’t survive the night.’
“River That Cleanses, I am talking to you!” the Chief said sternly.
The sage took a step back but felt bodies behind her. Their body heat warmed up the crisp afternoon frost.
“Great Chief, I should prepare this child before she sits before your Council,” Eternal Setting Sun said.
“What ever River That Cleanses is about to tell us all, we must make sure that this child is clean in the
ways of our laws and traditions. I too am very interested to hear her explanation.”
No one in the tribe moved, save the squirming mystery toddler. Eternal Setting Sun discretely pressed her
fingers into her husband’s palm.
‘Let me do this,’ was her message.
“Very well,” the Chief said, shrugging his shoulders. “But we must deal with this soon.” River That
Cleanses nodded quickly enough to force back tears and scurried into the Chief’s home with Eternal
Setting Sun.
“Mommy? I have to go pee pee,” the child asked.
“This better be important,” the First Lady whispered once the entrance had been closed, finding some
usable basin so the child could remain indoors.
“Eternal Setting Sun, you have no idea.”
***
“You’re insane. You’ve gone mad. Get out,” ordered Eternal Setting Sun, briskly sitting up and walking out of
her domicile. “And I tell you another thing, if you tell this story to our tribe, the best case scenario for you will
be life-time banishment.”
River That Cleanses got up and followed her. She Who Keeps Us Safe was playing, carefree, underneath
some of the Chief’s clothing.
“Listen to me,” the medicine woman said. “Look at the child. Just look at her. She has the exact same
birthmarks. Everything matches up.”
“With the exception of the fact that this is child and She Who Keeps Us Safe left camp this morning as a
grown woman,” the Chief’s wife tried to yell without yelling. “Do you understand that? This isn’t going to
work. Water doesn’t make old people turn into young adults and young adults turn into children. I mean,
wake up. What world are you living in?”
“Yes, but…”
“You may think that I’m just a politician,” Eternal Setting Sun continued, interrupting the sage. “You may not
respect the decisions I made in my life, but I am a spiritual person too. I feel the deeper force of the river
and the trees, of all life and weather around us. But for the love of all that is reasonable: Water doesn’t
make people younger.”
She Who Keeps Us Safe emerged from a mound of clothing and bedding. “I have to go pee pee,” she said.
“Well then go pee pee,” the Chief’s wife said. “River That Cleanses, I am going outside and I am not
standing with you in this story. You’re on your own.”
“Just look at her. You know it’s her,” the medicine woman pleaded in whispers.
Eternal Setting Sun breathed deeply with disapproval but did tilt her head side to side once when looking at
the child. “What exactly are you asking of me?” the First Lady asked more calmly, still studying the toddler
sitting on her bathroom basin.
“Lead us,” the sage replied.
“Lead you?”
“Lead us,” River That Cleanses repeated. “This power, this gift, men can’t handle it. You know what I’m
talking about. It’s too powerful, too tempting. Bring your most trusted friends with me and I’ll show you. I’ll
prove it and if I’m wrong or if it doesn’t work, or if you still want to depose me and keep this power for
yourself, then do what you will. Just let me show you. You don’t have anything to lose.”
“The hell I don’t,” the Chief’s wife responded, biting her one lip slightly as she reviewed all of her options.
The truth was Eternal Setting Sun admired the medicine woman and it wasn't only because River That
Cleanses was her older sister, and decided to dedicate her life to her work instead of getting married off for
political reasons. But that much risk and trouble just was never the First Lady's style. Eternal Setting Sun
knew that she bore extra pressures to make her family stronger and as a result wouldn't get to marry out of
love. Her parents got to cut a deal.
All of this was the way of the world, and the politician's wife never complained. She grew to love her
husband and carried her role with dignity, savvy and quiet strength. The looks though, the moments of eye
contact with River That Cleanses, the times when the medicine woman spoke volumes without saying a
single work, truly got underneath Eternal Setting Sun's skin.
“I taste true freedom. You're just a politician's wife. I walk with eternity. You make salmon treats and laugh at
jokes you don't even find funny.”
Eternal Setting Sun was smart enough to know, though, that even the strongest salmon can't swim up
stream forever. Even the great and wise River That Cleanses would finally wear down. Now was the First
Lady's chance to let her rebel sister twist in the wind. It was the moment the politician's wife secretly
fantasized about for all of her adult life, but much to
Eternal Setting Sun's dismay, she wasn't finishing the job.
“Here are my terms,” she said to the sage. “I can't believe I am even helping you. I must have lost my mind...
You, me and mystery baby over there are going to walk out of here.”
“I want some water,” She Who Keeps Us Safe said.
“No water now, you go pee pee too much," the First Lady said. She Who Keeps Us Safe whimpered in
disapproval.
“We are going to walk out of here. I am bringing Wind Sings Softly and Lake of Wisdom with us, and we'll
go see this ‘spring of youth.’ You make believers out of us and we'll all decide what to do next.”
“Decide how?” the medicine woman asked.
“You're in no position to bargain,” Eternal Setting Sun snapped back. “We don't have a lot of time. She Who
Keeps Us Safe has a husband due here before the sun sets and I assure you he'll be far less
understanding than me. If you are right, then we all get an equal say in what to do next.”
“If I'm wrong?” the sage asked.
“Then you have to run away with only the shirt on your back and you may never return. Sister or not, that's the
best deal I can offer you. Now what's your decision?”
The sage knew long before she entered camp she had no leverage; she was impressed by her sister's
savvy anyway.
“You know, I never made my life choices to hurt you or our family,” River That Cleanses said peacefully.
“I know; we are who we are,” the First Lady answered. “But that's not going to help us now. You need a
miracle right now more than anyone else in the tribe. I hope for your sake, you can deliver.”
Eternal Setting Sun emerged, followed by the two people the whole tribe was talking about. It even the
appeared that the Chief was trying to eavesdrop subtly, much like a mother-in-law keeping abreast of family
politics.
“Are you OK?” the Chief asked his love.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m sorry for the theatrics,” Eternal Setting Sun replied, feeling the weight of a field of
stares directed at her every move. “I need you to trust me with this.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Please let me finish,” the wife told her husband, smiling and touching his fingers. “I need you to trust me
on this. I would never do anything that would bring dishonor to you or make you vulnerable. You know that. I
need to go with River That Cleanses and the child she holds to see something related to the medicines in
these woods. I’ll take Wind Sings Softly and Lake of Wisdom with me to make sure we are safe.”
“Yes but?”
“Shh,” whispered Eternal Setting Sun said peacefully.
“Yes but, why not take my brothers to make sure…”
“Look at me,” the First Lady said lovingly. “You know I think over every decision I make. I’m only doing this
because this is truly best for you and our people. I don’t ask you often, but I need you to trust me on this. I
can’t do this without you, nor would I without you support. I’m asking for you help.”
The Chief tried to protest, but no words left his mouth. He owed just about everything nice in his life to
Eternal Setting Sun, which is why he both wanted to accommodate her and not let her go. Time was a
premium and the Chief had to act.
“Eternal Setting Sun,” he said loudly so all could hear him. “You are the mother of this tribe and are best
skilled to answer these questions of the child River That Cleanses brings. Have the medicine woman bring
back the answers to the whereabouts of She Who Keeps of Safe and take Wind Sings Softly and Lake of
Wisdom with you. You must return before sundown and
then River That Cleanses will be expected to address the council.”
“Yes great Chief,” the First Lady responded. “Your wisdom and bravery keep our people safe.”
“If your not back the moment the sun falls asleep, I myself will lead a party to find you,” the Chief whispered
with authority. “You have to understand, She Who Keeps Us Safe has a young, stubborn husband who I can’
t even guarantee will wait until you return. You’re in luck, since he’s out scouting.”
“Sundown. Fair enough,” Eternal Setting Sun said, giving her husband a kiss.
The party assembled near some horses at the edge of camp. “I don’t ride. My ways are to walk to the holy
sights,” River That Cleanses said softly.
“Just get on the horse,” the First Lady instructed. “You have more important things to worry about then your
medicinal protocol. You’ve put this whole tribe at risk. Now let’s ride.”
Eternal Setting Sun was more of a confident rider and took the mystery child in her arms to allow River That
Cleanses to steer with both hands. The medicine woman took her party the back route to the site of all this
trouble, a path very hard to manage by foot but maneuverable with a four-legged lift. Still, even with the
element of avoiding the red-stained hill on the assent, there was no masking the vulgarity of the scene.
“What did you do?” Eternally Setting Sun gasped, handing the child to the medicine woman as they all took
turns dismounting from their steeds.
“It looks like a massacre,” Wind Sings Softly added. “We should get out of here. The sage is setting us up.”
“Hold on. Hold. Just wait. Just wait,” pleaded the medicine woman. “I know it looks bad. Believe me, I was
here. I remember.”
The sun began its final descent over the horizon. River That Cleanses knew she needed to keep things
moving. Lake of Wisdom, herself unable to have children, took the restless toddler and held her loving,
savoring the fresh smell of baby.
“I got a boo boo there,” the toddler pointed to the deep red around an exposed branch. “It made me cry. It
hurt my feelings.” Lake of Wisdom kissed the child on her head.
“You see, it is her,” River That Cleanses protested.
“We’ll see,” the First Lady responded, walking slowly to the steamy water in a flat patch of land ahead of
them.
“Little girl, what’s your name?” Lake of Wisdom asked.
“My name is…is…it’s too hard to say,” the child responded.
“Try,” the chief’s wife said.
“My name is…is…I can’t. It’s Sunny.”
“You see! It is her,” the sage exclaimed.
“Says who?” the First Lady responded matter-of-factly. “You could have told her to say it.”
“She’s right,” agreed Wind Sings Softly. “This doesn’t prove anything.”
The women made a semi-circle around the flowing spring; none let any water touch their feet.
“OK, so now what?” Wind Sings Softly asked.
Eternal Setting Sun was suddenly overcome by a blinded sense of competition. In some strange train of
logic, the chief’s wife didn’t want to wait for her sister’s direction. The First Lady wanted to make a point that
her way wasn’t the weak way; this was a chance to finally show her big sister what strength was.
“What are you doing?” Lake of Wisdom gasped as the chief’s wife stepped up to the spring.
“Make your sister do it. It’s too risky,” protested Wind Sings Softly.
The sage said nothing.
Eternal Setting Sun crouched down and began to splash water on her own hands and face. The First Lady
repeated the process and then froze motionless. The three women behind her began to breathe deeply in
both fear and nervous anticipation.
“I have to go pee pee,” the child asked.
“SHHH!!!"
The chief’s wife finally broke the moment by getting up slowly. Her hands were shaking gently.
“Are you OK?” Wind Sings Softly asked.
“Say something,” Lake of Wisdom begged.
Eternal Setting Sun spun around. Her two childhood friends screamed in shock and disbelief. “Oh, my! Oh,
my!” “Ahhh…” gasped Winds Sings Softly.
Eternal Setting Sun looked at her sister in disbelief. “What have you done to me?” the chief’s wife said,
letting out a crazed chuckle. “I feel...I feel...My skin…I feel 10 winters younger.”
Wind Sings Softly and Lake of Wisdom darted towards the water. Soon all three women were rebellious
teenagers without a single blemish, cut or mark on their respective smooth silk skins.
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” River That Cleanses whispered, to an audience that was fully
distracted with another pressing conversation.
Chapter Four
Procter let out a cackle, which startled the reporter, and she followed with more calm but hearty laughter.
After about 45 seconds she composed herself and looked directly at Walterovich.
“The Fountain of Youth, you fool. Jennifer found it. It's in Redbridge, Justin. Right under our noses. I don't
know about you, but I need a real drink," Procter said, getting up and laughing her way to her study. “She
really found it."
The researcher left the room leaving the baffled writer to think quickly of his next move. Shock quickly
changed to disappointment as in a single moment Dr. Procter went from a highly respected researcher to,
at best, one of those 4 a.m. treasure hunters on the History Channel, and that was being kind. “She's crazy.'
“You probably think that I'm crazy,” Procter said from some room behind a full length sheet which acted as a
divider.
“I don't think your crazy, it's just that I need something concrete to work from and I need answers," the
reporter replied. “I'm on a deadline.”
Procter fumbled around the room and reemerged with a full drink of good vodka and an old, coffee-stained
note card. It very much resembled the card that had Jennifer Maxwell's e-mail password and more than just
because of its proportions.
“Do you want a drink?" Procter asked.
“No thanks, I quit three years ago,” the reporter said. He didn't really answer the question exactly, because
in reality he wanted a drink; he just wasn't going to indulge his craving.
“That's right. I'm sorry, I forgot.” Procter said, plopping herself down without regard to the slight spattle of
booze she let go free from her glass. “Here, take the card. Take it.”
Walterovich obliged. It was written in a different ink but in the same hand writing as that Maxwell password
memo.
Daphne and Margo Davilla, Dec. 4, 1911
Jasmine and Camilla Taylor, Dec. 7, 1934
Faye and Alisha O'Donnell, Dec. 8, 1961
Hannah and Lucille Brown, Dec. 6, 1987
“I'm not going to even say a thing. I know you think that I am crazy or a fool,” Procter said solemnly sipping
her clear comfort. “You're a reporter, look it up. I have 26 years of personal research on this, evidence much,
much more compelling than these four cases, but you're on a deadline and already doubt me. Just do your
homework. I'll be here when you're ready to talk.”
Walterovich took his cue and showed himself to the door.
“Justin,” said the researcher, too weary to leave her chair. “Remember one thing if nothing else, and don't
forget it: If you find it, those magic waters, they won't let you leave. So once you believe me, don't get cute
and think you are going to just walk into the story of the millennium. I've lived in this town all my life and I still
haven't found it. My father tried all of his adult life before me, and he never found it. These people are really,
really good at keeping secrets.”
“Which people, Karen?” the writer indulged.
“The Society,” she said. “Now close the door. I'm getting cold.”
“That went well,” Walterovich said taking notice of the dropping temperatures and the fresh dents left by
some of Redbridge's finest canines. The reporter rubbed his thumb over the note card and let a few snow
flurries dissolve on his face before taking refuge in his quickly depreciating vehicle.
Walterovich missed his wife who was working the day away in West Champlain, no doubt making the best
of a mountain of paperwork with her wonderful smile, 24-carrot eyes and a voice that would have made
even the most hardened New Englander take a deep breath and relax. The writer didn't like to disturb his
Alessandra at the office, so he quickly speed-dialed their home to check in via the answering machine.
“Hi honey, it's Little Bird again. I miss you very much. I'm still out in Redbridge working on this story. I don't
expect to be here longer than two or two-and-a-half hours more, which means I'll miss dinner but be home
before we get the baby ready for bed. I'm fine. Everything's fine.
This story I'm working on is taking me around in all of these circles, but, hey it's a living. I'll have the phone
with me. I'm sorry I didn't call you at work. I just don't want to get you in trouble with your boss. I'll call when I
leave for home, and if you need anything just give me a ring. I love you. See you soon. Bye.
Walterovich took out his wallet which had some of his most prized family pictures and thumbed to the shot
of him with his wife in front of the family's Christmas tree the year before. The couple looked so happy:
Walterovich with his winter stubble and Alessandra with her dark brown hair, mahogany streaks, her soft
pale, baby-smooth face, tight black eye brows, gemstone deep brown, tiger eyes and a soft and peaceful
smile that nearly moved the writer to tears.
It was for Alessandra, that the reporter wanted to turn in an award-winning story. Walterovich knew all too
well the sacrifices his wife made for his career. The reporter's pay was just enough to scrape by with a
simple vacation. Coupons were always being clipped; Alessandra never gazed too long at new clothes or
jewelry; she mended undergarments to add useful life.
Rice and pastas were overcompensated for lacking meats; phone cards were bought for Alessandra to call
her mother in Russia at some awful hour in the states.
It was all enough to keep the writer up all night, some nights, dreaming of finally helping his family break
through to some real comfort. He just needed one great story.
“I'm going to get this story for us, Alessandra. I'm going to get this story and get that big book deal I've
always promised you,” Walterovich promised the photo he was holding. “Fountain of Youth or not, there is a
great story here I'm holding and now I'm going to bring it together and knock Vermont's socks off. You'll see.
This one will put us over the top.”
Walterovich pulled his warm, well-worn black cashmere jacket tighter to his body and climbed in his
vehicle. “Where to go? Where to go?” he mumbled. The heavy leaning was to return to the archivist's house,
but Walterovich didn't want to overuse that card at this stage of the game. Andi's had privacy, but he doubt
the Internet would have links to all the names on the note card.
“All right, let's try the library again,” the writer suggested to himself, turning on his ride and driving slowly off
to make more trouble.
Walterovich changed his mind and first found Internet time at the Redbridge Library to see what tidbits of
yesteryear where floating in ones and zeroes somewhere within the 10 dimensional universe.
The reporter found three of his more trusted search engines and entered the first of the names: Daphne
and Margo Davilla, Dec. 4, 1911. Nothing specific turned up, only non-sequitur returns that had little obvious
hints to go on. The same was true for searches of Jasmine and Camilla Taylor, Dec. 7, 1934, and Faye and
Alisha O'Donnell, Dec. 8, 1961.
‘This is going nowhere,” the writer thought. Already forming his more brick-and-mortar plan of attack,
Walterovich entered the last name on the coffee-stained note card: Hannah and Lucille Brown, Dec. 6,
1987. Four hits returned, including one from his mentor at the News-Times, the very first editor who hired
Walterovich as a 16-year-old lost boy who somehow fell into his life's work by complete accident. “That's a
blast from my past.” The writer clicked on the hyperlink.
West Champlain News-Times
Dec. 9, 1987
Billionaire Heiress Goes Missing In South Royalton
by Beasley Parchman
SOUTH ROYALTON - Lucille Brown, billionaire heiress to Brown Air Transport, has been reported officially
missing, after failing to check in with friends in the area.
Brown, 31, was reportedly in town doing research for a law book she is writing. Colleagues said that
Brown, reportedly known for her punctuality, never showed for a planned group meeting on Dec. 8 at the
Cold River Restaurant.
The Windsor County Sheriff's Office said that it had to wait the required 24 hours to officially file a missing
person's report, but that the department had been active on the case since the first moment it was first
notified.
“This sounds vaguely familiar,” Walterovich mumbled to himself as he scrolled down an article that was
shaping up much as the one he was hired to compile. The next hits were about seemingly unrelated
people, but the fourth turned out to be a news follow from the Randolph Register Guard. It was under the
community briefs section, Dec. 15, 1987.
Lucille Brown, daughter of famed air mogul Henry Monroe Brown is alive and well; Brown had been
reported missing by friends a week earlier after she failed to show up for group projects related to a
research paper.
“I interviewed Ms. Brown and she apologized for causing any confusion," said deputy sheriff Mack Newton.
“She brought all her ID and even gave us a thumb print. We're all very glad this story had a happy ending.”
“Hmm...” the reporter said under his breath. “Oh, Justin please, stay on track. There's no Fountain of Youth.”
Three large books came crashing down in a section close to the computer terminals.
Walterovich got up to see a red-faced librarian scrambling to get the volumes. “Are you OK?” the reporter
asked. The book keeper gave a half smile and scurried away into the back of the building.
The reporter couldn't help himself. He was unable to wait until returning to the supposed safe lines at
Andi's to check his email. The Christmas Eve temptation was becoming too overwhelming to not shake any
of his presents.
“What can it hurt to quickly check?” he reasoned with himself, returning to his library computer terminal and
logging on to the information superhighway. He had seven new messages: His boss was becoming
prolific, but some new sources came to the surface, including the News-Times lawyer that Walterovich had
requested after calling his boss a crook. But the surprise best-of-show came from the preacher's son,
Dylan Ryan, who a few hours earlier had seemingly offered the writer the answers he was now scrambling
to find.
There was no subject line on the email.
From: Dylan_Ryan_Redbridge@vt-mail.com
To: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
Subject: Please read!!!
____________________________________________________
JW,
I hope you check your email often. I am trying this email address on your business card because that's the
only one I have. You aren't apparently answering your cell phone, or maybe just not from me.
I'm really sorry about what happened today. Don't be mad at my dad. He's just looking out for me. I don't
want you to be mad at me either. I know you have uncovered some interesting layers in Redbridge that you
probably never knew about. I didn't know about them either until my mom told me.
I heard that you are still in town and no doubt are probably working on some great story...the story of your
lifetime.
Believe me; I know that you don't owe me any favors. You looked out for me enough, but I am just asking
you, please for my mom's sake -- don't investigate this story any further. I am begging you. Just drop it.
I can't imagine the temptation, you must feel, as a reporter, to find the answer to this story, but you need to
stop for a moment and think about what it would mean for the town. Redbridge is your family too, Justin. I
know you don't want the government, the CIA, or whoever, coming into town and making a mess out of
everything. But you know, that's exactly what would happen if you publish what it looks like you have
stumbled on. Like my mom says, some powers are just better left out of the hands of men, and I just ask
that you please try and put the town ahead of this story and let it go.
I know it's a lot to ask, and I don't mean to insult you or tell you how to do your job. I have just come to
understand the magnitude of the error I made letting out any information. I'm just trying to make everything
right before it is too late. I hope there's still time.
Thanks for reading this,
Dylan
Walterovich closed his eyes. He was disappointed. The reporter placed no blame on the young Ryan for
asking him to bury a story; Walterovich was asked all the time to shelf, lose or minimize potential damaging
stories. He had no problem with that; not so much that he would acquiesce, but certainly the writer
understood human nature to at least ask. But the rule Walterovich had and used throughout his career was
if someone wanted to make a deal, they had to explain exactly the reasoning behind the request for less
media coverage.
‘Yeah, but it's different this time,’ the reporter thought to himself. ‘This story is already out. There is nothing
to stop this. It's too late. I know the kid meant well but this was the worst possible thing he could have done.
It only suggests he knows something about...’
“You can't be serious,” Walterovich chided himself in a whisper. “Just drop this Fountain of Youth business.”
‘The key is to find every parallel possible with the questionable disappearances of these rich twins,’ he
continued in thought. ‘That's the money story right there. This is the book deal ready to be delivered. Don't
get tainted with any of this Area 51 garbage. It will kill the legitimacy of this story.’
“If there was a Fountain of Youth in Redbridge, I of all people, would know about it for god's sake,” the writer
said, finishing his collective one-person conversation again in library whisper.
From: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
To: Dylan_Ryan_Redbridge@vt-mail.com
Subject: My article
----------------------------------------------------
Hi Dylan,
I'm not mad at all, so don't even worry about it. There are no problems with me, your dad or anyone in your
family so don't pay it another thought.
I can't bury this story. I'm getting to the point not to offend you or be cold, but I have already sent over many
updated versions to my editor. She's going to publish it, that's all there is to it.
Now this is where I am confused, and don't worry this is all off the record; why do you care about missing
millionaires and billionaires around Orange and Windsor County? If someone is threatening you and/or
your family, I suggest you talk with Winslow or a local police officer. If for what ever reason you can't,
remember my big brother Jamie is a cop and he works out of West Champlain, so you would have some
more privacy.
I guess what I am saying is, I need to talk to you. You can call, but I don't have a secure cell phone line and I
really don't recommend it. I understand if you don't want to write down something sensitive about your
family, so just find me. I'm in town so you'll either see my car or ask anyone and they'll track me down.
Again, I know this isn't the answer you want to hear, but it's the only one I can give you. This story is long out
of my hands. Now as to something that is specific that could hurt you or your family, find me and we'll talk. I
can't promise you anything, but I will listen and then explain to you whatever my “decision” is for lack of a
better word. I'm not out to ruin anyone, least of all my friends.
Let's talk in person,
Walterovich
Special database searches within the Redbridge library system provided more leads than the reporter
could have dreamed of: four more wealthy heiresses, four more reported disappearances, four more
rumors of huge donations. The running plotline had six reported cases now.
Walterovich cleared the history menu but left his jacket, saving the library terminal space since traffic was
light. He walked outside, past the paved parking area to a snow covered, gravel path to the most apparent
privacy in near proximity.
“What to do? What to do?” the reporter whispered, looking at his cell phone. “Why did I leave my coat? I’m
freezing out here.”
Walterovich was listening to his old messages; all were from contacts who also emailed him, when Sheriff
Winslow drove buy and abruptly turned around and pulled into the library parking lot.
Walterovich had nothing to hide, but the cop’s maneuver was a little unsettling. Then again, much of the
reporter’s discomfort could be attributed to the physical punishment his older brother gave him during their
early teen years. Jamie was the cop; Justin was the writer. The youngest of the three brothers, Jason was
the smartest of them all – he went for the money and stayed away from fighting.
“I’d figure I’d find you if I looked. I hate cell phones,” Winslow said, after rolling down the window to his
cruiser. “Today’s your lucky day. Where’s your coat? It’s freezing out here.” The lawman held out a piece of
paper with a phone number scrawled on it.
“Who am I calling?” Walterovich asked.
“Jennifer Maxwell. She contacted our office again and asked that I give you her cell number to ask any follow
up questions,” Winslow said. “You are going to get your story after all. I’m glad. No hard feelings OK? I’m
just doing my job like you are.”
The reporter shook his head in disbelief. “Winslow, hold on a minute. Not to bite the hand that feeds me…”
“Then don’t,” the sheriff chuckled.
“Let me finish,” the reporter responded with a laugh. “How did Maxwell know to give this to me?”
“Hey, you’re the reporter, Justin, ask her herself. Listen, I gotta run. Take care.”
“Winslow, hold on. One last thing. I want to return the favor,” Walterovich said. “Check out these names for
yourself.”
“Who are they?”
“Four super, super rich heiresses who either went missing in Redbridge or somewhere close and were
reported safe very conveniently a short time after. That doesn’t count the fifth I found.
Winslow read the card.
Daphne and Margo Davilla, Dec. 4, 1911
Jasmine and Camilla Taylor, Dec. 7, 1934
Faye and Alisha O'Donnell, Dec. 8, 1961
Hannah and Lucille Brown, Dec. 6, 1987
The lawman’s thinking was similar to the reporter’s. ‘This could be huge. This could be nothing,’ Winslow
thought. “So what? People get lost all the time. Rich people visit these parts too. It makes for a nice story at
best,” the sheriff remarked.
“True, Sheriff, True. But as you’ll find if you check these out: all of these short-term missing rich girls were
twins; all had twin sisters mind you; and the kicker is…” Walterovich looked both ways and leaned over to
the cruiser. “All were thought to have completely transferred their entire fortune the very day they went
missing. Every single penny they could
get their hands on. Gone. All of it. Gone.”
Winslow looked off to the distance to process the weight of the information he had just received.
“If you don’t believe me. Check it out yourself,” the reporter whispered. “Newspaper records on the net and
the Redbridge digital archives have stories on all of them. A couple of extra searches connects to websites,
albeit from sources I can’t yet all confirm, that have stories of rumors of these women never really showing
up and that they gave away everything. I have talked to the Chaucer family spokesman myself, who had a
Mary A. Chaucer reported missing in Redbridge 100 years ago today. This exact day in 1904. She’s not on
this list you have but the story is the same. They also told me the same scenario that I just repeated to you.
Rich woman, twin, missing a short time, returns safe, money gone, rich woman vanishes a short time later.”
The sheriff looked at the coffee stained note card again. “Can I borrow this?” he asked.
“You can keep it,” Walterovich offered.
“OK, listen, I’ll get back to you. Stay in town or find me before you leave. And get on a coat. It’s freezing out
here,” the lawman said, driving off to parts unknown.
Walterovich felt a fresh rush of professional satisfaction. “Finally,” the writer mumbled to himself. “We’re
getting somewhere. Jesus, it’s cold out here. Time to warm up.”
The library was warm refuge and it actually took some heat for the reporter to realize how cold he had
gotten in such a short amount of time. Walterovich put on his jacket and tried typing with his gloves on, to no
avail, before finally stopping for a little breather to read over all the notes he had scribbled during the day.
In only a few short hours, the reporter had rode peaks and valleys in shifts that were uncommon for him in
his career. He had emerged with what all reporters crave: A
legitimate show-stopping article. There were so many leads that Walterovich felt confident he could crank
out a 200 page sold-selling book in a little more than three months and betting money would suggest that
none of the competition would beat him to the punch.
The writer always craved diversifying his outlets into books. Articles were grand dances in the moment
where the simplest or most complex stories were brought together in a few hundreds words that, if done
just right, would keep countless unseen, unknown readers completely focused for eight or nine minutes.
The act itself was thrilling, but the economics were
lagging. The reporter Walterovich would make good money for the West Champlain News-Times and enjoy
the bragging rights of scooping the Free Press, if indeed the Free Press decided to pass the Maxwell story
up.
‘But fathers can’t feed children with trophies or pay their mortgage on award certificates,' the reporter
thought to himself. ‘Books are where the money is at.’
Walterovich faced the dilemma of trying to decide how much, if any, of the story to hold back from being
published in tomorrow's edition.
“If I tell it all now, Trevino could very well assign the follows to someone else as punishment for me calling
her out,” Walterovich whispered. “Shoot, why wouldn't she? This isn't good.”
‘But how can I hold anything back. This is the story I have always dreamed about,’ he continued in thought,
becoming aware of the dangers of talking to one's self in public places.
“How am I going to play this?” the reporter whispered right back, breaking his own logic.
The writer breathed deeply and thought. He let his mind surf and roam free recalling random sights,
moments and smells while dancing around the linear program.
“What's my mystery variable?”
Flashes of his early reporting career flickered amongst a sea of random slides. One moment played out
with short but sharp clarity. Four months into the job, back in the summer of 1991, Walterovich stumbled on
to an amazing story. There was a massive bank robbery, a three-man job, and two were wounded and
arrested outside of the bank as they tried to make a run for it with a couple of hostages.
The ringleader, Danny Pryer Blake, smartly decided to stay put. He wanted to enjoy as many hours as
freedom as he would be afforded. Old Danny was going to have plenty of time think about what went wrong.
He got it in his head to go out in style, but this time instead of bullets, by creating himself something of a
legend. Danny barked some orders to get a number for “the newspapers”; his dad used to read wild
stories to him before the old man drove himself into a tree one New Years Eve back in the late 70s. Some
fear-struck loan officer bellowed out seven digits, Danny walked over and calmly dialed and within one
transfer he was at the news desk of the West Champlain News-Times.
The 16-year-old Walterovich picked up the line and almost wet himself when he was told that “famed” wild-
west inspired bank robber Danny Pryer Blake was on the line and was going to make the reporter a star.
But the reporter got greedy and instead of asking for the help he knew he needed, Walterovich opted for
putting Blake on hold and transferring him to a private phone in work room. Blake wasn't pleased and soon
saw the voice on the other end for what it was - some kid playing the part of a big boy.
Walterovich's mentor Beasley Parchman had tracked the cub reporter down for going AWOL and asked him
point blank for an explanation. The young reporter surrendered and handed his boss the phone and
Parchman less-than-politely answered expecting some friend from Walterovich's high school in the other
end.
Blake laughed and said the words that Parchman echoed in the next staff meeting and tarnished the cub
reporter's career perhaps for its entirety. “Tell that kid he lost the story of a lifetime.” Blake hung up and
ended up calling the Free Press. He was shot dead three hours later. Walterovich was suspended for a
week and demoted to obits for three months after.
The reporter, now 30, sat in the Redbridge library getting warm, and decided what his best play would be.
Walterovich cleaned up and left the library, waiting to enter his car and starting the heat full blast before
calling directory services.
“What listing please?” a voice with a distinct British Indian voice asked cheerfully.
“Barre,” the reporter answered.
“What state please?"
“My lord, what state? Vermont, Vermont please.”
“Thank you, your listing?
“May I please have any number for a Beasley Parchman?"
Walterovich sat with two phone numbers in his hand and tried to resist the metaphor of being at a fork in
the road, but his rebellious subconscious failed him.
“I need to make sure that I get the most out of the Maxwell interview even though it no longer has the juice to
it since she is supposedly fine and safe,” Walterovich said to himself, turning the music loader in his car in
case any walkers-by were to overhear the lively single-source quartet. “Remember Walterovich, your story
now is very clear. There is a clear and undeniable pattern for rich-girls who are twins, who disappear for a
few days, give away their empire and then return to say everything is fine, only to pull an Elvis act and never
prove if they are dead or alive.”
The reporter chuckled with immense pride at how good the story line was, especially since all of it could be
authenticated by multiple sources. “That’s a book. That’s a best seller right there,” the writer encouraged
himself. “So there is the thinking that if I could somehow get a hold of Parchman first and see if he has any
insight into the case he covered in ’87, maybe I can squeeze out two or three more great questions to
spring on Maxwell.”
Walterovich exhaled slowly, digesting his line of thought. “But then again, if I miss Maxwell, if somehow she
drives out of cell range or whatever obstacle du jour springs up, I will…it will sting for a very long time,” the
reporter cautioned. “What to do? What to do?”
Walterovich breathed in deeply through his nose and played out as many scenarios as he could. “Oh the
hell with it, I’ve gotta call Maxwell first,” he decided, but stopped after dialing the third digit. Walterovich’s
subconscious replayed the events back his first year with the News-Times where he got greedy and lost
the story that could have forever changed his fortunes. “Better call Beasley.”
Seven digits later the phone was ringing and the comforting paternal mentoring voice that Walterovich
heard for the first eight years of his career picked up.
“Hello?” said the familiar voice, although with a much stronger passive senior tone than the writer ever
remembered.
“Chief, It’s me, Justin from the News-Times.”
“Walterovich?”
“Yeah, Chief, I’m sorry to bother you at home.”
“No bother at all kid. It’s good to hear from you,” Parchman said. “You just need to speak up, I don’t hear
very well on these things.”
“Sure ,Chief, Sure. Listen, I am on the job and I am calling because I need your help and I think we might
have a great opportunity to partner up on a book.”
“Really?” the retired general said with more of the old hunger and flare that Walterovich remembered. “What
do you got kid?”
“Chief, there was a billionaire heiress who went missing but she returned safe and sound. I have it off-the-
record that she might have donated every penny that she has. Billions, Chief, Billions. That part I don’t have
on-the-record but I have her cell number and will ask her that point blank,” Walterovich said listening to
Parchman’s deliberate breathing. He remembered his old boss doing that whenever a reporter was
pitching a possibly show-stopping story idea.
“But here is the kicker. I have found five more examples with the exact story line…all happening in Orange
or Windsor County. It’s a hell of a book chief, and I don’t want to be greedy. Fifty/fifty, we’ll split it down the
middle. I have these great sources; you have your great sources and all of your experience in the game. It
would be a hell of a book Chief. What do you
say?”
Silence.
“Chief are you there?”
“Hold on a second kid, I need to close the door. Doreen has some friends over.” Walterovich actually looked
at his phone as if it transmitted the wrong response. ‘Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all,’ the reporter
thought. ‘He doesn’t sound with it.’
“Kid you there?”
“I’m here, Chief. You OK?”
“Sure. Sure. Listen kid, I’m glad you called. I’m sure you have found out by now that I covered a story similar
back in the late 80s.”
“I read the article today,” Walterovich said proudly.
“Listen kid, what you have found…it’s the dream any reporter has. I’m glad you called me. It was the right
play,” the old man said. “You…have you seen it? Justin, have you seen it? If you just tell me where it is,
I…promise not to abuse its power. I won’t tell a soul. I’ll just take Doreen and that’s it. You know my word is
good. Remember you wouldn’t be a reporter if it
weren’t for me.”
Walterovich looked at the phone again in disbelief. “Chief, I don’t think you understand. My story is about the
women who…”
“Seventy/thirty, you get the bigger half and your name is on the top of the book. I just want to go there once
and…”
“Chief, I don’t think you follow I…”
“Fine. Fine! 80/20 damn it!” the old man barked. “Oh, I am so sorry. I’m sorry kid. I’m very sorry. I’m an old
man you see, a silly old man who is just counting time. I know you don’t understand now, but you will
someday. Never retire, son. Never. Kid, I always knew you had it in you, it’s your time. You get all the profits
OK, every dime. I’ll give you all the contacts my 53 years in the game brought me. Just tell me where you
are. South Royalton? Tunbridge? Redbridge? Kid, are you in Redbridge? That’s it. You’re in Redbridge
aren’t you?”
Walterovich couldn’t force any sound from his mouth.
“Kid, listen to me,” Parchman continued desperately. “Just listen and think. Do you think they will just let you
mess around with something that powerful? You’re in danger kid. Real danger. I can help you. You can
trust me. Just tell me where you are.”
Walterovich still listened to every syllable but failed to return feedback.
“Kid, you’re young. Don’t be greedy. For Christ sake’s don’t be greedy,” the old man begged. “You don’t
need the Fountain of Youth. You’re young.”
“Fountain of Youth?” the reporter said more to himself than response to his editor.
“You found it didn’t you? I have been search for nearly 20 years ever since I stumbled on the story, but you
found the clues. I knew you could do it kid. I knew it. I trained you well,” Parchman said with a delusional
cackle. “Stay right there, I’ll meet you within the hour. You will be talked about in every journalism school in
this country kid. You’ll live forever: Woodward, Bernstein, and Walterovich. No joke. And you’ll be rich…rich
beyond your wild dreams…Just
tell me where you are.”
“Chief, I gotta go…I’m sorry….I’m very sorry…” Walterovich could hear his editor scream pleas to not hang
up just as the reporter was hanging up. ‘This is insane,’ he thought to himself, immediately dialing up the
cell number for the source of all the day’s craziness -- Jennifer Maxwell.
The reporter carefully dialed each number. The distance seemed so long between digits, he half-expected
the line to get disconnected.
“This is Jennifer.” Four hours earlier, and anyone in Redbridge who heard that voice would have had the
most coveted source in all of Vermont.
“Ms. Maxwell, this is Justin Walterovich with the West Champlain News-Times. You are quite a hard person
to reach,” the reporter said politely.
“Yes, I'm sorry about that Mr. Walterovich. I would have met you in person, but I am needed in Boston late
night tonight, so this will have to do. How can I help you?” the woman said with no particular sense of care
or urgency, but polite nonetheless. “I must also warn you that the cell lines in this part of the state aren't
apparently the best, so I can't promise to give you all that much time. So what would you like to know?”
‘Well, she certainly sounds the part. I give her that much,' the reporter thought. “Ms. Maxwell, what happened
this morning? Why were you reported missing?”
“Well, I can't speak to why I was reported missing per se, but I do understand your question. I was visiting
Redbridge and I decided to leave without particularly letting anyone know,” the woman said. "I can't say that
I particularly thought I owed anyone an explanation but certainly in light of what has happened I want to tell
the people of Redbridge that I am very sorry for making anyone worry. Redbridge is a beautiful town and I
hope to visit there again.”
Walterovich smiled. Even though the woman's responses to him sounded coached, she was fluid and
believable. “Ms. Maxwell, I met with Dr. Karen Procter who gave me a note card with your email login and
password. Why was such information kept for a rainy day and why did you write a letter giving permission to
someone in my position to view those emails and report on them as applicable?”
“Well Mr. Walterovich I can't say that I agree exactly with your interpretation, but I'm not going to stop you from
reading further...” she stopped mid-sentence.
“Ms. Maxwell? Ms. Maxwell?”
“Mr. Walterovich do you have any other questions?”
“Well Ms. Maxwell, I want to make sure we understand each other. I have a letter supposedly from you
granting me permission to read your emails. Are you retracting that permission now?” the reporter asked.
“Are you being confrontational Mr. Walterovich?” the woman asked with a slight air of hard-to-place
satisfaction.
‘Stand down, Justin. You're going to lose her.' “No, no, Ms. Maxwell, you misunderstand. I don't want to
break the law or violate your privacy. That's why I need to ask again, may I continue to review your emails?”
“Ah...I'm not going to stop you, so yes you may, but I reserve the right to immediately notify you to cease and
desist.”
“Thank you, Ms. Maxwell, so just a few more questions. What research were you working on in Redbridge?”
“I'm working on a civil war piece with Karen Procter that deals with the different elements of Redbridge
society who are descendants of the soldiers and nurses.”
Walterovich paused and tried to find some tactfully way to continue the conversation.
“Ms. Maxwell. Do you believe in healing waters?” the reporter asked.
“Come again?”
“Ms. Maxwell, Dr. Procter handed me some convincing evidence that suggests she and you were
researching something important but not quite in the genre of civil war stories,” Walterovich said slowly but
respectfully. “More in the lines of, how should I put this, ...rejuvenating water.” ‘Justin, are you crazy? You
just went nuclear,’ the reporter thought. ‘There's no going back now.’
“Well Mr. Walterovich," the woman said with a rebellious chuckle. "Whatever do you mean?”
‘You messed up, Justin. You messed up. You messed up. You messed up!’ the reporter thought.
“Mr. Walterovich, let me make sure I understand your question correctly: you are asking me on-the-record if I
have any connection to the Fountain of Youth in Redbridge. You want me to answer that question and you
seriously are considering that answer for publication. I thought you worked for a real newspaper, not for a
supermarket tabloid.”
The reporter paid no attention to the attempted slight on behalf of his source on the other end of the cell
phone. It was her wording in her first sentence that, for a moment, seemed to appear as a slip up.
“Ms. Maxwell, I find it particularly interesting how you rephrased my question,” Walterovich said.
“How so, Mr. Walterovich?”
“Well I just mean that I asked if you knew anything about rejuvenating waters and you rephrased my
question asking if you had any connection to the Fountain of Youth in Redbridge. It’s interesting because, if
my question was so absurd, why would your answer imply that there was indeed no such a fountain, and
even if one existed, that you certainly had no connection to it. Do you follow my logic? Your statement was
as if you knew very well there was a Fountain of Youth in Redbridge, just that you had no particular
connection to said fountain.”
The woman mumbled something inaudible, and no doubt unflattering, about the nosy reporter.
“Mr. Walterovich, I have one last thing on-the-record and please be sure to include this in your article,” the
woman said coldly.
‘Somehow I don’t think she is going to offer me an exclusive deal for my book,’ the reporter thought.
“Mr. Walterovich, you are a hack reporter. Please publish whatever you think you have found. You’ll be
laughed out of the state. You’ll be laughed out of the United States for that matter. And here is the most
valuable piece of evidence you will hear today: If you think there really is a Fountain of Youth, think about the
people who must be there to protect it. Do you really think that women who have spent 1,800 generations
protecting this gift are just going to let some do-nothing man walk up and write a tell-all article exposing
one of the most powerful gifts in the universe? If you value your life, you’ll go back to chasing ambulances
for graphic car accident photos and leave this matter alone.”
“Are you finished, Ms. Maxwell? And am I talking with Jennifer or her twin sister by the way? I want to make
sure I get your name spelled right.” the reporter replied. “Seeing that you are part of a conspiracy and all, I
want to get my twins in order.”
“I’m almost done, Mr. Walterovich; you are hereby denied further access to my emails. That letter of
permission is now and immediately revoked. My next phone call is to my lawyer. If we see any further activity
from you or anyone working with you, we’ll make sure your great-grand children are bankrupt. Good bye.”
A bird seemed to cackle overhead. The reporter looked at his cell phone and the “call ended” feedback on
its cover. “Well,” he said with a chuckle. “At least I know that the Maxwell twins are detailed-oriented people.”
The editor sat in her office and opened the cherry wood box which held a few cigarettes she saved for
special occasions. “You know kid, you might make something of yourself in the business after,” she
whispered to the computer screen reading the latest article Walterovich had just emailed her. For a
moment, Trevino the mercenary returned to Trevino the news hungry editor, and she saw a story that would
make the Free Press steam for missing it.
Redbridge Vanishing Act Continues On Cue
by Justin Walterovich
West Champlain News-Times
REDBRIDGE - Here one minute, gone the next, missing person returns with a happy ending: just another
Dec. 8th in Redbridge.
This small town in central Vermont experienced its sixth reported disappearance of a multi-millionaire or
billionaire early yesterday morning when oil heiress Jennifer K. Maxwell was reported missing. Maxwell
turned up safe, as reportedly did her five anniversary missing heiress before her, all of which vanished
respectively on the mornings of Dec. 8 1904, 1911, 1934, 1961, 1987 and 2004.
The story lines were almost mirrored: a wealthy heiress was reported in Redbridge on or about that day
and vanished “into thin air” spurring emergency town-wide searches and pleas for assistance through the
various medias of the day.
While some of the heiresses were reported missing in towns surrounding Redbridge and also in Windsor
County, all had ties to Redbridge. Mary Chaucer (1904) was reportedly accompanying her cousin on
business. Daphne Davilla (1911) was in the Redbridge area promoting a women's rights book. Jasmine
Taylor (1934) was in Redbridge with her husband reportedly studying geology in central Vermont. Fay
O'Donnell (1961) was working with some Redbridge residents on re-mapping projects. Hanna Brown, who
rented a home in South Royalton, was reportedly working on a research paper; as was Maxwell (2004)
when she failed to check in with family who called the Sheriff's Office and asked for a preliminary
investigation. Typically an adult needs to be missing 24 hours before a missing persons report is officially
investigated.
As for the heiress connection, all six missing millionaires/billionaires had twin sisters and also reportedly
gave away their fortunes on the day of their reported disappearance. Furthermore, all six women had family
members who claimed they never could prove the very heiress who
disappeared actually returned. Some even suggested that one twin posed for another.
“All we know is this: The talk that Mary Chaucer gave away every dime she had control of is true," said D.F.
Chaucer, family spokesperson of the 1904 missing heiress. "She hadn't inherited all of her trust, but the
Chaucers weren't as savvy with their funds internally as they should have been. She gave away millions."
The News-Times reached a women reporting herself as the latest missing heiress, who declined to
confirm or deny giving away any of her reported $4.8 billion fortune. Maxwell did apologize to the town of
Redbridge for any concern that was caused by her disappearance. "I can't say that I particularly thought I
owed anyone an explanation but certainly in-light of what has happened I want to tell the people of
Redbridge that I am very sorry for making anyone worry," Maxwell said. “Redbridge is a beautiful town and I
hope to visit there again.”
County Sheriff Pete Winslow said that Maxwell approached him earlier in the day to confirm she was fine.
Maxwell presented multiple pieces of identification and forensic evidence, Winslow said. In addition,
Winslow said that Maxwell authorized him to give the News-Times her cell phone number, at which point
the paper contacted her via the telephone.
As stated, the News-Times was unable to verify Maxwell's identity other than that the source identified
herself as Jennifer K. Maxwell.
Please see “Redbridge Reacts” to learn of the events during the day including Redbridge Chairperson
Shelly McGowan's authorization of a town-wide notification and Sheriff Winslow's investigation.
***
“Yes, he’s back at the restaurant…Andi’s…He went back and forth between here and the library and he
stopped by the Procter house. I was told that he also met with Winslow at the library…That’s fine, no I’m not
too cold, but I like your idea of switching this around because
we don’t want him to think he is being followed…I don’t know, it’s a tough call…So he did call her? He really
said that? I mean, he used the words ‘Fountain of Youth’? He used those actual words? So what’s our
play?…Well, I understand he is one of us, but he also is a few steps away from exposing this whole thing to
the world…No, I’m not suggesting that he is being malicious, but he is a reporter for God’s sake…you don’t
expect him to just pack up and go home? OK…I
have the phone with me and do you want us to have the normal rotation to mix things up? Sounds good. No
I won’t…I won’t…I promise I won’t do anything unless directed. You can count on me…I understand…You’
re right…I understand…OK…I will…I will. OK…bye.”
***
Walterovich reread the article he sent Trevino, proud of his articulation of most of what he uncovered during
the day. ‘Even if I was practically hand delivered the contacts, I still brought together a banner page-one
story. Not bad considering where I was a few hours ago.’ He thought to himself, reading his article again
and again. “It’s a good read Walterovich,” he whispered to himself. “Sending this copy over was the right
play after all.”
This article was the reporter’s insurance policy. The pressure was off now to find any immediate follow by
the deadline for the next day’s edition. Walterovich sent his editor a complete package including a quote
from the source who started it all earlier in the morning.
“Trevino can’t say anything more about this article. I just bought myself some time,” he mumbled. “I’d say it
is about time to call it a day. All this Fountain of Youth madness will be around later. I have my book with
these disappearances. It will sell and sell well. No reporter had the inside like I do. Let’s just call it a day.”
Walterovich looked at his watch – 3:13 p.m. He was tempted to at least use the next two hours to pursue
leads on magical waters but the reporter had learned to be happy with a great story and to not anger the
newspaper gods with gluttonous temptations at seducing more secrets – not until the next morning at
least. “The hell with it, let’s go back to the office,” he offered himself.
The writer cleared his history file, got up, and wrote “thank you” on a piece of paper, placing it on the
keyboard. The restaurateur Thetford was busy inspecting the troops in early preparation for the dinner run,
so Walterovich showed himself to the door.
“I should have written ‘thank you…for charging me $95 an hour for Internet service,” he said with a chuckle,
replaying the skill Thetford displayed in selling a $300 lunch. “Although, you know what? It was a good
lunch.”
Walterovich felt at peace and excited about his prospects after this article. His work would be the talk of the
state in 17 hours, and the reporter was able to leave out any of the sensationalism that could be the basis
for his lottery ticket. With the right proposal letter, he could have a tentative book offer on the missing
heiresses in a week or two.
‘It’s the best of all worlds,’ Walterovich thought, fumbling through the pockets of his cashmere jacket,
looking for his car keys. ‘I just stuck to the facts and now never tipped my hand about this miracle waters
business.’
“I’m covered completely,” the reporter continued aloud, albeit quietly. “And hell, if the million-to-one scenario
plays out, I can have the inside story for a completely different book. You played this hand very well,
Walterovich. I’m proud of you.”
The reporter felt relief. He was overwhelmed, even spooked, by the reactions of his old mentor and the
supposed Maxwell. Walterovich knew he could have pressed to find out if Maxwell, or her sister, had really
given everything away, but with 5 o’clock not all that far away, and Procter seemingly hitting the bottle, he
decided to hold off, at least until the next shift.
And the words of warning gave Walterovich pause. He began to truly entertain the possibility that there was
something complex and magical in his hometown and the reporter decided he needed some more time to
digest it all and formulate his next move.
“Either way, you have your book,” Walterovich said soothingly to himself. “You can take care of Alessandra
and the baby much better now. You can start writing it tonight when you get home. You have enough as it is
for 200 pages. You’re a made man. Time to play it safe. You have your book. Play defense. It’s time to go
home.”
Walterovich opened his dented car door and heard the sound of crunch snow and gravel near him. The
pastor’s son, Dylan Ryan, pulled into the restaurant parking lot. He was driving his mother’s blue Ford
Taurus.
“Dylan?” the reporter asked the preacher’s son, who manually rolled down the car window.
“I need to talk to you, Justin. You’re not safe here.”
“Dylan, listen to me, I’m heading back to West Champlain. Don’t worry…”
“Please, please I need to talk to you. Meet me at the baseball fields. I’ll meet you there.”
“Dylan? Wait… Dylan!” the reporter said, but the young Ryan had already maneuvered out of the parking lot
and headed towards the fields. Walterovich stood with the keys to his Honda, very much feeling like Michael
Corleone in Godfather III.
Walterovich drove slower than the boy and considered multiple times just turning around and heading
north to West Champlain without having some Miami Vice inspired dramatic conversation. The preacher's
son had become a liability. He already cost Walterovich the early jump on his story, and while the reporter
didn't hold grudges he hated to be burned twice in the same day, no less. But the reporter respected that
Dylan Ryan was tormented and the elder wanted to make sure that his neighbor was going to be OK.
‘If he would just drop this already, it would be over,’ the writer thought to himself. ‘I don't understand why he
won't let this go...then again, he doesn't know I sent a story that has nothing to do with the town's hysteria.
Don't be too hard on him. He's just a kid.’
These irregular outbursts from people Walterovich looked up to and respected was the most disturbing by-
product of the story for the reporter. Journalism had long stripped off the gloss of stardom and heroes for
Walterovich, but he still viewed Redbridge as his safe place and consequently didn't enjoy seeing “his”
people break down and show widespread and unpredictable weakness.
“It's so funny this side of the game,” Walterovich whispered to himself, still turning up the radio to avoid
having people hear him. “Reporters are revered as much as used car salesman and ENRON executives,
yet when we are needed to carry the torch of truth, people young and old look up to us as if we have
widespread powers to change the very fabric of the universe.”
The reporter turned left into the circular driveway towards the baseball fields. The young Ryan was already
outside his car pacing nervously. It looked like he was debating with himself or practicing a monologue.
The preacher's son was moving his arms animatedly,
kicking around iced-over snow blocks and shaking his head in apparent anguish and/or disappointment.
Walterovich never enjoyed the role of being a psychiatrist. It was a messy part of his work and the reporter
never resolved if it indeed was part of his job description.
“He shouldn't talk to himself,” Walterovich mumbled to himself. “It looks weird.”
Walterovich hadn’t even got out of the car yet, and the preacher’s son began confessing seemingly
everything from the 2000 Florida recount to the Bills Super Bowl loss to the New York Giants.
“Dylan, Dylan, relax for a moment, let me get a word in,” the reporter said somewhat sternly. “Listen, just
relax for a minute. I can’t even catch up with you. Look, everything is fine. I sent my article to my editor.”
“Oh, God!” Ryan gasped.
“Just let me finish,” Walterovich snapped but added a chuckle. “Jesus, Dylan, what’s gotten in to you? The
article I sent has to do with historical disappearances in Redbridge. That’s it. You or your family are never
mentioned. I talked to Jennifer Maxwell herself, I think, and even she isn’t cited until near the end of the
story. So just relax. I’m not going to mention you, any Ryan, Ryan O’Neal, Meg Ryan, or any other famous
Ryans past, present or future. So just calm down.”
“I hate her,” the young un-cited Ryan whispered.
“You hate who?” the writer asked.
“Maxwell. I wish she never set foot in our town,” the pastor’s son responded.
‘Now this is interesting,’ Walterovich thought to himself.
“Dylan, listen. This morning you wanted to tell me something, then you changed your mind.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Ryan said genuinely.
“It’s forgotten Dylan. What I’m saying is now you apparently want to tell me something again, but are torn.
This is what I suggest: take a few days to think about it…”
“I can’t,” the young Ryan pleaded.
“Why not? Sleep on it. I’m not going anywhere. Call my office in West Champlain and we’ll talk. No worries.
I’ll be back next weekend anyway and I’ll bring Alessandra and the baby.”
“You don’t understand,” Ryan interrupted politely. “This has to be resolved today, Dec. 8. Otherwise we’ll
have to wait another year and my Mom doesn’t have that long.”
The reporter paused. ‘Why is this sounding a lot like my article that I just emailed to Trevino?’ he thought.
Walterovich said nothing and just leaned against his dented, dog-haven Honda.
“OK, it’s like this,” the young Ryan started, looking either at the ground or at the blue gray skies above.
“Redbridge has this gift. This amazing gift that is so powerful that it would, like, change the world…It’s this
water. Have you ever heard or read of Spanish explorers or Portuguese or whoever who came to Florida
looking for, like, the Fountain of Youth? Well, they were right, it is in North America, and it’s just in Vermont
that’s all… I know you think I’m crazy, but it’s the truth. It’s more than just in Vermont. It’s in Redbridge. I
know it sounds crazy. I know. I know, but it is in Redbridge. The only thing is not many people really know
where. It’s guarded by this group, this secret society, and they make all the rules of who can use it and
when.
Well my Mom got really sick last summer and the doctors ran all these tests. They didn’t find out what’s
wrong until they said it’s too late. She won’t even tell us kids what it is but I have overheard her talking to
Dad. It’s real bad. The doctors are talking about months, not years for her.
My Mom was doing research on where these waters were because she is down to her very last few
options. She found some great leads and wrote them in this notebook or journal of hers. I know this
sounds crazy. I know it, Justin, but just listen. So she had this book and this strange Texan comes up to her
in town one day. Mom is just trying to be polite and invites her to church and whatnot. Well real, real long
story short: This Maxwell lady was at my folk’s house about two weeks ago for dinner. She left after the
meal and my Mom became all hysterical asking if any of us saw her notebook. I guess Mom thought she
accidentally left it in the family room or something, although I don’t remember seeing it.
It turns out that Maxwell somehow grabbed it – stole it, can you imagine that?…a few days later…oh
God…a few days later she stumbles onto the spring. Maxwell got caught somehow and told whoever was
guarding it that my Mom came up with most of the information…
So my Mom went off somewhere in town all day and comes back not saying a word. I stayed up all night
and around 2 a.m. I heard her talking with my Dad. Mom said that
the Society or whatever said they were going to choose my Mom to get better from the water because one
day a year, today, Dec. 8, they let an outsider go into the water. Well, they had Maxwell and were going to get
rid of her and my Mom told them to stop. My Mom offered her spot to save Maxwell. Can you believe that? I’
m so proud of Mom, but you don’t understand. She probably won’t make it another year, and even then,
there’s no guarantee the Society or whatever will choose her.
You have to help me, Justin. Please God, I am begging you. For the love of God, you have to help me find
this spring. I’ll get my Mom there, don’t worry, I’m not asking you to get involved personally, just please, help
me find the spring. I’m begging you, Justin. There’s no more time. You are our last…”
“OK, OK, Dylan, OK,” the reporter interrupted. “I’m sold. I’ll help you. I’ll help you find whatever it is you think
will help your Mom. Give me a couple of minutes, I need to call my wife. Meet me somewhere public, say
Sarah’s Lunch Spot in 15-20 minutes.”
“Thank you, Justin. Thank you,” the young Ryan said, shaking the reporter’s hand. “But don’t you think
meeting in public is a bad idea? I’m not being ungrateful, please understand. I’m just asking. These
people are serious.”
“If there is all this security you say there is, the less secrecy the better,” the reporter responded. “It will keep
them guessing.”
‘Jesus, what a mess,’ Walterovich thought. ‘I should have just turned around and headed back to West
Champlain.’
The reporter watched the preacher's son turn back into town and waited until the Ford Taurus was out of
sight before making his next call. “Alessandra Walterovich, please,” the writer said. “I know that she's busy.
I'm sorry, but if possible may I either talk with her or get her voice mail? It's her husband calling...sure, I can
hold.” The elevator music seemed to be about three generations removed from Chariots of Fire but the
wooden flutes obscured the DNA of the song's source code enough that Walterovich wasn't sure.
“This is Alessandra.”
“Hi honey, it's Little Bird,” the reporter said.
“Are you OK? What's wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing's wrong, sweetheart. I just wanted to touch base with you because I left two messages at home
saying that I'm in Redbridge. I was planning to be home a little after dinner. I might need a little longer.”
“Is everything alright? Why are you in Redbridge?” she asked.
“Well, Trevino sent me down here for a story about a missing billionaire. It turns out that she is fine but
there is this huge similarity to other past cases. It's complicated but it will be interesting.” Walterovich was
so happy to be talking with his wife, he forgot he was on a cell phone and had to force himself to speak a
little more vaguely as a precaution.
“Well how long are you going to be there? You know it's going to get cold tonight and the roads are going
to get icy.”
“I know, sweetheart I know, believe me, I want to come home right now. I miss you so much. I'm fine but
there's this kid in town whose family got in a little trouble.”
“I need to run, Justin. Have a good afternoon,” she said.
“Karen?”
She stopped and turned back to face him.
“How do I know that you didn't kill Jennifer Maxwell and are playing me to see how much evidence is
floating out around town?" he asked. ('Jesus Christ, Justin, did I really ask that question?')
Procter grew very serious. “Call Winslow, tell him everything I said. I don't care. I have nothing to hide about
Jennifer; it's our research that I am trying to protect.” Procter turned away and walked briskly out of the
restaurant.
http://www.max-oil-gas.com/login
MaxwellJ
gze169485thl
It looked so simple that Walterovich tried to convince himself it might be the single greatest source
document of his 13-year career in journalism. The one question mark was why the apparent email log-in
information was written on a cheap and coffee-stained note card when sealed in a classy purple envelope
and a snazzy red-wax seal. “But how many times have big clues turned out to be normal daily activities?" he
muttered.
Walterovich went to Yahoo! and typed in the address:
http://www.max-oil-gas.com/login
An impressive, complicated web-page appeared that rivaled that of Pepsi, Coke or even Champlain
College. There was no option for employee log-in.
“Well, maybe I should forget the whole thing and go back to the office," he chuckled quietly, starting to
enter keywords in the site's search box.
*Employee login*
*Employee email*
*Employee communications*
*Maxwell family email*
“Bingo!" he yelped loud enough to be heard outside the office. Walterovich thought his saw Thetford's
silhouette stop for a moment.
The reporter clicked an icon of an envelope with calligraphy "M". A creamed-colored page appeared with
only two input boxes: log-in name; password. Walterovich scrolled to the bottom, where, in bold red font,
said: “Please enter log-in name and password carefully; if mistyped, you will be unable to log-in to your
account for 12 hours.” It didn't seem like a difficult challenge.
Walterovich was spared the curse warnings that oozed over Sir Arthur Clark, but unlike the great
archaeologist, Walterovich was dyslexic and such spelling exercises were down right scary. The writer
breathed deeply and exhaled slowly and sparingly.
M-a-x-w-e-l-l-J
He read it over 12 times slowly and wrote it down four more checking each letter to that on the note card.
After convincing his mirror-reverse parts of his brain that the log-in was a match, the reporter moved to the
second confidence course test.
g-z-e-6-1-9-4-8-5-t-h-l
He read it 12 times slowly and wrote it down four more checking each letter and number.
“OK, Justin, you're in the clear. Just hit ‘submit’ already,” he whispered
“No, no, no. Something doesn't seem right,” he answered himself. Walterovich breathed deeply again. He
resented his funky information processing mechanisms.
“Just hit 'submit'," he ordered himself again. The reporter stopped.
“Fine, Justin, one more check and then the hell with it,” he compromised.
g-z-e-6-1-9-4-8-5-t-h-l
“Oh, Jesus Christ," he said more at normal levels. "I flipped the one and the six. Dummy!”
Walterovich corrected his entry to g-z-e-1-6-9-4-8-5-t-h-l and hit ‘submit’ to get on with his life. ‘Oh, God,' he
thought, finally taking his dialog within. The reporter gazed upon the e-library in Jennifer Maxwell's account.
“Jesus, it would take our whole department at least two months to go through all of this,” he whispered.
‘You better not whisper so much, Justin; this here is the real deal,' he added in thought.
***********************************************
Welcome Jennifer!
INBOX 28
BULK 11
FILES:
*Book
*Research
*Permission/waver
*Business
*Personal
*Other
“Where to start? Where to start?” the writer pondered, already in violation of his personal goal of trying to not
weird-out the town by talking too much to himself. ‘I wonder what is worse: people who talk loudly to
themselves or people who whisper to themselves?'
The permission/waver file caught his eye; Walterovich always looked to cover his bases with legally
obtaining information. The reporter had two personal rules: never quote “unnamed sources” and never print
information obtained illegally. He had bent the latter on occasion but nothing enough, he reasoned, to throw
out the rule completely. He clicked “permission/waver.”
1 UNOPENED: Permission to use information in this account: Aug. 1, 4:49 a.m.
“Well, this is a little too convenient, isn't it?” Walterovich clicked open the email.
_________________________________________________
From: Maxwell, Jennifer
To: Maxwell, Jennifer
_________________________________________________
I, Jennifer Maxwell, being of sound mind and body authorize the full public use and viewing of any and all
emails in this account.
I authorize that anyone with proper access to this account (via the log-in and password that I specifically
provided in writing), to share any and all information included forthwith without impediment or prohibition
from my family or our company Maxwell Oil.
A handwritten copy of this email is in my personal safety deposit box, which I authorize to be opened under
court supervision if needed to authenticate my request.
Jennifer K. Maxwell
____________________________________________________
‘This is turning out to be a very interesting day,' Walterovich mused internally, refreshing his own email
account only to see a new message from Chief Trevino. “Ah, the plot thickens...”
***
Scott’s General Store had seen many owners in Redbridge over the decades, but still remained an
important cultural outlet for many residents who just needed to get away for a few moments. The floor plan
had the quaintness of a Harry and David outlet, with the item selection of both a local green COOP and a
makeshift 7-11. Anyone who was taller than 6’2” (and you’d be surprised how many local men fell into that
category) or weighed more than 200 pounds had to twist, turn or contort some part of their body many times
to navigate through the snug aisles. It made for good performance art, though, for any on-looker who sat on
the waist-high ice cream refrigerator, which had the best view in the house – save the three security
cameras, which were never plugged in and fooled no one within the City Limits.
Scott’s General Store and the Redbridge Post Office competed with the local Church as the hub where
underlying waves of information were spread, distributed and shared with fellow residents. Each had their
own particular flavor and flair.
The Church was the best venue to find out community news: whose children got their grades up; how a
senior was handling a hip replacement; which “pagans” sang best in the choir.
The Post Office was more the society page: which teenagers broke up for third time in the season; who
was mulling over a separation; which nubbies to town had a “past” back in Massachusetts.
Scott’s was where the folklore spread, where the true Vermont anthropologist wished she could get a year-
long grant to immerse herself by the eggplants, where the best theories of missing billionaires were fresh
and abound.
“It wouldn’t be the first time that someone drove to another town without phoning in for permission,” said
Alan Hansen, 48-year-old, fit local church-grounds gardener, speaking in his best library voice, holding a
box of Apple Jacks.
“I understand that, but you can’t not mention the fact that she is a billionaire. She’s a part of a different
universe. A lot of dark secrets follow that kind of power, even if the person is good at heart,” retorted Dave
Millard, 33-year-old, overweight administrative assistant at City Hall. “I can hardly breathe in these aisles.
You’d think they’d open up the place a little.”
They both chuckled.
“OK, OK, or I could try the vegetable section for once,” Millard conceded.
“I heard that Justin is in town,” remarked Mary Clemens, 68-year-old first-edition book collector, holding
some corn.
“Which Justin?” asked her life-long friend Kim Lear, who was born only 15 hours after the bookworm.
“The reporter.”
“Ah…he’ll be the last to know,” chuckled Lear.
Alan Hansen never apologized for being a gardener and handyman, and rarely complained about working
80 hours a week in order to support his family. Hansen became a widower when he was 24 and raised his
three daughters in Redbridge, despite the deep feelings of loss which still haunt him to this very day.
Therapy was making sure the church grounds looked photogenic; the school parking lot didn't have a
single cigarette butt; the copper piping in the bread-and-breakfasts in town both held up and stayed within
budget.
Redbridge became Hansen's grieving grounds and living legacy to his young wife who promised at the very
end to watch over him and their "three little flowers". Maxwell's disappearance was a thick, hypothermic
sleet over the comfort blanket that Redbridge had become to the handyman. He felt more burdened in
some unexplained ways than his first morning as the only adult in his household. Hansen wanted this
billionaire to call a TV station and "go-away" the problem. He didn't want Walterovich on-the-clock. He didn't
want to wait for some big announcement.
Alan Hansen had done a very good job of “keeping on”, and his life had no more room for theatrics.
Dave Millard did well in Redbridge, because he never fought with the deeper laws of genetics, religion or
the universe. Before even reaching double-digits in years, the fifth-generation Redbridge resident made
peace with the fact that he always was going to be overweight, and that people in town would let him lead
via some office in government.
It made for a refreshingly calm teenage experience. While he heard his fair-share of fat jokes throughout
junior high school and high school, he also was elected class president his sophomore, junior and senior
years and won praise for his collaborative efforts with other stakeholders in the student body.
Millard’s first serious girl friend, Kelly Rourke, came into his life his senior year and by graduation had
accepted his wedding proposal in exchange for his agreement to follow her to UVM instead of going to
UCLA.
“It was the best decision of my life,” Millard always said when sharing the story of his courtship. “Besides, I
never really felt very comfortable in a bathing suit or on a surfboard anyway.”
Kelly’s passion was theatre, a field in which she earned her PhD and also won multiple regional wards for
her scriptwriting. She never minded Dave’s working evenings, because it gave her the political capital, so to
speak, to run rehearsals from 6-9 p.m.
Dave had finished two-years before with a Master’s in Political Science. He worked in West Champlain for
Congressman Bernard Dean. The couple decided to have a daughter when they returned to Redbridge
after Kelly’s graduation, and to their credit, they did 10 months later.
“I never did figure out what we would have done if we had a son,” David remarked with a chuckle. “I guess I
always figured Kelly knew what she was doing.”
And for the most part, Kelly did.
Mary Anders-Clemens was born in 1937, a time when just about everyone in Redbridge grew vegetables
and raised chickens for his or her very survival. Had the child openly said that she only wanted stunning first
edition books during World War II, she would have been assigned to shovel cow shit all over town during
planting season.
But the third-generation Redbridge resident knew early on how to keep a good secret and slowly built up
her passion until she was married in 1954 when she told her husband, Tyler Clemens, that she would
collect first-printed museum quality literature or sleep alone in the master bedroom until death did them
part. There were three immaculate hardcover first-printings waiting for her on their wedding bed. Tyler
always knew when he was beat.
Mary’s paternal grandparents came over on the boat from Denmark in 1887. They brought over the printing
business they had tried, unsuccessfully, to go back in Scandinavia. Grandpa Derk printed his own books
as did Mary’s mother, Katha and, together both nurtured a family library of original material with hard leather
gold-leaf covers, as well as such comparable aesthetic and substantive works for other fellow scribes.
They were Orange County’s unofficial first-source library, by invitation only.
“Papa, why do you spend more time putting together a book than you do sometimes writing it?” the wide-
eyed, polar-white-haired child asked.
“Because books are the closest thing that people can come to the elements,” the old man responded in
Danish. “Books are stronger than volcanoes, more potent than the angry seas, the best seven-year soil to
plant your crops, the strongest storms on top of a winter mountain.”
“But…it’s just paper Papa, the smallest spark could destroy the whole work.”
“The largest armies have failed miserably against the papyrus empire,” he responded passionately.
“Maniacs, monsters, liars and thieves all have tried to create a world where truth, spirit, thought, and
empowerment were wiped clean from soft, flimsy pages. Don’t be
fooled little one, the book is the closest thing you or I will ever come to touching God in this life. We might as
well pay the proper homage and bind them with the art, grace and reverence in which they so richly
deserve.”
Mary was hooked. She felt a religious duty to collect and study books. Paperbacks were insults, if not at
least signed personally to her by the author’s hand, and cheap cardboard hardcovers became an affront to
everything she loved and respected. Mary Anders-Clemens didn’t just begin collecting first editions, but first
editions whose content and presentation were worthy – WORTHY—of the craft. There was no room in her
life for mediocrity in this one sacred endeavor, and nothing would stop her from building her biblio-empire.
“Close your eyes and smell the pages; smell the infinite charge that permeates every page,” she would
instruct each grandchild when their hands were washed and demeanor controllable. “This is what heaven
smells like—a first edition book with gold leaf and leather covers and stories so magnificent, they conquer
death itself.”
Kim Lear was born just 15 hours after Mary Anders-Clemens, her best friend, but the two rabble rousers
couldn't have been further apart. Where Clemens life was in rare books, Lear was the queen of the swap
meet and the garage sale. For the town, her thirst for discarded treasures made her something of a guru
amongst fellow swap meet archaeologists, although for Lear, her life's passion was nothing to snicker at.
“It was an ice-cold rainy Saturday and I knew that the cold October chill was going to scare away the early
business," she told to a couple recently, honeymooning from Bethpage, Long Island. They hadn't asked for
the story, but merely inquired as to what there was to do in Redridge. Serves them right to ask such a silly
question. “I was 11 years old but already a consultant to thrift hunters thrice my age.” Lear loved using the
word thrice. It made her feel like a sage.
“The Hunterby family was having a sale for the estate of Grandma Carol who died peacefully in her sleep at
the ripe old age of 99,” she whispered with respect and reverence. “Well, the Hunterbys went through every
piece of Carol's property three or four times and decided what ‘leftovers’ (Lear shook her head in pity) to put
up for sale.
It was raining coats of awful ice and sleet by the time I snuck my bike out and peddled over the bridge. I
knew my parents would kill me, but I was called, I tell you; I was drawn to that estate sale by forces far
outside my control. It was 10 minutes before 10 in the morning and the sale wasn't scheduled to begin until
11. This is a big deal; there are codes and unspoken rules, but being that I was a minor and it was an
estate sale, not a garage sale, I was given first pick."
Lear took a deep breath, looked off at the distance and wet her wrinkled cigarette-laced lips. Her exhale
was one of an old woman having pleasure and a very hard time respirating. “I knew something was there,
and I looked at every piece deliberately, efficiently, and methodically.”
“What were you looking for?" encouraged the new groom now firmly into Indiana Lear's tales of treasure
hunting.
“You never look for a ‘thing’ son, you look for value. I saw a wax purple kangaroo,” she revealed as if
sharing the ending of the Da Vinci Code with fellow book club members who hadn't the patience to wait.
“A purple dinosaur?” asked the New York bride, between gum chews.
“Kangaroo!" Lear snapped back, insulted that anyone would suggest the sage would ever buy a purple
dinosaur -- unless it was eight cents on the dollar. “It was a wax purple kangaroo and I looked over it thrice,
and I saw what looked to be a penny in the middle of it semi-lucent belly. I went and gave the family the
nickel asking price right away, and I gave a poker stare something fierce when Billy Huckleby looked it over
good.”
“What's that in the middle?” he asked me suspiciously.
“A rare coin that will make me wealthy,” I responded coldly. “Billy, oh, I'm sorry, that was one of the
grandsons, about 20 years old, chuckled and sold me the wax kangaroo."
“What...happened?” the Long Island bride whispered.
“I hid that kangaroo in my bedroom and later that night, I burnt it half way and liberated the coin out from its
honeycomb tomb. The copper was tired but ready for salvation, and I gently scrubbed the relic with fresh
water from my water basin, each stroke getting me closer to the truth until finally...finally...”
“FINALLY?” the couple begged.
“It was revealed: a copper coin in wonderful condition, minted in 1785 for the Republic of Vermont.”
“Oh my God...oh my god...” the New York bride gasped. “Did you...did you return it to the Hucksters?”
“Hucklebys?" correct the treasure hunter.
“Yes, the Hucklebys...did you return the coin?" asked the youthful husband.
Lear laughed a good, hearty, long, cough-filled laugh and went to the Post Office to catch up on gossip. “Did
I return the coin?” she was heard laughing from the middle of the street. “I mean really!”
To: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
From: editor@WestChamplain.news-times.com
Subject: Good start.
Walterovich,
You have a good start to this story. We have a solid jump even if the Free Press gets wind of this, which I
am assuming they will since the Sheriff’s Office is holding a press conference at 9 a.m. tomorrow. There is
a chance that they’ll wait until tomorrow to send down someone, but we need to assume they’ll be in
Redbridge relatively soon. Either way, you’re the winning horse.
Now we need to get some real answers. Why exactly was she in town? How does it happen that a
billionaire picks a small Vermont town to stop or research? What kind of research are we talking about?
People know, make them talk and on the record! Go to work Walterovich. This is your town. These are your
people. They trust you. You can talk to them. Take control of this situation here.
I don’t often say this, but this is a story that has the potential to be career making. I’ll even be more specific:
A kick ass story in tomorrow’s edition will make you an assistant editor by next week. I have the ear of the
publisher, the balls, too.
Now bring me something stunning,
Trevino
The reporter’s breathing slowed as he read the email twice, three times and another time after that. It was a
five act play written in only a few hundred words from his editor: ‘What you’ve sent is fluff’; ‘this is your
chance to scoop the Free Press’; ‘do your job’; ‘you have a guaranteed in-with-a-win; ‘surprise me’.
Walterovich studied each line of the email from Trevino. “It’s not adding up,” he whispered. “She usually is
protecting herself in writing and now she’s telling me to play hardball. How did she find out about this story
in the first place? Someone with Maxwell or with a stake in her obviously called, but why Trevino?”
The reporter came to the conclusion that his editor was on the take. Someone had gotten to her and now
the question was who, why and how did it really changed things for Walterovich?
‘I’m still working hard on this story anyway,’ he thought. ‘But if the Free Press sends down one of their guns
and they get the story, Trevino will can me. I know that much. I’ll be unemployed by breakfast.”
“Damn, I am boxed in,” he whispered in continuance. “If I don’t deliver the goods I am out of a job. The Free
Press wouldn’t hire me because they would know that I held back. What a mess. Where is Joseph Heller
when you need him?”
‘Now the question is how much should I tell Trevino about Maxwell’s emails?’ he pondered. ‘What a mess
this story is turning out to be.’ Walterovich stared at the monitor screen for eight minutes running over the
scenarios.
To: editor@West Champlain.news-times.com
From: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
Subject: Update
Chief,
I read your email and I have made headway in this article. I’ve obtained a long printed email that is
reportedly from Maxwell’s company account as well as a typed waver form reportedly from Maxwell giving
the media permission to publish it in the event of her death or disappearance.
I’m not sure who sent it to me. A third party, who wouldn’t tell me who sent it, delivered it just a few minutes
ago. The file/transcript is rather long and I just got it so it will take some time for me to make sense of it all.
Please advise how you would like me to proceed.
Walterovich
“That should wet her beak for a little bit while I make sense out of everything,” Walterovich mumbled as he
clicked the “send” icon. “What a mess this is turning out to be.”
“I need to take a walk," the reporter said, logging out of all emails, including the billionaire Maxwell's. He
felt a sense of dread knowing he would have to pass the dyslexia gauntlet again to return, but the reporter
was tired, overwhelmed and disillusioned.
He exited from a side door in Andi's kitchen and started walking the slim road back into the heart of town.
Walterovich felt a clear and pressing desire to get his wife and daughter and run away back to Redbridge.
The outside world had become thoroughly unimpressive. Yes, the weight of small-time life was suffocating
many times a year, but at least the Redbridges of the world had soul, meaning, purpose and integrity.
All Walterovich had heard during his early years in the News-Times was how honorable the craft was and
the importance and high standards by which journalists and editors had to live.
At best, he was disappointed. At worst, he was utterly deceived. The reality of being a staff reporter on a
fairly healthy-sized daily was that the pay still sucked, and reporters were expected to fill up copy with juicy
stories that either kept their readers away from bottom-wrung television or raised awards on the walls of
editors.
“I have every right to be here. This is a real story,” he said to himself, feeling the winter sun try in vain to
warm his exposed neck. “That's not the point. It just so rotten...all of it. The media, government, churches,
charities. Reporters for small weekly papers have no idea have lucky they have it.”
He was right. At a small weekly, reporters covered city council meetings for the sake of finding more
meaningful layers to issues that were very relevant: School budgets, water safety, dog-lease ordinances.
There was no room for mediocrity because one faced one's very sources every day on-line at the checkout
counter, at the bank, jogging after work. Maybe the actual newspaper didn't have fancy color graphics or a
whole floor of mid-level copy editors, but a reporter could still report without feeling like a prostitute who still
professed to having standards.
“I feel like a need a shower,” he said, waving politely to Bill and Fanny Ashton as they drove slowly in their
lime green "vintage" pickup truck. “What a mess this story has become. Or maybe it's me.”
Bill Ashton wanted to fight in World War II. He would have, had not the war ended in 1945 when he was12
years old. The youngest of seven siblings – five brothers and two sisters – Ashton had to grow up fearing
every mail delivery or black car in town that might have brought home the unthinkable news about one or
more of his four brothers fighting in the Pacific. Ashton’s view of Redbridge was unique to a very select
group of youngsters during the revolutionary war, the War of 1812, the Civil War, World War I and at that
time, what was sure to be the last of all wars, World War II.
Ashton’s sisters ran the house and raised their smallest sibling. Such was true in 1943 when the family
was helping with the war effort.
“Why is there war?” the young Ashton asked his older sister Cara, who was collecting usable tin from
homes in Redbridge to be sent off to the war effort.
“There’s war because men are inpatient and unwilling to compromise,” the 16-year-old future state senator
and college president told her kid brother. “That’s the truth of it, when you really look at the issue.”
“That isn’t true, Cara. Men fight in wars. We’re the brave ones,” Williams responded, trying to keep up with
his sister’s fast pace pulling a wagon of soup cans.
“I’m not saying that our soldiers aren’t brave, William, but soldiers don’t declare wars,
they only fight them. World leaders start wars and then get some legislature to endorse their madness with
a fancy stamp and some flashy parades.”
The boy stopped, dumfounded. “How could you say that, Cara? Mike, Tom, Jerry and Jack are fighting for
us, for our freedom right now. How could you say those awful things?”
Cara turned back and shook her head. “If you don’t want to hear what I have to say, then don’t ask me Billy.
Jesus! Let’s finish up. It’s going to rain soon.”
The two walked briskly in silence for 100 yard before the youngest sibling started up again.
“They…leaders…men don’t let women fight wars, because…they want them safe,” the boy argued.
“No Billy, men don’t let women fight wars for a couple of other reasons. Either, we will show them up and
make them feel inadequate; or we will be smart enough to not shoot each other; or we will negotiate a
settlement that doesn’t fill their pockets with money and land that they don’t deserve. Any way you cut it,
women are too complicated for a man’s war.”
William knew he couldn’t out-debate his oldest sister, yet the child had enough genuine curiosity to want to
hear her rationale. He’d take one for the team. “So what are you saying? We shouldn’t fight Hitler? We
shouldn’t stop Mussolini? We don’t need to stick up for Pearl Harbor?” he asked.
“Billy, I hate Hitler. I hate Mussolini. I hate what happened to Pearl Harbor. You are I are taking about
different things,” Cara responded passionately. “You are talking about combat. We both love our troops. We
both want our brothers to be safe and come home tomorrow. We both want our side to win the war. What I
am talking about are the reasons why there are Hitlers and Mussolinis, Pearl Harbors and the whole damn
lot of it. Who starts these things? Billy, look at me for a second. Do I look weak to you?”
“No,” the boy answered quietly.
“Billy, what would I do if any animal or person tried to hurt you?” she asked.
“You would do anything you could to stop them…to keep me safe,” the boy responded proudly. “You’d kill
them if you had to.”
She nodded in agreement. “Exactly. I’m not a weak woman Billy. I’m not a weak person. I’m just mad. I’m
mad at this war. I’m mad at governments, churches, husbands, fathers …the whole lot of them who tells
every girl from birth the stay pretty, get married as a virgin and serve warm dinners until our skins turn to
prunes. I’m mad about sitting in class and hearing about our forefathers and having to kiss every President’
s ass in history class as if women were incapable of strong and constructive leadership. Every boyfriend I’
ve had has cried three times more than I have, Billy. Mom is the one who keeps Dad going and don’t be
mad, because I’m not saying hurtful things about Daddy, Billy…I just mean, this insanity has been going on
for tens-of-thousands of years and I’m not sure it will end, even when this god-forsaken war does. Do you
understand what I mean, Billy? Do you understand what I’m telling you? Don’t you see the deeper pattern of
it all?”
The boy shook his head, ‘no’ and started crying. Cara went up and hugged him. She sighed and starting
crying too.
“Do you see what you’ve made me do?” she said with a chuckle between sobs and tear-wiping. “You’ve
made me give up Redbridge’s biggest secret.” The red-eyed lad looked up at his sister.
“I should be President,” she laughed, hugging her kid brother as rain soothed their foreheads.
Francis "Fanny" Conners Ashton loved dish towels. It seemed such a simple remedy for most of the world's
problems. Every family holiday she would debut her New Year's dish towels and explain their origin and
purpose with such passion and sincerity that many thought they were witnessing the Shroud of Turin.
“A dish towel has so many responsibilities,” she would say mid-Thanksgiving dining. “It makes a statement
about the colors of the kitchen; its texture leaves imprints on the hands; its utility dries the dishes for
another serving. Most people don't come close in their own lives to making the impact that a dish towel
does. It's true you know.”
Ashton had developed multiple levels of dish towels over the years from the one-time recyclable types, to
the five from 17th century France which she had locked away safely in her South Royalton safety deposit
box. During holiday dinners, Mrs. Ashton would tearfully remark that her dish towels were in some ways like
the children she never had. Her relatives found that comparison heartbreaking and disturbing, since Fanny
had four children who lived in central Vermont, and were always in attendance at the aforementioned
holiday dinners.
“There is a bond you know, between a woman and a dish towel that I think makes it easier for me during
the holidays,” she would say choked with tears. “It's true you know.”
“Um...Mom..."
“Shoosh son, don't ruin the moment,” she replied joyfully.
Chapter 2
Walterovich walked by the home of Damon and Sandy Grear and Grandma Sandy was chipping off icicles
from her porch. “Hey stranger,” the 58-year-old semi-retired environment lawyer said with a smile.
“Hey, Sandy. It's good to see you. How's the family?" the reporter asked, trying to put on his best game-face.
“Come on inside, Justin," the fifth-generation resident said. “You look like you need a friend.”
The reporter found the Grear house luminous and cozy. He was developing a mild stress headache with
pain directly behind his eyes and truly believed that the hot cocoa Gram Gram Gear served him had some
medicinal value.
“I don't want to sound like a broken record, Justin, but I really think you should move the family back here
and lay off all that newspaper gossip. You'd be happier as a writer,” she said, sipping on her Chai.
“Well I'd love to, but I need either an agent or a willing publisher and for some reason I just can't get a break
either way,” Walterovich whimpered.
“Persistence,” Gear responded. “Remember at the end of the day, if what you write is stunning, it will open
doors itself.”
“Do you want to represent me?" the writer asked half-heartedly.
“No,” the grandmother responded with a chuckle. “I only read non-fiction.”
“Then I’ve got a doozy for you,” Walterovich said.
“Ah...that poor Maxwell girl.”
The reporter raised his eyebrows briefly and then lowered them to avoid being impolite.
“Justin, I hope that she is fine, I just image that the phone tree wouldn't be used in town if she wasn't
thought to be in trouble - at least.”
Walterovich sipped more cocoa. He loved the thick sugary film on the top. “It's a hell of a thing you know?
I'm only 30, but I've been floundering in this business long enough that a women's disappearance actually
helps my career. Can you believe that? Can you believe that I am even saying that? I feel so disillusioned.”
“Why so?” Gear asked sincerely.
“Because the worse fate that befalls this woman, the better it could be for my career. I mean think about it.
What stories have made reporters wealthy? Bundy, OJ, Scott Peterson. I am in the wrong business. My
problem was that I never had time to really understand the nuances of what drives news. I was 16 when I
was first hired by the paper, and let's face it: my family and I were beyond thrilled that I fell into the gig.
I'm disillusioned because I've fallen into the trap of creating news -- and I'm not saying lying -- I just mean
that I have arbitrarily followed news stories and made them page-one items when my motivation was to win
my editor's favor. It's the reality of the business. Word gets around. Editors talk. Publishers are on the take
with key advertisers. And every year they go to colleges and to trade shows and rub their big bellies and
swear empty oaths of honesty and honor.
I stay because underneath all the filth, this truly is my calling, writing at least. I understand it at the DNA
level, you know? I know I do things that peers can't with the written word. I just wish I had the insulation from
all the unseemly elements.”
“Would you settle for a sugar cookie?” the grandmother asked.
“You don't have to ask twice,” the reporter said with a smile.
Sandy Gear was born Sandy Hughes but, other than the name change, has been the same wise soul since
old Doc Klein exclaimed to her parents, “Congratulations, it's a girl.” Sandy Hughes-Grear became the
living historian of Redbridge. Every family holiday, get together and milestone she had since she can first
remember involved Sandy saving and cataloging mementos for future review and enjoyment.
During her fourth Christmas, the future Mrs. Grear pulled some of Santa Claus' white beard and stashed it
in her purple velvet dress pocket (strangely, old St. Nick never even as much as twitched his chin. A man of
discipline that Santa.) When she got home, Sandy glued the DNA proof of the existence of Father
Christmas in her leather journal from Great Uncle Evan, and she wrote: “This is Santa's beard. I believed
he existed anyway. Now I know for sure.”
Hughes always knew that she was driven, almost blinded at times, to keep pieces of history important to
her alive for future days. When the archivist was 14, her Mom confided during a long, lazy, summer walk that
Sarah was in fact a twin, her younger brother by seventeen minutes only lived for 16 days.
“I'm not putting any pressure on you and I know in many ways I owe you an apology for waiting this long to
talk about this with you,” her mother said softly. “I don't think there is any way to correctly deal with losing a
child, but that still doesn't make it right that I waited so long to tell you. Don't blame your father, I told him this
was my duty. I made him promise to let me tell you.
I just...I don't know, I think...I've done reading, a lot of reading about twins and I think you are driven to
somehow live a little for Channing and the life he never got to experience. I don't know if I'm saying this right,
but I think you are really special and your work...it's meaningful, relevant and important. I'm proud of you and
all the wonderful memories your warm heart and smile bring our family.”
Seven years later, Ms. Hughes became Mrs. Grear and four more years after that; it was Sandy Grear, PhD,
Anthropology. When she was asked one Christmas at Redbridge Church how she coped with the loss of
her twin, Dr. Grear noted, “Elvis went through the same thing, so I guess I'm not alone.”
The archivist made a peanut butter and banana sandwich and put a candle on it for her little brother, who
always got a Christmas present from her every year after the news.
Lear came back from the kitchen with another round of hot chocolate.
“You know, I’d be happy to get that myself,” the reporter chuckled.
“I know, but I have Jennifer Maxwell tied up by the refrigerator, so I’d rather bring you your cocoa,” she
chuckled. “I’m sorry; I probably shouldn’t be joking about that.”
“It doesn’t bother me. I may be having a mid-life crisis, but I’m still not that bad…I hope,” he chuckled in kind.
Lear sipped her drink slowly and deliberately again, and both enjoyed a moment of silence where only a
small clock in the study and the laugher of some children outside could be heard.
“You know Justin, we aren’t so different, you and I,” the grandmother said.
“How so, we’d rather be drinking hot cocoa than going around making trouble?”
“Well certainly that,” she said with a laugh, “plus the fact that we both collect stories and events to be
shared with others. I know you know I’ve headed up the archives committee at the library, but I have also
come up with some of the best collaborative living histories of Redbridge, from her own stakeholders. Stay
there a second, I’ll be right back…actually…could you please go over there and bring back the large
burgundy-colored book lying on its side on the fourth shelf over there by the blue glass tea cups.”
Much of the Lear’s personal library looked the same to the reporter, as the archivist had her journals bound
with beautiful hardcovers from Redbridge’s own Danish-American book art experts.
“No, you’re close but one shelf over. Look for the blue glasses. There you go. Now it’s the fourth shelf down.
There it is. Bring it over. It’s a real piece of lumber isn’t it?”
“Tell me about it,” the reporter conceded, prying the book from the shelf and shuffling towards the table.
“This looks a lot like the size of what we use to archive our newspapers at the News-Times.
“I picked that size because I do include some full-length newspaper clippings,” Lear said. “There you go,
just put it down right here and let’s take a look.” The archivist took time to open the cover and rubbed her
fingers over the raised type of the cover page, “Redbridge Living History, 1904-1905.”
“You know I love books like these,” the reporter mused. “I can almost hear people talk to me from the
pages. I love it.”
The archivist nodded her head slightly once in agreement and went to say something, and stopped. Then
she started again. “Do you ever wonder happened on this day back in history?” she asked.
“You mean, what happened this day in Redbridge 100 years ago? Let’s see. I’m the first one to do
something like that,” Walterovich said flipping the pages carefully, following the chronology until he reached
Dec. 8, 1904. “You know when I was a kid I used to…WOW!”
Even before he could say anything more to reflect his amazement, the reporter’s mind was flashing all the
great possible news leads. Silence returned to the room again. The children outside had moved down the
road and even the clock seemed to be clicking at a library whisper.
Walterovich ran his fingers over the copy of the South Royalton Register, the famed area newspaper that
lasted until 1981 when it merged with the Orange County Review.
Millionaire Pennsylvania Train Heiress Disappears in Redbridge
“I’ll be damned,” the reporter whispered.
“It doesn’t end there, keep reading,” Lear whispered in kind.
South Royalton Register
Dec. 8, 1904
Millionaire Pennsylvania Train Heiress Disappears in Redbridge
By Jason Elliot Horne
Publisher
Millionaire Pennsylvania Train heiress, Ms. Mary Agatha Chaucer has gone missing as of two hours before
the printing of this publication. Ms. Chaucer last was seen in Redbridge. Ms. Chaucer was visiting the area
with her cousin, Mr. Harold P. Chaucer of Philadelphia, as part of Mr. Chaucer’s work with his family’s
company, he told The Register.
“Our work here is nothing out of the ordinary for what our business normally deals with,” Mr. Chaucer said.
“My uncle (Mr. P.W. Chaucer, member of the Pennsylvania Train Board of Directors), asked me to escort my
cousin on this trip to show her what Vermont looks like in the winter time.”
The Chaucer family has a home in West Champlain.
Ms. Chaucer was staying in a separate room at the Ice River Bed and Breakfast in South Redbridge when
she failed to join her party for dinner, Mr. Chaucer and the Bed and Breakfast owner Cyrus McDowell went
to her door. After no response after repeated knocking, McDowell opened the door with Mr. Chaucer’s
consent. Ms. Chaucer was nowhere to be found, said Orange County Sheriff Loren Bishop.
“Ms. Chaucer’s fur coat was still in the room. Her window was open, but there were no clear footprints on
the private deck. The snow was shoveled from that spot at lunch, so it isn’t clear if Ms. Chaucer exited or
was taken from that route,” Mr. Bishop said.
Redbridge Selectboard Chair Gus W. Dowling has asked anyone in the community to immediately contact
authorities with any information related to Ms. Chaucer’s disappearance.
“I make this announcement because this newspaper is going to press soon, and it is better to be proactive
in this matter,” Mr. Dowling said. “I hope that by the time everyone reads this, Ms. Chaucer is safely back
with her family. I support any and all efforts to find this woman. Let me assure her family that the town of
Redbridge will leave no stone unturned.”
When Harry Chaucer woke up at 6:47 a.m. on Dec. 8, 1904, he had no idea that he would be crying like his
little sisters by dinnertime.
Harry was a screw up, so renowned for being un-helpable that his college classmates (all of whom knew
that Chaucer’s father bought his seat) as a prank put his fraternity picture by a mock Webster definition of
failure.
Fail-ure, n.
1. A condition of making your parents want to drink whenever they see you.
2. Losers feel thankful when they look at your life.
3. President Roosevelt uses your picture for target practice.
4. When you are given everything in the world and just sit on your ass.
5. See Harry Chaucer.
It was all true and Chaucer himself didn’t deny it, but the young millionaire didn’t particularly care to change
the perception or the reality.
“I don’t understand why I am always singled out,” he wrote in his private fraternity journals, which he was
sure some day, would be published and housed in every respectable library in the country.
“It’s everyone’s goal in this country to be wealthy. Who cares how it is achieved? I’ve never hurt any one,
stolen or take advantage of the poor or dirty. Anyone would trade places with me in a second. What’s wrong
with the fact that I enjoy my life? Anyone else would surely quit their job if they could go travel the world and
wear fine clothing. I don’t apologize for standing up for my rights to comfortable. I know that I am persecuted
but someday the world will know that I am a martyr for all that the wealthy fight for. May God bless my eternal
soul and forgive all those who persecute me.”
His parents were befuddled and twice considered selling him into slavery and writing a heroic obituary in
the American and European Press. They even went so far as to writing down some early drafts.
“Harold Chaucer, beloved son of Millard and Daphne Chaucer lost his life bravely in the jungle, surveying
possible train routes for the less fortunate. Chaucer encountered wild tigers and natives and fought off both
elements to his dying breath, allowing the rest of the executive team from Pennsylvania Train and Railroad
to escape with only moderate injury. His dying words were reported to be, ‘My life is but a single flicker of an
oil lamp; my soul lies with every new track laid down by Pennsylvania Train and Railroad. God bless the
railroad and my family which
owns it.’
A disoriented Harry once confronted his parents when he inadvertently stumbled on a draft of his own
obituary left in one of the family’s smaller private libraries within their mansion.
“Momumz? What is this? What does this mean?” the defrocked young Chaucer pleaded.
“Oh that…” his mother responded. “It’s just a draft.”
“Daddumz?” begged the child for a little support.
“I wouldn’t worry Harry, the board most certainly wouldn’t approve the action,” his father said semi-
reassuringly. “It’s too expensive.”
It was Harry’s epiphany, which actually changed his behavior for three whole weeks when he reportedly
read the New York Times and learned the difference between stocks and bonds. But old friend comfort
returned lovingly, and in no time flat, Harry Chaucer found his future calling: Professional family escort.
It was the first time that Harry ever felt dread -- an emotion so foreign to his nervous system that he
experienced being out of his body, like viewing some macabre train accident which his parents used to
boast about over Thanksgiving dinner.
“The hardest part about having workers run over is that we still need to pay for the pine boxes to bury them
somewhere off to the side,” the father recounted once, while servants carved the bird. “It’s a god-send that
we lose more from dynamite mishaps. Nature takes care of most of the mess after pouring water over the
infected area. Of course, we lose time carrying up the water, but we can’t have the help vomiting all over our
new train tracks.”
“She’s not here,” bed and breakfast owner Cyrus McDowell, said with some heaviness, breaking Chaucer’
s blank trance.
“I don’t…I don’t understand,” the young Chaucer responded searchingly. His subconscious was still at
peace, or closer to shock, which created in him the false belief that his cousin had told him she would be
somewhere else. All he had to do was remember. Remember. Remember. Nothing came to mind.
“Well, I mean. Where is she?” Chaucer asked more helplessly, his tone turning to the venom with which he
spoke to the “working people”.
“Sir, I don’t know.”
“Well what do you mean you don’t know, you hopeless nitwit? My cousin is not in her room; what do we pay
you for?” Chaucer hissed.
McDowell walked away apologetically, but he wasn’t apologetic at all. He smelt weakness on Harry
Chaucer from the first moment that he arrived in Redbridge and knew it would only be moments before he
was weeping on the floor.
“I owe you an apology, it’s just that I’m scared,” Chaucer responded quickly with genuine tears falling down
his cheeks on to the hardwood floor.
McDowell chuckled, for just a slight moment. Chaucer noticed but didn’t call him on it. The bed and
breakfast owner, fourth generation Redbridge resident, had never seen such a wonderful example of why
the wealthy were both running and ruining the country. ‘This spineless mouse can’t find his own cousin
and all he can say is he’s scared?’ McDowell mused in his thoughts. ‘If I held chopsticks to his throat right
now, he would give me everything in his billfold and write his own ransom letter. No wonder why the rich
stay away the rest of us…they’re helpless outside of their own sheltered element.”
McDowell didn’t want to suggest bring the authorities into the matter; no good could come from the
exposure. But this situation smelt messy and it was better to get some local Redbridge blood involved
before things got out of hand too quickly.
“I don’t know what to do,” Chaucer whimpered. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do.”
“Sir, you better come back downstairs with me,” McDowell said with more authority than sympathy. “We
need to take a little walk to Deputy Sheriff La Salle’s house. He lives only four blocks from here. He’ll know
how best to proceed.”
The two walked downstairs to a silent dining party who heard most of the two men’s conversations and
wanted nothing more than to be privy to the local story of the year without soiling their reputations even a
morsel.
“Sweet Jesus, I’m so scared. My uncle is going to kill me,” Chaucer whimpered, to the secret delight of the
McDowell and other guests. “This is so bad. This is so, very, very bad.”
It was the wisest observation Chaucer had ever made in his life.
Deputy Sheriff La Salle and his boss Sheriff Bishop were in the family room planning a hunting trip funded
by the state legislature. Bishop had been awarded a grant to conduct “off-site moving target training” with
the expressed purpose of keeping the Sheriff and a top deputy ready for emergency situations.
“I figure, we have enough for four-days of pay, some good bourbon, new gear and two factory-shipped rifles
that we’ll have to keep back at the station afterwards in case Montpellier sends over some bean counter,”
Bishop said, between shoving large spoonfuls of lemon meringue pie made by La Salle’s wife, Janine.
“You know, I still need to make sure Janine doesn’t mind,” the deputy whispered timidly.
“Oh Loren, Jesus. I should make your wife a deputy. She wears the belt in your family,” Bishop chuckled.
Janine La Salle was listening intently from the hallway. She wished her husband would go hunting for 44
days, not just four. ‘Of course, if I don’t make a fuss, he’ll think something suspicious and call the whole
thing off,’ she mused. Mrs. La Salle sighed loudly so that the law enforcers could hear her.
“You see, my Janine isn’t going to agree on this very easily,” the deputy whispered with the new evidence to
support his caution.
“Well, buy her something extra special for the holidays; and don’t raise any trouble when she wants to go
out Sunday afternoons with the girls from church,” Bishop replied in a tutorial whisper.
The deputy thought for a moment. “Sheriff, you’re a genius,” La Salle concluded.
‘Yes, you are,’ the deputy’s wife thought from the hallway.
All three schemers heard McDowell’s footsteps and a whimpering man from outside the walkway before
the local bed and breakfast owner knocked three times on the La Salle’s front door. The two cops looked
through the window as Janine answered the door.
“This is interesting,” the Sheriff said.
“Who is the blubbering jellyfish?” the deputy asked.
“No doubt someone slumming from New York or Massachusetts,” Bishop noted. The two heard Mrs. La
Salle welcome the visitors in and offer to take their coats.
“They are both in the study. May I get you two something to drink?” she asked politely. “Coffee, thank you
very much,” McDowell said.
“Bourbon, please,” the weeping stranger pleaded.
The sliding door to the lamp-illuminated hallway opened; and both Bishop and La Salle had to adjust their
eyes for a moment.
“Sheriff. Deputy La Salle. I’m sorry to come over unannounced but we have a problem here,” McDowell
explained. At the word “problem” the stranger started weeping loudly again.
The deputy went to offer a seat, but deferred the Bishop’s lead. Even in his own house, Deputy La Salle
was a dutiful solder.
“Come in; sit down,” the sheriff said dryly. Both guests did. No one offered the stranger a handkerchief.
McDowell didn’t speak and all three locals looked at the pale and distraught stranger.
Young Chaucer felt certain he was going to vomit.
“She’s gone,” Harry whispered. “My cousin. She’s…we can’t find her. Sweet Jesus, please help me. I’ll give
you ten years’ salary if you find her.”
La Salle stepped forward and hissed. “Listen, you may think that Redbridge is just a bathroom stop, but we
here give justice equally to the rich and poor. We don’t sell our service…”
“OK, OK,” Bishop said just enough to stop his servant, but bland enough to show La Salle that he agreed
completely. “Go on, son.”
“I…don’t know what else to say…” Harry muttered. “I mean, oh sweet Jesus…”
“Cyrus, couldn’t she just be somewhere in house?” the Sheriff asked.
Chaucer was momentarily offended at the suggestion that a lady Chaucer would be hiding out in some
strange man’s rented bedroom in a country bed and breakfast, but it was an explanation that suggested
she still was alive, well and locate-able.
“Maybe…” the outsider whispered with hope. “Maybe, she’s still in the house.”
“I’ll tell you what, Cyrus. Go back and go through every room. If your guests give you any trouble, blame me. I
don’t mind. Check everything out and then come right back either way. I don’t want you gone for an hour.”
“Alright Sheriff, sounds good.” McDowell responded dutifully. The bed and breakfast owner stood up, as did
the pale, sniveling stranger.
“Where the hell are you going?” the deputy asked with glee. Chaucer looked confused.
“You’re staying here with us, son,” Bishop snapped.
McDowell flashed a smile of satisfaction and returned to base camp. Chaucer slumped back down and put
his head in hands.
Loren Bishop was a good ole boy who still was rather fair and open minded. Bishop bled Redbridge
through-and-through. He never minded leaving school early to help on the family farm, just as long as
three constants remained true: There were three hot meals a day, and one was pancakes; his bedroom
was the one with the private door outside closest to the outhouse; his Mom and Dad bought him a cowboy
picture story book once a month if the money was there. Management agreed with all three demands.
Bishop was the oldest child of Micah and Carol-Anne Bishop who married two days before Micah was
shipped south with Vermont’s volunteer 4th Infantry to help the Union fight off southern aggression. Loren
was born nine months and four days later.
Private Bishop was never shot, but was bayoneted once in combat, losing much of the feeling in his right
leg, although he mercifully ended up keeping his leg when an extra bottle of whisky was poured in his
wound by a field doctor who, that very morning, had sworn off alcohol. (Doc Green returned to the bottle two
days later. Bishop truly was a blessed man.)
From the war hospital, the young private rationed his cup of water to keep his wound clean, walking the tight
rope of complete dehydration and infection before being reassigned to combat.
April 6, 1862
My dearest Carol-Anne
I swear that the wonderful handkerchief you made me has been a good luck charm. As the Army might have
told you, I was injured in battle. My leg is hurt but please don’t worry. I am doing well and Doc Green brings
others around to show his “miracle patient”.
There are so many things that I want to tell you and I never know if it is more important that I share how
scared I am or to make sure you know I am fine. I dream of you and Redbridge every moment my heart
beats. When I eat, I send my soul to you and we sit together at our little round dinner table and talk about
whatever book you are reading and what we should plant next year.
Please kiss our little Loren for me and tell him that Daddy needs him to take care of you and keep you safe.
I promise you this: I will see you again and I will return alive to Redbridge. I’m convinced of it. Despite all of
this madness and a country in flames I know my destiny is to grow old with you, and be a good daddy for
Loren.
I promise to write you again soon, although I have been told that mail will become very slow to travel. Pray
for me Carol-Anne. Pray for our Redbridge. You will see me again…alive!
I love you,
Micah
County Deputy Sheriff Bryan La Salle moved to Redbridge was he was seven years old, during a rainy,
muddy, yet unseasonably warm February morning in 1881. Young La Salle was in walking distance of three
neighboring farms: The Logans, Lairds and McBryces. All three families welcomed the newcomers with
open arms after an initial dinner when Bryan's father, Norman, committed his family to being good and
responsible neighbors, contributing to the general amelioration of the town and its people.
Bryan had contemporaries in the neighboring clans: Hanna Logan, 8; Karen Logan, 6; Alex Laird, 7 (and
born just two days after Bryan); Kelly Laird, 5; Quinn McBryce 9; Sarah McBryce 8; Erik McBryce 7; and Taylor
McBryce 6. (Quite a busy couple, Mr. and Mrs. McBryce were back then.)
Hanna Logan had formed a kingdom, whose capital was housed in a tree and rock fort on the property
divide of her parent's and the Laird's land, although Queen Hanna had written a formal letter of cession
based on her studies of past revolutions and claimed the property as her own. The monarch appointed her
sister, Karen, and subject, Alex Laird, ambassadors of the transition team to serve their respective parents
the written notice of independence. Hanna loved to delegate, especially when facing the prospect of
parental punishment.
“We the people of the Kingdom of Clubia hereby claim our fort to be sovereign land, free of the burden of
taxation, chores and bedtimes. In return for recognition, we pledge to help more around the house and not
be so much of a bother.”
Neither set of parents officially protested Clubia's independence, but there were rumors that bedtimes were
still enforceable if ever challenged in court.
The very idea of monarchical servitude was thrilling to Bryan La Salle, who feared not being accepted into
the small but bustling town in central Vermont.
“Why do you wish to have citizenship in Clubia?” Her Grace asked the applicant La Salle.
“I want to work to help your fort, Hanna,” La Salle respond dutifully.
“You will address me as Your Majesty or My Queen.”
“Yes, My Queen,” La Salle responded, thrilled with the militaristic comfort which the Hanna's structure
provided. “Yes Your Majesty, also.”
“Very good,” Hanna replied with a smirk. Her lust for power was insatiable, even at eight, although she
always tried to model her reign more in line with the compassionate Scandinavian monarchies. “And if you
are allowed to join our kingdom, what will you provide us in return?”
La Salle heard his pledge lift from his body, although it sounded somewhat foreign, yet refreshingly mature
and well-spoken. “My Queen, if you let me into your kingdom I promise to protect you and the kingdom from
invading monsters, children, pets and nosy parents,” young La Salle pledged.
“Very well. I knight thee Bryan La Salle, Sheriff of the Kingdom of Clubia."
It was the beginning of La Salle's distinguished career in local law enforcement where he balanced the
pressures of serving strong leadership while excelling in the art of community security. While himself, a first
generation of Redbridge resident, La Salle felt incredible loyalty for the town being so welcoming, which
made the crying Harry Chaucer in his private study, all the more unwanted and resented.
Janine brought a shot of bourbon to the stranger who gulped it down quickly without so much as pause or
permission from the hosts of the home.
“Say, thank you,” snapped the deputy sheriff.
“Huh?” asked young Chaucer mid-shake as his body twitched in reaction to the smell of the stale booze.
“I said say thank you, you rude little son-of-a-bitch. My wife isn't a maid and this isn't a Bed and Breakfast,”
La Salle continued.
Chaucer, still in shock, was waiting for someone in the room to hush the deputy sheriff, but no help was on
the way. “I'm..I'm sorry...I'm sorry...” he whimpered.
The deputy looked at his wife and smiled a gentle ‘thank you' to her.
The stranger could feel burning and unwelcoming gazes all around him. He felt like confessing, but had no
idea where to even begin. Mrs. La Salle closed the door back to the study leaving the two cops and the
private school-educated jelly fish to their introductions. La Salle handed his boss a small cigar and both lit
up. The slight caramel and cherry odor made Chaucer's eyes sting. No relief came to the stranger's
overworked pupils, already dry from over-salinization. He need more time to replenish his tear reserve.
“Where is she?” the chief said coldly.
“I...I... don't...”
“Don't lie to us, boy,” Bishop jumped back in. “You can make this so much easier on yourself and come
clean.”
“You don't understand I was with..."
“Shut up. Don't talk until we tell you," the deputy barked softly. “And don't talk loudly, Janine spent all evening
putting the kids to bed.”
“Now where were we?” the sheriff continued with perfect synchronicity. “Oh, yes. Where's the girl?”
“And don't say you don't know, either,” La Salle added.
“I...I,” Chaucer looked up in fear. This moment was everything his parents ever warned him about getting
boxed in by the working class. “Someone took her.”
“Someone?” La Salle asked sarcastically. “Son, this is Redbridge. There's no kidnapping on my watch,”
Bishop insisted. “This is my town when it comes to keeping the peace, and I know everything that happens
here.”
“Good, then please tell me where my cousin is?” Chaucer said hopefully with a burst of unconstructive
arrogance. He had heard that working class towns were much less complicated than his world, and
desperately wished for immediate resolution.
“If you get sassy with me again one more time son, I'm going to leave this house and leave you alone with
Deputy La Salle here,” the chief warned slowly. “And I guarantee you that Deputy La Salle is a lot less
patient and forgiving than I am.”
The deputy fought back with all of his power to stop a full, beaming smile. His joy of being warned of by his
sheriff was almost uncontrollable. Chaucer stopped talking. He felt it was his only play.
“Let me say something else to you son,” the sheriff continued in a low growl; a wild dog preparing to strike.
“If Cyrus comes back and tells us he found a body, you won't see the morning. I can guarantee you that.”
The stranger fought for oxygen. “May I please have another drink?" Chaucer whispered looking at the floor.
La Salle looked at Bishop and Bishop nodded, ‘go ahead.' The deputy left the room to refill another goblet
of liquid courage.
Chaucer let his mind escape for a moment and wondered if his parents had indeed saved that obit they
wrote about him.
‘The clock must be broken. Figures,’ the stranger thought to himself, his belly filled with stale booze which
now was sitting conveniently ready for an exit near his esophagus. No one was talking and Chaucer was
deep in near psychotic break. His brief epiphany came: The sheriff would send Chaucer to prison, where
ruffians and murderers would have their way with him. The stranger fumbled through ways of trying to kill
himself, but all seemed far too messy and scary. ‘I can't even do that to help myself, can I?' the jellyfish
pondered.
Crunch. Crackle. Murmur. Laugh.
Crunch. Crackle. Murmur. Laugh.
Both cops went to the window and tried to wipe a line of sight from the internal fog to see which party was
arriving. There were two voices: One clearly the bed and breakfast owner, the other a sweet angelic female
voice of privilege, security, joy and comfort.
She was alive.
Chaucer began to shake his head left and right and joined his scrawny pampered knees in movement
while beginning to work up the courage to celebrate. His bubbling belly sent up a madman's laugh – a
psychotic, broken, joyous cackle that when finally erupted startled both lawmen to turn 180 degrees -
Bishop dropped his cigar, La Salle slipped two steps back.
“Ha,” the stranger whispered, feeling an ill crawl around his skin. Vomit was just waiting for its cue. “Ha...
HA! HA!”
The front door opened and Mrs. La Salle welcomed in the victors. ‘Just breathe deeply, Harry. Don't give
them the satisfaction of losing your dinner in this caveman's hut,’ the stranger encourage himself. ‘I am
going to have both of their badges at the next club meeting.'
The bed and breakfast keeper opened the door, and the three cave dwellers fought to adjust their eyes.
Chaucer looked perplexed as a shapely women with curly brown hair was seen hugging Mrs. La Salle. She
looked so foreign, but sounded so damn convincingly like Harry's missing cousin. The door closed leaving
four men with separate agendas, and the stranger was again the odd man out.
“I...I don't follow?” Chaucer gasped.
“Sheriff, Deputy La Salle. Everyone is cooperating fully. We searched every room. She's not there. I mean is
there some change that she is hiding or stashed...I guess, but I'm tell you, she's not there,” old Cyrus said.
“Oh, but before I forget, did you hear?. The Selectboard Chairman and his wife are parents. Maggie just had
a little girl. Mom and baby are doing just fine. Maggie's cousin Amber, from Barre, stopped by our place to
let us know. She asked to come with me to tell Janine.” The three locals shared a happy moment.
The stranger puked violently on Deputy La Salle's carpet.
“Oh, god damn it, Chaucer!” La Salle shouted covering his nose.
“Take him down to the jail for more questioning,” the Chief said. “Cyrus come with me.” “But what about
my rug?” La Salle pleaded.
“Oh don't worry,” Bishop said, forcibly taking off Chaucer's jacket. The Sheriff, took a full flask of water from
the table and poured it on the mess.
“Start cleaning,” Bishop ordered the stranger, handing him his custom-cut jacket for rag work.
La Salle went to get powdered soap and more water. Cyrus cracked open the study windows by instinct
and lit some candles. Bishop breathed deeply as overweight men tend to do. Vomit never bothered the
sheriff much. He had the stomach for dirty work.
“You know men, I think I need to let the Chairman know about this one. I don't want him blind-sided by any
problems...Cyrus, I need one more favor from you tonight, and I promise I'll leave you alone.”
“Name it, Sheriff,” the sleep and eat provider replied.
“Go down to the newspaper office and let them know we have a top story to give. Don't give them any
details. Say that I ordered you not to,” Bishop asked.
“Chief?” his deputy asked.
“Well hell, we might as get credit for working on the case of the century,” Bishop chuckled. “And if she
shows up, we'll ask for double vacation.”
Chaucer heaved but nothing else came out. The stranger very much wanted to pass out.
The men finally left Casa La Salle, leaving Mrs. La Salle and her contact from the Selectman’s family to
finally get to the important issues of the evening. “It’s a miracle. I just never. It’s wonderful,” the Chairperson’
s cousin-in-law whispered joyfully.
“Well remember Ms. Vale…”
“Please, call me Amber,” the ambassador offered.
“Please remember Amber, you were chosen because of your ability to take secrets to the grave.
Understand that isn’t a choice you make now, it’s an enforceable contract with the Society,” Janine
instructed politely in tone and coldly in demeanor.
Vale shuttered momentarily when she understood theirs was a secret for which the Society would quickly
silence her. The guest felt small and very vulnerable. “Mrs. La Salle, I…”
“Please, call me Janine,” the hostess responded respectfully.
“Jan…Janine, I can assure you and the Society that in every step of my initiation that I proved myself loyal
and trustworthy to the end. I think I proved that to the committee,” Vale said cautiously.
La Salle smiled. “We have no doubt about your loyalty. Look, don’t get overly concerned; this is a joyous
day,” La Salle said. “Stay for a while and warm up. It’s cold outside, and there is already enough traffic
heading over to the Chairperson’s house about that poor woman’s disappearance.”
Vale giggled for a moment and then abruptly stopped, waiting for La Salle’s approval. The hostess cracked
a huge grin and the two women shared a laugh.
“You grow up hearing stories, fabulous stories, about amazing secrets that are held in this world, but you
grow up and stop really believing them, you know?” Vale said. “It just is so unbelievable. I just don’t
understand, how can something this epic have been kept a secret in Redbridge for all of these
generations?”
“Generations? Try tens of centuries,” La Salle said proudly. “Look, every great secret is kept because just
enough truth is release on purpose.”
“On purpose?” the new initiate asked.
“The quickest way to get too much attention on a secret is to try and hide it completely. Any organization that
has members faces some information leak, even if it is the most innocent, wrong expression or slip of the
tongue,” La Salle said. “But giving the right gossipers just enough to wet their beaks, helps quench their
thirst. Those same storytellers take a story and run with it, making up the details as they go. Pretty soon,
their version is the rural myth, and the true secret is buried in a sealed tomb.”
“Brilliant,” Vale whispered.
“Well, I can’t take credit for it, the Egyptians mastered the art,” La Salle chuckled.
“So are we in the clear?”
“We?” La Salle asked.
“The Society,” Vale added.
“We can handle Pennsylvania Train and Railroad just fine,” La Salle said firmly. “They wouldn’t last the first
blizzard out in these parts. Besides, they’ll never find what they are looking for.”
Walterovich let his mind drift as he sat back and let his consciousness bridge together the new layers of
his latest draft. “How could I have missed this?” the reporter mused. “I never heard this before; how did I
never know about this story?”
Lear patted the writer on his left shoulder. “Read on,” she instructed.
Walterovich briskly but gently turned the pages of the archives to the Dec. 15 edition of the Register. The
headline sat and seemed to laugh a child’s bully laugh:
South Royalton Register
Dec. 15, 1904
Much Ado About Nothing
Missing Millionaire heiress turns up safe
By Jason Elliot Horne
Publisher
“She just needed to get away.”
Millionaire Pennsylvania Train heiress, Ms. Mary Agatha Chaucer turned up in Montreal where she is
staying with distant relatives, she said in an official telegraph sent to the Register on Dec. 14. Chaucer’s
identity was confirmed in a signed and notarized telegraph, and follow-up phone call to Mrs. Francis Abbott
Hubert by this newspaper. Pennsylvania Train and Railroad confirmed Dec. 15 that Hubert was indeed part
of the Chaucer family tree, although a Chaucer spokesman said they no longer communicate with the
Huberts.
As for the missing Ms. Chaucer, the millionaire apologized for “causing undo and irresponsible fear and
concern” in Redbridge. “Your beautiful town only welcomed me and made me feel at home and I returned
your kindness by causing fear that some ill fate befell me. For that, please accept my deepest apologies.”
Chaucer said in her exclusive telegraph to the Register. “While I was born into a life of privilege and
comfort, I am a human being. I was faced with private situations that I could no longer bear with my
immediate family and I have finally found peace with my cousins in Montreal.”
For more on the Chaucer story, please turn to page 3.
____________________________________________________________________________
“So it was a hoax after all?” the reporter asked.
“Why do you say a hoax?” Lear responded.
“Well, maybe my choice of words was off.”
“No Justin, I’m curious; why did you say it was a hoax?”
“I don’t know,” Walterovich said, tucking his upper lip under his lower for a moment to process his deep
thought. “I guess it was just reporter’s intuition. Anyway, she ran away. People run away. I do need to tie this
in to my article. This is great. It’s wonderful. I’m sorry…I always get lost in my thoughts…thank you so much
for showing me this. I’ll be sure to give you credit in the article for showing it to me.”
“I prefer you wouldn’t,” the archivist asked. “You know politics in small towns. I wouldn’t want people to think
that I’m a troublemaker.”
“But you are a troublemaker,” Walterovich said with a chuckle.
“I know. I know. But I don’t want to draw more attention on myself,” Lear said with a laugh.
The reporter said his goodbyes while washing out his cocoa mug in Lear’s sink, and walked briskly back to
Andi’s restaurant with a renewed purpose and thirst for the craft.
‘Who cares if my boss is on take?’ the reporter thought. ‘So what if the Free Press is sending out
their big-name reporters? This is a hell of a story, either way. I’m home free.’
“I got a hell of a story and this one is going on the refrigerator,” the writer whispered.
Walterovich ducked into the restaurant’s kitchen entrance. He cracked his knuckles, restarted Thetford’s
$300-a-day rental computer and went to work.
Trevino had sent her reporter six emails since his last correspondence and the subject header was less
cordial with each new email.
“How are we doing?”
“How’s the story going?”
“What new information have you found?”
“Please check in with me?”
“We are you ?!?”
“What the hell is going on!!!”
Walterovich didn’t even bother opening any of them. For the next few hours, he had the power and even if
Maxwell walked in master chef’s door, the slant of it being the one hundredth anniversary…to the day…of
another rich girl going missing in Redbridge, was a story that all Vermont would be foaming at the mouth to
get a gander at. “I love my job,” the reporter whispered. “I’m back.”
Walterovich melded his original story to include the anniversary of the Chaucer reported disappearance.
‘Be careful here Justin, because if something happened to Maxwell, it would look really cheap to compare a
past story where the women turned up OK.’ He warned himself. “What to do? What to do?” the reporter
whispered. “OK, let’s try this.”
Redbridge Faces Unknown Disappearance
Centennial Anniversary of Big-name Disappearance Revisits Small Vermont Town
By Justin Walterovich
News-Times
REDBRIDGE – One hundred years to the day since Redbridge faced the unknown disappearance of a
wealthy heiress, the community again is banning together to find concrete answers.
Billionaire Texas Oil Heiress Jennifer K. Maxwell was reported missing earlier yesterday morning. Even
before the required 24 hours before an official missing person’s report could have been filed, Redbridge
officials in cooperation with the Orange County Sheriff’s Office were proactive in formally initiating a town-
wide search.
These unfolding events mirror many back on Dec. 8, 1904 when a millionaire heiress from the now defunct
Pennsylvania Train and Railroad was reported as having gone missing at a bed and breakfast in
Redbridge. Mary Agatha Chaucer turned up safe one week later in Montreal, where she traveled by choice.
The whereabouts of Maxwell, at the time of publication,
are still unknown.
Redbridge Selectboard Chair, Shelly McGowan, authorized the use of the Redbridge emergency phone tree
to ask local residents to help locate the whereabouts of Maxwell,
after the Texan failed to return phone calls to family and business associates earlier yesterday morning.
“My office has only heard of this reported disappearance through the County Sheriff's
Office as a courtesy since no Missing Persons Report has been filed at this time, or that is my
understanding,” Chairperson McGowan said. “I will say that I authorize(d) the use of the Redbridge phone
tree...to make sure the whole town is alerted that Maxwell has yet to check in with loved ones. I only pray that
she is somewhere safe and will check in immediately to let
her family know she is OK.”
Sheriff Pete Winslow confirmed that the local phone tree had been employed and called a
special press conference 9 a.m. this morning (date of publication) to share what he described as important
developments in Maxwell's disappearance.
“Our office now has reasons to believe that the disappearance of Jennifer McGowan may be as the result of
suspicious causes," Sheriff Winslow said. “We are actively pursuing many viable leads. I will be holding a
press conference at 9 a.m. (today), earlier if the situation warrants it. Until then, I am not at liberty to speak
further on the particulars of this investigation."
Multiple members of the community told the News-Times that they saw Maxwell in passing during the last
week, including famed chef Andi Thetford. “I met a woman who identified herself as Jennifer Maxwell about
four days ago at the Redbridge Library,” Thetford said. “She said she was in town on holiday as well as
doing some research for a book she was
co-authoring. We didn't talk much, but she seemed polite and relaxed...I hope that she is OK and will check
in with loved ones soon.”
Walterovich reread the draft. “It packs more of a punch, now,” he whispered. “It’s a great insurance policy for
my career and against my competition. The Free Press won’t have anything on me no matter how this story
plays out. I’ll email it to Trevino and she’ll have to run with it. No questions asked.”
It bothered Walterovich that he hadn’t replied to his editor, as surely she would make his work experience
very uncomfortable when he returned to the office. But odds were, in Walterovich’s mind that Trevino was on
the take and there was no way of sidestepping that
without getting mud on himself.
“The hell with it,” he said as he opened the latest and most direct email from his supervisor:
To: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
From: editor@West Champlain.news-times.com
Subject: ?!?
Walterovich,
Where the hell are you? You can’t just go AWOL when you are telling me that this is a big story and you
need to use secured line. Call me right away and give me an update. Stop messing around!!!
Trevino
The writer could feel veins twitch in his forehead. It wasn’t bad enough that his boss was playing him for a
fool, or the fact that he had put together a very good story on the fly for tomorrow’s edition, but to think he
was that stupid, was too much for Walterovich to bear.
‘Yeah, but what if she isn’t on the take and is just being Trevino?’ the reporter thought. There was one clear
way to find out.
To: editor@West Champlain.news-times.com
From: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
Subject: Honesty
Trevino,
I was approached earlier today with what looks like compelling evidence that your office has direct contact
with those involved with Maxwell’s disappearance. I’m a professional, and I will continue to work this story –
and I hope I am very wrong about this -- but at this time don’t feel comfortable being directed by you on this
article. I’m formally requesting that I answer directly to News-Times legal counsel Amanda Doreen.
Please advise me as soon as possible with your decision to my formal request,
Walterovich
PS. I will continue to send you updated versions of my article. Enclosed in the attachment is my latest.
Walterovich pressed “send”.
“If she isn’t on the take, she’ll suspend me without pay in the next email and send down another reporter,”
he said as shadows danced around him from the restaurant’s hallway. “Shit, I hope I’m not wrong. I’ll be
out of a jobby job by dinner.”
The writer begrudgingly turned on his cell phone which began hissing, pulsing, and beeping.
“Jesus, I should take this thing to a tent revival for a snake exorcism,” he said, scrolling down the Trevino-
sent cell-pleas for contact. One number jumped out.
“Sheriff Winslow,” Walterovich said, hitting the automatic redial button. For a moment, the reporter felt his
location within the restaurant was poor for such a potentially huge announcement, but there are more ears
than just from potatoes in open-air Redbridge proper.
“Yeah?” Winslow answered, which was better than an angry “what?” which the reporter was welcomed with
the last call.
“Sheriff, it's Justin with the News-Times. You had called me about 30 minutes ago,” the reporter said with
formality, fingers poised over the crisp new Dell keyboard ready to bring the story home.
“It's over Justin. Maxwell is fine. She checked in with me, in person. It's over. Case closed,” Winslow said
with professionalism, but the slightest show of respect for a stalled story he knew Walterovich had worked
hard on.
“I...I don't...I don't understand,” the reporter muttered in complete befuddlement.
“Justin it went down like this: Maxwell phoned in the office and asked dispatch to patch the call through to
me. She drove up and met me at the south Redbridge line. She had all her photo IDs, her registration
matched, hell; she even offered forensic evidence, if we wanted it.”
Walterovich's fingers typed in auto pilot mode. His mind was bruising quickly. “But..I don't understand how...”
“Listen Justin; she said she heard from the phone tree that she was reported missing. She wasn't missing
at all. Maxwell said her family business is going through some intense but personal contract negotiations
and she needed to get a way for a while. She gave me a phone number to reach her and apologized for any
trouble she caused. I told her she didn't have to apologize for a thing, and we hoped to see her back in town
someday soon. That's was it. She drove south and is going wherever she's going.”
“Winslow, please -- I need her cell phone number.”
“No.”
“Please, just listen...”
“No.”
“Just hear me out...”
“Justin, no. No. You are not getting that number. It isn't public information. There was no official missing
person's report filed. If you want to get a lawyer and subpoena my notes fine, but then don't expect my wife's
barbecue chicken at the next holiday dinner,” Winslow said kindly. “I know you are doing your job and I
respect you. But I guard this town my way and even you need to play by my rules. I gotta go. Bring
Alessandra and your sweet little girl over to dinner
in two weeks. I'm taking a three-day vacation then.”
Winslow hung up the phone leaving Walterovich with exactly one, now flimsy, at best, page-three story; and
one pissed off news editor whom the reporter accused, in writing, of being on the take; and one big mess
that had no hope of easy resolution.
“It's going to be a long day," the reporter hissed, turning himself slowly 360-degrees in Thetford’s comfy
leather office chair. “At best, I'll be demoted to obits."
His fortunes had gone from freedom to power to resignation in all of 11 minutes and 19 seconds.
Walterovich needed a plan and a good one… quickly. With Maxwell’s reemergence, even a possible inside
connection by his boss obviously didn’t reach the Kennedy-conspiracy levels that reporter falsely had
believed.
“I need to turn this story around right away,” the writer charged himself. The internal Rolodex start rolling.
Walterovich desperately searched for any instant keyword of salvation.
“Hah, I’ve got it!” he said, speedily opening up a search engine and typing: Chaucer, railroad, foundation,
family, spokesperson.” Fifteen thousand options returned. ‘OK, not exactly surgical precision on my part,’
he thought. The reporter quickly scrolled through the top fifty options.
“Bingo!” he exclaimed finding that choice 45 was the Chaucer Railroad Legacy Foundation. ‘I’ll come
through with a whatever happened to-Chaucer sidebar and bring something salvageable to Trevino. Maybe
she’ll only suspend me.’
Conveniently a fresh email popped in his inbox from said Trevino with a blank subject line.
“Sweet Jesus, I better pull out a miracle here.”
The homepage of the foundation was classic Americana with tan colors, an America flag and wealthy
children playing happily on a parked red locomotive that was built on the blood and failed dreams of
workforces desperate for something better.
Walterovich clicked on “family archive” and saw 147 leaves on the Chaucer family tree with photos and
paragraphs, living histories and vocal recordings, and where possible, with email links to most living
Chaucers.
The reporter found and clicked on “Chaucer, Mary Agatha” and looked at the new window.
Mary Agatha Chaucer, born March 13, 1887, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; died circa Dec. 8, 1904, Redbridge
Vermont.” Ms. Chaucer was the fourth child of Jacque and Angela Chaucer and had a twin sister, Caroline.”
Walterovich shook his head, marveling at the apparent glaring error on the Chaucer’s own family website.
But that wasn’t his main concern. The fact that the Montreal millionaire had a twin sister seemed out-of-play
and conspiratorial for some unknown reason.
‘Jesus, just drop it. That reporter’s intuition probably has already gotten you fired, dummy!’ The writer kept
pressing.
Caroline Grace Chaucer, born March 13, 1887, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; died, unknown. Ms. Chaucer
was the fourth child of Jacque and Angela Chaucer and had a twin sister, Mary Agatha.”
“OK, now I am officially, lost,” Walterovich said aloud, putting his hands up in the air. He opened the email
from his boss out of automatic response, yet shuddered at the unintentional decision for reception.
To: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
From: editor@West Champlain.news-times.com
Subject: RE:?!?
Justin,
I assure you that, while I may get tips form private sources, I am acting in the complete best interest of the
West Champlain News-Times. If you feel more comfortable corresponding with News-Times’ legal
counsel, then please do so. Please continue to send me drafts of the articles as applicable. Trevino
“OK, now I am officially, officially, officially lost,” Walterovich said, stretching his hands higher in the air. “Let
me see if I got this straight: Chaucer was found but she wasn’t found. She had a twin sister. Maxwell is safe
and my boss didn’t fire me for calling her a crook. Yep, I think that about sums it up. It’s the apocalypse.”
The reporter took out his cell phone and skipped over the old pleas for contact from his apparently falsely-
accused news editor, calling the toll-free-number for the foundation.
“Chaucer Railroad Legacy Foundation, how may I direct your call?”
“Media relations, please,” the reporter said politely.
“I’m sorry he’s on the phone right now,” the young and uncertain female voice said on the other end of the
line. Walterovich waited to be offered some other choices, but none apparently were going to be presented.
“OK, well Ma’am, could you please put me on hold. My name is Justin Walterovich. I’m with the West
Champlain News-Times and my deadline is here. I can’t wait for a call-back.”
“Oh…OK,” the woman said with flushed disproval. The line went dead for a moment and some butchered
incarnation of peaceful mood music followed. The reporter continued his web search for a while and
withheld becoming impatient for about seven minutes; suddenly every second was slapping him in the
brow.
The woman’s voice returned. “Sir, perhaps he could…”
“Who exactly is he?” the reporter said coldly.
“Sir?”
“He, your boss. What is the name of the media relations officer at the foundation for whom you have put me
on hold?”
“I don’t…I don’t know if I can tell you,” the woman shot back.
“What do you mean you can’t tell me? Madame, you aren’t the CIA here. I’m a reporter calling the foundation
on an important story and you’re giving me attitude?”
“Sir, I’m not giving you attitude,” the woman retorted.
“Oh really, well I’ve asked the name of your media relations officer since I am with the media and so far I
can’t even get a name…” The three-ring phone dial interrupted Walterovich’s
monologue.
“Media relations, David Fritz Chaucer speaking, with whom am I speaking?”
“Justin Walterovich, West Champlain News-Times, Vermont.”
“How may I help you Mr. Walterovich?”
“I have some questions about Mary Agatha Chaucer,” the writer said. “Hello? Hello?”
The sheltered voice on the other line exhaled slowly with inconvenience turned disappointment. “I was
afraid you were going to ask me about that,” he responded.
The choice of wording interested the reporter. ‘Why did he say ‘that’ and not ‘her’?’ he thought. ‘Let’s find
out.’
“I'm ready, on behalf of the foundation, to finally address this issue publicly,” D. F. Chaucer said with layers
of relief woven with distinct foreboding.
Walterovich put on his poker face and started bluffing away. “Well I know that this isn't easy for you and let
me assure you that I'm not some hack rag writer for a grocery store gossip column,” the reporter insisted.
“I'm not out to embarrass people; it's just time that this story finds the peace it is seeking.”
‘Too bad I don't know what the hell he wants to tell me,' Walterovich thought.
“I've only been on this job for seven months, but believe me, my family has been watching me for all of my
adult life,” the spokesperson said. “But they knew what they were getting. My great uncle preceded me in
this job, which he held for 31 years. He stuck with the family party line as did his uncle and did his father
before them. I can understand, right after it happened, them not wanting to air this out publicly, but we are
long out of the railroad business and it is time to move into the 21st century. I'm ready for your questions.”
‘Don’t mess this up Justin. If he smells a fake he's gone forever.'
“Mr. Chaucer...”
“Please call me D.F.”
“Thank you D.F., what happened to Mary Agatha Chaucer?”
Chaucer breathed deeply. “Mr. Walterovich...”
“Please, call me Justin.”
“Thank you. Justin, I don't think we'll ever know unless a body is found or grandchildren emerge. All we
know is this: The talk that Mary Chaucer gave away every dime she had control of is true. She hadn't
inherited all of her trust, but the Chaucers weren't as savvy with their funds internally as they should have
been. She gave away millions.”
“Millions?" Walterovich asked.
“We think something in the neighborhood of $2.8 or $2.9 million dollars, and mind you, that was 1904
dollars...everything that she had and significant amounts of what disputably were family funds and assets.”
‘This is good. I hope that Trevino does fire me so I can sell this to the New Yorker,' the writer mused. ‘Or
even better, I'll finally write a book.'
“D.F., everyone with interest in this historical matter still asks, ‘What's the Redbridge connection?”
The Chaucer historian chuckled. “She gave it all away on Dec. 8, 1904. Everything,
everything that she could get her hands on.”
‘Walterovich, go for the gold. Don't mess this up. Don't tip your hand.' “But to whom? Who exactly profited off
this action by Mary Chaucer?”
“I'm not going to name names exactly because I don't want to open up that box, but let me say that that the
monies were given to charities.”
“Such as?” Walterovich asked carefully.
“Such as women's rights organizations, women's shelters, scholarships for poor children, clothing, no-
interest loans, the women’s suffrage movement. I don't have the files here, but our family tracked it down as
best as could be expected. Remember, back in 1904, it wasn't like people could do wire transfers from their
personal computer.”
‘Damn, I'm back. This story is golden. I love my job. Love it.'
“D.F. let me ask you this then. What about Mary's twin sister? There's no official date or location.”
“Well, the family story we told the press and high society was that Caroline was so distraught about her twin
sister that she went to her aid and just became so disillusioned that she never returned to the family.”
“Well, was there any truth in that?” Walterovich asked, trying to keep his knees from shaking out of
excitement from his nest in Vermont.
“Well, you could say that, because she mailed the same letter to multiple members of our family saying she
took a large chunk of her personal assets to ‘do whatever it took to find her beloved sister.’
“What's was the problem?" the reporter asked playing dumb.
“All the letters were postmarked Dec. 7, 1904. Caroline sent them a day before her sister went missing.”
“No shit?” the reporter whispered gently.
“No shit,” D.F. Chaucer responded in kind.
Trevino's eyes squeezed as she followed a couple walking along Church Street, her knuckles nearly white
holding her office telephone receiver. “Oh, I understand Mrs. Collonsworth; you haven't bothered me in the
slightest. It's my job to stay informed,” the editor-for-hire said sweetly. “And I know these cell phone things
are a problem. It was better that you called me first. I’ll speak with Justin often and will get him this
message right away. No...not at all...I'm just glad that the woman turned up safely.
Exactly...we don't want to print stories of bad news. There is absolutely too much bad news in the media
today. I'd like to think the News-Times rises above that, myself. OK...it was very nice talking with you and
please thank your neighbors for having a wonderful phone tree. If you were any more efficient, I'd be out of a
job. OK...sounds nice...you too...Good bye.”
Trevino breathed loudly in disgust, not knowing if her cash cow had just become hamburger, or if her horse
had come in. “That's too many damn animals to track for this city girl,” she muttered, picking up her cell
phone and dialing her spoiled sponsor.
“Yeah?” her Texas contact said in exquisitely southern and snobbish drawl.
“They found her, it's over. I want the other half of my payment wired to my account. You said that even if
Jennifer turned up I'd still get all my money,” Trevino ordered.
“And you will, once this is completed. This isn't over yet,” the Texan instructed.
“Listen, I don't know what you good ole boys expect down south, but I can't kidnap someone and FedEx her
to Austin or San Antonio or wherever you are calling from,” the editor said. “I just got a call from a local
resident who told me that the sheriff started a new phone tree to let everyone know that your heiress
showed herself in person. Case closed. That's it. I
want the rest of my money right now.”
“What about this reporter, what did he find out?” the southern gentlemen inquired.
“Look, he is working this case and has come up with some interesting parallels,” she replied.
“Such as?”
“Such as none of your Confederate business, Texas," the editor hissed. “We had a deal. Don't get cute with
me. You know what? The hell with the rest of your money. Good...”
“I'll triple it. I'll triple your payment,” the concerned gentlemen offered.
“I'm listening.”
“I'll...I'll deposit the rest of our initial agreement via the wire transfer and offer you triple if your reporter
locates Jennifer and calls me directly with her location,” he explained. “Payment
comes when she is safely in our hands. That's the deal.”
“Well, how the hell am I going to do that? I can't deputize him,” Trevino asked.
“You figure it out,” the Texan hissed back.
Trevino breathed twice and pondered seriously hanging up the phone and taking the money and running.
Greed though, was always a little too close to the editor.
“First off, transfer the money and then we'll see,” she replied calmly. “But you gotta play straight with me
now. If you want me to help pull this off, I need to know more than you told me. Walterovich isn't stupid. He's
not that smart, but he isn't stupid and I can only hold him at bay so long. Remember, he's a reporter.”
Silence.
“Hello?” Trevino asked.
“She has a twin. Jennifer has a twin sister, Rachel. Rachel has conveniently turned off her cell phone and
her husband and I haven't always been the best of friends, so he isn't helping. We think she is on
sabbatical, so to speak.”
“So what are you saying that Rachel and Jennifer are pulling some switch or something?"
“I don't know Ms. Trevino, that is why I gave you $550,000 so far to find out!” the gentlemen shouted,
completely losing his cool.
‘Hmm...we must be talking about big money here,' Trevino pondered unfazed; For a Texan, he can't play
poker well.'
“Go on,” she instructed.
“Well let's just say that a significant amount of cash and assets that Jennifer Maxwell controls has also
conveniently been...oh how should I say this? Dispersed.”
“How much?” Trevino pressed.
“That doesn't concern you.”
“How much?" the editor continued to push.
“I told you that it doesn't...”
“How much?” she asked undeterred.
“Jesus, you're stubborn.
“Thank you,” she replied.
“Try in the neighborhood of $4.8 billion dollars. It was all transferred this morning to accounts currently
unknown. Much of that money is in gray areas as to which of us Maxwells actually should control it. You
understand my zeal to have more concrete answers than what your Redbridge phone tree contact offered
you.”
Trevino saw an opening. “Now listen for that kind of money, I should...”
“No more negotiations,” the Texan barked. “Find my sisters.”
The line went dead, leaving Trevino with a shopping list of tasks including how to play Walterovich, and
where to start spending $550,000 (and counting.)
“God, I hate this,” Walterovich said, walking outside the restaurant kitchen to make his cell call from the
road. “She's going to fire me. I know it.” It took four rings before Trevino picked up. The reporter's stomach
felt worse than after five cups of coffee and an old cold slice of anchovy pizza.
“Trevino.”
“Chief, it's Walterovich. They found her. It's over; they found her.”
The editor gasped for a moment. “Are you sure?” she said. "I've been monitoring the scanner on vermont-
sheriffs.com, and I heard nothing.”
“Yeah, it's true. Winslow...ah...Sheriff Winslow called me a little while ago and said that Maxwell literally
drove up to him and gave him every piece of identification needed to run for president,” the writer said.
“Well, I'm glad that she's all right. Contrary to what conspiracy theory you are being fed about me down in
your hometown, I'm really not a monster,” Trevino replied, her voice twanging in pain from being accused of
some sort of bribery.
“It's not that chief. I'm...my mind is racing. There is a good story here,” the reporter. “If we can just set aside
any differences for a moment, you'll love this one. I can salvage a front page spot out of this, right now.”
“Well I read what you sent so far about the anniversary disappearance, but still that isn't show-stopping. We
have some good political stories cooking that could sell some papers,” the editor-for-hire professed.
“Yes, but the plot thickens,” the reporter said gently. “I just talked with the Chaucer Railroad Foundation who
has this really in depth family history section and a PR person to boot. He told me on the record that the
woman, who disappeared 100 years in Redbridge, really was never proven to have been found and she
gave away millions of dollars the day she vanished and that's 1904 money.”
“No shit?” Trevino asked.
“No shit, chief. And it even gets better,” Walterovich continued. “That Chaucer girl, the one who they believe
really vanished had a twin sister whom the family feels helped in some Robin Hood conspiracy to funnel
much of the train fortune to the poor and women's rights groups.”
“No shit?” Trevino said with increased interest.
“For real, chief. So I have something here,” Walterovich replied.
“More than you know,” Trevino whispered.
“What do you mean?” the reporter whispered in turn, although he didn't understand since it wasn't his
secret, why he should be whispering in the first place.
“Jennifer Maxwell has a twin sister. Jennifer Maxwell may have given away $4.8 billion dollars with the help
of said twin sister,” the editor announced.
Walterovich physically dropped his cell phone and then just as quickly dove to continue the conversation.
“How do know this, Margaret?” the reporter asked directly. “Private sources or not. I need to know on this
one. This is all running way too fast as it is.”
Trevino seemed to hum for a moment, mulling over the request. Finally she acquiesced. “Walterovich,
here's the story: My husband went to college with Jennifer Maxwell's fiancé. The guy is loaded, not like her,
but he's in the hundreds-of-millions range. He doesn't care about her
money. I believe that. Daddy Warbucks called my husband who called me and asked if we could share
anything because the police wouldn't help for 24 hours. That's the god's honest truth. I'm sorry I didn't tell
you before Justin, but I'm your boss not your friend. You are absolutely right to ask, and I am sorry if I
compromised our professional relationship. As for whatever else you may have heard about me on the
street, I assure you this: I may have ice in my veins, but I'm no crook. Now go out and get me an award
winning page one story.”
“I'm on it, chief,” pledged the reporter, hanging up his phone. “I wish I hadn’t given up smoking.”
The most coveted source had again become Dr. Karen Procter, who so conveniently provided Walterovich
access codes to all of Jennifer Maxwell's encrypted emails. The reporter began to question the integrity of
the emails files, if not the complete authenticity. But if nothing else, Maxwell had to have been involved; if
there were indeed a hoax.
Walterovich didn't bother even calling Procter until he was in his dog-dented black Honda Accord, because
the writer was determined not to take no for an answer. Procter somewhat begrudgingly offered a meeting
at her home, audibly concerned that Walterovich so quickly wanted to press her for more answers she
obviously didn't want to give.
The Procter home was impressive as the doctor and her partner had put years of well-invested salary into
birthing a magazine-feature-quality home. Walterovich parked in front of the house and saw that his source
was already waiting. Procter opened the door and three large, shaggy, gray dogs charged out. Two
promptly climbed on the reporter's warm car, the third sniffed the newsman.
“I really need a company car,” Walterovich muttered, crunching the snow up to the porch, taking his shoes
off before walking in. Procter never once asked her dogs off the reporter's car. Walterovich chuckled quietly
to himself.
“We have some extra tea if you like. Please help yourself,” Procter.
“Thanks, Karen. I'm fine. I appreciate it, but I'll get right to the point. As promised, I'll share with you what I
have so far. First, obviously I guess you heard the Maxwell is alive and well.”
“I got the phone call from the phone tree not too long ago,” she replied dryly.
“I don't follow, do you think it wasn't her?” the reporter asked.
“Why would you ask that?” Procter asked, putting down her tea on a coaster on her coffee table.
“I asked based on the tone of your response,” Walterovich said politely.
“Well you obviously know more,” the host pressed.
“I'm not holding anything back, Karen. We made a deal. My word is good. I know that Maxwell reportedly has
a twin sister and there was a similar case 100 years ago in Redbridge along this same scenario. That's
the story I am working on. I talked with the Chaucer family. Oh, I'm sorry; those are the relatives of the
woman in 1904...”
“I know who the Chaucers are, Justin.”
“Oh, OK. Well the family's spokesperson through the trust said that they never felt Mary Chaucer's
reappearance was authenticated and in fact her sister, her twin sister, had notified the family one-day
before the disappearance was reported,” Walterovich shared.
“That's what our research showed,” Procter shared in kind.
“OK, so then you know that Chaucer family believes Mary gave away a couple of million dollars to women's
groups and charities.”
“Yeah, you are a good reporter,” Procter said with a smile.
“I'm not that good, Karen. I got lucky. So I guess my question is this: since Jennifer Maxwell also has a twin
sister and Jennifer has reportedly donated $4.8 billionaire dollars to charity...”
“WHAT?!?” Procter shouted, trying to stand up and knocking her tea over her glass coffee table onto her
$15,000 rug. “What did you just say?”
“Are you OK, Karen? Can I get you a towel?” Walterovich offered.
“Forget the towel, Justin. What did you just say?”
“Are you sure about the towel?”
“Justin for the love of God!"
“OK. OK. I have it on good authority, albeit third person sources, that Jennifer Maxwell transferred about $5
billion in assets early this morning.”
Procter went pale and sat down. “She found it. I knew I couldn't trust her,” the
homeowner whispered in shock. “I don't believe it. She found it. It is really is here. She found it.”
“Found what Karen?” the reporter pressed.
“I don't believe it. It really is in Redbridge, under our noses all this time,” Procter whispered again, this time
though with the slightest smirk of vindication to go with her disappointment.
“Karen, talk to me. What did she find?” Walterovich begged, trying to make eye contact with his source.
Procter let out a cackle, which startled the reporter, and she followed with more calm but hearty laughter.
After about 45 seconds she composed herself and looked directly at Walterovich.
“The Fountain of Youth, you fool. Jennifer found it. It's in Redbridge, Justin. Right under our noses. I don't
know about you, but I need a real drink,” Procter said, getting up and laughing her way to her study. “She
really found it.”
Chapter Three
Long before Redbridge was Redbridge, before any pale skin walked the green mountains, the town of ten
thousands secrets was known by the indigenous people as Lands with Quick Hills which Look at Long
Distances.
She Who Keeps Us Safe knew every blade of grass in her hometown, if not literally, certainly in a more
flowing, cosmic sense where bushes and flowers to most people were cures and emancipation to the
medicine woman and those in her craft. Only three months removed from her seventeenth birthday, She
Who Keeps Us Safe had carefully and impressively moved up in the political world while being able to
deflect much of the problems that comes with power. Her husband, Honor from Hard Work, was
progressive in his support for his wife’s career, and at home was low maintenance and quite funny.
She Who Keeps Us Safe was still on the books, as the heir-apparent to her 36-year-old mentor, River That
Cleanses, who much like Queen Elizabeth II, had no intentions of voluntarily retiring from the job. Both
teacher and mentor were collecting supplies on a crisp, beautiful December morning.
“I love seeing blue skies this morning,” She Who Keeps Us Safe said, crunching along in the snow, looking
for tale-tell signs of the root for which she was assigned to forage. “I don’t mind the cold, but I need
sunlight.”
“We all need sunlight,” replied her mentor and friend. “It’s not like you are the only one who enjoys long
sunny days, you know.” River That Cleanses stood near her student and cleared away some snow. “How
did you miss this?” the teacher said with smirk. “If you want to have my job, you need to start doing it better.”
“What? How did you know to look there? There was nothing but iced-over snow?” asked the befuddled
student.
River That Cleanses closed her eyes for a moment and let out a wonderful laugh, so infectious that her
pouting student soon was in stitches. “Why don’t you go up the hill some more, where the markings are a
little easier to read,” the teacher chuckled.
“Fine, fine. Have your fun now,” She Who Keeps Us Safe said with a laugh. “This race isn’t over. I’ll show
you a thing or two.”
“Indeed,” the teacher replied.
She Who Keeps Us Safe trekked slowly and carefully up the hill, still laughing from time-to-time, reliving her
mentor’s success and reaction. “I love my job,” the protégé said to herself. “I’m the luckiest person in the all
the lands.”
A hawk cried and circled above, becoming jet-black during the moments when it glided in-between sun and
earth. ‘Don’t look at me,’ She Who Keeps Us Safe thought, musing for a moment that if hawks were big
enough, they would probably go after people too. ‘You do your
job and I’ll do mine.’
The student kept shuffling upward, but let the sun feed her daydreams. She Who Keeps Us Safe
fantasized about a warm spring day when she and her future children could walk the lands and perfect the
craft, removed and carefree of the stresses of everyday life. The student wanted both sons and daughters
and dreamed of someday being both wife to a chief and head medicine woman for her people. “What a
grand life it would be,” she whispered.
She Who Keeps Us Safe felt her footing leaving her; she spun around and knew there was no stopping her
descent. The student began flailing in the air trying to find something to grab, but only could see the sharp,
knifelike end of a broken branch that was perfectly aligned to pierce her chest. “Oh no!” she screamed
before everything went black.
***
“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” screamed River That Cleanses as she frantically clawed her way up the snow
white hill that was rapidly adding a beautiful coat of red to its cover. “Hold on, do you hear me?”
The teacher burst into tears when she arrived at the scene. Her first reaction was to not move the mortally
wounded girl but time was pumping away from them. River That Cleanses was near complete panic when
she had to jerk her student free and didn’t hear so much
as a yelp. The medicine woman packed snow into the deep wound, which promptly lost its white color.
River That Cleanses stuffed some cloth as a last line of defense, but that too seemed little more than
window dressing.
The teacher looked frantically around and found a side clearing ahead. She dragged She Who Keeps Us
Safe by the arms, bringing a trail of red with her. “Please hold on, please hold on. Don’t leave me. Don’t die
on me,” the teacher begged. River That Cleanses felt no footing herself and knew any slip down the hill
would be the last trip for her beloved protégé.
“We’ll make it. We’ll make it. We’ll make it.”
In the clearing, River That Cleanses applied full pressure to wound, running over any scenario that could
possibly pull out a medical miracle. A warm sensation trickled on the teacher’s ankles. She looked at her
dying patient and saw it couldn’t come from her.
River That Cleanses turned around and felt warm water spring water behind her. The teacher looked at her
fingers: the skin, which touched water, went smooth like a pre-teenager.
It made no sense, but the medicine woman wasn’t in a position to argue. She began digging frantically to
expose for heated aqua therapy.
Water spurted, blasting dirt from her hands; River That Cleanses had completely smooth hands now, free
of scratches, wrinkles or impurities.
‘What’s going on here?’
The teacher dragged her student over to the spring, splashing warm water all over her body and clawing
like an animal to expose more water. The red mixture soon stopped tainting the spring; the medicine
woman stumbled back as she froze at the sight before her.
She Who Keeps Us Safe’s wound closed, her eyes opened and she began to smile. The miracle didn’t
stop there. The patient, who was moments from death, began to shrink, becoming a preteen and then a
little girl. ‘Get her out, her out,’ the teacher’s internal voice ordered. ‘She’ll turn to a baby.’
River That Cleanses picked up her now three-year-old student whose squeaky voice was laughing while
she said. “I miss you, Mommy. You keep me safe. I’m cold Mommy. I hungry.”
The teacher held her child for dear life. “What am I going to tell your husband?” River That Cleanses
whispered, wiping her tears of shock and joy with her young protégé’s shiny flowing hair.
She Who Keeps Us Safe was shivering against her teacher’s body as River That Cleanses nervously
headed towards base camp. ‘If anyone sees all of that blood, I’ll never have a moment again to speak in
private to Eternal Setting Sun,’ the teacher thought, trying with all of her
might to both filter out the horrors of the moment while trying to comprehend the magnitude of the warm
healing spring.
‘Half of the people already don’t trust me as it is. They are going to think I’m behind
this. Who could blame them? She Who Keeps Us Safe is a child and my hands look half as young. What
am I going to do? What possibly am I going to tell them?’
River That Cleanses had a sick feeling of guilt because part of her expected a brave and thankful reaction to
the fact that her student’s life was spared in nothing short of a complete miracle. But the sage was also
savvy to the politics of her clan and strong women who had independent power always faced high levels of
mistrust and fear. This story would be impossible to be believed even by the medicine woman’s most
hardened supporters.
“I’m going to have to show them the spring,” she whispered to herself. ‘But then what? What about all of
that blood? Everyone knows I don’t want to relinquish my spot. No one will believe me. No one. I don’t even
believe me.’
She Who Keeps Us Safe tussled under her mentor’s garb, but found a comfortable position and finally fell
to sleep.
“It’s OK. Everything is fine,” the sage whispered. “Mommy’s here.”
The medicine woman played a scenario where she took the elders to the spring, to save both her own life
and to show the miracle that saved her student’s. ‘But it wouldn’t end there. The spring will be forbidden
and soon older warrior men will insist on trying to be rejuvenated and we’ll end up breading new armies
instead of saving the sick. Chiefs would reign for 300 years and wives will never be allowed to age. It will be
the end of us all.’
It was a power far too tempting for everyday man and yet River That Cleanses was in no position to stop the
momentum. With the forensic evidence remaining on the hill, the sage would need to try and cut a deal. Her
only hope was Eternal Setting Sun, her main competition for power within the clan, who sat as wife to Chief
Winter Storm.
“How am I going to get out of this alive?” she whispered, feeling her student’s breath against her breast. “I
feel so alone.”
River That Cleanses literally got only three steps into base camp before every free eye in proximity was
focused on her and the toddler she held, who by the camp’s count, was one more child than the tribe had at
breakfast. Every movement towards the medicine woman made her
walk just that much faster. The sage knew she would be stopped at any moment.
‘If they make a move, just scream out Eternal Setting Sun’s name,’ she thought as a seemingly sea of
possible obstacles seemed to strangle her pathway to the Chief’s residence. ‘Just try to smile. Smile.
Come on, make it believable.’
“River That Cleanses, whose child are you holding?” asked the young but respected hunter, Black Bear.
“It’s a wonderful, wonderful surprise…” the sage said trying to force joy into her voice. “I first must share it
with our great Chief. You’ll all know of this wonderful gift very, very soon.”
“Where is She Who Keeps Us Safe?” the hunter continued.
“Oh, don’t worry. Everything is fine,” the medicine woman offered, desperately trying to stay the course. She
could see the Chief and his wife now. They were not far away, but it might as well be an ocean’s distance.
Black Bear stood himself in front of the medicine woman and the child she was carrying, stopping their
movement in their tracks.
“I asked you a question,” the hunter said respectfully but unwavering. “Where is She Who Keeps Us Safe?
Where is my brother’s wife?”
River That Cleanses took a deep breath, and while holding the now awakened and slightly disoriented
child tighter with one hand reached out and touched Black Bear with her free branch. “I have been sent to
share a miracle of life with the Chief and our tribe. Please let me pass,” she said. “She Who Keeps Us Safe
is alive and well. You have my word. She is safe.”
Black Bear’s mind continued to object but he felt his body gently turn to the side. River That Cleanses
smiled “thank you” to him and walked briskly to the Chief.
Chief Winter Storm was deep in conversation with his childhood buddy Running Elk and seemed the last
the notice all the tribe had stopped with the mysterious entrance of the medicine woman and an unknown
child. Finally, the leader took pause and looked at River
That Cleanses and the guest who seemed extremely familiar. “What’s wrong? What happened? Who is
that child that you hold, River That Cleanses?” he asked.
Eternal Setting Sun made no movement or inquiry herself. “Chief Winter Storm, I have been sent to present
you a wonderful gift. I ask before I make the formal presentation that Eternal Setting Sun setting sun helps
me to make the preparation complete,” the sage asked
‘What ceremony? What are you talking about?’ the First Lady thought without changing her expression.
“What ceremony? What are you talking about?” the Chief asked. “Where is She Who Keeps Us Safe? What’
s going on here? What happened?” the Chief pressed.
River That Cleanses felt her stomach drop to her knees. She desperately looked at Eternal Setting Sun and
tried to convey a look that said, ‘this matter is very much in your interest to get involved.’
“River That Cleanses? I asked you a question,” said the Chief louder. “Where is She Who Keeps Us Safe?”
‘I’m done for,’ the medicine woman thought, now pleading with her face for the Chief’s wife to intervene. ‘I
won’t survive the night.’
“River That Cleanses, I am talking to you!” the Chief said sternly.
The sage took a step back but felt bodies behind her. Their body heat warmed up the crisp afternoon frost.
“Great Chief, I should prepare this child before she sits before your Council,” Eternal Setting Sun said.
“What ever River That Cleanses is about to tell us all, we must make sure that this child is clean in the
ways of our laws and traditions. I too am very interested to hear her explanation.”
No one in the tribe moved, save the squirming mystery toddler. Eternal Setting Sun discretely pressed her
fingers into her husband’s palm.
‘Let me do this,’ was her message.
“Very well,” the Chief said, shrugging his shoulders. “But we must deal with this soon.” River That
Cleanses nodded quickly enough to force back tears and scurried into the Chief’s home with Eternal
Setting Sun.
“Mommy? I have to go pee pee,” the child asked.
“This better be important,” the First Lady whispered once the entrance had been closed, finding some
usable basin so the child could remain indoors.
“Eternal Setting Sun, you have no idea.”
***
“You’re insane. You’ve gone mad. Get out,” ordered Eternal Setting Sun, briskly sitting up and walking out of
her domicile. “And I tell you another thing, if you tell this story to our tribe, the best case scenario for you will
be life-time banishment.”
River That Cleanses got up and followed her. She Who Keeps Us Safe was playing, carefree, underneath
some of the Chief’s clothing.
“Listen to me,” the medicine woman said. “Look at the child. Just look at her. She has the exact same
birthmarks. Everything matches up.”
“With the exception of the fact that this is child and She Who Keeps Us Safe left camp this morning as a
grown woman,” the Chief’s wife tried to yell without yelling. “Do you understand that? This isn’t going to
work. Water doesn’t make old people turn into young adults and young adults turn into children. I mean,
wake up. What world are you living in?”
“Yes, but…”
“You may think that I’m just a politician,” Eternal Setting Sun continued, interrupting the sage. “You may not
respect the decisions I made in my life, but I am a spiritual person too. I feel the deeper force of the river
and the trees, of all life and weather around us. But for the love of all that is reasonable: Water doesn’t
make people younger.”
She Who Keeps Us Safe emerged from a mound of clothing and bedding. “I have to go pee pee,” she said.
“Well then go pee pee,” the Chief’s wife said. “River That Cleanses, I am going outside and I am not
standing with you in this story. You’re on your own.”
“Just look at her. You know it’s her,” the medicine woman pleaded in whispers.
Eternal Setting Sun breathed deeply with disapproval but did tilt her head side to side once when looking at
the child. “What exactly are you asking of me?” the First Lady asked more calmly, still studying the toddler
sitting on her bathroom basin.
“Lead us,” the sage replied.
“Lead you?”
“Lead us,” River That Cleanses repeated. “This power, this gift, men can’t handle it. You know what I’m
talking about. It’s too powerful, too tempting. Bring your most trusted friends with me and I’ll show you. I’ll
prove it and if I’m wrong or if it doesn’t work, or if you still want to depose me and keep this power for
yourself, then do what you will. Just let me show you. You don’t have anything to lose.”
“The hell I don’t,” the Chief’s wife responded, biting her one lip slightly as she reviewed all of her options.
The truth was Eternal Setting Sun admired the medicine woman and it wasn't only because River That
Cleanses was her older sister, and decided to dedicate her life to her work instead of getting married off for
political reasons. But that much risk and trouble just was never the First Lady's style. Eternal Setting Sun
knew that she bore extra pressures to make her family stronger and as a result wouldn't get to marry out of
love. Her parents got to cut a deal.
All of this was the way of the world, and the politician's wife never complained. She grew to love her
husband and carried her role with dignity, savvy and quiet strength. The looks though, the moments of eye
contact with River That Cleanses, the times when the medicine woman spoke volumes without saying a
single work, truly got underneath Eternal Setting Sun's skin.
“I taste true freedom. You're just a politician's wife. I walk with eternity. You make salmon treats and laugh at
jokes you don't even find funny.”
Eternal Setting Sun was smart enough to know, though, that even the strongest salmon can't swim up
stream forever. Even the great and wise River That Cleanses would finally wear down. Now was the First
Lady's chance to let her rebel sister twist in the wind. It was the moment the politician's wife secretly
fantasized about for all of her adult life, but much to
Eternal Setting Sun's dismay, she wasn't finishing the job.
“Here are my terms,” she said to the sage. “I can't believe I am even helping you. I must have lost my mind...
You, me and mystery baby over there are going to walk out of here.”
“I want some water,” She Who Keeps Us Safe said.
“No water now, you go pee pee too much," the First Lady said. She Who Keeps Us Safe whimpered in
disapproval.
“We are going to walk out of here. I am bringing Wind Sings Softly and Lake of Wisdom with us, and we'll
go see this ‘spring of youth.’ You make believers out of us and we'll all decide what to do next.”
“Decide how?” the medicine woman asked.
“You're in no position to bargain,” Eternal Setting Sun snapped back. “We don't have a lot of time. She Who
Keeps Us Safe has a husband due here before the sun sets and I assure you he'll be far less
understanding than me. If you are right, then we all get an equal say in what to do next.”
“If I'm wrong?” the sage asked.
“Then you have to run away with only the shirt on your back and you may never return. Sister or not, that's the
best deal I can offer you. Now what's your decision?”
The sage knew long before she entered camp she had no leverage; she was impressed by her sister's
savvy anyway.
“You know, I never made my life choices to hurt you or our family,” River That Cleanses said peacefully.
“I know; we are who we are,” the First Lady answered. “But that's not going to help us now. You need a
miracle right now more than anyone else in the tribe. I hope for your sake, you can deliver.”
Eternal Setting Sun emerged, followed by the two people the whole tribe was talking about. It even the
appeared that the Chief was trying to eavesdrop subtly, much like a mother-in-law keeping abreast of family
politics.
“Are you OK?” the Chief asked his love.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m sorry for the theatrics,” Eternal Setting Sun replied, feeling the weight of a field of
stares directed at her every move. “I need you to trust me with this.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Please let me finish,” the wife told her husband, smiling and touching his fingers. “I need you to trust me
on this. I would never do anything that would bring dishonor to you or make you vulnerable. You know that. I
need to go with River That Cleanses and the child she holds to see something related to the medicines in
these woods. I’ll take Wind Sings Softly and Lake of Wisdom with me to make sure we are safe.”
“Yes but?”
“Shh,” whispered Eternal Setting Sun said peacefully.
“Yes but, why not take my brothers to make sure…”
“Look at me,” the First Lady said lovingly. “You know I think over every decision I make. I’m only doing this
because this is truly best for you and our people. I don’t ask you often, but I need you to trust me on this. I
can’t do this without you, nor would I without you support. I’m asking for you help.”
The Chief tried to protest, but no words left his mouth. He owed just about everything nice in his life to
Eternal Setting Sun, which is why he both wanted to accommodate her and not let her go. Time was a
premium and the Chief had to act.
“Eternal Setting Sun,” he said loudly so all could hear him. “You are the mother of this tribe and are best
skilled to answer these questions of the child River That Cleanses brings. Have the medicine woman bring
back the answers to the whereabouts of She Who Keeps of Safe and take Wind Sings Softly and Lake of
Wisdom with you. You must return before sundown and
then River That Cleanses will be expected to address the council.”
“Yes great Chief,” the First Lady responded. “Your wisdom and bravery keep our people safe.”
“If your not back the moment the sun falls asleep, I myself will lead a party to find you,” the Chief whispered
with authority. “You have to understand, She Who Keeps Us Safe has a young, stubborn husband who I can’
t even guarantee will wait until you return. You’re in luck, since he’s out scouting.”
“Sundown. Fair enough,” Eternal Setting Sun said, giving her husband a kiss.
The party assembled near some horses at the edge of camp. “I don’t ride. My ways are to walk to the holy
sights,” River That Cleanses said softly.
“Just get on the horse,” the First Lady instructed. “You have more important things to worry about then your
medicinal protocol. You’ve put this whole tribe at risk. Now let’s ride.”
Eternal Setting Sun was more of a confident rider and took the mystery child in her arms to allow River That
Cleanses to steer with both hands. The medicine woman took her party the back route to the site of all this
trouble, a path very hard to manage by foot but maneuverable with a four-legged lift. Still, even with the
element of avoiding the red-stained hill on the assent, there was no masking the vulgarity of the scene.
“What did you do?” Eternally Setting Sun gasped, handing the child to the medicine woman as they all took
turns dismounting from their steeds.
“It looks like a massacre,” Wind Sings Softly added. “We should get out of here. The sage is setting us up.”
“Hold on. Hold. Just wait. Just wait,” pleaded the medicine woman. “I know it looks bad. Believe me, I was
here. I remember.”
The sun began its final descent over the horizon. River That Cleanses knew she needed to keep things
moving. Lake of Wisdom, herself unable to have children, took the restless toddler and held her loving,
savoring the fresh smell of baby.
“I got a boo boo there,” the toddler pointed to the deep red around an exposed branch. “It made me cry. It
hurt my feelings.” Lake of Wisdom kissed the child on her head.
“You see, it is her,” River That Cleanses protested.
“We’ll see,” the First Lady responded, walking slowly to the steamy water in a flat patch of land ahead of
them.
“Little girl, what’s your name?” Lake of Wisdom asked.
“My name is…is…it’s too hard to say,” the child responded.
“Try,” the chief’s wife said.
“My name is…is…I can’t. It’s Sunny.”
“You see! It is her,” the sage exclaimed.
“Says who?” the First Lady responded matter-of-factly. “You could have told her to say it.”
“She’s right,” agreed Wind Sings Softly. “This doesn’t prove anything.”
The women made a semi-circle around the flowing spring; none let any water touch their feet.
“OK, so now what?” Wind Sings Softly asked.
Eternal Setting Sun was suddenly overcome by a blinded sense of competition. In some strange train of
logic, the chief’s wife didn’t want to wait for her sister’s direction. The First Lady wanted to make a point that
her way wasn’t the weak way; this was a chance to finally show her big sister what strength was.
“What are you doing?” Lake of Wisdom gasped as the chief’s wife stepped up to the spring.
“Make your sister do it. It’s too risky,” protested Wind Sings Softly.
The sage said nothing.
Eternal Setting Sun crouched down and began to splash water on her own hands and face. The First Lady
repeated the process and then froze motionless. The three women behind her began to breathe deeply in
both fear and nervous anticipation.
“I have to go pee pee,” the child asked.
“SHHH!!!"
The chief’s wife finally broke the moment by getting up slowly. Her hands were shaking gently.
“Are you OK?” Wind Sings Softly asked.
“Say something,” Lake of Wisdom begged.
Eternal Setting Sun spun around. Her two childhood friends screamed in shock and disbelief. “Oh, my! Oh,
my!” “Ahhh…” gasped Winds Sings Softly.
Eternal Setting Sun looked at her sister in disbelief. “What have you done to me?” the chief’s wife said,
letting out a crazed chuckle. “I feel...I feel...My skin…I feel 10 winters younger.”
Wind Sings Softly and Lake of Wisdom darted towards the water. Soon all three women were rebellious
teenagers without a single blemish, cut or mark on their respective smooth silk skins.
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” River That Cleanses whispered, to an audience that was fully
distracted with another pressing conversation.
Chapter Four
Procter let out a cackle, which startled the reporter, and she followed with more calm but hearty laughter.
After about 45 seconds she composed herself and looked directly at Walterovich.
“The Fountain of Youth, you fool. Jennifer found it. It's in Redbridge, Justin. Right under our noses. I don't
know about you, but I need a real drink," Procter said, getting up and laughing her way to her study. “She
really found it."
The researcher left the room leaving the baffled writer to think quickly of his next move. Shock quickly
changed to disappointment as in a single moment Dr. Procter went from a highly respected researcher to,
at best, one of those 4 a.m. treasure hunters on the History Channel, and that was being kind. “She's crazy.'
“You probably think that I'm crazy,” Procter said from some room behind a full length sheet which acted as a
divider.
“I don't think your crazy, it's just that I need something concrete to work from and I need answers," the
reporter replied. “I'm on a deadline.”
Procter fumbled around the room and reemerged with a full drink of good vodka and an old, coffee-stained
note card. It very much resembled the card that had Jennifer Maxwell's e-mail password and more than just
because of its proportions.
“Do you want a drink?" Procter asked.
“No thanks, I quit three years ago,” the reporter said. He didn't really answer the question exactly, because
in reality he wanted a drink; he just wasn't going to indulge his craving.
“That's right. I'm sorry, I forgot.” Procter said, plopping herself down without regard to the slight spattle of
booze she let go free from her glass. “Here, take the card. Take it.”
Walterovich obliged. It was written in a different ink but in the same hand writing as that Maxwell password
memo.
Daphne and Margo Davilla, Dec. 4, 1911
Jasmine and Camilla Taylor, Dec. 7, 1934
Faye and Alisha O'Donnell, Dec. 8, 1961
Hannah and Lucille Brown, Dec. 6, 1987
“I'm not going to even say a thing. I know you think that I am crazy or a fool,” Procter said solemnly sipping
her clear comfort. “You're a reporter, look it up. I have 26 years of personal research on this, evidence much,
much more compelling than these four cases, but you're on a deadline and already doubt me. Just do your
homework. I'll be here when you're ready to talk.”
Walterovich took his cue and showed himself to the door.
“Justin,” said the researcher, too weary to leave her chair. “Remember one thing if nothing else, and don't
forget it: If you find it, those magic waters, they won't let you leave. So once you believe me, don't get cute
and think you are going to just walk into the story of the millennium. I've lived in this town all my life and I still
haven't found it. My father tried all of his adult life before me, and he never found it. These people are really,
really good at keeping secrets.”
“Which people, Karen?” the writer indulged.
“The Society,” she said. “Now close the door. I'm getting cold.”
“That went well,” Walterovich said taking notice of the dropping temperatures and the fresh dents left by
some of Redbridge's finest canines. The reporter rubbed his thumb over the note card and let a few snow
flurries dissolve on his face before taking refuge in his quickly depreciating vehicle.
Walterovich missed his wife who was working the day away in West Champlain, no doubt making the best
of a mountain of paperwork with her wonderful smile, 24-carrot eyes and a voice that would have made
even the most hardened New Englander take a deep breath and relax. The writer didn't like to disturb his
Alessandra at the office, so he quickly speed-dialed their home to check in via the answering machine.
“Hi honey, it's Little Bird again. I miss you very much. I'm still out in Redbridge working on this story. I don't
expect to be here longer than two or two-and-a-half hours more, which means I'll miss dinner but be home
before we get the baby ready for bed. I'm fine. Everything's fine.
This story I'm working on is taking me around in all of these circles, but, hey it's a living. I'll have the phone
with me. I'm sorry I didn't call you at work. I just don't want to get you in trouble with your boss. I'll call when I
leave for home, and if you need anything just give me a ring. I love you. See you soon. Bye.
Walterovich took out his wallet which had some of his most prized family pictures and thumbed to the shot
of him with his wife in front of the family's Christmas tree the year before. The couple looked so happy:
Walterovich with his winter stubble and Alessandra with her dark brown hair, mahogany streaks, her soft
pale, baby-smooth face, tight black eye brows, gemstone deep brown, tiger eyes and a soft and peaceful
smile that nearly moved the writer to tears.
It was for Alessandra, that the reporter wanted to turn in an award-winning story. Walterovich knew all too
well the sacrifices his wife made for his career. The reporter's pay was just enough to scrape by with a
simple vacation. Coupons were always being clipped; Alessandra never gazed too long at new clothes or
jewelry; she mended undergarments to add useful life.
Rice and pastas were overcompensated for lacking meats; phone cards were bought for Alessandra to call
her mother in Russia at some awful hour in the states.
It was all enough to keep the writer up all night, some nights, dreaming of finally helping his family break
through to some real comfort. He just needed one great story.
“I'm going to get this story for us, Alessandra. I'm going to get this story and get that big book deal I've
always promised you,” Walterovich promised the photo he was holding. “Fountain of Youth or not, there is a
great story here I'm holding and now I'm going to bring it together and knock Vermont's socks off. You'll see.
This one will put us over the top.”
Walterovich pulled his warm, well-worn black cashmere jacket tighter to his body and climbed in his
vehicle. “Where to go? Where to go?” he mumbled. The heavy leaning was to return to the archivist's house,
but Walterovich didn't want to overuse that card at this stage of the game. Andi's had privacy, but he doubt
the Internet would have links to all the names on the note card.
“All right, let's try the library again,” the writer suggested to himself, turning on his ride and driving slowly off
to make more trouble.
Walterovich changed his mind and first found Internet time at the Redbridge Library to see what tidbits of
yesteryear where floating in ones and zeroes somewhere within the 10 dimensional universe.
The reporter found three of his more trusted search engines and entered the first of the names: Daphne
and Margo Davilla, Dec. 4, 1911. Nothing specific turned up, only non-sequitur returns that had little obvious
hints to go on. The same was true for searches of Jasmine and Camilla Taylor, Dec. 7, 1934, and Faye and
Alisha O'Donnell, Dec. 8, 1961.
‘This is going nowhere,” the writer thought. Already forming his more brick-and-mortar plan of attack,
Walterovich entered the last name on the coffee-stained note card: Hannah and Lucille Brown, Dec. 6,
1987. Four hits returned, including one from his mentor at the News-Times, the very first editor who hired
Walterovich as a 16-year-old lost boy who somehow fell into his life's work by complete accident. “That's a
blast from my past.” The writer clicked on the hyperlink.
West Champlain News-Times
Dec. 9, 1987
Billionaire Heiress Goes Missing In South Royalton
by Beasley Parchman
SOUTH ROYALTON - Lucille Brown, billionaire heiress to Brown Air Transport, has been reported officially
missing, after failing to check in with friends in the area.
Brown, 31, was reportedly in town doing research for a law book she is writing. Colleagues said that
Brown, reportedly known for her punctuality, never showed for a planned group meeting on Dec. 8 at the
Cold River Restaurant.
The Windsor County Sheriff's Office said that it had to wait the required 24 hours to officially file a missing
person's report, but that the department had been active on the case since the first moment it was first
notified.
“This sounds vaguely familiar,” Walterovich mumbled to himself as he scrolled down an article that was
shaping up much as the one he was hired to compile. The next hits were about seemingly unrelated
people, but the fourth turned out to be a news follow from the Randolph Register Guard. It was under the
community briefs section, Dec. 15, 1987.
Lucille Brown, daughter of famed air mogul Henry Monroe Brown is alive and well; Brown had been
reported missing by friends a week earlier after she failed to show up for group projects related to a
research paper.
“I interviewed Ms. Brown and she apologized for causing any confusion," said deputy sheriff Mack Newton.
“She brought all her ID and even gave us a thumb print. We're all very glad this story had a happy ending.”
“Hmm...” the reporter said under his breath. “Oh, Justin please, stay on track. There's no Fountain of Youth.”
Three large books came crashing down in a section close to the computer terminals.
Walterovich got up to see a red-faced librarian scrambling to get the volumes. “Are you OK?” the reporter
asked. The book keeper gave a half smile and scurried away into the back of the building.
The reporter couldn't help himself. He was unable to wait until returning to the supposed safe lines at
Andi's to check his email. The Christmas Eve temptation was becoming too overwhelming to not shake any
of his presents.
“What can it hurt to quickly check?” he reasoned with himself, returning to his library computer terminal and
logging on to the information superhighway. He had seven new messages: His boss was becoming
prolific, but some new sources came to the surface, including the News-Times lawyer that Walterovich had
requested after calling his boss a crook. But the surprise best-of-show came from the preacher's son,
Dylan Ryan, who a few hours earlier had seemingly offered the writer the answers he was now scrambling
to find.
There was no subject line on the email.
From: Dylan_Ryan_Redbridge@vt-mail.com
To: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
Subject: Please read!!!
____________________________________________________
JW,
I hope you check your email often. I am trying this email address on your business card because that's the
only one I have. You aren't apparently answering your cell phone, or maybe just not from me.
I'm really sorry about what happened today. Don't be mad at my dad. He's just looking out for me. I don't
want you to be mad at me either. I know you have uncovered some interesting layers in Redbridge that you
probably never knew about. I didn't know about them either until my mom told me.
I heard that you are still in town and no doubt are probably working on some great story...the story of your
lifetime.
Believe me; I know that you don't owe me any favors. You looked out for me enough, but I am just asking
you, please for my mom's sake -- don't investigate this story any further. I am begging you. Just drop it.
I can't imagine the temptation, you must feel, as a reporter, to find the answer to this story, but you need to
stop for a moment and think about what it would mean for the town. Redbridge is your family too, Justin. I
know you don't want the government, the CIA, or whoever, coming into town and making a mess out of
everything. But you know, that's exactly what would happen if you publish what it looks like you have
stumbled on. Like my mom says, some powers are just better left out of the hands of men, and I just ask
that you please try and put the town ahead of this story and let it go.
I know it's a lot to ask, and I don't mean to insult you or tell you how to do your job. I have just come to
understand the magnitude of the error I made letting out any information. I'm just trying to make everything
right before it is too late. I hope there's still time.
Thanks for reading this,
Dylan
Walterovich closed his eyes. He was disappointed. The reporter placed no blame on the young Ryan for
asking him to bury a story; Walterovich was asked all the time to shelf, lose or minimize potential damaging
stories. He had no problem with that; not so much that he would acquiesce, but certainly the writer
understood human nature to at least ask. But the rule Walterovich had and used throughout his career was
if someone wanted to make a deal, they had to explain exactly the reasoning behind the request for less
media coverage.
‘Yeah, but it's different this time,’ the reporter thought to himself. ‘This story is already out. There is nothing
to stop this. It's too late. I know the kid meant well but this was the worst possible thing he could have done.
It only suggests he knows something about...’
“You can't be serious,” Walterovich chided himself in a whisper. “Just drop this Fountain of Youth business.”
‘The key is to find every parallel possible with the questionable disappearances of these rich twins,’ he
continued in thought. ‘That's the money story right there. This is the book deal ready to be delivered. Don't
get tainted with any of this Area 51 garbage. It will kill the legitimacy of this story.’
“If there was a Fountain of Youth in Redbridge, I of all people, would know about it for god's sake,” the writer
said, finishing his collective one-person conversation again in library whisper.
From: justin_walterovich@bnt-mail.com
To: Dylan_Ryan_Redbridge@vt-mail.com
Subject: My article
----------------------------------------------------
Hi Dylan,
I'm not mad at all, so don't even worry about it. There are no problems with me, your dad or anyone in your
family so don't pay it another thought.
I can't bury this story. I'm getting to the point not to offend you or be cold, but I have already sent over many
updated versions to my editor. She's going to publish it, that's all there is to it.
Now this is where I am confused, and don't worry this is all off the record; why do you care about missing
millionaires and billionaires around Orange and Windsor County? If someone is threatening you and/or
your family, I suggest you talk with Winslow or a local police officer. If for what ever reason you can't,
remember my big brother Jamie is a cop and he works out of West Champlain, so you would have some
more privacy.
I guess what I am saying is, I need to talk to you. You can call, but I don't have a secure cell phone line and I
really don't recommend it. I understand if you don't want to write down something sensitive about your
family, so just find me. I'm in town so you'll either see my car or ask anyone and they'll track me down.
Again, I know this isn't the answer you want to hear, but it's the only one I can give you. This story is long out
of my hands. Now as to something that is specific that could hurt you or your family, find me and we'll talk. I
can't promise you anything, but I will listen and then explain to you whatever my “decision” is for lack of a
better word. I'm not out to ruin anyone, least of all my friends.
Let's talk in person,
Walterovich
Special database searches within the Redbridge library system provided more leads than the reporter
could have dreamed of: four more wealthy heiresses, four more reported disappearances, four more
rumors of huge donations. The running plotline had six reported cases now.
Walterovich cleared the history menu but left his jacket, saving the library terminal space since traffic was
light. He walked outside, past the paved parking area to a snow covered, gravel path to the most apparent
privacy in near proximity.
“What to do? What to do?” the reporter whispered, looking at his cell phone. “Why did I leave my coat? I’m
freezing out here.”
Walterovich was listening to his old messages; all were from contacts who also emailed him, when Sheriff
Winslow drove buy and abruptly turned around and pulled into the library parking lot.
Walterovich had nothing to hide, but the cop’s maneuver was a little unsettling. Then again, much of the
reporter’s discomfort could be attributed to the physical punishment his older brother gave him during their
early teen years. Jamie was the cop; Justin was the writer. The youngest of the three brothers, Jason was
the smartest of them all – he went for the money and stayed away from fighting.
“I’d figure I’d find you if I looked. I hate cell phones,” Winslow said, after rolling down the window to his
cruiser. “Today’s your lucky day. Where’s your coat? It’s freezing out here.” The lawman held out a piece of
paper with a phone number scrawled on it.
“Who am I calling?” Walterovich asked.
“Jennifer Maxwell. She contacted our office again and asked that I give you her cell number to ask any follow
up questions,” Winslow said. “You are going to get your story after all. I’m glad. No hard feelings OK? I’m
just doing my job like you are.”
The reporter shook his head in disbelief. “Winslow, hold on a minute. Not to bite the hand that feeds me…”
“Then don’t,” the sheriff chuckled.
“Let me finish,” the reporter responded with a laugh. “How did Maxwell know to give this to me?”
“Hey, you’re the reporter, Justin, ask her herself. Listen, I gotta run. Take care.”
“Winslow, hold on. One last thing. I want to return the favor,” Walterovich said. “Check out these names for
yourself.”
“Who are they?”
“Four super, super rich heiresses who either went missing in Redbridge or somewhere close and were
reported safe very conveniently a short time after. That doesn’t count the fifth I found.
Winslow read the card.
Daphne and Margo Davilla, Dec. 4, 1911
Jasmine and Camilla Taylor, Dec. 7, 1934
Faye and Alisha O'Donnell, Dec. 8, 1961
Hannah and Lucille Brown, Dec. 6, 1987
The lawman’s thinking was similar to the reporter’s. ‘This could be huge. This could be nothing,’ Winslow
thought. “So what? People get lost all the time. Rich people visit these parts too. It makes for a nice story at
best,” the sheriff remarked.
“True, Sheriff, True. But as you’ll find if you check these out: all of these short-term missing rich girls were
twins; all had twin sisters mind you; and the kicker is…” Walterovich looked both ways and leaned over to
the cruiser. “All were thought to have completely transferred their entire fortune the very day they went
missing. Every single penny they could
get their hands on. Gone. All of it. Gone.”
Winslow looked off to the distance to process the weight of the information he had just received.
“If you don’t believe me. Check it out yourself,” the reporter whispered. “Newspaper records on the net and
the Redbridge digital archives have stories on all of them. A couple of extra searches connects to websites,
albeit from sources I can’t yet all confirm, that have stories of rumors of these women never really showing
up and that they gave away everything. I have talked to the Chaucer family spokesman myself, who had a
Mary A. Chaucer reported missing in Redbridge 100 years ago today. This exact day in 1904. She’s not on
this list you have but the story is the same. They also told me the same scenario that I just repeated to you.
Rich woman, twin, missing a short time, returns safe, money gone, rich woman vanishes a short time later.”
The sheriff looked at the coffee stained note card again. “Can I borrow this?” he asked.
“You can keep it,” Walterovich offered.
“OK, listen, I’ll get back to you. Stay in town or find me before you leave. And get on a coat. It’s freezing out
here,” the lawman said, driving off to parts unknown.
Walterovich felt a fresh rush of professional satisfaction. “Finally,” the writer mumbled to himself. “We’re
getting somewhere. Jesus, it’s cold out here. Time to warm up.”
The library was warm refuge and it actually took some heat for the reporter to realize how cold he had
gotten in such a short amount of time. Walterovich put on his jacket and tried typing with his gloves on, to no
avail, before finally stopping for a little breather to read over all the notes he had scribbled during the day.
In only a few short hours, the reporter had rode peaks and valleys in shifts that were uncommon for him in
his career. He had emerged with what all reporters crave: A
legitimate show-stopping article. There were so many leads that Walterovich felt confident he could crank
out a 200 page sold-selling book in a little more than three months and betting money would suggest that
none of the competition would beat him to the punch.
The writer always craved diversifying his outlets into books. Articles were grand dances in the moment
where the simplest or most complex stories were brought together in a few hundreds words that, if done
just right, would keep countless unseen, unknown readers completely focused for eight or nine minutes.
The act itself was thrilling, but the economics were
lagging. The reporter Walterovich would make good money for the West Champlain News-Times and enjoy
the bragging rights of scooping the Free Press, if indeed the Free Press decided to pass the Maxwell story
up.
‘But fathers can’t feed children with trophies or pay their mortgage on award certificates,' the reporter
thought to himself. ‘Books are where the money is at.’
Walterovich faced the dilemma of trying to decide how much, if any, of the story to hold back from being
published in tomorrow's edition.
“If I tell it all now, Trevino could very well assign the follows to someone else as punishment for me calling
her out,” Walterovich whispered. “Shoot, why wouldn't she? This isn't good.”
‘But how can I hold anything back. This is the story I have always dreamed about,’ he continued in thought,
becoming aware of the dangers of talking to one's self in public places.
“How am I going to play this?” the reporter whispered right back, breaking his own logic.
The writer breathed deeply and thought. He let his mind surf and roam free recalling random sights,
moments and smells while dancing around the linear program.
“What's my mystery variable?”
Flashes of his early reporting career flickered amongst a sea of random slides. One moment played out
with short but sharp clarity. Four months into the job, back in the summer of 1991, Walterovich stumbled on
to an amazing story. There was a massive bank robbery, a three-man job, and two were wounded and
arrested outside of the bank as they tried to make a run for it with a couple of hostages.
The ringleader, Danny Pryer Blake, smartly decided to stay put. He wanted to enjoy as many hours as
freedom as he would be afforded. Old Danny was going to have plenty of time think about what went wrong.
He got it in his head to go out in style, but this time instead of bullets, by creating himself something of a
legend. Danny barked some orders to get a number for “the newspapers”; his dad used to read wild
stories to him before the old man drove himself into a tree one New Years Eve back in the late 70s. Some
fear-struck loan officer bellowed out seven digits, Danny walked over and calmly dialed and within one
transfer he was at the news desk of the West Champlain News-Times.
The 16-year-old Walterovich picked up the line and almost wet himself when he was told that “famed” wild-
west inspired bank robber Danny Pryer Blake was on the line and was going to make the reporter a star.
But the reporter got greedy and instead of asking for the help he knew he needed, Walterovich opted for
putting Blake on hold and transferring him to a private phone in work room. Blake wasn't pleased and soon
saw the voice on the other end for what it was - some kid playing the part of a big boy.
Walterovich's mentor Beasley Parchman had tracked the cub reporter down for going AWOL and asked him
point blank for an explanation. The young reporter surrendered and handed his boss the phone and
Parchman less-than-politely answered expecting some friend from Walterovich's high school in the other
end.
Blake laughed and said the words that Parchman echoed in the next staff meeting and tarnished the cub
reporter's career perhaps for its entirety. “Tell that kid he lost the story of a lifetime.” Blake hung up and
ended up calling the Free Press. He was shot dead three hours later. Walterovich was suspended for a
week and demoted to obits for three months after.
The reporter, now 30, sat in the Redbridge library getting warm, and decided what his best play would be.
Walterovich cleaned up and left the library, waiting to enter his car and starting the heat full blast before
calling directory services.
“What listing please?” a voice with a distinct British Indian voice asked cheerfully.
“Barre,” the reporter answered.
“What state please?"
“My lord, what state? Vermont, Vermont please.”
“Thank you, your listing?
“May I please have any number for a Beasley Parchman?"
Walterovich sat with two phone numbers in his hand and tried to resist the metaphor of being at a fork in
the road, but his rebellious subconscious failed him.
“I need to make sure that I get the most out of the Maxwell interview even though it no longer has the juice to
it since she is supposedly fine and safe,” Walterovich said to himself, turning the music loader in his car in
case any walkers-by were to overhear the lively single-source quartet. “Remember Walterovich, your story
now is very clear. There is a clear and undeniable pattern for rich-girls who are twins, who disappear for a
few days, give away their empire and then return to say everything is fine, only to pull an Elvis act and never
prove if they are dead or alive.”
The reporter chuckled with immense pride at how good the story line was, especially since all of it could be
authenticated by multiple sources. “That’s a book. That’s a best seller right there,” the writer encouraged
himself. “So there is the thinking that if I could somehow get a hold of Parchman first and see if he has any
insight into the case he covered in ’87, maybe I can squeeze out two or three more great questions to
spring on Maxwell.”
Walterovich exhaled slowly, digesting his line of thought. “But then again, if I miss Maxwell, if somehow she
drives out of cell range or whatever obstacle du jour springs up, I will…it will sting for a very long time,” the
reporter cautioned. “What to do? What to do?”
Walterovich breathed in deeply through his nose and played out as many scenarios as he could. “Oh the
hell with it, I’ve gotta call Maxwell first,” he decided, but stopped after dialing the third digit. Walterovich’s
subconscious replayed the events back his first year with the News-Times where he got greedy and lost
the story that could have forever changed his fortunes. “Better call Beasley.”
Seven digits later the phone was ringing and the comforting paternal mentoring voice that Walterovich
heard for the first eight years of his career picked up.
“Hello?” said the familiar voice, although with a much stronger passive senior tone than the writer ever
remembered.
“Chief, It’s me, Justin from the News-Times.”
“Walterovich?”
“Yeah, Chief, I’m sorry to bother you at home.”
“No bother at all kid. It’s good to hear from you,” Parchman said. “You just need to speak up, I don’t hear
very well on these things.”
“Sure ,Chief, Sure. Listen, I am on the job and I am calling because I need your help and I think we might
have a great opportunity to partner up on a book.”
“Really?” the retired general said with more of the old hunger and flare that Walterovich remembered. “What
do you got kid?”
“Chief, there was a billionaire heiress who went missing but she returned safe and sound. I have it off-the-
record that she might have donated every penny that she has. Billions, Chief, Billions. That part I don’t have
on-the-record but I have her cell number and will ask her that point blank,” Walterovich said listening to
Parchman’s deliberate breathing. He remembered his old boss doing that whenever a reporter was
pitching a possibly show-stopping story idea.
“But here is the kicker. I have found five more examples with the exact story line…all happening in Orange
or Windsor County. It’s a hell of a book chief, and I don’t want to be greedy. Fifty/fifty, we’ll split it down the
middle. I have these great sources; you have your great sources and all of your experience in the game. It
would be a hell of a book Chief. What do you
say?”
Silence.
“Chief are you there?”
“Hold on a second kid, I need to close the door. Doreen has some friends over.” Walterovich actually looked
at his phone as if it transmitted the wrong response. ‘Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all,’ the reporter
thought. ‘He doesn’t sound with it.’
“Kid you there?”
“I’m here, Chief. You OK?”
“Sure. Sure. Listen kid, I’m glad you called. I’m sure you have found out by now that I covered a story similar
back in the late 80s.”
“I read the article today,” Walterovich said proudly.
“Listen kid, what you have found…it’s the dream any reporter has. I’m glad you called me. It was the right
play,” the old man said. “You…have you seen it? Justin, have you seen it? If you just tell me where it is,
I…promise not to abuse its power. I won’t tell a soul. I’ll just take Doreen and that’s it. You know my word is
good. Remember you wouldn’t be a reporter if it
weren’t for me.”
Walterovich looked at the phone again in disbelief. “Chief, I don’t think you understand. My story is about the
women who…”
“Seventy/thirty, you get the bigger half and your name is on the top of the book. I just want to go there once
and…”
“Chief, I don’t think you follow I…”
“Fine. Fine! 80/20 damn it!” the old man barked. “Oh, I am so sorry. I’m sorry kid. I’m very sorry. I’m an old
man you see, a silly old man who is just counting time. I know you don’t understand now, but you will
someday. Never retire, son. Never. Kid, I always knew you had it in you, it’s your time. You get all the profits
OK, every dime. I’ll give you all the contacts my 53 years in the game brought me. Just tell me where you
are. South Royalton? Tunbridge? Redbridge? Kid, are you in Redbridge? That’s it. You’re in Redbridge
aren’t you?”
Walterovich couldn’t force any sound from his mouth.
“Kid, listen to me,” Parchman continued desperately. “Just listen and think. Do you think they will just let you
mess around with something that powerful? You’re in danger kid. Real danger. I can help you. You can
trust me. Just tell me where you are.”
Walterovich still listened to every syllable but failed to return feedback.
“Kid, you’re young. Don’t be greedy. For Christ sake’s don’t be greedy,” the old man begged. “You don’t
need the Fountain of Youth. You’re young.”
“Fountain of Youth?” the reporter said more to himself than response to his editor.
“You found it didn’t you? I have been search for nearly 20 years ever since I stumbled on the story, but you
found the clues. I knew you could do it kid. I knew it. I trained you well,” Parchman said with a delusional
cackle. “Stay right there, I’ll meet you within the hour. You will be talked about in every journalism school in
this country kid. You’ll live forever: Woodward, Bernstein, and Walterovich. No joke. And you’ll be rich…rich
beyond your wild dreams…Just
tell me where you are.”
“Chief, I gotta go…I’m sorry….I’m very sorry…” Walterovich could hear his editor scream pleas to not hang
up just as the reporter was hanging up. ‘This is insane,’ he thought to himself, immediately dialing up the
cell number for the source of all the day’s craziness -- Jennifer Maxwell.
The reporter carefully dialed each number. The distance seemed so long between digits, he half-expected
the line to get disconnected.
“This is Jennifer.” Four hours earlier, and anyone in Redbridge who heard that voice would have had the
most coveted source in all of Vermont.
“Ms. Maxwell, this is Justin Walterovich with the West Champlain News-Times. You are quite a hard person
to reach,” the reporter said politely.
“Yes, I'm sorry about that Mr. Walterovich. I would have met you in person, but I am needed in Boston late
night tonight, so this will have to do. How can I help you?” the woman said with no particular sense of care
or urgency, but polite nonetheless. “I must also warn you that the cell lines in this part of the state aren't
apparently the best, so I can't promise to give you all that much time. So what would you like to know?”
‘Well, she certainly sounds the part. I give her that much,' the reporter thought. “Ms. Maxwell, what happened
this morning? Why were you reported missing?”
“Well, I can't speak to why I was reported missing per se, but I do understand your question. I was visiting
Redbridge and I decided to leave without particularly letting anyone know,” the woman said. "I can't say that
I particularly thought I owed anyone an explanation but certainly in light of what has happened I want to tell
the people of Redbridge that I am very sorry for making anyone worry. Redbridge is a beautiful town and I
hope to visit there again.”
Walterovich smiled. Even though the woman's responses to him sounded coached, she was fluid and
believable. “Ms. Maxwell, I met with Dr. Karen Procter who gave me a note card with your email login and
password. Why was such information kept for a rainy day and why did you write a letter giving permission to
someone in my position to view those emails and report on them as applicable?”
“Well Mr. Walterovich I can't say that I agree exactly with your interpretation, but I'm not going to stop you from
reading further...” she stopped mid-sentence.
“Ms. Maxwell? Ms. Maxwell?”
“Mr. Walterovich do you have any other questions?”
“Well Ms. Maxwell, I want to make sure we understand each other. I have a letter supposedly from you
granting me permission to read your emails. Are you retracting that permission now?” the reporter asked.
“Are you being confrontational Mr. Walterovich?” the woman asked with a slight air of hard-to-place
satisfaction.
‘Stand down, Justin. You're going to lose her.' “No, no, Ms. Maxwell, you misunderstand. I don't want to
break the law or violate your privacy. That's why I need to ask again, may I continue to review your emails?”
“Ah...I'm not going to stop you, so yes you may, but I reserve the right to immediately notify you to cease and
desist.”
“Thank you, Ms. Maxwell, so just a few more questions. What research were you working on in Redbridge?”
“I'm working on a civil war piece with Karen Procter that deals with the different elements of Redbridge
society who are descendants of the soldiers and nurses.”
Walterovich paused and tried to find some tactfully way to continue the conversation.
“Ms. Maxwell. Do you believe in healing waters?” the reporter asked.
“Come again?”
“Ms. Maxwell, Dr. Procter handed me some convincing evidence that suggests she and you were
researching something important but not quite in the genre of civil war stories,” Walterovich said slowly but
respectfully. “More in the lines of, how should I put this, ...rejuvenating water.” ‘Justin, are you crazy? You
just went nuclear,’ the reporter thought. ‘There's no going back now.’
“Well Mr. Walterovich," the woman said with a rebellious chuckle. "Whatever do you mean?”
‘You messed up, Justin. You messed up. You messed up. You messed up!’ the reporter thought.
“Mr. Walterovich, let me make sure I understand your question correctly: you are asking me on-the-record if I
have any connection to the Fountain of Youth in Redbridge. You want me to answer that question and you
seriously are considering that answer for publication. I thought you worked for a real newspaper, not for a
supermarket tabloid.”
The reporter paid no attention to the attempted slight on behalf of his source on the other end of the cell
phone. It was her wording in her first sentence that, for a moment, seemed to appear as a slip up.
“Ms. Maxwell, I find it particularly interesting how you rephrased my question,” Walterovich said.
“How so, Mr. Walterovich?”
“Well I just mean that I asked if you knew anything about rejuvenating waters and you rephrased my
question asking if you had any connection to the Fountain of Youth in Redbridge. It’s interesting because, if
my question was so absurd, why would your answer imply that there was indeed no such a fountain, and
even if one existed, that you certainly had no connection to it. Do you follow my logic? Your statement was
as if you knew very well there was a Fountain of Youth in Redbridge, just that you had no particular
connection to said fountain.”
The woman mumbled something inaudible, and no doubt unflattering, about the nosy reporter.
“Mr. Walterovich, I have one last thing on-the-record and please be sure to include this in your article,” the
woman said coldly.
‘Somehow I don’t think she is going to offer me an exclusive deal for my book,’ the reporter thought.
“Mr. Walterovich, you are a hack reporter. Please publish whatever you think you have found. You’ll be
laughed out of the state. You’ll be laughed out of the United States for that matter. And here is the most
valuable piece of evidence you will hear today: If you think there really is a Fountain of Youth, think about the
people who must be there to protect it. Do you really think that women who have spent 1,800 generations
protecting this gift are just going to let some do-nothing man walk up and write a tell-all article exposing
one of the most powerful gifts in the universe? If you value your life, you’ll go back to chasing ambulances
for graphic car accident photos and leave this matter alone.”
“Are you finished, Ms. Maxwell? And am I talking with Jennifer or her twin sister by the way? I want to make
sure I get your name spelled right.” the reporter replied. “Seeing that you are part of a conspiracy and all, I
want to get my twins in order.”
“I’m almost done, Mr. Walterovich; you are hereby denied further access to my emails. That letter of
permission is now and immediately revoked. My next phone call is to my lawyer. If we see any further activity
from you or anyone working with you, we’ll make sure your great-grand children are bankrupt. Good bye.”
A bird seemed to cackle overhead. The reporter looked at his cell phone and the “call ended” feedback on
its cover. “Well,” he said with a chuckle. “At least I know that the Maxwell twins are detailed-oriented people.”
The editor sat in her office and opened the cherry wood box which held a few cigarettes she saved for
special occasions. “You know kid, you might make something of yourself in the business after,” she
whispered to the computer screen reading the latest article Walterovich had just emailed her. For a
moment, Trevino the mercenary returned to Trevino the news hungry editor, and she saw a story that would
make the Free Press steam for missing it.
Redbridge Vanishing Act Continues On Cue
by Justin Walterovich
West Champlain News-Times
REDBRIDGE - Here one minute, gone the next, missing person returns with a happy ending: just another
Dec. 8th in Redbridge.
This small town in central Vermont experienced its sixth reported disappearance of a multi-millionaire or
billionaire early yesterday morning when oil heiress Jennifer K. Maxwell was reported missing. Maxwell
turned up safe, as reportedly did her five anniversary missing heiress before her, all of which vanished
respectively on the mornings of Dec. 8 1904, 1911, 1934, 1961, 1987 and 2004.
The story lines were almost mirrored: a wealthy heiress was reported in Redbridge on or about that day
and vanished “into thin air” spurring emergency town-wide searches and pleas for assistance through the
various medias of the day.
While some of the heiresses were reported missing in towns surrounding Redbridge and also in Windsor
County, all had ties to Redbridge. Mary Chaucer (1904) was reportedly accompanying her cousin on
business. Daphne Davilla (1911) was in the Redbridge area promoting a women's rights book. Jasmine
Taylor (1934) was in Redbridge with her husband reportedly studying geology in central Vermont. Fay
O'Donnell (1961) was working with some Redbridge residents on re-mapping projects. Hanna Brown, who
rented a home in South Royalton, was reportedly working on a research paper; as was Maxwell (2004)
when she failed to check in with family who called the Sheriff's Office and asked for a preliminary
investigation. Typically an adult needs to be missing 24 hours before a missing persons report is officially
investigated.
As for the heiress connection, all six missing millionaires/billionaires had twin sisters and also reportedly
gave away their fortunes on the day of their reported disappearance. Furthermore, all six women had family
members who claimed they never could prove the very heiress who
disappeared actually returned. Some even suggested that one twin posed for another.
“All we know is this: The talk that Mary Chaucer gave away every dime she had control of is true," said D.F.
Chaucer, family spokesperson of the 1904 missing heiress. "She hadn't inherited all of her trust, but the
Chaucers weren't as savvy with their funds internally as they should have been. She gave away millions."
The News-Times reached a women reporting herself as the latest missing heiress, who declined to
confirm or deny giving away any of her reported $4.8 billion fortune. Maxwell did apologize to the town of
Redbridge for any concern that was caused by her disappearance. "I can't say that I particularly thought I
owed anyone an explanation but certainly in-light of what has happened I want to tell the people of
Redbridge that I am very sorry for making anyone worry," Maxwell said. “Redbridge is a beautiful town and I
hope to visit there again.”
County Sheriff Pete Winslow said that Maxwell approached him earlier in the day to confirm she was fine.
Maxwell presented multiple pieces of identification and forensic evidence, Winslow said. In addition,
Winslow said that Maxwell authorized him to give the News-Times her cell phone number, at which point
the paper contacted her via the telephone.
As stated, the News-Times was unable to verify Maxwell's identity other than that the source identified
herself as Jennifer K. Maxwell.
Please see “Redbridge Reacts” to learn of the events during the day including Redbridge Chairperson
Shelly McGowan's authorization of a town-wide notification and Sheriff Winslow's investigation.
***
“Yes, he’s back at the restaurant…Andi’s…He went back and forth between here and the library and he
stopped by the Procter house. I was told that he also met with Winslow at the library…That’s fine, no I’m not
too cold, but I like your idea of switching this around because
we don’t want him to think he is being followed…I don’t know, it’s a tough call…So he did call her? He really
said that? I mean, he used the words ‘Fountain of Youth’? He used those actual words? So what’s our
play?…Well, I understand he is one of us, but he also is a few steps away from exposing this whole thing to
the world…No, I’m not suggesting that he is being malicious, but he is a reporter for God’s sake…you don’t
expect him to just pack up and go home? OK…I
have the phone with me and do you want us to have the normal rotation to mix things up? Sounds good. No
I won’t…I won’t…I promise I won’t do anything unless directed. You can count on me…I understand…You’
re right…I understand…OK…I will…I will. OK…bye.”
***
Walterovich reread the article he sent Trevino, proud of his articulation of most of what he uncovered during
the day. ‘Even if I was practically hand delivered the contacts, I still brought together a banner page-one
story. Not bad considering where I was a few hours ago.’ He thought to himself, reading his article again
and again. “It’s a good read Walterovich,” he whispered to himself. “Sending this copy over was the right
play after all.”
This article was the reporter’s insurance policy. The pressure was off now to find any immediate follow by
the deadline for the next day’s edition. Walterovich sent his editor a complete package including a quote
from the source who started it all earlier in the morning.
“Trevino can’t say anything more about this article. I just bought myself some time,” he mumbled. “I’d say it
is about time to call it a day. All this Fountain of Youth madness will be around later. I have my book with
these disappearances. It will sell and sell well. No reporter had the inside like I do. Let’s just call it a day.”
Walterovich looked at his watch – 3:13 p.m. He was tempted to at least use the next two hours to pursue
leads on magical waters but the reporter had learned to be happy with a great story and to not anger the
newspaper gods with gluttonous temptations at seducing more secrets – not until the next morning at
least. “The hell with it, let’s go back to the office,” he offered himself.
The writer cleared his history file, got up, and wrote “thank you” on a piece of paper, placing it on the
keyboard. The restaurateur Thetford was busy inspecting the troops in early preparation for the dinner run,
so Walterovich showed himself to the door.
“I should have written ‘thank you…for charging me $95 an hour for Internet service,” he said with a chuckle,
replaying the skill Thetford displayed in selling a $300 lunch. “Although, you know what? It was a good
lunch.”
Walterovich felt at peace and excited about his prospects after this article. His work would be the talk of the
state in 17 hours, and the reporter was able to leave out any of the sensationalism that could be the basis
for his lottery ticket. With the right proposal letter, he could have a tentative book offer on the missing
heiresses in a week or two.
‘It’s the best of all worlds,’ Walterovich thought, fumbling through the pockets of his cashmere jacket,
looking for his car keys. ‘I just stuck to the facts and now never tipped my hand about this miracle waters
business.’
“I’m covered completely,” the reporter continued aloud, albeit quietly. “And hell, if the million-to-one scenario
plays out, I can have the inside story for a completely different book. You played this hand very well,
Walterovich. I’m proud of you.”
The reporter felt relief. He was overwhelmed, even spooked, by the reactions of his old mentor and the
supposed Maxwell. Walterovich knew he could have pressed to find out if Maxwell, or her sister, had really
given everything away, but with 5 o’clock not all that far away, and Procter seemingly hitting the bottle, he
decided to hold off, at least until the next shift.
And the words of warning gave Walterovich pause. He began to truly entertain the possibility that there was
something complex and magical in his hometown and the reporter decided he needed some more time to
digest it all and formulate his next move.
“Either way, you have your book,” Walterovich said soothingly to himself. “You can take care of Alessandra
and the baby much better now. You can start writing it tonight when you get home. You have enough as it is
for 200 pages. You’re a made man. Time to play it safe. You have your book. Play defense. It’s time to go
home.”
Walterovich opened his dented car door and heard the sound of crunch snow and gravel near him. The
pastor’s son, Dylan Ryan, pulled into the restaurant parking lot. He was driving his mother’s blue Ford
Taurus.
“Dylan?” the reporter asked the preacher’s son, who manually rolled down the car window.
“I need to talk to you, Justin. You’re not safe here.”
“Dylan, listen to me, I’m heading back to West Champlain. Don’t worry…”
“Please, please I need to talk to you. Meet me at the baseball fields. I’ll meet you there.”
“Dylan? Wait… Dylan!” the reporter said, but the young Ryan had already maneuvered out of the parking lot
and headed towards the fields. Walterovich stood with the keys to his Honda, very much feeling like Michael
Corleone in Godfather III.
Walterovich drove slower than the boy and considered multiple times just turning around and heading
north to West Champlain without having some Miami Vice inspired dramatic conversation. The preacher's
son had become a liability. He already cost Walterovich the early jump on his story, and while the reporter
didn't hold grudges he hated to be burned twice in the same day, no less. But the reporter respected that
Dylan Ryan was tormented and the elder wanted to make sure that his neighbor was going to be OK.
‘If he would just drop this already, it would be over,’ the writer thought to himself. ‘I don't understand why he
won't let this go...then again, he doesn't know I sent a story that has nothing to do with the town's hysteria.
Don't be too hard on him. He's just a kid.’
These irregular outbursts from people Walterovich looked up to and respected was the most disturbing by-
product of the story for the reporter. Journalism had long stripped off the gloss of stardom and heroes for
Walterovich, but he still viewed Redbridge as his safe place and consequently didn't enjoy seeing “his”
people break down and show widespread and unpredictable weakness.
“It's so funny this side of the game,” Walterovich whispered to himself, still turning up the radio to avoid
having people hear him. “Reporters are revered as much as used car salesman and ENRON executives,
yet when we are needed to carry the torch of truth, people young and old look up to us as if we have
widespread powers to change the very fabric of the universe.”
The reporter turned left into the circular driveway towards the baseball fields. The young Ryan was already
outside his car pacing nervously. It looked like he was debating with himself or practicing a monologue.
The preacher's son was moving his arms animatedly,
kicking around iced-over snow blocks and shaking his head in apparent anguish and/or disappointment.
Walterovich never enjoyed the role of being a psychiatrist. It was a messy part of his work and the reporter
never resolved if it indeed was part of his job description.
“He shouldn't talk to himself,” Walterovich mumbled to himself. “It looks weird.”
Walterovich hadn’t even got out of the car yet, and the preacher’s son began confessing seemingly
everything from the 2000 Florida recount to the Bills Super Bowl loss to the New York Giants.
“Dylan, Dylan, relax for a moment, let me get a word in,” the reporter said somewhat sternly. “Listen, just
relax for a minute. I can’t even catch up with you. Look, everything is fine. I sent my article to my editor.”
“Oh, God!” Ryan gasped.
“Just let me finish,” Walterovich snapped but added a chuckle. “Jesus, Dylan, what’s gotten in to you? The
article I sent has to do with historical disappearances in Redbridge. That’s it. You or your family are never
mentioned. I talked to Jennifer Maxwell herself, I think, and even she isn’t cited until near the end of the
story. So just relax. I’m not going to mention you, any Ryan, Ryan O’Neal, Meg Ryan, or any other famous
Ryans past, present or future. So just calm down.”
“I hate her,” the young un-cited Ryan whispered.
“You hate who?” the writer asked.
“Maxwell. I wish she never set foot in our town,” the pastor’s son responded.
‘Now this is interesting,’ Walterovich thought to himself.
“Dylan, listen. This morning you wanted to tell me something, then you changed your mind.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Ryan said genuinely.
“It’s forgotten Dylan. What I’m saying is now you apparently want to tell me something again, but are torn.
This is what I suggest: take a few days to think about it…”
“I can’t,” the young Ryan pleaded.
“Why not? Sleep on it. I’m not going anywhere. Call my office in West Champlain and we’ll talk. No worries.
I’ll be back next weekend anyway and I’ll bring Alessandra and the baby.”
“You don’t understand,” Ryan interrupted politely. “This has to be resolved today, Dec. 8. Otherwise we’ll
have to wait another year and my Mom doesn’t have that long.”
The reporter paused. ‘Why is this sounding a lot like my article that I just emailed to Trevino?’ he thought.
Walterovich said nothing and just leaned against his dented, dog-haven Honda.
“OK, it’s like this,” the young Ryan started, looking either at the ground or at the blue gray skies above.
“Redbridge has this gift. This amazing gift that is so powerful that it would, like, change the world…It’s this
water. Have you ever heard or read of Spanish explorers or Portuguese or whoever who came to Florida
looking for, like, the Fountain of Youth? Well, they were right, it is in North America, and it’s just in Vermont
that’s all… I know you think I’m crazy, but it’s the truth. It’s more than just in Vermont. It’s in Redbridge. I
know it sounds crazy. I know. I know, but it is in Redbridge. The only thing is not many people really know
where. It’s guarded by this group, this secret society, and they make all the rules of who can use it and
when.
Well my Mom got really sick last summer and the doctors ran all these tests. They didn’t find out what’s
wrong until they said it’s too late. She won’t even tell us kids what it is but I have overheard her talking to
Dad. It’s real bad. The doctors are talking about months, not years for her.
My Mom was doing research on where these waters were because she is down to her very last few
options. She found some great leads and wrote them in this notebook or journal of hers. I know this
sounds crazy. I know it, Justin, but just listen. So she had this book and this strange Texan comes up to her
in town one day. Mom is just trying to be polite and invites her to church and whatnot. Well real, real long
story short: This Maxwell lady was at my folk’s house about two weeks ago for dinner. She left after the
meal and my Mom became all hysterical asking if any of us saw her notebook. I guess Mom thought she
accidentally left it in the family room or something, although I don’t remember seeing it.
It turns out that Maxwell somehow grabbed it – stole it, can you imagine that?…a few days later…oh
God…a few days later she stumbles onto the spring. Maxwell got caught somehow and told whoever was
guarding it that my Mom came up with most of the information…
So my Mom went off somewhere in town all day and comes back not saying a word. I stayed up all night
and around 2 a.m. I heard her talking with my Dad. Mom said that
the Society or whatever said they were going to choose my Mom to get better from the water because one
day a year, today, Dec. 8, they let an outsider go into the water. Well, they had Maxwell and were going to get
rid of her and my Mom told them to stop. My Mom offered her spot to save Maxwell. Can you believe that? I’
m so proud of Mom, but you don’t understand. She probably won’t make it another year, and even then,
there’s no guarantee the Society or whatever will choose her.
You have to help me, Justin. Please God, I am begging you. For the love of God, you have to help me find
this spring. I’ll get my Mom there, don’t worry, I’m not asking you to get involved personally, just please, help
me find the spring. I’m begging you, Justin. There’s no more time. You are our last…”
“OK, OK, Dylan, OK,” the reporter interrupted. “I’m sold. I’ll help you. I’ll help you find whatever it is you think
will help your Mom. Give me a couple of minutes, I need to call my wife. Meet me somewhere public, say
Sarah’s Lunch Spot in 15-20 minutes.”
“Thank you, Justin. Thank you,” the young Ryan said, shaking the reporter’s hand. “But don’t you think
meeting in public is a bad idea? I’m not being ungrateful, please understand. I’m just asking. These
people are serious.”
“If there is all this security you say there is, the less secrecy the better,” the reporter responded. “It will keep
them guessing.”
‘Jesus, what a mess,’ Walterovich thought. ‘I should have just turned around and headed back to West
Champlain.’
The reporter watched the preacher's son turn back into town and waited until the Ford Taurus was out of
sight before making his next call. “Alessandra Walterovich, please,” the writer said. “I know that she's busy.
I'm sorry, but if possible may I either talk with her or get her voice mail? It's her husband calling...sure, I can
hold.” The elevator music seemed to be about three generations removed from Chariots of Fire but the
wooden flutes obscured the DNA of the song's source code enough that Walterovich wasn't sure.
“This is Alessandra.”
“Hi honey, it's Little Bird,” the reporter said.
“Are you OK? What's wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing's wrong, sweetheart. I just wanted to touch base with you because I left two messages at home
saying that I'm in Redbridge. I was planning to be home a little after dinner. I might need a little longer.”
“Is everything alright? Why are you in Redbridge?” she asked.
“Well, Trevino sent me down here for a story about a missing billionaire. It turns out that she is fine but
there is this huge similarity to other past cases. It's complicated but it will be interesting.” Walterovich was
so happy to be talking with his wife, he forgot he was on a cell phone and had to force himself to speak a
little more vaguely as a precaution.
“Well how long are you going to be there? You know it's going to get cold tonight and the roads are going
to get icy.”
“I know, sweetheart I know, believe me, I want to come home right now. I miss you so much. I'm fine but
there's this kid in town whose family got in a little trouble.”
| (c) Lacche-Media, LLC by Justin Lacche Edited by Susan Ermer Locke |
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