| Redbridge, Vermont™ by Justin Lacche Edited by Susan E. Locke |
“Who?”
“I...I'll tell you what, I'll..." (‘Stop, Justin. Don't implicate her. Don't put her in harm's way. You don't know
what this story might open up.') “Alessandra honey, I...everything is fine. It's complicated. I'm not involved;
I'm just covering a story. I just need to ask you to trust me. I'm fine and I have the cell phone with me at all
times and I promise to check in when you get home.”
“Justin, I'm more worried now then if you had just called and said you are going to be late,” the reporter's
wife said softly.
“I know. I'm sorry. I am. I'm fine. If there were anything wrong at all, you know I'd tell you. Someone in my
town needs my help and needs it today. It has nothing to do with us, it's just because I'm a reporter, that's
all. Everything is fine.”
Alessandra sighed. “All right, listen I have to get back to work. I have a meeting at four-fifteen. I want you
to check in and don't stay out late. If it's that important tell whoever you are helping to call the police or
something. Do you hear me? I want you home by bedtime.”
Walterovich chuckled. “Sounds great. I miss you. I love you. I'm sad every time that we're apart. I'm fine, I
promise. Nothing's wrong. I'll be home soon enough.”
“You are going to check in, right?” she said with authority.
“I'm going to check in; I promise,” Walterovich responded dutifully.
“I miss you,” Alessandra whispered. “I love you honey, I miss you. Bye Bye.” Walterovich looked at his
cell phone and became very homesick for his wife. He was torn inside; wanting their ship to come in and
the family to be safe at the same time. The Fountain of Youth, while still a slight step up from an old wives'
tale to the reporter had now become, based on testimony, a hurdle in Walterovich's life. The reporter
climbed back in his dented car. “I have a bad feeling that this is going to be a long, long day.”
***
“Hi...I want to call in a report. I saw Justin Walterovich go into the baseball fields...no, he was driving
alone...Dylan Ryan was also there, he arrived about two or three minutes earlier.. I don't know, It's hard to
see from here...Yes, I'm at my house...I don't know, it's hard to say, but Dylan looked upset...He wasn't
crying or anything that obvious...yes, I have binoculars...Dylan was moving back and forth and he looked
animated like something important was on his mind. Justin just stood by his car and listened. He said a
few words but nothing much. I don't remember
seeing Justin take down any notes, but again it isn't like I use government surveillance equipment like you
have...What car? A black Honda Civic...Oh, Dylan? He was driving the blue Taurus; I think it was his
mother's come to think of it. It had a dent on the left rear bumper. Yes, it must have been his mother's car...
they were there for about five or ten minutes no longer and Dylan was the first to leave...Yes, Justin stayed
back and made a call on his cell phone. I obviously
couldn't hear, but I think he was smiling a lot. He looked happy. He didn't look like he was upset or
anything. Like I said, he looked happy...Dylan turned back into town and Walterovich turned in the same
direction after his phone call...That's all that I can remember. If I think of anything else, I promise to call right
back...No, thank you. It was the least that I could do. You gave me a new lease on life...well, fine the waters
gave me a new lease on life but you and the whole Society let me have the opportunity...OK, sounds good...I
will, I will keep you posted...Good bye.”
Sarah's Lunch Spot was rather quiet. In addition to the new customers of Walterovich and Dylan Ryan,
the eatery only had three other customers, a waitress and a cook dying for a 15-minute break. Walterovich
smiled hello to Russ and Debbie Pagell and old Jimmy Nielson who all had booth locations conveniently
located to observe all newcomers to the spot. Steph Bonner was keeping their coffee warm while Gus
Gionnovi was frantically trying the bring some cheese
sticks back from the dead after he let them cook too long.
Ryan was sitting in some dark corner and Walterovich picked a different table, front and center and near
the large window, which from his vantage point had “come in from the cold and eat well” spelled
backwards in temporary paint.
“Dylan, come over here,” Walterovich said plenty loud so that everyone could hear him. “We're working
on some letters of recommendation, not plans to rob South Royalton Savings and Loan.” Ryan obliged, but
with far from a poker face. He shuffled over, dejection coursing his brow, taking a seat across from the
reporter.
Conversely, Bonner went over so fast that Walterovich couldn't even continue his charade. “Coffee,
gentlemen? Hey Justin, good to see you back in town. How is Alessandra and that cute daughter of yours?
So were you working on that Maxwell story? I heard that she is fine, is that true? I think I met her once, but I
don't want to talk with the papers. No offense, it's just that I want my privacy, you know? Hey Dylan, how is
your homework going? Have you
started that big research paper for Ms...”
“Steph, Steph,” Walterovich interrupted politely. “I'll have a coffee and a menu. I'm hungry. Dylan, order
something.”
“May I please have a Diet Coke, Steph?" the preacher's son left.
“Oh, sure,” the waitress said, slightly hurt that she was expected to service some culinary needs instead
of getting some fresh gossip session in. “I'll be right back.”
Walterovich and Ryan looked at each other and chuckled very quietly. It was the first time all day that the
preacher's son had a moment of humor.
“Dylan, listen, before we go on, I have some rules with this. You may not like them, but I have a family of
my own and I can't only think about myself anymore. I have a wife and a daughter who count on me,”
Walterovich said, stirring a small glass of water and half-melted ice cubes with his slightly stained coffee
spoon.
The pastor's son nodded to acknowledge he heard the reporter.
“So it's like this,” Walterovich continued. “I'm not going to be here until midnight and I'll tell you why. The
temperature is already dropping and while you and I don't have a problem with it, I'm not going to take you
and your mother into the woods to look for a warm spring. It's too dangerous. I'm not saying this to insult
you or the situation you are in, but I'm just not in a position to risk your life, your mom's life and risk my wife
and my daughter's future on anyone
freezing to death in some backwoods waters of Redbridge.”
“So what are you saying?” Ryan asked.
“What I'm saying, Dylan is that we gotta act now and we need to roll the dice. There is no chance that we
are going to be able to get a geological survey map and start going spring-to-spring tonight. We are going
to need to, at the very most, pick three and try them out. I need you to agree to these terms before we start,
because I don't want to have any confusion about this in a couple of hours.
Listen, by 7:30 at the very latest, I'm going to start making my way home to West Champlain. Until then
we'll have enough light and then once the sun completely sets, we'll have the last remaining heat before
everything completely freezes. I'm not being a jerk here, you gotta understand. But this is the best that I can
offer you.”
Walterovich looked to his left and saw the young waitress head toward their table. The reporter looked
back at Dylan. “Agreed?” the writer asked.
“Agreed,” Ryan responded.
“OK, here we go,” Bonner said placing the drinks on the black and white checkerboard table. “One coffee
for the famous-local reporter and one Coke for the future college all star baseball player. Are you guys
ready to order?”
“Sure thank you”, Walterovich said, looking over the menu one last time; it was the same menu he
looked at a thousand times in his life time and could recite perfectly by memory. “Steph, may I please have
the turkey with mashed potatoes and a small green salad, no dressing.”
“OK, and for you Dylan?”
“Um...Ah...may I have the club sandwiches with steak fries.”
“OK, sounds good,” the waitress said, looking for a moment at the small, worn notebook Walterovich
had on the table. “I bet there are some good stories in that notebook.”
“Thank you, Steph. We'll call you if we need anything else,” the reporter chuckled.
‘Humph,' the waitress thought to herself. ‘So much for being the voice of the community.'
Stephanie Bonner was asked in the sixth grade what she wanted to be when she grew up. To this day,
her essay is framed in Redbridge City Hall with the other winners of the annual Redbridge Middle School
Writer's Festival.
I Want to be Redbridge Selectboard Chair When I Grow Up
by Stephanie Bonner
March 24, 1999
I love Redbridge because it represents everything that the American dream stands for. I may be a kid,
but I too have dreams and Redbridge is the place where I feel most safe to try and reach those dreams.
When I grow up, I want to be Chairperson of Redbridge Town Meeting, because I want to do my part to
keep Redbridge clean, safe and free from too much outside influence. Chairperson McGowan is my role
model. She has spoken to our school many times about “being an active citizen.” I agree with her. I think
that serving as Chairperson is one of the best ways to be a good citizen. The Chairperson has to work with
her elected counterparts on the budget, on safety, and on keeping the roads in good working order.
I also like the idea of Town Meeting because you have to listen to what the people in town think is
important. I'm a good listener and I like to learn from other people. I can respect that just because people
don't have the same opinion as me doesn't mean that they're wrong and I am right. It just means we all
need to keep communicating.
In conclusion, when I grow up I want to be the Redbridge Selectboard Chairperson. I consider it my
dream job. I hope some day to show my parents that my dreams did come true.
“So how are you going to pick the three springs?” the pastor’s son asked.
“Well, do you have any clues or theories?” Walterovich asked in kind. “Let me put it another way: Tell me
everything that you know for sure, things you might have read at your house, or things your Mom might have
told your Dad about this.”
Ryan squirmed uncomfortably in his booth. “Justin, let me ask you, and again, I certainly don’t want to
offend you, but do you think it is the best idea to be talking about this in a diner in the middle of town?”
Walterovich nodded to concede that Ryan was smart in asking that question.
“Dylan, think about it. We are working on the assumption that you told me that one day a year there is a
magical healing spring, here in Redbridge, guarded by a secret society,” the reporter said quietly but at a
level slightly higher than a whisper.
“You think I’m crazy…”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Dylan. What I’m saying is that given those assumptions the right play is to be
out in the open both for our safety and to try and draw out any clues possible.”
Ryan smiled slightly. “So what you’re saying is that we are going to bluff our way to getting as many
clues as possible to help our search?” the preacher’s son asked. Walterovich lifted his hands slightly to
say, ‘of course.’
Ryan took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you that I don’t have some copied file from my Mom or photographs or
any great leads. There were four things related to the spring that I either heard my Mom mention to my Dad
or that I read once when I stumbled on some of her notes …” Walterovich said nothing, only opening his
notebook and reaching into his cashmere jacket to retrieve his lucky pen.
“My Mom mentioned something about a tree within a tree,” Ryan said, now lowering his voice more into
the range of a church whisper. He trusted the reporter’s reasoning, but still felt fearful talking about this in
public. “Then there was a family rock. Mom also said something about a memorial site for a great doctor
and then I read some scribbling of her’s saying NYT.”
Walterovich nodded again silently and read over his notes. “OK, this is what I am proposing, after we eat,
I want you to go to the Redbridge Library and try to access their on-line database for any geological survey
maps you can find. I am going to do the same thing, but I want us to go in separately because if I need to
duck out to check on a source, I can leave and
still have you searching,” the reporter directed. “What time does the library close?”
“Six, I think, no actually, 6:30,” Ryan replied.
“Perfect. Here’s the deal. Try and print out portions of the map yourself, but if you have to ask the
librarian, do it. There’s a fine line between being conspicuous and being outright confrontational, so we
don’t want to walk down Main Street chanting, ‘where is the Fountain of Youth?”
Ryan chuckled.
“Once you have the map, find one of the study cubicles and then go back and forth and key word every
clue into the database. Try to find some matches.”
“Now which database are we talking about?” Ryan asked.
“It’s the Redbridge one. It has a sign on the computer terminal. Anyway, try to pinpoint some choices. I’m
going to do the same and then at six or 6:30, whenever they kick us out, we will pick three springs and see
if we were right. Sounds like a plan?” Walterovich asked as the waitress/Chairperson hopeful walked over
with two arms full of food.
“Sounds like a plan,” Ryan replied.
“Good, let’s eat.”
Walterovich was mid-mash potato when the taste of his food triggered some half-memory that the
reporter couldn’t discern between actually recollection or impromptu fiction. The reporter was playing with
friends in tall wild grass; there was a basket of food. Walterovich was wearing a thick brown sweater and
seemed to see his own breath although there wasn’t any snow around him.
His old brother, Jamie, was throwing a semi-deflated tan football to himself and the youngest brother,
Jason, was being held by the boys’ mother.
Walterovich also remembered seeing childhood friends Andy and Sarah Reintree, Ryan and Kim
Borough and Benny Wieserman. None of them were any older than four years old. The property looked
familiar yet foreign, as if they were all at a regular vacation spot.
“Catch me, catch me,” the young reporter seemed to remember himself saying. None of his friends were
paying particular attention to him. “Catch me, catch me,” Walterovich repeated again, living in the insulated
word of a toddler where the concept of being ignored or rejected still was as foreign as self-sufficiency.
The memory shifted instantly. Walterovich was in some woods and he was running with his older
brother’s football. The young reporter was screaming playfully as he sensed Jamie was quickly
approaching. The future cop was always the sprinter of the three brothers.
“Catch me, catch me,” the young reporter cried out, holding the football with both his tiny arms, trying to
navigate around tree branches that seemed the size of houses. Walterovich seemed to remember his
mother calling out, “Boys, don’t run too far away.”
The eldest brother was catching up, Walterovich tried frantically to move his little legs faster. An old
childhood safe spot was ahead. Everyone knew the rules, reach that spot and one was “safe”.
“Almost there,” Walterovich thought to himself. But almost wasn’t close enough.
Jamie jumped forward and tackled the reporter by his feet. Walterovich remembered knowing that he didn’t
have time to use his hands to break his fall. Darkness.
Walterovich looked up to see his friends around him calling for help. Darkness.
Walterovich heard his Mom cry out as she picked up the boy. The future reporter didn’t start crying until
he saw the red all around his hands and sweater. Other parents came to the child’s aid. Darkness.
Mrs. Reintree was holding the boy now, gently splashing warm water on his face. Darkness.
Walterovich’s mother was holding her child whispering, “Everything is fine. It all went away.”
“How’s your food?”
‘How’s my food?’ Walterovich snapped out of his daydream for a moment and looked up at Bonner. “It’s
great Steph. It’s great. Thank you,” he said politely. “May I please have some more spring water?”
“Do you mean bottled water?” the waitress asked innocently.
‘Idiot, snap out of it Justin,’ the reporter thought. “Yes, do you have any bottled water for the road? I need
to head back home in a little bit.”
“I’ll go and check,” Bonner replied, looking back at the reporter; he was gingerly touching his forehead as
if checking for an injury.
After lunch, Ryan left for the library as instructed. Walterovich stayed put, paid the tab and went over for
some brief polite chit chat with Bonner and the other mainstays: Russ and Debbie Pagell and old Jimmy
Nielson. “I need to play this right,” the reporter thought.
***
Russ and Debbie Pagell both met and married at Champlain College. He was from Redbridge, she
was from Tunbridge, and strangely enough, they were never formally introduced until a welcome social for
incoming freshman was held at the school’s lovely cafeteria.
Russ was going for his Bachelor’s in Accounting; Deb was geared for the four-year Public Relations
track, yet the couple shared the joint passion of acting in school theatre. Both were successfully cast in a
1994 production of Dracula where director Sanders Bourgeois wrote an original adaptation of the famed
novel by Bram Stoker. Russ was Renfield and Deb was Mina Murray.
It was a small and intimate cast of 11 actors, made up of Champlain students, faculty or staff. The
chemistry was an instant hit as Bourgeois combined his talent for keeping the cast focused and working,
while inspiring an overall relaxed atmosphere that spoke to each actor’s need for both escape and
acceptance.
Deb was the better actor in that her performance, and even during read-throughs was natural, believable
and show-stopping. When she screamed on cue, her cast mates literally shuttered, even the veteran
director was said to be afraid to visit those very scenes, which he himself had written.
Robb was more emotive in his performances. He played a good villain and thrived in a character that
was both obedient and self-destructive. Indeed, the whole cast seemed to fit their respective parts well and
were soon off-book and refining their performance.
Russ and Deb didn’t cross paths much during the school day and, coupled with their intense theatre
work, developed a correspondence of sorts. A large portable blackboard was near the stage for theatre
classes and during the day, the two would leave each other notes:
Hey Deb, can I have your autograph?
Yo Russ, can your agent please help me get a job?
Hey Deb, is it true you have your own dressing room?
Yo Yo Russ, yes it is, and NO BOYS ALLOWED!!!
Together the thespians balanced the pressures of living away from home for the first time, assignments,
projects and the pressures that come with new college life. The play was sold out all eight nights of its
running and the cast enjoyed the euphoric rush that success within their school brought them. On the
closing night, Deb left a note in Russ’ cubby, addressed on the outside to “a great actor and friend.”
Russ,
I want to avoid being a cliché, but we’re actors so what do you expect? It has been great working with
you. I can’t believe we spent 18 years living in nearby towns and barely remember seeing each other. It’s
just like theatre, you know? I wish you the very best…I think I’ve fallen in love with you,
Deb
Seven months later, they married.
***
Old Jimmy Nielson wasn’t always old. He once ran wild and free as all lucky children do. But most
children get to count down sunsets to their next birthday. For Nielson, there was never a special day; for
neither he nor anyone in the state of Vermont knew exactly when he was born. Nielson was thought to have
born around 1908 to a Swedish father and a Danish mother, both of whom settled in New England with the
hopes of a life better than their class provided back home.
“I don’t remember my folks all that well,” the old man told Walterovich and the small restaurant
collection for the hundredth time. “Dad went down with a fishing boat off the shores of Maine. Mom was lost
to influenza was I was still learning to say more than ‘mommy’ and ‘food’. I shuffled from home to home
and ended up being taken in by the Bjornsons who owned the farm north at the top of the Old Road. They
sold it to the Clarksons when I was a teen.” Nielson’s shaking hands spilt some coffee on the counter,
which Bonner quickly and politely always wiped it clean.
“It was a simple life, a hard life, but an honorable life,” the old man continued, his voice low because of
tobacco and frail on account of his years. “They were like my new family. It was never that close mind you,
but that whole family was nice to me. They let me stay in the house, fed me, and let me manage some
workers doing harvest when I was old enough.”
Nielson struggled to steady his hands, his thirst for some stimulant was as strong as during his youth.
“I had friends, too. We’d go out into the woods and run for hours during the free day I was given twice a
month when we weren’t in full season. I remember Zack McLure, he went on to play baseball for a minor
league team in New Mexico; Darcy Reynolds who made three records for the phonograph and
Marga…Marga…Haugesund who would take all us kids to her family rock with all her special names.”
The reporter cracked a big smiled, sat down, and looked at the old man. “Marga Haugesund? I think I
have some family who were Haugesunds or maybe it was Andersens. I always get them confused,”
Walterovich said loudly and slowly.
“Nice people, all of them,” the old man replied, not very interested in the input from the reporter. “Some of
the healthiest people I ever met.”
“What brings you to town?” Russ Pagell asked mid-coffee sip.
Walterovich smiled. “Well, business unfortunately. I should get out here more often but I was assigned a
story this morning.”
“That billionaire, I thought she was found?” Debbie Pagell asked. “Steph, may I please have some more
ice tea?”
“Coming up,” Bonner replied.
Old Jimmy focused his attention on steadying his hand to consume a steak fry. “That whole family was
the best looking family I ever saw,” the old man whispered.
“She was found, and so I was asked to get another angle on the story,” Walterovich said to Debbie. “You
know how demanding bosses are. They’re just like demanding directors: always wanting to pull more out
of you.” The reporter and the thespians shared a laugh.
“How’s your wife and that cute little girl of yours,” Bonner said, refilling the iced tea-drinking Pagell’s
glass to the brim.
“Sorry is that too much?”
“It’s fine, I have a straw Steph,” Debbie responded.
“It was like they never really aged - all of them. It was the damndest thing,” Neilson mumbled.
“They are fine, thank you,” the reporter said the waitress. “Alessandra and I are finally getting around to
planning a romantic getaway and our little one is talking now with better English than I am.”
“So what’s the angle of the story you are working on?” Russ asked. “Steph, may I please have a small
slice of blueberry pie with two large scoops on vanilla ice cream. Actually, please make it one scoop of
vanilla and one strawberry.”
“Very patriotic,” his wife remarked. Russ thought for a moment.
“I don’t get it.”
“Red, white and blue,” the reporter jumped in. “Well, I need to start wrapping it up, I’m heading home
soon.”
“And there was this place up on the hill that had a large rock covering. They said hot water was in there.
Mrs. Haugesund said we could never, ever go near that place,” the old man whispered, mid-slow chew of
steak fries. “I heard there was magic there.”
“What story or, I guess I should say, what’s the angle now?” Russ asked.
“Ah, why spoil the surprise?” Walterovich chuckled. “Besides, it will only cost you 50 cents tomorrow to
find out.”
Walterovich started his car, smiled at the four inside the diner and drove slowly out of the parking lot. The
reporter in fact used so much caution that Debbie Pagell commented that he looked like he was taking a
driver's education class. The moment Walterovich was finally outside any perceived line of sight, he
immediately pulled off the road, put his dented black Honda into park and frantically started to write down
every word that the old man whispered at the diner.
Walterovich's paternal grandfather had taught the writer a few important life skills, one perhaps most
valuable of all: How to feign being hard of hearing. The reporter called it the Old Country Pokerface and
used it often throughout his 14-year career. The trick was to log on to one voice and let the rest of the white
noise in the universe do nothing more than bounce off the ears like soft, fluffy bubbles.
“If worse comes to worse, I can always go back to the diner and say that I want an ice cream for the
road,” Walterovich whispered looking over his notes “This is good; this is really good. You know, you got
something here, Walterovich. Now the only question is: what's going to be your play? This is going so fast.
I'm over my head here. Haugesund, healthy family, warm water, Jimmy Nielson, check out the whole family,
property history, and birth/death records.”
***
“Hello, it's me. I saw him at the diner. He was over with Dylan Ryan...Ryan left and he stuck around to
chat for a moment...I know but that's not the problem...Jimmy was babbling something about the spring...I
don't know, was he just babbling? You're the historians...I'm not being troublesome, I'm just trying to do my
duty...I know...I don't know, he said something about having the head home pretty soon...Say again? Oh I
don't worry, I won't let Jimmy out of my sight, but he's really in no condition to say anything...I mean he isn't a
part of the Society, right?...No, you're right...You're right, there is no reason to take chances. Of course, I'll let
you know. What about the others, should I check in with them too?...OK, sounds good...I'll go only through
you...sounds good then...OK? OK. Thanks.”
When the reporter finally walked into the Public Library he was shocked to see how efficient the
preacher's son was with his assignment. Ryan nodded to acknowledge he saw Walterovich, but that was
the only tell in an otherwise text-book perfect poker face. The writer responded in kind and then smiled at
the librarian Moxley, who quickly and nervously responded
in kind before returning to her projects.
The preacher's son printed out 10 sheets of paper and put four quarters in the honor-box before
returning to the side wing of the classic and beautifully designed library to a study cubicle that he’d checked
out for the two-hour maximum limit.
“Nice work,” the reporter whispered.
“Well, it wasn't that hard finding the maps,” Ryan whispered back.
“Yeah, but it's not just the fact that you found some maps but that you only brought out three. Nothing too
conspicuous but enough for us to work on. Good work. You'd make a good reporter,” Walterovich said.
“Yeah, no thanks,” Ryan chuckled quietly.
Both looked over the data which the preacher's son collected. One was a county-sponsored map of
Redbridge from 1980; the second was a Redbridge-sponsored map from 1986 and the third was an aerial
picture map of the town donated by the Bexell-Meyer-Green Foundation for the Geologic Sciences.
“Alright let's take a look,” the reporter said. “You have some printouts; what are they?”
Walterovich closed the door to the study cube. It would have been snug for three people and the two weight
lifters accounted for three, but there was enough walking space around the table to look at different maps
from various angles.
“You asked me to find anything on those four clues or whatever I gave you,” Ryan said.
“Right, let me check my notes again; you said your Mom had mentioned a tree within a tree, a family
rock, a memorial site for a great doctor and the acronym NYT. So what do you have?”
Ryan took a deep breath and looked over his printouts. “OK, I found nothing on Redbridge shrubbery that
was anything more than a wide spread returns from search engines.”
“I thought as much, we'll need to keep checking and maybe somehow on the aerial photos we can hit a
long shot. What else do you have?” Walterovich asked.
“On the issue of a family rock, I found a lot of seemingly useless sites but there was this interesting
thesis paper written by someone named Ariana F. Orchard, ever heard of her?" Ryan asked.
The reporter shook his head in the negative.
“Well anyway, she earned her PhD in Anthropology from UVM and a digital copy of her thesis is available
in the Redbridge database?"
“What is it about?"
“Well I obviously didn't read all 89 pages in the 12 minutes that I've been here, but the executive
summary says, ‘Central Vermont is home to some of the most underrated and influential methods of
historical recording in all of New England. The most significant is the use of family history rocks, which
meld many languages - some no longer in use - to share stories, lessons and genealogy in ways
comparable to that of the ancient Egyptians'.”
“No shit?” whispered the reporter.
“No shit,” the preacher's son responded.
“It's goes on and on and on and I saved, I printed out I should say, the link so we can go check it out.”
“Excellent, what else?” the reporter asked.
“The memorial site returns, even with the query word famous doctor, really give nothing more than what
the local historical societies have, but I did find this hand-drawn map posted on this web site that has
some Redbridge landmarks and famous protected grave sites outside what's in the cemeteries.”
“Excellent. What about the last one? What about NYT?” Walterovich inquired.
“I don't know, but literally the first 147 returns were for the New York Tribune.”
“Hmmm...” the reporter mumbled.
“What does it all mean?” Ryan asked.
“Let's start putting together this puzzle,” Walterovich said looking at the maps and tapping on his
notepad. “Maybe the answer is really here after all.”
Chapter Five
“So what's the plan, Stan?” Ryan asked with a smirk.
“Hey, we’ll have none of that attitude, son,” Walterovich chuckled. “Look, I'll be the first to tell you that I am
not a consultant in hydrology so there could very well be clues here, shit, I'm sure there are clues here that
we aren't seeing. So this is my recommendation: Get back on-line and try to find any tips of what to look for
when looking for waters and springs. Anything, we'll take anything.”
“Sounds good,” Ryan replied.
“I'm going to get started on this New York Tribune lead. Remember the paper is defunct, it became the
Herald Tribune I believe in the 60s, but that doesn't mean that articles aren't cataloged.”
“So what, are you going to do to key-word searches for Redbridge?” the preacher's son asked.
‘Walterovich, you shouldn't hide the fact there was a connection between Maxwell and past
disappearances. But what the hell does that have to do with locating anything. It just makes one ask more
questions.'
“Listen Dylan, I have some leads, leads that I am working on for another story but might have some
connection...”
“Like what?” the preacher's son pleaded.
“I...listen...I would tell you but it could lead you down the wrong path...”
“Justin, for god's sake my Mom has a few hours before this door closes...”
“I know, I know. I'll make you a deal, if we don't find what you are looking for before I need to head home,
then I'll tell you all. In the meantime trust me; any other distractions could easily lead us away from a long
shot that is already 1,000-to-1.”
Ryan nodded his head slowly that he understood, but the teen's face betrayed his fierce disappointment.
Walterovich opened the door and whispered, “Try matching things up with your printouts. I'll be back.”
Ryan went back to work and muttered some words of displeasure; the reporter closed the door and
headed to the library computer stations. ‘Who could blame him?' the reporter thought. Walterovich sat in his
now regular spot and refreshed the search engine.
-- NYT: Redbridge, missing persons, spring water, fountain of youth --
Twenty three results showed up from the query.
“You know, this is going to make a great book,” whispered Walterovich to himself, reading the first hit
from his newspaper query. “You keep hitting the jackpot.”
Tribute Editor Karstens to Wed, Resign and Move to Greener Pastures
A farewell tribute from Tribute writer and publisher
F.R. Karstens
Dec. 3, 1854
The function of the newspaper is as strong a fabric in these United States as the magnificent red, white
and blue that bears witness and testament to the success of the Union.
Even in days when states to the south protest some of the directions where this great land is going, I
believe that America the beautiful is growing into a historic and wonderful example of the human spirit. It is
in that very spirit that I must regretfully but with full faith and excitement announce this is my last day with the
New York Tribute. After 21 years of chasing stories, challenging the powers that be and bringing you, our
loyal New York readership everything that's worth sharing, I have found love.
Yes, New York, I am getting married and moving to beautiful and quiet Redbridge, Vermont with the very
woman whom I assigned myself to cover: Gloria Earl Vanguart. You may remember that Ms. Vanguart had
gone missing in that quiet Vermont town this time last year, only to be found safely by her sister (younger by
three minutes) in the nearby town of Tunbridge.
But enough of Vermont history, my self-appointed assignment was to interview the daughter of Vanguart
Shipping International as to what her three days of absence meant to her and her family. Over months,
correspondences turned into friendship and friendship turned into love and only this morning, Ms. Vanguart
and I have decided to wed.
I thank you for all that you have done for me, your inspiration, challenge and faith. I hope I fulfilled your
expectations. Fellow readers, my friends, I am off to try life anew. May all of your stories end as happily as
mine.
Farewell,
F.R. Karstens
Publisher, minority-owner
Walterovich scratched his eyebrows for a moment and tried to process his good fortune. His book on
mystery twins in Redbridge was certain to be a hit. “Walterovich, you're a made man,” the reporter
whispered. “Get that check ready, you're moving Alessandra and the baby to a new townhouse overlooking
Lake Champlain."
“Mr. Walterovich, it isn't healthy to mumble to yourself,” a woman with a secure and confident voice said
from the side.
“You're right, I'm sorry,” the reporter responded in a library whisper. He was too busy processing the
article to even turn his head.
“Well, I can imagine you are working on a big story,” the woman continued. “It's expected considering
what is at stake.”
The voice became created a sufficient disturbance that it successfully sent enough stimuli to have
Walterovich turn his head. His mind ran through his Rolodex but couldn't recognize the face.
“Oh, I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced in person,” the woman said calmly, extending out her arm. “My
name is Jennifer Maxwell. I hope we can put those angry phone calls behind us.”
***
“Hello? Yes, I am calling from the library. Yes, you will never believe this, but she came back to town...
Maxwell, yes, she is in the library right at this very moment...I have no idea, I was never told that she was
coming back to town... She's talking to Walterovich and Dylan Ryan is in one of the study cubicles...I have
no idea, because it is hard to get close enough without tipping them off...I know that Dylan was fishing
around the maps in the reserve
aisle...It's hard to say because when Dylan and Justin are working, they don't talk that much...that's a good
point, I think I did see Dylan put an extra print out in the recycling bag...I'll try. I'll wait until the coast in clear...
yes, I'm sorry, Maxwell parked in plain and open view, in fact, I can see her car from where I am calling...I'm
sure it is her, there is no doubt about it...OK...I will...OK...Absolutely, I will let you know as soon as I find
anything more
out...I may need to duck out and call you from home, because you never know what ears may be listening.
It's a library so naturally sound travels well...Sounds good...I will...OK...bye bye.”
‘Think Walterovich, think,' the reporter frantically ordered himself, his pulse felt as it more than tripled.
‘You need to handle this. You need to handle this situation calmly and coolly. Now go to work.'
“Ms. Maxwell, I can assure you that I never touched your email account after your clear instructions over
the phone, so there is no worry,” the reporter said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am on a deadline.”
The reporter received a “shhh’ from 82-year-old patron Isaac Logan, despite the fact that Walterovich
was barely near the “shh” level.
“I think we should talk," Maxwell said.
“Shh," Logan said again, now hitting his cane once with authority on the new navy blue rug of the library.
‘Think man, think. If you take her back to the study room Dylan could flip out. What to do? What to do?'
“I'm sorry, I really don't have time right now,” the reporter said in an almost inaudible whispered. “Why
doesn't your lawyer, the one that was going to bankrupt my grandchildren, make an appointment with my
administrative assistant and I can pencil you in a meeting for, oh, say, next March.”
Maxwell approached closer and whispered, “aye, but there's the rub, Gasputin Walterovich. It appears
that Dec. 8 is an extremely time-sensitive day for this particular subject.”
Walterovich stopped his typing and looked slightly up at his unexpected source. “Well Ms. Maxwell, what
ever do you mean?” he whispered with a grin.
“Is there's a reading room free so that we can talk for a moment?" Maxwell replied.
Walterovich shook his head. “Let's go outside,” the reporter said. “I'm getting claustrophobic.”
“Are you claustrophobic?” Maxwell asked with a tinge of arrogance.
“Only when I'm about to break the story of the century,” Walterovich replied with arrogance in-kind. The
writer stood up, cleared the history folder in the main homepage of the Redbridge library and removed his
nearly full notebook from his coat.
“What are you doing?” Maxwell asked, fully aware of the glare she was getting from an elderly patron
sitting near the fiction section U-Y.
Walterovich turned and smiled politely; he noted the old man was reading his favorite author, Kurt
Vonnegut, and the classic “Snapshot.”
“Everything is on-the-record from here on out Ms. Maxwell,” Walterovich said walking to the door. “I no
longer have the luxury of time for charity or diplomacy. So am I talking to Jennifer Maxwell or her twin
sister?” the reporter asked as soon as both had stepped outside. Walterovich held out his notebook and
birthday pen.
“I...I...can we just talk for a moment?” the woman asked, taken back apparently by the reporter's
bluntness.
“No, and I'll tell you why, Ms. Maxwell, if that is indeed your name. The sun is setting both on this day and
on this story,” Walterovich said politely but with speed to create an entrance barrier to the conversation. “I've
been burned on this story enough as it is. I know something is going on here, much bigger than the fact of
rich female twins pulling some
disappearance/reappearance/donating-their-life's-savings act. So I'm going to investigate this by the book,
and the pun was intended. Come to think of it, I was actually going to head home and write a nice book on
the disappearances. But all of this Fountain of Youth frenzy, which is apparently contagious, keeps
preventing me from leaving the city limits. So all you say is fair game, and if that isn't acceptable, I
understand, but I can't help you.” Walterovich stopped and took a deep breath.
“Do you feel better?” the woman asked with a chuckle.
“Yeah, sort of, I'm tired and cranky. So what's on your mind? Is there or is there not a Fountain of Youth.”
(‘Hah, and they say I can't ask the tough questions,’ the reporter mused to himself.)
“Yes, there is a Fountain of Youth in Redbridge and it is very much in working order,” the woman said
calmly. The reporter's jaw actually dropped open for a moment. “That is exactly why I came back to town.
You see, I want to make you a deal: Those who guard the Fountain from nosy reporters like yourself have
agreed to show it to you, demonstrate its powers and provide irrefutable evidence that it exists. You came
this far, you might as well know that it exists, and in return we would like you to write a book that effectively
disproves this myth. Think of it as a little inside joke, much like how Shakespeare didn't write half of the
material attributed to him. Or be an artist and look at it as Mona Lisa's smile. You write a book telling the
world it is nothing more than a myth and we prove to you it is true.”
Walterovich stood and scratched his head. “Lady, I...I don't know where to start,” he said slowly listening
to his own words. “First off, there is a kid in town, a good kid, who told me his mother is sick. So if you and
your friends know any way to help her, then take Mrs. Ryan not me. Second of all, I'm a reporter, not a fiction
writer, so I don't want to invent a book. Third, I already have a great story, and I don't need you to help me get
it published. So going by the baseball analogy, strike three, you're out.”
Maxwell smiled; Walterovich though that her expression suggested she was prepared that he might
respond the way that he did. “You're a noble man, and that means something since
you are poor,” the woman said. “I need to make a phone call, but before I do, let me know exactly what your
terms are.”
“Lady, you came to me, what are talking about?” Walterovich replied quickly. Maxwell didn't move. “Listen,
if all of this true then for god's sake, save Dylan's mother. We don't need all of the theatrics,” Walterovich
continued. “You call whoever you have to call. You do whatever it is you have to do. If it will save Dylan's
mom, you know I'm game. So you let me know. Now if you excuse me, I'm losing daylight and it's getting
cold, so I'm going to go back inside.”
“Well don't go anywhere for a few minutes, I mean, stay in the library, OK? I need to make a call,” the
woman said. Walterovich put his notebook back in his pocket and walked back inside, snow crunching
below him, without a clue as to what to tell Dylan Ryan now.
The preacher's son looked up at the door with pride as Walterovich walked in. Ryan thought he was on
to a lead. “Justin, you will never believe this, but I think I found a clue in that...”
The writer raised his hands for a moment. “Dylan, hold on a second. I have something to tell you. It's not
necessarily bad, but I need you to remain calm. Remember that we are in a library so sound will travel,”
Walterovich said. “So just withhold reaction until we can talk about this.” Ryan slumped back with the
impending disappointment.
“OK, Dylan, so it is like this,” the reporter continued. “Jennifer Maxwell just walked into the library. She's
outside now making a phone call. She wants to cut a deal.” Ryan's eyes scrunched in anger, his face
quickly became near purple and a vein showed on each side of the forehead.
“Dylan, Dylan just listen to me for a moment. I told her if she knows anything about the spring or
Fountain of Youth or whatever to take you mom there right away. So just, let me handle this for a moment
and see what is going on. Just play it cool for a moment, OK?” the writer plead in a semi-whisper.
Ryan's hands began to quake and he thrust his body upward, knocking his chair to the ground in the
process. At the same time a loud scream rattled the two from outside the reading room. The preacher's
son and the reporter looked at each and then ran out of the sanctuary. The rest of the library patrons and
Moxley the Librarian were standing nearing the windows.
“What, what happened?” the reporter called out.
“They took her, they took that woman,” old Isaac said.
“What?" Walterovich asked again in disbelief.
Moxley turned to the reporter. “Justin, someone just kidnapped Jennifer Maxwell.”
Ryan took a step back in disbelief, but quickly composed himself. “Someone call 9-1-1 right away,” the
preacher's son ordered with authority. “Justin and I are going to try to chase them down. Which way did they
go?”
“They turned back to town. It was a large black Chevy Blazer with, I think, Pennsylvania plates,” the
librarian said.
“Good, call it in right now, Walterovich, let's go,” the preacher's son ordered his mentor as he ran outside
to the parking lot.
The reporter thought for a moment that he should protest in some way, but everything Ryan said made
sense, so Walterovich just followed his orders and ran to his dog-dented Honda Civic.
The reporter's car was swerving between both lanes of the two-way road as his tires seemingly lost all
traction in the mid-speed chase.
“Gun it, you're going to lose them,” Ryan pleaded.
“Jesus, Dylan, I'm a reporter not a NASCAR driver,” Walterovich snapped back.
Onlookers in town were pointing down the road and back at Walterovich as he fish-tailed by. The reporter
surmised that the lead car was still on Main Street.
“Call Winslow!” the reporter barked.
“Where...how...”
Walterovich stiffened his left arm and quickly reached into his coat pocket and threw his cell phone in
Ryan's direction.
“How do I use this one?” Ryan asked.
“Hit 'call/remember' and type '4-0',” Walterovich said, breathing deliberately and relaxing for a moment as
at least the road had straightened for a couple of yards.
“OK, now what?” Ryan asked.
“Dylan, just press 4-0 and send!”
“OK. OK. I got it. It's ringing. The signal isn't that strong. I...Yes, Sheriff? Sheriff! This is Dylan, Dylan Ryan.
Listen we are chasing some kidnapper. He has that billionaire woman. What do you mean, you are on your
way? Jesus, LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT!”
Walterovich swung his head to the left, as Sheriff Winslow cruiser shot out from a side street and slid onto
the main road.
“Oh shit!” the reporter cried out. In an instant, Walterovich remembered what his father always said about
driving on ice and snow: ‘Never slam on your breaks. You'll do more harm than good.' The reporter hit the
gas and safely sped up in front of the cruiser. ‘Pity that curve in road wasn't 30 yards farther out,'
Walterovich thought to himself as his car failed to adjust to the turn. The dog-dented Honda became air
born and quickly tilted downward towards a snowdrift.
Ryan was screaming out expletives of fear; the reporter conversely had a moment of peace and calm.
Walterovich thought about how deeply he loved his wife and how much joy his daughter brought to his life.
The reporter mused about how he loved holding his wife and
how fulfilling marriage was compared to the false paradises offered up by the working world.
‘Lord, if I survive this, I promise to take my wife dancing,' Walterovich thought.
BOOM!
Everything went black.
Chapter Six
Walterovich and Ryan sat motionless in their seats. The sound a screeching car and subsequent car
horn were heard in the distance.
‘I'm blind,' the reporter thought. 'Oh, sweet Jesus I'm blind.’
“I'm blind!" Walterovich cried out.
“Justin, Justin! Relax. Relax!” Ryan said shaking the reporter. Walterovich felt this tremendous pressure
against his body. “My face!” he shouted. “Oh god, my face. I think I had a stroke.” Ryan started laughing.
“Walterovich, Jesus, open your eyes,” the preacher's son said. “It's just your airbag.”
The reporter stopped and felt the protective membrane in front of him. For a moment, Walterovich felt like
he was six years old again, hugging a great aunt who was larger than the family piano.
“You know,” the reporter said, suddenly much calmer, opening his car door. “I've never seen one of
those things in operation before. It’s like I’m hugging a super model.”
Both shared a hearty laugh of relief.
The rest didn't last more than three seconds. About 100 yards ahead, lay the Black Chevy Blazer on its
roof. Sheriff Winslow was shouting something that sounds horrifically close to “put down the gun, Now!
Stop or I'll shoot!” From around the flipped Blazer emerged a huge, bald, Caucasian male: young looking
but more than 6'4" and 300 pounds holding Maxwell in one arm and appearing to have a robust handgun in
the next.
“Sheriff, don't shoot!” Ryan cried out. “She can take my Mom to the Fountain!” The preacher's son started
running towards the wreckage. Walterovich almost caught up to the teen but baseball made Ryan too agile
for the 30-year-old.
“Dylan, stop, Dylan, Dylan!” Walterovich shouted. The reporter's orders were nearly in sync with the
sheriff's demands to the white Neanderthal. Walterovich threw a snowball in protest and ran after Dylan; the
writer slipped repeatedly along the way. “I’m really getting to old for this,” he muttered, forcing himself back
on his feet. “They should really make me assistant editor.”
“Freeze! Freeze, damn it!” Winslow shouted.
“I'll kill her. Back off pig. I'll do it,” the Neanderthal howled. “You know I will.”
“Oh God, don't kill me,” Maxwell pleaded.
Ryan approached, about 75 yards out. “Stop! Stop! Please, Jesus, don't hurt her,” the preacher's son
cried out.
“Ryan, stop!” Walterovich said, again from the ground; he had slipped again.
“Dylan, goddamn it, stay back!” Winslow ordered, all the while keeping his gun pointed at the
Neanderthal's chest.
“Back off, pig! Back off!” the kidnapper barked back, his face blurred now by red from cuts after the
accident.
“Listen, just let her go,” Ryan tried to negotiate. The preacher's son kept approaching.
Stand down Dylan!” the sheriff growled loudly.
Walterovich approached the young Ryan. The Neanderthal swung his gun around at the cop, Ryan and
Walterovich. Winslow tried for the shot but Maxwell was too close to her capturer's body. Walterovich saw
his life flash before his eyes for the second time in three minutes.
The Neanderthal smirked and for some reason looked at the preacher's son. “Do you want her alive?”
the kidnapper asked.
“Please!” begged Ryan.
The kidnapper went to let the woman go, pushing her slightly forward. Ryan focused on the woman,
unaware that the gun was now pointed at his direction.
Crack! Dylan felt lightning shoot through his shoulder. He was thrown to ground.
Crack. Crack. The preacher's son heard Maxwell, Walterovich and Winslow. The Neanderthal was silent.
The first thought Walterovich had, listening to the puppy-like yelping of the wounded Ryan was, “Thank
God he's still alive. No matter what happens, he's alive.” The reporter ran up to the preacher's son, put
snow on the damaged shoulder. Ryan screamed out in agony and punched Walterovich in the eye, out of
disoriented reaction. The writer actually saw stars.
“I'm sorry!” Ryan said with a blood curdling tone.
“It's all right,” the reporter said calmly, his right eye throbbing. “Everything is going to be fine. Try as best
as you can to breath in as much air as you can. The more oxygen the body has, the less pain it feels. I
wrote a big article on that a few months ago. It's a fact of science.” Walterovich had zero proof to support the
statement, in fact he never wrote such an article, but he thought anything to give psychological relief for
Ryan was worth a try.
Maxwell got up, sobbing, from feet away from her dead kidnapper and went over to Walterovich and the
teen. Winslow was at his cruiser radioing in for an ambulance.
“I'm so, so, sorry,” Maxwell whispered to Ryan. She knelt in the snow and touched his forehead. “Is it...is
it bad?”
The preacher's son grunted in agony. “Oh Jesus, I can't feel my arm.”
“You'll be OK, kid. I know the pain is awful you but look, you're moving your fingers. That's a great sign. It
means he didn't destroy anything that can't be fixed,” Walterovich said.
“I sure wish...I sure wish I was at the Fountain,” Ryan forced out with some semblance of a smile.
“I know,” Maxwell said. "If I knew exactly where it was, I would take you there myself. My sister knows, not
me.” Ryan passed out, unrelated to the woman's confession. The pain was more than he ever thought
existed in this world. Walterovich, who was applying pressure to Ryan's wound, looked at the woman in
disbelief.
“I'm not Jennifer Maxwell; I'm her twin sister,” she said as sirens were heard in the distance of the
darkening sunset horizon. “I'm sorry I've been lying to you. It's a complicated story. I haven't seen her since
at dawn this morning. If what has happened is what she told me, she's a newborn infant somewhere in
your town.”
Walterovich was speechless. He turned back and put fresh snow in the preacher's son injured shoulder,
the trio's collective breathes floated up to the heavens. Darkness was setting in.
Cars and trucks appeared from all directions. Walterovich still felt very much isolated and alone. Ryan's
father, the man who so often was the rock during moments of grief around the town, ran into the snow
crying out his son's name in animalistic hysteria, unwilling to take anyone at their word that his son would
survive. It took four deputy sheriffs to restrain Reverend Ryan as the ambulance crew gently whisked his
son into the red flashing van.
“Reverend, listen, I'm not letting you in that ambulance with Dylan unless you promise to let them do
their job,” Winslow said with authority. “My duty is to your son, not to you at this moment. So if you can't keep
it together, you'll have to ride down with someone else. That's it. Do you understand?”
The elder Ryan somehow mentally sedated himself and regained control. He didn't say a word, but
nodded in the affirmative and climbed into the ambulance.
The reporter looked all around him and only then realized that he should be taking all of this down for a
news report. Despite all of the pleas for decency within his subconscious, Walterovich went deep inside
his second right hand pocket, undid the button, and withdrew the emergency portable digital camera and
started snapping away. The flash seemed to blend enough with the commotion and the emergency vehicle
lighting to avoid the crowd charging at him, and the reporter focused his sights on the large mound on the
ground: The dead Neanderthal
covered with morgue blankets. Today, at least, after his 14-year career as a journalist, the reporter hit the
jackpot.
“I'm going to have to go. You know they are going to take me down to the hospital and make sure I'm not
in shock,” Maxwell said to the reporter, standing near the dead assailant.
“I hope that you're OK,” Walterovich said. “I hope everything works out with you and your sister.”
“It's my brother that's the problem. I know that he sent this monster over. I saw him following me heading
south. That's why I turned around and came back to Redbridge. I was looking for safety,” Maxwell said.
Walterovich stopped taking pictures. “Pete's coming over,” the reporter said, watching the sheriff
marching their way. “If you have anything to say, now's the time. Last call.”
“My brother is after me and Jennifer because he wants his money, or our money for that matter. I'm not
safe and they can't protect me. I need to join the Society even if it will cost me every penny. I understand now
that I can't return to my old life. It's over.”
“You're speaking in tongues. I don't follow,” the reporter said.
The woman smiled knowing a reporter's trick when it reared its ugly head. “Somehow I think you do, but
for the sake of the moment: The rule of the Society is that no one profits from the Fountain. If you join, you
give away everything. That's their entrance and exit barrier and switching cost,” she said.
“How would they even know?” Walterovich asked. “Why not only give away half? How could they tell?”
“Believe me, they have become very good at this," she turned to see Winslow no more than 25 yards
away. “Look I can't help Dylan's Mom but maybe you can. I'd give you a phone number but all it would do is
harm, trust me. You have to find them on your own. Tell them that I wouldn't say a word. They need to
protect me. If you see them, reason with them, tell them that I am loyal and in trouble. Tell them I didn't say
anything to you, but you think I am in trouble. They might take me too. Please, I'm begging you. I could be
dead by sunrise.”
“OK, Ms. Maxwell, the ambulance is ready. No more interviews,” the sheriff said with a growl intended for
Walterovich.
“Where is the Fountain of Youth?” the reporter whispered. “Tell me.”
“Walterovich, step away. You're lucky I don't take that god damn camera,” Winslow barked again. “This
scene is closed."
“Tell me,” the reporter whispered.
Maxwell took a step backward, to appease the sheriff's approach. “Haugesund Farms," she whispered.
“Haugesund Farms...”
“Haugesund Farms,” Walterovich whispered. “Haugesund Farms...”
“What?” said local towing specialist Johnny Katz. “Walterovich, you really gotta stop talking to yourself,
people think that it's weird.” They both chuckled.
“I really appreciate you helping me out Johnny,” the reporter said, taking out a c-note. “I owe you, you're a
life saver.”
“No worries, listen, don't you have some expense account or something? I can vouch for you, come
insurance time,” the entrepreneur said.
Walterovich didn't even give a second thought: Out came the News-Times credit card.
“Just don't get me fired,” the reporter chuckled handing over the card. “Oh, but of course,” the entrepreneur
replied with a smirk.
As the reporter watched his airbags being deflated, his spirits were raised because he would be able to
return safely to his loving wife and daughter in his own dog-dented Honda.
“Haugesund Farms,” Walterovich whispered. “Haugesund Farms...Hey Johnny, hold up...”
The entrepreneur turned around, knuckles white with the corporate credit card. “Yeah?”
“Have you ever heard of Haugesund Farms?” the reporter asked.
Katz scratched his forehead. “Nope. Never, and my family has been here 141 years.
Why do you ask?”
“Um...no reason, no reason...”
Walterovich paced back and forth near his car, watching the numbers of onlookers dissipate. “I'm in a
tough spot,” the reporter mumbled to himself. “I want to go home. This day has completely gone out of
control. I should go to the hospital to check on Dylan. No, I will stop by the hospital. And what about his
mother? Where is she? I should at least find her and tell her what Dylan is trying to do.”
Walterovich rubbed his thumb to his ring finger, an old response he used to do when wanting a
cigarette. It had been a couple of years since his last touch of tobacco, but some cravings die hard.
“Haugesund Farms? What the hell is she talking about? For all I know, she got the name wrong, or the
town wrong, or is just playing with me,” the reporter whispered. “Look, Justin, it's already dark now. There is
nothing you are going to be able to do. The library is about to close...”
The writer felt himself getting into his car; the interior was scarred and exposed from post air-bag
deployment, but Walterovich was still glad it could run well enough to get him home. “I'll at least go back to
the library until it closes,” he said, now more loudly since his engine was running and CD was on. “I'll give
Dylan that much, that I'll work until they kick me out. I have 22 minutes.”
The road back to the library seemed so much less threatening since Walterovich was observing the
speed limit, but the shock of Dylan's injuries and seeing some stranger expiring before his eyes had
begun to set in. Walterovich patted his jacket with a free hand to make sure that his portable camera was
still there.
He pulled over and took out his cell phone. “Time to check in with Trevino,” he said, somewhat
inexplicably, since he didn't want to check in with his boss at all. Although past conventional closing hours,
Walterovich knew his boss would be scheming late into the night. Two seconds after turning on his phone,
the reporter saw seven new messages had been phone in. All seemed connected to the News-Times, and
more importantly, none were from the reporter's wife. “At least she isn't worried,” Walterovich said of his
better half.
It wasn't like the reporter to let phone messages and emails pile up, but this wasn't a normal work day
for him. Walterovich dialed Trevino's phone. She picked up before the second ring.
“Walterovich!” she barked. Apparently life had returned to normal in the newsroom. “Where the hell have
you been? First, you request our legal counsel and never make a call, then you stop checking in with me. I
mean you aren't on sabbatical, do you understand! You better dazzle me or I am going to demote your...”
“Chief, there was a shooting about 30 minutes ago in Redbridge. I got pictures; I was there when it
happened. It all ties in to the disappearance this morning of the billionaire Maxwell. I've got it all. The
pictures were taken on a portable digital, but I've used the same brand before. We're set. We're going to
blow the Free Press out of the water.”
Silence.
“You know Walterovich, I think you may have assistant editor in you after all,” Trevino said with crocodile
sincerity. “Who was shot? Was it Maxell? I need you to drop the camera off tonight by 11. Laurie and Dwight
are working late on some graphic design work and they can process your pictures. How good is this
second story? I'm assuming your first about the twins can still be a stand alone? Who was shot?”
“Someone tried to kidnap Maxwell, or a woman claiming to be Jennifer Maxwell, I should say. Yeah, it
can be a stand alone, but this second article is banner page-one, hands down. Even if the pictures are less
than perfect...”
“What are the pictures of?” Trevino asked.
“They’re of the kidnapper. Sheriff Winslow had to take him down. The pictures are of the covered
deceased kidnapper, but you see the dead man's shoes sticking out,” Walterovich said.
“Excellent,” the editor hissed. “Listen, you need to find a computer out there and crank me out a first draft
right now. We can't wait until morning for this one. We need to know how much space to reserve.”
“I'm heading to the Redbridge Library now. They are going to be only open for about another 18 minutes.”
“Good, get started then. Type like the wind, Walterovich! Break into the place if you have to, just find a
computer. Tomorrow, you are going to make quite a name for yourself,” Trevino said, hanging up before the
reporter could respond. Walterovich switched his car from park to drive and navigated the snowy, lamp-lit
road to the library. His was a troubled soul.
It felt like the fiftieth time that day Walterovich walked into the doors of the Redbridge Library.
“You know we're closing in 15 minutes,” said Librarian Moxley in a clinical and IRSian way.
“Would you mind if I please stayed for an extra 30 minutes after closing, while you get ready for
tomorrow?” the reporter asked politely. “I don't mean to bug you, it's just that I need to get some work done
and I have to...”
“I'm sorry, Justin, that won't be possible tonight. Please finish your library business and leave at the
designated closing time,” the librarian said coldly, walking to the back room before he could respond. The
reporter wanted to protest but the clock was screaming for action. Walterovich took a booth, logged onto the
net, found his mail site and started typing frantically away.
Maxwell Disappearance Ends With Shooting
by Justin Walterovich
West Champlain News-Times
REDBRIDGE -- Dylan Ryan, a local standout high school athlete and young community leader was shot in
the shoulder trying to rescue a woman reportedly kidnapped outside the Redbridge Public Library. Ryan,
17, a senior at neighboring Chelake High School was shot in the shoulder following an incident where the
reported kidnapper (Chief, we still need his name) drove off the road just inside the southern City Limits
and held a woman identified as either Jennifer K. Maxwell or her twin sister by gun point.
Ryan was following the alleged kidnapper's Black Chevy Blazer in a car driven by News-Times reporter
Justin Walterovich. Ryan and Walterovich were researching a related story (see Redbridge Twins, on
page??) when they and others witnessed/heard the victim's cry for help as she was being abducted.
Once on-route, Sheriff Peter Winslow followed the alleged kidnapper off road and repeatedly asked the
man to put down his gun and to surrender peacefully. After about a five minute standoff, the alleged
kidnapper fired and hit Ryan in the shoulder. Sheriff Winslow returned fire, killing the alleged kidnapper.
Ryan and Maxwell were both taken to Orange County General Hospital; Ryan for treatment of his single
gunshot wound, Maxwell for observation.
At different portions of the events, Maxwell identified herself to the News-Times as both Jennifer Maxwell
and her “twin sister.” At the time of press, her identity has yet to be confirmed by additional sources.
Maxwell, the billionaire heiress of Maxwell Oil, was reported missing earlier in the day. SEE RELATED
STORY
Walterovich looked up at the clock and saw his remaining time in single digits. He frantically re-read his
work and added: Chief this is my rough, rough, ROUGH draft. Library is closing. They're kicking me out. I'll
call for further instruction - Walterovich.
Just after the reporter finished his re-read and clicked “send”, Moxley turned off most of the lights and
asked him to immediately leave.
‘Haugesund you idiot, you forgot to search Haugesund!' the reporter thought.
“The library is now closed!” the librarian said sternly. “This means you Mr. Walterovich!”
“I'm just printing out this one thing. I'm going," Walterovich said nicely.
www.vermontterms.vt
HAUGESUND
He typed, hitting the print button multiple times until he heard some movement from the HP DeskJet
970cSE. Moxley was unimpressed and walked very deliberately towards the reporter. Walterovich cleared
his history file and physically shut down the computer. He hovered over the printer as he did years ago the
mailbox when rumor was another report card filled with Cs was on the way home from private school. It
seemed odd to the reporter that he had three printed pages, which apparently had only short text on each
respective page. Yet there was just enough time to take the money and run. The reporter thought he heard
the librarian whisper, “traitor”, as he passed, but he wasn't sure.
Walterovich was out the door and on his way, in the freezing cold, to his car-dented, airbagless black
Honda Civic. He turned back for a moment and saw the librarian glare at him as she abruptly shifted the
sign in the door from “welcome” to “please come again.”
His attentions quickly turned to other things. “Oh you've got to be kidding me. Justin, you dummy,” the
reporter whispered looking down at his data. In the rush of the moment, Walterovich had somehow opened
three windows -- one from his Vermont site and two of the same default search engine -- and only partially
typed portions of HAUGESUND: HAU, GE, SUND." Time was over, the library closed, Andi's was at full
capacity, the weather was frigid, the Lears were busy, Procter probably sleeping; the reporter was tired,
Ryan in the hospital, others broken over magical waters....
“I give up,” the reporter said. “It's time to go home. I'm sorry, but enough is enough. It's over.”
Walterovich stuffed the useless printouts in his now drenched and muddied cashmere jacket, started
his car and finally left the Redbridge City Limits north towards County Medical to check on his pupil before
returning to the peaceful borders of West Champlain.
Walterovich took out his phone and dialed his aunt's phone number hoping to check in and catch his
mother. He only got the answering machine. “Hi everyone. It's Justin. I wanted to let you know that Dylan
Ryan is OK, but he is in the hospital and will probably need surgery. I don't want to worry you, so just check
in with them. I'm fine, I'm just exhausted. I'll need to come back to town tomorrow to meet with Peter
Winslow. Everything is fine. I'll stop by tomorrow. I'm heading now to the hospital to check on Dylan. If there
is any major news, I'll call back. See you tomorrow. Good night.”
Walterovich next went to call his wife, but he stopped after the second digit. He didn't want to tell
Alessandra that someone was shot...not at least over the phone. He would tell her everything in person
over a late dinner. The reporter saw the “Welcome to Redbridge” sign in his rear view mirror. He felt
incomplete leaving the town, but for now, it appeared that his shift had mercifully ended.
“Why do I feel like such a sellout?” the reporter asked himself under the darkness of the early winter
night, his high beams now trying to push out some of the nothingness to steer his way home. “Why did I
use my time at the library to write that article? Why didn't I help Dylan? Jesus am I that easy to buy or just
that weak?”
The road felt iced and unwelcoming. Even a seasoned winter driver such as Walterovich never felt
invincible for six months of the year on New England roadways.
“Well what was I going to do?” he challenged himself. “It wasn't like I left town knowing where the spring
was. It was a crap shoot and what would I have done, gone to Dylan's mom an hour after he was shot and
asked her to go skinny dipping in some Redbridge spring? Get serious, Justin. You have a family to take
care of. You just can't always risk everything on a whim. I mean think about what you are saying for a
moment. The Fountain of Youth? I mean Jesus. You're tired, that what it is. You're tired and a little
disillusioned with work and that's understandable. Swing by the hospital, make sure Dylan is OK and then
go home to your beautiful wife and daughter. It's real simple. Even you can pull this off, Walterovich.”
The reporter tried to relax himself the rest of the drive to the hospital by playing his music loudly and
focusing on the road. As he aged, Walterovich actually found ways to detach and relax himself at times, and
soon found he was comfortably numb and near the entrance of the hospital emergency room. It only really
hit the reporter in the parking lot that he could very well be blamed by the Ryan family for what happened.
Guilt and dread seeped their way throughout his consciousness, yet the writer pressed on.
“This is about Dylan not me,” he whispered himself, walking into welcomed hospital warmth and asking
reception where the Emergency Room waiting room was. Still, Walterovich suddenly felt alone and
uninvited.
As the reporter approached the waiting room, he saw hoards of Ryans and other Redbridge residents.
There were no visible signs of deep grief, so Walterovich took the
personal liberty of enjoying a moment of relief. The young Ryan was alive.
“At least he'll make it.”
Pastor Ryan came out of the men's restroom and bumped into Walterovich. “What? Oh...Pastor Ryan...
I'm sorry, my mistake. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry.” The man of the cloth stepped back and looked at the
reporter.
‘Jesus, here it comes,’ the writer thought to himself, preparing for a public display of anger from the holy
man.
“I'm sorry, Justin,” the pastor said.
“Sorry? Sorry for what? I'm the one who needs to beg for forgiveness,” the reporter said, still relieved that
he was spared the justified anger the holy man could have harbored.
“Please,” the pastor said reassuringly. “Dylan told us in the few sentences that he could that he came to
you about my wife. I know you are a good man, Justin. I know that you try to help people when you can. I'm
sorry everyone was in this situation and I am sorry that a man lost his life in Redbridge tonight. I hope he
finds peace where ever his soul decides to roam.”
“Pastor Ryan, about your wife...I came to tell Dylan that...I promised him to look for a spring...”
Walterovich paused not knowingly how and if he should proceed. Pastor Ryan beat him to the punch. The
holy man lifted up both hands in a non verbal request to have the reporter drop the matter.
“Our family will be OK, Justin. Don't worry about that. Dylan is very hurt, but he will make an amazing
recovery,” the man of the cloth said. “It could have been so much worse. I am...I am so very thankful my son
is alive.” Pastor Ryan walked to the windows looking out at the parking lot.
Under the dated lighting of the room, the holy man's reflection looked old, worn and tired. ‘Then again,
so does mine,’ the reporter remarked, seeing new lines his face could not possibly have had earlier in the
day.
The holy man seemed to chuckle as if he were having a private joke with himself.
‘It does look weird talking to yourself,’ the reporter thought. ‘Even if you don't actually use words.’
“You know Justin, when I was in seminary school I had many spirited discussions with my professors
and colleagues about the importance of faith,” the holy man said. “There were so many times when some
horrible news would come shaking the foundation we all had that this world indeed had some fabric or
semblance of justice and kindness. ‘If only...If only I could see God.’ That's what I heard so many times and
that is what I, myself, said many times more. If we could just see the force, the power that we put all of our
faith in...the power...it would make all the sacrifice and uncertainty go away. It would make sense to live this
life, and all we would need was a simple moment.
The night before I defended my doctoral thesis in Divinity I had an extremely vivid and disturbing dream. I
was sitting in a room and off in front of me was a thin, purple door. There was no one stopping me; all I had
to do was open the door and see the very assurance that so many want to see. It was right there. My God
was on the other side.”
“What happened?” the reporter asked.
“I made myself wake up. I didn't want to open that door. I didn't trust myself, so I made myself wake up,”
the holy man said, directly looking at the reporter through his own reflection in the window.
“You see, Justin, I didn't want that peace after all. The frustration, the uncertainty, the dreaming, the
struggle, the passion, the magic, the secret of it all...I need that in my life. Do you understand? I can't be
complete. I need to stay sharp.”
The holy man turned around and looked at the reporter. “Sometimes in life Justin, we are at the cusp of
solving great mysteries, answering questions that people far smarter and purer than us spent their whole
lives trying to solve...and didn't. But people like you and I, people who go through life trying in our own way to
help other's find meaning in it all...we need the thrill of the next challenge. After all, what would we really
have if we climbed to the mountain top after all?”
Walterovich crackled the slightest grin. The holy man stuck out his hand and shook the reporter's.
“Pastor Ryan...”
“Say hi to your wife and child for me. Come over soon for dinner, OK?”
“But...But...”
“Let it go, Justin,” the holy man said with a paternal smile. “Some doors are better left unopened.”
Pastor Ryan walked back to the waiting room. The reporter popped in for a moment to look for Mrs. Ryan
or his own mom or aunt. It was hard to sort through all the faces in the cramped space. “It's nice to see the
town being so supportive,” Walterovich mumbled with a smile. “What do you say, J. time to go home? You'll
be back here tomorrow.”
The adventure had officially ended. Walterovich had his potentially career changing story. Dylan would
survive the scare of his life; there would be a tomorrow for everyone, except a Neanderthal kidnapper. Life
was good.
The reporter walked out the doors of County General and got ready to set sail for home.
“I even survived with a couple of great stories for the grandkids,” he told himself proudly.
Walterovich fumbled in the exterior pockets of his cashmere jacket and finally found his keys hiding in a
mound of folded paperwork. Out came the keys, and three folded pages, and a piece of square green
bubble gum, all resting at the reporter's toes. “Don't even pick them up,” Walterovich chuckled, lowering
himself slowly to collect his garbage. Silence.
“Oh my god. Sweet Jesus Christ,” the reporter whispered looking at the three pieces of paper he
unfolded and held at arms' length. “Oh my sweet God.” Walterovich dropped his car keys and again
lowered himself and fumbled in the fresh dusting of free snow, unwilling to break his gaze on the three
papers.
ENTER YOUR SEARCH: hau
RESULTS (19)-- Hau: is a hibiscus flower that changes colors from orange to yellow to red during the 24-
hour cycle of the day. It's tough stems can be used to make canoes or huts. Hau has been used as a
natural visual barrier in hiding items; its changing colors are used as a marker.
ENTER YOUR SEARCH: Ge
RESULTS (78)-- Ge: Legend has it that Ge is the mother of Pan and Shellina; she is the Goddess of the
Earth and worshiped as Mother Nature.
ENTER YOUR SEARCH: Sund
RESULTS (1730)-- US>>>States>>>Vermont history>>>Central Vermont>>>Sund, Maureen, b. June 5,
1790, d. Dec. 8, 1832: regarded as one of the matriarchs of Vermont's medicinal movement by working with
elders of the Abenaki Tribe to bring a better understanding to Vermont settlers of flowers, herbs and roots
for the use of health, sustainability and community. She is buried in a private cemetery in the city of
Redbridge.
***
The reporter sped back to town, fishtailing over the road, holding the steering wheel with white-knuckled
hands, letting up on the gas just enough to keep himself road-bound.
Thick, white, fluffy, blanket-like snow flakes began to fall on his windshield. The reporter turned off his radio
to fully concentrate on the road. His high beams were up and soon crossed back into his hometown, all the
time whispering: “It can't be true. No, it can't be true. I don't believe it. Oh, my god, this can't be happening.
This can't be real...I don't believe it...”
***
School was out and the third grade now nothing more than a memory for Walterovich and his friends
from Mrs. Lee's room at Redbridge Elementary, class of 1983. The future reporter looked at his large table-
sized calendar that his father had brought home from the bank and drew circle after circle in blue ink to
denote the complete and dazzling freedom which sat before him.
The black and white television in his room was playing the only station that came in well over the
antenna, Vermont People's Television, and the record player scratched out some songs from the
Fleetwood Mac, a group his mother liked.
Jamie, the oldest of the three brothers, was at a Boy Scout's camping trip in Canada, leaving the middle
child and the youngest, first grade alumnus Jason, to run free around the family home. It would be the last
summer that the family lived in Redbridge full-time. Banking opportunities in West Champlain would draw
the family north, and while still an easy drive away, sometimes, almost cruelly too far from home.
Walterovich and his youngest sibling had a good relationship in that they never fought each other. They
built a voting block to keep their oldest brother in line and the partnership proved to be lucrative. The two
younger brothers had acquired much of Jamie's semi-new camping gear in return for their silence as to
who drank some of their father's home brew. Walterovich and Jason decided to take the long walk to a
longstanding fort for kids, build by kids, many generations ago. The aforementioned camping gear came
with them.
“I hope there are a lot of kids there today,” Walterovich said, already eating his peanut butter and
raspberry jam sandwich no more than 1,000 yards from home.
“Me too, Me too,” the six-year-old Jason replied.
The sun shone brightly through the birch tree branches and created cake-slice-like cuts of sun that
almost looked heavy to the touch. “I love summer vacation,” Walterovich said, breaking off a sizable piece of
his sandwich and handing it to his little brother.
“Me too, Me too,” Jason said. “Thank you.”
“Sure,” Walterovich said. “Hey...I heard that a king and queen once lived in the fort. They were Indians,
wait, sorry...”
“What?” Jason asked, faced filled with jam.
“Mom says it's mean to call them Indians,” Walterovich added.
“What do we call them?” the first grader asked.
“Native Americans,” Walterovich instructed. “Mom told me that a great Native American family lived near
that fort and that they had a big, huge treasure.”
“Whoa!” Jason said with awe.
“I know,” the future reporter continued with the rush that he already found in sharing a great story. “It was
a magical treasure...”
“What kind of magical treasure?” Jason asked.
“No one knows for sure,” Walterovich answered with a voice like his grandfather used telling campfire
stories. “But it was a great treasure. Everyone wanted it.”
“Why couldn't they share?” Jason asked.
“Because...it was too powerful,” Walterovich said. “It made people make bad decisions and do
dangerous things because they felt nothing could hurt them.”
“Whoa!” Jason said again with awe.
“I know, I know,” Walterovich continued. “For many years the king and queen protected that treasure and
they used it to help others, but one day...it was terrible.”
“What? What?” Jason begged.
Walterovich handed his younger brother a napkin. “Here, wipe your face,” the future reporter said. “Well
one day, the people of the tribe had had enough. They wanted all of the treasure too.”
“Is my face clean?” Jason asked in a whisper, afraid to break the flow of the story.
Walterovich nodded that he was fine and continued. “One day, the warriors of the tribe planned a great
feast, but it really was a trap.”
“A trap for who?” the first grader asked.
“For the king, the queen and the queen's best friends, all who guarded the treasure...”
Walterovich took out a brown bag sack of pretzel sticks and gave three to his little brother. “There was a
grand feast that was supposed to honor a peace the king made with a neighboring tribe, but even before
their first bite of food, the king and queen knew something was wrong,” the future reporter said.
“How?" the first grader asked, chewing opening the slightly stale pretzels.
“There was a big, mean warrior who wanted to be king and he carried the food to the king to make
people think he was loyal,” Walterovich said. “Do you want another pretzel stick?”
“Please,” Jason asked.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you,” the first grader responded graciously. “So what happened?”
“His hands. The king and queen saw the warrior's face and knew that they'd been tricked.”
Jason heard natural white noise in the forest and fearfully stopped and looked around.
“Don't worry, everything is fine,” the reporter said reassuringly, himself, startled by the sounds. “This isn't
a scary story.”
“You promise?” Jason asked.
“I promise,” his older brother replied. “So the warrior brought over the king his food and held it out and
waited for it to be taken.”
“What...what happened?” the first grader asked.
“It was his hands...” Walterovich whispered.
“His hands?” Jason asked in replicate whisper. “What was with the warrior's hands?”
“They were fine,” the future reporter said.
“What?” yelped Jason, disappointed in what appeared to be a prank from his brother.
“You don't get it,” the older brother said with a confidence that the story was about to hook in his
audience. “You see up until that evening, and every evening for 19 years before the accident, the warrior
had hands scared badly from fire. As a child, he tripped and landed hands-first into a pile of hot coal. His
hands were scared for life, yet, that evening they were smooth and working perfectly.”
“I...I don't get it,” the first grader confessed. “Why were his hands better?”
Walterovich smirked. “Well, that's the best part of the story...”
“Before the king and queen could make a move, the fierce warrior took a weapon to the queen's throat,”
Walterovich said.
“Did he hurt her?" the first grader asked, wide-eyed and engrossed.
“No, but he threatened her life. He said, ‘Anyone makes a move and the queen gets it!” Walterovich said.
“Really?” asked the youngest brother.
“Ah...well...I think so. Mom said it better, but I don't remember. Anyway, some of the warriors were
supporting the king and some supported the traitor, but with the queen as hostage, none of the king's
friends dared move an inch.”
“Whoa!”
“I know. I know and it gets better,” the future reporter continued. “The warrior and 12 of his men rode off
with the queen and her sister, an all-wise sage.”
“What's an all-wise sage?” the first grader asked.
“I dunno, I forgot to ask Mom,” Walterovich confessed. “They rode off up this very big hill to the place
where our fort is.”
“No way!” Jason.
“It happened just like that,” Walterovich said, raising his hands to defend his story. “The warrior made
the queen's sister show exactly where the treasure was.”
“What kind of treasure?” Jason asked.
“Mom says it is sneaky and hard to hold,” the reporter explained. “So, the queen begged her sister to
keep it a secret, but the sage couldn't let the traitors hurt her.”
“What's a sage again?” Jason asked.
“I think, it's like a doctor with herbs...I think...anyway, they walked on this twisty,
scary path to a place that was covered with branches.”
“What?” the youngest brother asked in disbelief.
“I'm serious. Ask Mom. Really. The warrior cleared the covering and held the magic treasure. He was
stronger, younger, more powerful and invincible.”
“What does invincible mean?”
“Kind of like a superhero but without the flying.”
“WHAT A MINUTE!” Jason shouted out. Walterovich stopped, startled. “You just said that the traitor had
his hands fixed at the dinner. So why did he need someone to show him where it was? You're making this
all up. Sheesh...”
Walterovich chuckled. “You know little brother, you really are the smartest of us all,” the story-teller said.
“Mom said that the sage kept a small bag filled with the treasure for
emergencies. The warrior's wife had gotten very sick after having a baby. She was near death but the sage
saved her. Mom said there had been rumors around the whole tribe that there was a magical treasure that
cured people;. The warrior stole the sage's supply, which was enough to make his hands clean again.”
Jason waited and processed the story. “OK, so then what?” the first grader asked.
“Greed. Mom said everyone got greedy. When the traitor's friends saw him, they all wanted to get the
treasure themselves. When they returned to the tribe, the king's supporters soon begged to get some of
the treasure instead of fighting the traitor.”
“No way!” protested the first grader.
“It totally happened that way,” Walterovich replied.
“So naturally the traitor wanted something in return from the rest of the people who wanted to join him.”
“What?” Jason whispered.
“The power to be king. The tribe turned over their leader to the traitor who promised them eternal life and
that traitor had the king killed right on the spot.”
“NO WAY!” the first grader protest in disbelief.
“I know, man. It was awful, and it only got worse. Nearly everyone had a turn with the treasure and
everyone thought they had become gods. But Mom said that the treasure answered to no one and soon the
traitor and his followers realized what that meant.”
“What did it mean?” gasped Jason.
“Mom says the treasure's powers can be used up, not killed off OK? But used up. So, like, if too many
people use it, it stops working for a long, long time until it gets enough energy again. Does that make
sense?” Walterovich asked.
“So it's like why after a long day, you need to go to sleep and then in the morning you are ready for
more?” the first grader asked.
Now Walterovich stopped in awe. “That's totally how it is. I think,” the story-teller
said. “Have you heard this story before?” Jason shook his head “no.” “Well I tell you what, maybe you
should start telling it,” Walterovich asked. “I'll let you tell the kids at
the fort.”
“Really?” Jason said with pride.
“Sure.”
“Awesome, but wait. How did the story end?” Jason asked.
“Mom said that everyone turned on each other because no one trusted anyone anymore. The tribe in
Redbridge was ruined for generations. It was a mess, which is why the treasure needs to be guarded and
never used without permission. Its power is too great for any one person to be trusted with. Does that make
sense?”
Jason nodded “yes.”
“Come on, we're almost there, I'll race you,” Walterovich said, already sprinting towards the finish.
“Not fair, not fair, you cheat, you cheat,” the first grader laugher; two brothers who didn't have a care in the
world.
June 21, 1986. Walterovich's beloved Boston Red Sox were off to a great start approaching the Mid
Summer Classic, and the 12-year-old joined both brothers and his mother for a Summer Solstice Party
held at Virginia Dell's house. The 67-year-old Dell was the second generation host, the party having been
offered by a Dell for 122 of the last 123 years. (Harold Andrew Dell, Virginia's father, died on the morning of
the Solstice in 1953 and the party was officially canceled, although observed in his honor at the Town
Commons.)
With their mother dutifully driving a tan Ford Granada without air conditioning, the three brothers hung out
any window space they could find, playing games like I spy and license plate spelling games (Walterovich
always lost those).
“Mom, why do the Dells always host the Solstice party?” Samuelovich asked from his commander
position in the front passenger seat.
“The Dells have hosted it for a long time and there were families before them that honored the Solstice
in Redbridge. This holiday has different meanings for different people, as does any holiday,” Sarah said.
“Take out of it what you want. If nothing else, it's a chance to see your old friends and go back home to
Redbridge for a while.”
“Mom, what does the Solstice mean to you?” Jason asked. “Oh, and the by the way, I have to pee soon.”
Everyone laughed. “No, I'm being serious,” the youngest brother protested quietly. “I have to pee.”
“Well I guess the Solstice means rest stops. Hold on, we'll pull off the road soon," Sarah said with a
chuckle. “I think for me, there are meanings on multiple levels. I see the Solstice as a circle of life and
living, of birth and completion. I think the Solstice is a moment that makes me remember how very small I
am and yet the opportunity that my life has to make a big impact with the people I love. I think in all of us
there are dualities, balances and complements that make us the beautiful and complicated creatures that
we are. Besides, I have found out the most important secret of all.”
“What's that?” Jason asked.
Sarah chuckled. “That rest stops also are a good excuse to stop and get an ice cream.” The three boys
cheered in delight as their mother pulled off into Gunvors's Farm Fresh Ice Creamery.
Dell's house was a writer's dream: tall, spacious, hidden, smooth, welcoming, private, seductive,
inviting, and seemingly immune from the evils of the world. The exterior was a combination red brick and
white-painted wood and its church-like vaulted ceilings stole whispers and stored them away for a rainy
day.
Virginia Dell always enjoyed talking with the young Walterovich. His happy, pudgy body always seemed
to glow when he was eating cheese-filled foods, and the 12-year-old's talks of someday running for
president made her feel tied to childhood innocence again. Dell was a writer, non-fiction mostly, an
ecologist with a special interest in wetlands and waterways. She had two sons who moved to Boston and
Albuquerque, respectively, following their wives and careers in sales and management. She was alone
and quite satisfied most times with her freedom; the widow viewed each Solstice as a family reunion.
“So, tell me, when are you running for president, Justin?” she asked between bites of potato salad. The
future reporter was eating a sausage and black olive calzone, which looked larger than his head. “I have to
wait until the first election that I will be more than 40 years old,
at least that's what my history teacher, Professor Veit said.
“Forty years old, now that's really old," the 67-year-old said with a chuckle.
“Tell me about it. It creeps me out just thinking about it,” Walterovich said with his mouth full of
carbohydrates. “Can I please ask you a question now, before I forget?”
“Sure," Dell replied.
“Before we came down here, my brother Jamie told me that people in the church don't like to celebrate
the Solstice and people who like the Solstice don't like to celebrate Christmas. Is that really true?”
Dell nodded her headed in the negative a tribute to the future reporter's hard-hitting question. “I'll tell you
what,” she said in a whisper, moving her chair closer to the boy's. “The truth is that I, myself and many
people celebrate the Solstice and Christmas.”
“Really?” asked the boy.
“Really,” the old woman said. “Many of us also celebrate the Solstice and Hanukkah and Yom Kippur,
too."
“I heard of those, but what are they again?” asked Walterovich.
“All of these days are about humility, appreciation, devotion, faith, mysticism, searching, loving, worships
and healing,” the old woman said. “Don't get caught up in taking sides, Justin. You'll miss out on a lot of
great friends and adventures in your lifetime if you do. Look over there. Do you see Pastor Ryan is here with
Mrs. Ryan and their children? They run the church in town and they come every year, just like we all go to
their church throughout the year. That's the thing about Redbridge that makes us so special.”
“That we get along?” Walterovich asked.
“More than that, Justin; we aren't afraid of each other, and that is something that you can't buy or sell or
fake or impose. That's the lifeblood of Redbridge. It's in the air, it flows in our water, and all of us who drink
it live for something bigger than ourselves.”
The old woman sat back in her chair and smiled, saying hello to new arrivants to the festival. Walterovich
noticed her necklace sparkle under the comforting lighting of the room.
“That's look familiar,” he mumbled to himself. Dell looked back at the boy and winked. “It depicts Mother
Nature. It was a gift to me. You know the artist.”
“Who?” the reporter asked her. Dell chuckled. “How about I get us both some ice cream...”
Fall arrived abruptly the second week of September, 1991 like an unwanted cold wet blanket during flu
season. The weather itself was fine, it was Walterovich who had the problem. The junior at Champlain
High School just didn't do autumn very well for some reason. He had read many articles in the school
library saying that some people get the blues when the days get shorter; Walterovich had other thoughts.
He just didn't fit in.
Jamie, the popular senior, already had part-time work with the West Champlain Police Department. The
sophomore Jason seemed well on his way to the Nobel Prize for Economics. Walterovich had nothing. He
had this deep sense that there was some outlet for his energy but nothing came through. Walterovich's
grades were mostly C’s. He was always thankful just making a varsity roster on any high school squad,
and sporadic panic attacks were coming over him for the first time. Walterovich was adrift in the fog.
When his mother offered to take the boys to visit their aunt in Redbridge, Walterovich jumped at the
chance to get away. Redbridge was his safe place, where life was guarded and predictable. When his
mother's new blue Ford Taurus crossed the town line, Walterovich exhaled slowly and felt his tense
shoulders relax.
“J., there is someone who wants to say hi to you,” Sarah said.
Walterovich had heard his parents discuss his blues, which made the teen feel even more awkward, but
he knew they loved him.
“Who?” Walterovich asked with his perfect combination of teen-aged piss and vulnerability.
“Pastor Ryan asked...”
“Oh Mom...” Walterovich snapped with disapproval.
“What? He just asked to talk with you for a little bit,” Sarah said kindly.
“Mom, come on, it's like...come on, everyone knows that when some kid talks with Pastor Ryan it's like
one step removed from going to a shrink.”
“Oh please,” Sarah said. “Now you're being dramatic. Look, it you don't want to talk to him, that is
perfectly fine with me. But you tell him.”
“Mom...”
“No, I'm serious. You can't have it both ways. If you want to be an adult, then act like one and tell Pastor
Ryan you don't want to talk.”
“Fine, I will,” Walterovich said with determination.
“Fine,” his mother responded with equal resolution.
***
Needless to say, Justin Walterovich, never one for direct conflict went off for his talk with Pastor Ryan.
The teen was relieved that Ryan at least wasn't going to creep him out with lectures that usually teens
reserve for only themselves. Instead, the Pastor talked about his interests in academics and history and
began to share with Walterovich a substantive plan for breaking out of his funk.
“You know, Justin, I don't like the fall either. Sometimes I feel strangled by the lack of sun.”
“Really?” Walterovich asked with new found hope.
“Sure. I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of. I think I read that 15 to 20 percent of all Americans
report getting down in the fall.”
“Huh?” the teen replied.
“You know, that's why having something that is your own, using your gifts for something constructive is
very important,” the pastor said.
“Well...Pastor...that sounds good but I have no idea what my gift is. I'll be lucky to get into community
college, I...I don't know what to tell you. I feel lost,” Walterovich said. “I wanted so badly to have baseball be
my outlet, because I am so happy when I play it, the only problem is that I'm not very good. In fact, I suck.”
“Tell stories...”
“Tell stories?” Walterovich asked. “I don't get it. I always get in trouble for telling stories in school. My
teachers call me the class smart ass.”
The man and the boy chuckled.
“There is an honesty with you Justin, when you talk, because you look vulnerable...”
“Oh thanks, so now I'm weak,” Walterovich said.
“No, no, hold on. Hold on. Hear me out. It's not weakness, it's openness. That's why people listen to you
even if they don't agree with you or even like you. You have 'it' and you just need to channel it now and work
on it for many, many years. It won't be easy for you. I'm not going to lie, but I think you'll find what you are
looking for. Like Maureen Sund.” The pastor walked over to the simple granite grave site that sat alone in
both dignity and exhaustion.
“You know her story?” Ryan asked.
“Maureen Sund was a brilliant woman whose only crime was being alive before her time,” Walterovich
said. “Come on we all know this one. It's like required Redbridge folklore.”
“Just...just go with it...” the pastor encouraged.
“OK...She realized that the native peoples of Redbridge, the Abenaki, were being pushed aside and
there was little that she or the native peoples could do about it. So Sund thought up a plan. She begged her
way for an audience with the tribal elders and pitched with every ounce of passion and faith that she should
be taught the ways of the medicine woman to keep alive for the new peoples populating Vermont. Six times
she was refused, but on the seventh time, as sickness spread amongst many of the Abenaki, the elders
acquiesced.
Sund soon was immersing herself with desperate ferocity as if the whole United States would at any
moment stop her. Sund learned and shared her tools with select apprentices in Redbridge, who, in the
irony of it all, held her in their dying arms when she was struck down by a sudden heart attack. The
students were unable to save the teacher. And so she was buried at this very spot, because her loved ones
wanted to show that for a brief moment, a strong woman made the world stop in its tracks.”
A single tear rolled down the pastor's face. “Justin,” he said with a grin. “There is hope for you after all...”
“Come on God damn it, Come on!’ Walterovich said, urging his car up the steep roadway. He looked
over at his destination and saw a row of cars. Every light in the house seemed illuminated. “They must be
there because of Dylan,” he muttered to himself. He crammed his car into a self-plowed snow drift, putting
his dog-dented black Honda Civic into park, grabbing a small flashlight from underneath the front
passenger seat, and running frantically up a steep hill parallel to the home.
“Oh, well, catch me if you can!” he howled in a crazed growl, slipping, stumbling, and scraping his way
through the snow to more level ground. “What the hell am I doing? This is crazy,” he instructed himself.
“You just can't leave it alone, Walterovich. You just can't ever leave it alone.”
The reporter slipped and felt some branch pierce his numb hand. The cut ran deep enough to bloody the
wound but nothing too serious. “This is insane,” the reporter confessed, feeling an unexplained grin form
ear-to-ear. The snow flakes were growing in frequency, and while Walterovich was in denial, he did think he
heard voices from the house and three flashlight bobbing about heading in the same direction.
“You'll never take me alive,” Walterovich growled. “Justin, Jesus, this is not joke. Stop, Justin. Do you
hear me? Stop. I am serious. Stop.” But the reporter's legs vetoed any such plea. Despite the lack of
footing, the reporter was making ground and soon had enough stability to sprint into the deep thick
collection of birch.
Branch after branch slapped Walterovich in his face. The small cuts cried out into the frigid and
unforgiving air. Walterovich felt disfigured, although he knew the barks were much worse than the bites.
Voices were growing louder off to the reporter's left.
“No fair, they get flat land,” he gasped with a chuckle. “I'm really, really getting too old for this shit." Up
and past the old fort, where relatively fresh shoe marks of the latest generation of young keepers lay.
Walterovich made a sharp turn west towards to old grave stone of Maureen Sund about which he, any every
old-school Redbridg-er, was made to learn. The first of the foreign flash lights pierced their way onto the
landscape.
“Run god damn it. Run!" he ordered himself. A thousand yards away, just barely visible, was a dark
mound that Walterovich could have run to with his eyes closed. In the springtime, it was a thick perimeter of
flowers that change colors throughout the day.
Crack. Crack.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Walterovich yelped at the sound of gun fire. “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” he screamed,
gasping for air, yet running with all the speed his large frame would allow towards the thick brush.
Walterovich's lungs were wheezing so loudly he thoroughly expected to pass out with in five seconds.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Walterovich screamed, closed his eyes and sped through the brush. The reporter felt another body
tackle him mid-jump, and Walterovich landed on his back. Water was all around, so were three rifle barrels
point at his head. The reporter felt the sensation of his skin tightening
and tingling, something similar to getting out of bed on a burning summer afternoon after sleeping on his
arm the wrong way for hours.
“Don't shoot,” Walterovich whispered. “Jesus, don't shoot.” The reporter felt himself being dragged out of
the brush by his feet. “Just make it quick,” he mumbled in defeat. "At least
give me that much. Make it quick.”
“Get up,” said a woman's voice, which Walterovich couldn't quite place. The reporter was in no position
for an interview and quickly obliged. He walked towards the illuminated house with both hands arms raised
high in the air. The cold had begun to completely harden the snow now, and Walterovich felt the crunching
underneath while looking at the fresh dusting he was kicking forward. It was so beautiful; the writer just
wanted the chance to escape alive and go back to his beautiful wife and daughter.
‘Lord, get me out of this and I swear, I'll retire from journalism. Just get me out of this mess one last time
and I'll never bother you again,’ he thought. ‘You can quote me on that.'
The trip to the main house went much quicker than the reporter had gauged. ‘At least I'm alive. I don't think
that they'll do anything to me. If they wanted me dead, they would have finished me.'
In that moment, Walterovich thought about bolting. There was a steep driveway and plenty of darkness.
‘If I could just break free...' His subconscious said different. ‘They'd find me. I couldn't hide out here all night.
I'd freeze, and by morning, if they really wanted me dead, they'd finish me then. Half this town is involved
with this spring, the only problem being that I have no idea which half. I have no idea who to trust.'
Walterovich and his captors filed up the stairs, through the mudroom and into the main den. It was
warm, aglow, comforting and familiar. Yet the 42 eyes staring at the reporter took away any semblance of a
safety net. The reporter walked into the middle of the room, dusted off his dirty cashmere jacket and dutifully
sat down at the single free chair in the center, which conspicuously was set out for him.
Walterovich sat there and looked at all the faces. Sweat ran down his face. ‘My skin feels so tingly.' The
reporter wanted to find a mirror as if to comfort himself that he wasn't permanently scared or disfigured.
None of the 21 faces looking at him revealed a thing.
The exhausted reporter slumped a little in his chair, took a deep breath, and looked for any courage or
strength he might have left. Finally, after three deep breathes, and in a total silence with the exception of an
old and soothing clock, the reporter straightened himself in the chair and looked forward.
“Hi Mom,” Walterovich said.
“Hi son,” his mother replied. “Welcome home...”
“Mom, were the rifles really necessary?” the reporter asked.
“Blanks. We're sorry about that, we didn't know it was you. We get some runners as we call them every
Dec. 8. As you have found out, it's not like the spring is a perfectly kept secret,” his mother said. “Look, I
know you must have a lot of questions, and I just don't know how many answers we are going to be able to
give you. This isn't some movie or book were the ending gets perfectly tied up. This is real life and all I can
say is that I'm proud of you.”
“Proud of me, why?” Walterovich asked. The reporter noted that although he was wet, the dampness
was warm and soothing. “What the hell is this?”
“You figured out what many people spend their whole lives trying to locate and it wasn't for selfish
purposes,” she said.
“Mom, listen, I don't even know where to start. First, Dylan's mom is very sick,” Walterovich scanned the
faces one more time to see if the pastor's wife was there. She wasn't. “Dylan has been desperately trying to
find these waters to save her. I am begging you, please help him. It's my fault that he got hurt. I should
have...I should have done something differently.”
Walterovich's aunt, the woman who worked so tirelessly on the home, her home, for 20 years, came out
of the kitchen and gave the reporter a mug of tea. “Dylan's mom is fine,” the reporter's aunt said. “She was
sick two and a half years ago...go ahead drink up, it's just Earl Gray tea...and the spring cured her. It took
three sessions because she was very, very sick,
but the third time it all went away. She's been in remission ever since.”
The reporter was hesitant to take a sip, but despite his deer-in-the-headlights fear, was settling down.
The farm always had a peace it brought to Walterovich.
“Mom, I don't...I don't understand...Dylan said he heard his parents talk about the spring and how she
was sick,” Walterovich said.
His mother nodded her head that she understood.
“It was only half of the story, sadly. She told us this morning that Dylan had confronted her about it,”
Sarah responded. “Dylan does have a sick parent, a very sick parent, but it is his father. Doctors said
Pastor Ryan has three to six months to live and there is nothing more they can do to help him, except to
ease his pain.”
Walterovich looked up from his steaming cup of tea.
“Dylan's mom has desperately been trying to get Pastor Ryan to use the spring, but he has so far
refused,” Sarah continued. “He believes that his job, his purpose in the world is to help people in pain,
people who lost loved ones, who are sick or troubled. Pastor Ryan never has given anyone grief for using
the spring, he himself just chooses not to use it. We hope he changes his mind, but it's his life and his
right to live it how he feels is best.”
The reporter's mind was swimming. Instead of getting answers he now felt he understood the dynamic
of Redbridge less and less with each passing word from his family.
“Justin, just because we have a healing spring, doesn't mean that everyone wants to use it,” the writer's
aunt continued. “Maureen Sund's grave sits up the hill. She refused its powers to save herself life. That's
why the Society buried her where she fell, as an honor and a reminder that no cure is the answer to
everyone's needs. It's perhaps the most powerful lesson any of us have learned from the spring: Not
everyone wants to live forever.”
Walterovich felt pressure from both of his temples. His mind was screaming, “Write this down, man.
Write it all down to the bitter end. It's the story of the century and it's all true.”
“Mom, you know that I already emailed my stories to my editor up at the News-Times,” he said.
“What exactly did you write?” she asked calmly.
“I sent two stories: one on Dylan's shooting and one on the anniversary of all these missing twins,”
Walterovich said.
“Nothing about the spring? Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?” his aunt asked. “Don't be scared;
just tell us the truth.”
Walterovich thought for a moment. “I'm sure. I'm positive. I...I didn't figure it out until I had already left town
and went to check on Dylan at the hospital,” he replied.
“Son...how did you figure it out in the first place?” Sarah asked.
The reporter gently smiled and fished out a muddy, folded mound of papers from his wet and dirty
cashmere jacket.
Walterovich went to stand up but felt strained reactive vibrations from some of his semi-captors. Instead,
the reporter's aunt took the papers, unfolded all three, soon was chuckling and passing them along to the
reporter's mother.
“Very good,” Walterovich's aunt said. “How did you ever figure it out? For the record, I always thought that
the Haugesund Farms thing was a little too glib, but every secret society needs to be a little tongue-and-
cheek once in a while.”
The attendants laughed, almost in unison. Walterovich cracked a smile.
“This is good work, son. How did you figure to check it that way? I mean, I know this isn't code breaking
per se but still...”
“Pure luck, Mom,” the reporter replied quickly. “I was getting kicked out of the Library and frantically tried
to type Haugesund Farms. There were a couple of windows open. What can I tell you? My horse came in.”
“How did you know about Haugesund Farms in the first place? Who told you?” the reporter's aunt asked.
“It was Jennifer Maxwell or her twin, she has gone back and forth on that, so you would probably know
better than I. Which was is it by the way?” Walterovich asked.
“It's not that important now,” his mother replied.
“Well Mom, no disrespect but she said you were willing to broker a deal to show me the spring and tell
all in exchange for my silence, so could you at least indulge me this one piece of information?”
“We never authorized anything,” the reporter's aunt said. “She called and offered to kill you in exchange
for a little extra spring session. We don't do names in out little Society phone tree, but needless to say, we
rejected her offer.”
“Jesus,” the reporter whispered. “But...but...who was that monster of a man who kidnapped her?”
“We don't know,” Sarah replied. “Hopefully Pete Winslow will find out for us...”
“Winslow is involved?” Walterovich asked.
“My point, son, is we think it was someone in Maxwell's family, probably many people in Maxwell's family
aren't happy about her sudden philanthropic tendencies...”
“So who exactly are the lucky winners of the Maxwell sweepstakes? Are there going to be nice additions
to the farm house...mayhaps an indoor skating rink?" Walterovich asked.
“You still don't get it. You missed the most important part,” Sarah said softly. “We, as the Society, are
forbidden to profit in anyway from the spring, save its healing powers. That's been the law since the
Abenaki and, we believe, the peoples long before the Abenaki who were stewards of the spring. Every dime
that has ever been raised for an at-large use of the spring has gone directly towards feeding the hungry,
medical research, women's health support, and general education. We have never seen a dime. Not a
single dime. Do you think I wanted to move from Redbridge? I didn't. Your father needed the promotion and
West Champlain was the only option. That, in itself, should be my biggest personal defense.”
Walterovich scratched his face; he couldn't feel any stubble anymore. “Why would one twin agree to...to
what anyway? Get younger? I don't even understand how it works, but anyway, get younger or eternal life
and the other one doesn't...and doesn't profit from it? I don't get it?” the reporter asked with more
confidence now, his journalistic tendencies were overtaking his fear.
“You need the perspective that this only has happened...what? Six or seven times over the last 120
years. It's not like we have rich twins lining up at the city limits," his aunt said. “Do we have a system of
identifying potential candidates? Sure, but the rule is one goes and one stays. It's their job to figure that out.”
“Why?” Walterovich asked.
“The twin who stays tries to keep the other's cover. We call it the Elvis effect,” his aunt said. “There are
enough sightings to make enough people believe that both women are fine.”
“I'm sure that the sister who doesn't get the spring gets compensated, maybe it's just the freedom to
escape,” Sarah continued. “Who knows? People are different. But that isn't our job to figure out. We want to
help as many people as we can before this secret gets completely away from us. We know that day could
come any time. I mean look, you're in that chair, so obviously we have planned for such scenarios. Our
point is because the spring is a cyclical power source, not everyone is going to get access. That's just the
cold hard truth of it. We make these awful and complicated decisions every year, but it works. Life does go
on. These millions and billions
of dollars are like the spring to countless hundreds of thousands of people. What we are saying, son, is...
our people, the Society has been doing this for hundreds of years and all and all, we have a rather effective
system down by now.”
Walterovich rubbed his fingers over his forehead; the three deep lines earned in his late 20s were
nowhere to be found.
“Mom, before I ask, my face feels weird. Did I turn into a frog or something?” the reporter asked.
His captors laughed.
“No son. I think you look about 10 years younger.”
“I feel so bad Mom. Pastor Ryan could use this and it was wasted on some unwanted cosmetic surgery
on me,” the reporter said. “From what I've heard, he'll never make it until the next Dec. 8. And Dylan, Jesus,
he has baseball in a couple of months. My God. What a waste.”
The reporter's aunt looked at her older sister for a few moments, as if they were talking without
speaking. Finally his aunt turned back and said: “Don't worry about Dylan. The waters work other times in
the year. We use the Dec. 8 myth as a natural defense, like the hau plants that grow from the warmth and
power of the spring. Think of the spring as a rechargeable battery. It can be spent very quickly or conserved,
but either way needs to get refueled from time to time.”
“How do you refuel it?” the reporter asked.
“Sorry son, you need to join the Society to learn that one," Sarah said. “Which I guess leads us to the
grand dramatic finish of your big adventure today: What exactly are you planning to do?”
“I want to live, Mom. I want to live for my wife and my daughter...”
“Justin, Jesus, stop being so dramatic. We're not going to hurt you. All of that gossip is purely myth. We
just want to know, is there going to be a third article? Is today the day the secret officially gets out?”
The reporter looked at all the faces: family, friends, teachers, artists, writers, doctors, colleagues, baby-
sitters, farmers and researchers. He breathed deeply. He rubbed his soft finger tips over his now
smoothed-again fingers. The room seemed to sparkle with the sign of Ge, Mother Nature, worn around
each woman's neck.
Walterovich exhaled slowly, puffing his smooth baby-faced checks and letting the air seep out as if some
invisible trumpet was near by. “This story...is everything that I ever dreamed of,” he whispered. “All these
years stuck at work, trying to get by...this story could bring me so many things...I...I'm sorry....”
The reporter stood up, brushed off his dirt-cake cashmere jacket and walked slowly over to his mother,
taking his three pieces of paper back from her. “You don't know what it's like for me...I could be so much
more in my profession, I just need that one Woodward and Bernstein break...” he whispered.
Walterovich seemingly shuffled over to the wood stove, opened the door and let his skin feel the
comforting quick shot of heat that he craved so much as a child. Going into his side pocket and taking out
his crammed notebook from the day, Walterovich held both the secrets to his dream story and the three
pages that closed the deal in his left hand. The reporter pressed them twice, wanting to almost hug or kiss
the data for all the doors it offered to open.
He threw the story of the century into the fire, watching the beautiful colors of flames quickly consuming
the scribe's Holy Grail. Walterovich shut and locked the stove door and turned to the crowd.
“You know friends, at this rate,” he chuckled. “I'll never make editor.”
Epilogue
Opening day for Chelake High School's baseball team, and starting pitcher Dylan Ryan walked to the
pitcher's mound to a standing ovation. The local athlete was a hero, both for saving Redbridge tourist
Jennifer Maxwell, and for medical science which heralded his quick and complete recovery from shoulder
surgery as an “absolute miracle.”
Walterovich, his beautiful wife and daughter were sitting in the stands with the other 253 attendants to
cheer the young Ryan on.
“Go Dylan, Go!” the youngest Walterovich bellowed.
The community was together and even Pastor Ryan was present and looking better than he had in years.
“Sweetie, be careful with the baby, she is still a little one,” the reporter gently instructed his three-year-old
daughter who peaked her head over to see the four-month-old baby in the seats in front.
“Oh she's fine,” said proud first-time mother Tammy Blake, holding her pride and joy, her miracle baby
which she quietly had at the age of 41. “She loves to get the attention.”
Walterovich smiled politely and went back to his popcorn, all the while silently wondering what it was like
for Jennifer Maxwell to be an infant again.
THE END
“I...I'll tell you what, I'll..." (‘Stop, Justin. Don't implicate her. Don't put her in harm's way. You don't know
what this story might open up.') “Alessandra honey, I...everything is fine. It's complicated. I'm not involved;
I'm just covering a story. I just need to ask you to trust me. I'm fine and I have the cell phone with me at all
times and I promise to check in when you get home.”
“Justin, I'm more worried now then if you had just called and said you are going to be late,” the reporter's
wife said softly.
“I know. I'm sorry. I am. I'm fine. If there were anything wrong at all, you know I'd tell you. Someone in my
town needs my help and needs it today. It has nothing to do with us, it's just because I'm a reporter, that's
all. Everything is fine.”
Alessandra sighed. “All right, listen I have to get back to work. I have a meeting at four-fifteen. I want you
to check in and don't stay out late. If it's that important tell whoever you are helping to call the police or
something. Do you hear me? I want you home by bedtime.”
Walterovich chuckled. “Sounds great. I miss you. I love you. I'm sad every time that we're apart. I'm fine, I
promise. Nothing's wrong. I'll be home soon enough.”
“You are going to check in, right?” she said with authority.
“I'm going to check in; I promise,” Walterovich responded dutifully.
“I miss you,” Alessandra whispered. “I love you honey, I miss you. Bye Bye.” Walterovich looked at his
cell phone and became very homesick for his wife. He was torn inside; wanting their ship to come in and
the family to be safe at the same time. The Fountain of Youth, while still a slight step up from an old wives'
tale to the reporter had now become, based on testimony, a hurdle in Walterovich's life. The reporter
climbed back in his dented car. “I have a bad feeling that this is going to be a long, long day.”
***
“Hi...I want to call in a report. I saw Justin Walterovich go into the baseball fields...no, he was driving
alone...Dylan Ryan was also there, he arrived about two or three minutes earlier.. I don't know, It's hard to
see from here...Yes, I'm at my house...I don't know, it's hard to say, but Dylan looked upset...He wasn't
crying or anything that obvious...yes, I have binoculars...Dylan was moving back and forth and he looked
animated like something important was on his mind. Justin just stood by his car and listened. He said a
few words but nothing much. I don't remember
seeing Justin take down any notes, but again it isn't like I use government surveillance equipment like you
have...What car? A black Honda Civic...Oh, Dylan? He was driving the blue Taurus; I think it was his
mother's come to think of it. It had a dent on the left rear bumper. Yes, it must have been his mother's car...
they were there for about five or ten minutes no longer and Dylan was the first to leave...Yes, Justin stayed
back and made a call on his cell phone. I obviously
couldn't hear, but I think he was smiling a lot. He looked happy. He didn't look like he was upset or
anything. Like I said, he looked happy...Dylan turned back into town and Walterovich turned in the same
direction after his phone call...That's all that I can remember. If I think of anything else, I promise to call right
back...No, thank you. It was the least that I could do. You gave me a new lease on life...well, fine the waters
gave me a new lease on life but you and the whole Society let me have the opportunity...OK, sounds good...I
will, I will keep you posted...Good bye.”
Sarah's Lunch Spot was rather quiet. In addition to the new customers of Walterovich and Dylan Ryan,
the eatery only had three other customers, a waitress and a cook dying for a 15-minute break. Walterovich
smiled hello to Russ and Debbie Pagell and old Jimmy Nielson who all had booth locations conveniently
located to observe all newcomers to the spot. Steph Bonner was keeping their coffee warm while Gus
Gionnovi was frantically trying the bring some cheese
sticks back from the dead after he let them cook too long.
Ryan was sitting in some dark corner and Walterovich picked a different table, front and center and near
the large window, which from his vantage point had “come in from the cold and eat well” spelled
backwards in temporary paint.
“Dylan, come over here,” Walterovich said plenty loud so that everyone could hear him. “We're working
on some letters of recommendation, not plans to rob South Royalton Savings and Loan.” Ryan obliged, but
with far from a poker face. He shuffled over, dejection coursing his brow, taking a seat across from the
reporter.
Conversely, Bonner went over so fast that Walterovich couldn't even continue his charade. “Coffee,
gentlemen? Hey Justin, good to see you back in town. How is Alessandra and that cute daughter of yours?
So were you working on that Maxwell story? I heard that she is fine, is that true? I think I met her once, but I
don't want to talk with the papers. No offense, it's just that I want my privacy, you know? Hey Dylan, how is
your homework going? Have you
started that big research paper for Ms...”
“Steph, Steph,” Walterovich interrupted politely. “I'll have a coffee and a menu. I'm hungry. Dylan, order
something.”
“May I please have a Diet Coke, Steph?" the preacher's son left.
“Oh, sure,” the waitress said, slightly hurt that she was expected to service some culinary needs instead
of getting some fresh gossip session in. “I'll be right back.”
Walterovich and Ryan looked at each other and chuckled very quietly. It was the first time all day that the
preacher's son had a moment of humor.
“Dylan, listen, before we go on, I have some rules with this. You may not like them, but I have a family of
my own and I can't only think about myself anymore. I have a wife and a daughter who count on me,”
Walterovich said, stirring a small glass of water and half-melted ice cubes with his slightly stained coffee
spoon.
The pastor's son nodded to acknowledge he heard the reporter.
“So it's like this,” Walterovich continued. “I'm not going to be here until midnight and I'll tell you why. The
temperature is already dropping and while you and I don't have a problem with it, I'm not going to take you
and your mother into the woods to look for a warm spring. It's too dangerous. I'm not saying this to insult
you or the situation you are in, but I'm just not in a position to risk your life, your mom's life and risk my wife
and my daughter's future on anyone
freezing to death in some backwoods waters of Redbridge.”
“So what are you saying?” Ryan asked.
“What I'm saying, Dylan is that we gotta act now and we need to roll the dice. There is no chance that we
are going to be able to get a geological survey map and start going spring-to-spring tonight. We are going
to need to, at the very most, pick three and try them out. I need you to agree to these terms before we start,
because I don't want to have any confusion about this in a couple of hours.
Listen, by 7:30 at the very latest, I'm going to start making my way home to West Champlain. Until then
we'll have enough light and then once the sun completely sets, we'll have the last remaining heat before
everything completely freezes. I'm not being a jerk here, you gotta understand. But this is the best that I can
offer you.”
Walterovich looked to his left and saw the young waitress head toward their table. The reporter looked
back at Dylan. “Agreed?” the writer asked.
“Agreed,” Ryan responded.
“OK, here we go,” Bonner said placing the drinks on the black and white checkerboard table. “One coffee
for the famous-local reporter and one Coke for the future college all star baseball player. Are you guys
ready to order?”
“Sure thank you”, Walterovich said, looking over the menu one last time; it was the same menu he
looked at a thousand times in his life time and could recite perfectly by memory. “Steph, may I please have
the turkey with mashed potatoes and a small green salad, no dressing.”
“OK, and for you Dylan?”
“Um...Ah...may I have the club sandwiches with steak fries.”
“OK, sounds good,” the waitress said, looking for a moment at the small, worn notebook Walterovich
had on the table. “I bet there are some good stories in that notebook.”
“Thank you, Steph. We'll call you if we need anything else,” the reporter chuckled.
‘Humph,' the waitress thought to herself. ‘So much for being the voice of the community.'
Stephanie Bonner was asked in the sixth grade what she wanted to be when she grew up. To this day,
her essay is framed in Redbridge City Hall with the other winners of the annual Redbridge Middle School
Writer's Festival.
I Want to be Redbridge Selectboard Chair When I Grow Up
by Stephanie Bonner
March 24, 1999
I love Redbridge because it represents everything that the American dream stands for. I may be a kid,
but I too have dreams and Redbridge is the place where I feel most safe to try and reach those dreams.
When I grow up, I want to be Chairperson of Redbridge Town Meeting, because I want to do my part to
keep Redbridge clean, safe and free from too much outside influence. Chairperson McGowan is my role
model. She has spoken to our school many times about “being an active citizen.” I agree with her. I think
that serving as Chairperson is one of the best ways to be a good citizen. The Chairperson has to work with
her elected counterparts on the budget, on safety, and on keeping the roads in good working order.
I also like the idea of Town Meeting because you have to listen to what the people in town think is
important. I'm a good listener and I like to learn from other people. I can respect that just because people
don't have the same opinion as me doesn't mean that they're wrong and I am right. It just means we all
need to keep communicating.
In conclusion, when I grow up I want to be the Redbridge Selectboard Chairperson. I consider it my
dream job. I hope some day to show my parents that my dreams did come true.
“So how are you going to pick the three springs?” the pastor’s son asked.
“Well, do you have any clues or theories?” Walterovich asked in kind. “Let me put it another way: Tell me
everything that you know for sure, things you might have read at your house, or things your Mom might have
told your Dad about this.”
Ryan squirmed uncomfortably in his booth. “Justin, let me ask you, and again, I certainly don’t want to
offend you, but do you think it is the best idea to be talking about this in a diner in the middle of town?”
Walterovich nodded to concede that Ryan was smart in asking that question.
“Dylan, think about it. We are working on the assumption that you told me that one day a year there is a
magical healing spring, here in Redbridge, guarded by a secret society,” the reporter said quietly but at a
level slightly higher than a whisper.
“You think I’m crazy…”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Dylan. What I’m saying is that given those assumptions the right play is to be
out in the open both for our safety and to try and draw out any clues possible.”
Ryan smiled slightly. “So what you’re saying is that we are going to bluff our way to getting as many
clues as possible to help our search?” the preacher’s son asked. Walterovich lifted his hands slightly to
say, ‘of course.’
Ryan took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you that I don’t have some copied file from my Mom or photographs or
any great leads. There were four things related to the spring that I either heard my Mom mention to my Dad
or that I read once when I stumbled on some of her notes …” Walterovich said nothing, only opening his
notebook and reaching into his cashmere jacket to retrieve his lucky pen.
“My Mom mentioned something about a tree within a tree,” Ryan said, now lowering his voice more into
the range of a church whisper. He trusted the reporter’s reasoning, but still felt fearful talking about this in
public. “Then there was a family rock. Mom also said something about a memorial site for a great doctor
and then I read some scribbling of her’s saying NYT.”
Walterovich nodded again silently and read over his notes. “OK, this is what I am proposing, after we eat,
I want you to go to the Redbridge Library and try to access their on-line database for any geological survey
maps you can find. I am going to do the same thing, but I want us to go in separately because if I need to
duck out to check on a source, I can leave and
still have you searching,” the reporter directed. “What time does the library close?”
“Six, I think, no actually, 6:30,” Ryan replied.
“Perfect. Here’s the deal. Try and print out portions of the map yourself, but if you have to ask the
librarian, do it. There’s a fine line between being conspicuous and being outright confrontational, so we
don’t want to walk down Main Street chanting, ‘where is the Fountain of Youth?”
Ryan chuckled.
“Once you have the map, find one of the study cubicles and then go back and forth and key word every
clue into the database. Try to find some matches.”
“Now which database are we talking about?” Ryan asked.
“It’s the Redbridge one. It has a sign on the computer terminal. Anyway, try to pinpoint some choices. I’m
going to do the same and then at six or 6:30, whenever they kick us out, we will pick three springs and see
if we were right. Sounds like a plan?” Walterovich asked as the waitress/Chairperson hopeful walked over
with two arms full of food.
“Sounds like a plan,” Ryan replied.
“Good, let’s eat.”
Walterovich was mid-mash potato when the taste of his food triggered some half-memory that the
reporter couldn’t discern between actually recollection or impromptu fiction. The reporter was playing with
friends in tall wild grass; there was a basket of food. Walterovich was wearing a thick brown sweater and
seemed to see his own breath although there wasn’t any snow around him.
His old brother, Jamie, was throwing a semi-deflated tan football to himself and the youngest brother,
Jason, was being held by the boys’ mother.
Walterovich also remembered seeing childhood friends Andy and Sarah Reintree, Ryan and Kim
Borough and Benny Wieserman. None of them were any older than four years old. The property looked
familiar yet foreign, as if they were all at a regular vacation spot.
“Catch me, catch me,” the young reporter seemed to remember himself saying. None of his friends were
paying particular attention to him. “Catch me, catch me,” Walterovich repeated again, living in the insulated
word of a toddler where the concept of being ignored or rejected still was as foreign as self-sufficiency.
The memory shifted instantly. Walterovich was in some woods and he was running with his older
brother’s football. The young reporter was screaming playfully as he sensed Jamie was quickly
approaching. The future cop was always the sprinter of the three brothers.
“Catch me, catch me,” the young reporter cried out, holding the football with both his tiny arms, trying to
navigate around tree branches that seemed the size of houses. Walterovich seemed to remember his
mother calling out, “Boys, don’t run too far away.”
The eldest brother was catching up, Walterovich tried frantically to move his little legs faster. An old
childhood safe spot was ahead. Everyone knew the rules, reach that spot and one was “safe”.
“Almost there,” Walterovich thought to himself. But almost wasn’t close enough.
Jamie jumped forward and tackled the reporter by his feet. Walterovich remembered knowing that he didn’t
have time to use his hands to break his fall. Darkness.
Walterovich looked up to see his friends around him calling for help. Darkness.
Walterovich heard his Mom cry out as she picked up the boy. The future reporter didn’t start crying until
he saw the red all around his hands and sweater. Other parents came to the child’s aid. Darkness.
Mrs. Reintree was holding the boy now, gently splashing warm water on his face. Darkness.
Walterovich’s mother was holding her child whispering, “Everything is fine. It all went away.”
“How’s your food?”
‘How’s my food?’ Walterovich snapped out of his daydream for a moment and looked up at Bonner. “It’s
great Steph. It’s great. Thank you,” he said politely. “May I please have some more spring water?”
“Do you mean bottled water?” the waitress asked innocently.
‘Idiot, snap out of it Justin,’ the reporter thought. “Yes, do you have any bottled water for the road? I need
to head back home in a little bit.”
“I’ll go and check,” Bonner replied, looking back at the reporter; he was gingerly touching his forehead as
if checking for an injury.
After lunch, Ryan left for the library as instructed. Walterovich stayed put, paid the tab and went over for
some brief polite chit chat with Bonner and the other mainstays: Russ and Debbie Pagell and old Jimmy
Nielson. “I need to play this right,” the reporter thought.
***
Russ and Debbie Pagell both met and married at Champlain College. He was from Redbridge, she
was from Tunbridge, and strangely enough, they were never formally introduced until a welcome social for
incoming freshman was held at the school’s lovely cafeteria.
Russ was going for his Bachelor’s in Accounting; Deb was geared for the four-year Public Relations
track, yet the couple shared the joint passion of acting in school theatre. Both were successfully cast in a
1994 production of Dracula where director Sanders Bourgeois wrote an original adaptation of the famed
novel by Bram Stoker. Russ was Renfield and Deb was Mina Murray.
It was a small and intimate cast of 11 actors, made up of Champlain students, faculty or staff. The
chemistry was an instant hit as Bourgeois combined his talent for keeping the cast focused and working,
while inspiring an overall relaxed atmosphere that spoke to each actor’s need for both escape and
acceptance.
Deb was the better actor in that her performance, and even during read-throughs was natural, believable
and show-stopping. When she screamed on cue, her cast mates literally shuttered, even the veteran
director was said to be afraid to visit those very scenes, which he himself had written.
Robb was more emotive in his performances. He played a good villain and thrived in a character that
was both obedient and self-destructive. Indeed, the whole cast seemed to fit their respective parts well and
were soon off-book and refining their performance.
Russ and Deb didn’t cross paths much during the school day and, coupled with their intense theatre
work, developed a correspondence of sorts. A large portable blackboard was near the stage for theatre
classes and during the day, the two would leave each other notes:
Hey Deb, can I have your autograph?
Yo Russ, can your agent please help me get a job?
Hey Deb, is it true you have your own dressing room?
Yo Yo Russ, yes it is, and NO BOYS ALLOWED!!!
Together the thespians balanced the pressures of living away from home for the first time, assignments,
projects and the pressures that come with new college life. The play was sold out all eight nights of its
running and the cast enjoyed the euphoric rush that success within their school brought them. On the
closing night, Deb left a note in Russ’ cubby, addressed on the outside to “a great actor and friend.”
Russ,
I want to avoid being a cliché, but we’re actors so what do you expect? It has been great working with
you. I can’t believe we spent 18 years living in nearby towns and barely remember seeing each other. It’s
just like theatre, you know? I wish you the very best…I think I’ve fallen in love with you,
Deb
Seven months later, they married.
***
Old Jimmy Nielson wasn’t always old. He once ran wild and free as all lucky children do. But most
children get to count down sunsets to their next birthday. For Nielson, there was never a special day; for
neither he nor anyone in the state of Vermont knew exactly when he was born. Nielson was thought to have
born around 1908 to a Swedish father and a Danish mother, both of whom settled in New England with the
hopes of a life better than their class provided back home.
“I don’t remember my folks all that well,” the old man told Walterovich and the small restaurant
collection for the hundredth time. “Dad went down with a fishing boat off the shores of Maine. Mom was lost
to influenza was I was still learning to say more than ‘mommy’ and ‘food’. I shuffled from home to home
and ended up being taken in by the Bjornsons who owned the farm north at the top of the Old Road. They
sold it to the Clarksons when I was a teen.” Nielson’s shaking hands spilt some coffee on the counter,
which Bonner quickly and politely always wiped it clean.
“It was a simple life, a hard life, but an honorable life,” the old man continued, his voice low because of
tobacco and frail on account of his years. “They were like my new family. It was never that close mind you,
but that whole family was nice to me. They let me stay in the house, fed me, and let me manage some
workers doing harvest when I was old enough.”
Nielson struggled to steady his hands, his thirst for some stimulant was as strong as during his youth.
“I had friends, too. We’d go out into the woods and run for hours during the free day I was given twice a
month when we weren’t in full season. I remember Zack McLure, he went on to play baseball for a minor
league team in New Mexico; Darcy Reynolds who made three records for the phonograph and
Marga…Marga…Haugesund who would take all us kids to her family rock with all her special names.”
The reporter cracked a big smiled, sat down, and looked at the old man. “Marga Haugesund? I think I
have some family who were Haugesunds or maybe it was Andersens. I always get them confused,”
Walterovich said loudly and slowly.
“Nice people, all of them,” the old man replied, not very interested in the input from the reporter. “Some of
the healthiest people I ever met.”
“What brings you to town?” Russ Pagell asked mid-coffee sip.
Walterovich smiled. “Well, business unfortunately. I should get out here more often but I was assigned a
story this morning.”
“That billionaire, I thought she was found?” Debbie Pagell asked. “Steph, may I please have some more
ice tea?”
“Coming up,” Bonner replied.
Old Jimmy focused his attention on steadying his hand to consume a steak fry. “That whole family was
the best looking family I ever saw,” the old man whispered.
“She was found, and so I was asked to get another angle on the story,” Walterovich said to Debbie. “You
know how demanding bosses are. They’re just like demanding directors: always wanting to pull more out
of you.” The reporter and the thespians shared a laugh.
“How’s your wife and that cute little girl of yours,” Bonner said, refilling the iced tea-drinking Pagell’s
glass to the brim.
“Sorry is that too much?”
“It’s fine, I have a straw Steph,” Debbie responded.
“It was like they never really aged - all of them. It was the damndest thing,” Neilson mumbled.
“They are fine, thank you,” the reporter said the waitress. “Alessandra and I are finally getting around to
planning a romantic getaway and our little one is talking now with better English than I am.”
“So what’s the angle of the story you are working on?” Russ asked. “Steph, may I please have a small
slice of blueberry pie with two large scoops on vanilla ice cream. Actually, please make it one scoop of
vanilla and one strawberry.”
“Very patriotic,” his wife remarked. Russ thought for a moment.
“I don’t get it.”
“Red, white and blue,” the reporter jumped in. “Well, I need to start wrapping it up, I’m heading home
soon.”
“And there was this place up on the hill that had a large rock covering. They said hot water was in there.
Mrs. Haugesund said we could never, ever go near that place,” the old man whispered, mid-slow chew of
steak fries. “I heard there was magic there.”
“What story or, I guess I should say, what’s the angle now?” Russ asked.
“Ah, why spoil the surprise?” Walterovich chuckled. “Besides, it will only cost you 50 cents tomorrow to
find out.”
Walterovich started his car, smiled at the four inside the diner and drove slowly out of the parking lot. The
reporter in fact used so much caution that Debbie Pagell commented that he looked like he was taking a
driver's education class. The moment Walterovich was finally outside any perceived line of sight, he
immediately pulled off the road, put his dented black Honda into park and frantically started to write down
every word that the old man whispered at the diner.
Walterovich's paternal grandfather had taught the writer a few important life skills, one perhaps most
valuable of all: How to feign being hard of hearing. The reporter called it the Old Country Pokerface and
used it often throughout his 14-year career. The trick was to log on to one voice and let the rest of the white
noise in the universe do nothing more than bounce off the ears like soft, fluffy bubbles.
“If worse comes to worse, I can always go back to the diner and say that I want an ice cream for the
road,” Walterovich whispered looking over his notes “This is good; this is really good. You know, you got
something here, Walterovich. Now the only question is: what's going to be your play? This is going so fast.
I'm over my head here. Haugesund, healthy family, warm water, Jimmy Nielson, check out the whole family,
property history, and birth/death records.”
***
“Hello, it's me. I saw him at the diner. He was over with Dylan Ryan...Ryan left and he stuck around to
chat for a moment...I know but that's not the problem...Jimmy was babbling something about the spring...I
don't know, was he just babbling? You're the historians...I'm not being troublesome, I'm just trying to do my
duty...I know...I don't know, he said something about having the head home pretty soon...Say again? Oh I
don't worry, I won't let Jimmy out of my sight, but he's really in no condition to say anything...I mean he isn't a
part of the Society, right?...No, you're right...You're right, there is no reason to take chances. Of course, I'll let
you know. What about the others, should I check in with them too?...OK, sounds good...I'll go only through
you...sounds good then...OK? OK. Thanks.”
When the reporter finally walked into the Public Library he was shocked to see how efficient the
preacher's son was with his assignment. Ryan nodded to acknowledge he saw Walterovich, but that was
the only tell in an otherwise text-book perfect poker face. The writer responded in kind and then smiled at
the librarian Moxley, who quickly and nervously responded
in kind before returning to her projects.
The preacher's son printed out 10 sheets of paper and put four quarters in the honor-box before
returning to the side wing of the classic and beautifully designed library to a study cubicle that he’d checked
out for the two-hour maximum limit.
“Nice work,” the reporter whispered.
“Well, it wasn't that hard finding the maps,” Ryan whispered back.
“Yeah, but it's not just the fact that you found some maps but that you only brought out three. Nothing too
conspicuous but enough for us to work on. Good work. You'd make a good reporter,” Walterovich said.
“Yeah, no thanks,” Ryan chuckled quietly.
Both looked over the data which the preacher's son collected. One was a county-sponsored map of
Redbridge from 1980; the second was a Redbridge-sponsored map from 1986 and the third was an aerial
picture map of the town donated by the Bexell-Meyer-Green Foundation for the Geologic Sciences.
“Alright let's take a look,” the reporter said. “You have some printouts; what are they?”
Walterovich closed the door to the study cube. It would have been snug for three people and the two weight
lifters accounted for three, but there was enough walking space around the table to look at different maps
from various angles.
“You asked me to find anything on those four clues or whatever I gave you,” Ryan said.
“Right, let me check my notes again; you said your Mom had mentioned a tree within a tree, a family
rock, a memorial site for a great doctor and the acronym NYT. So what do you have?”
Ryan took a deep breath and looked over his printouts. “OK, I found nothing on Redbridge shrubbery that
was anything more than a wide spread returns from search engines.”
“I thought as much, we'll need to keep checking and maybe somehow on the aerial photos we can hit a
long shot. What else do you have?” Walterovich asked.
“On the issue of a family rock, I found a lot of seemingly useless sites but there was this interesting
thesis paper written by someone named Ariana F. Orchard, ever heard of her?" Ryan asked.
The reporter shook his head in the negative.
“Well anyway, she earned her PhD in Anthropology from UVM and a digital copy of her thesis is available
in the Redbridge database?"
“What is it about?"
“Well I obviously didn't read all 89 pages in the 12 minutes that I've been here, but the executive
summary says, ‘Central Vermont is home to some of the most underrated and influential methods of
historical recording in all of New England. The most significant is the use of family history rocks, which
meld many languages - some no longer in use - to share stories, lessons and genealogy in ways
comparable to that of the ancient Egyptians'.”
“No shit?” whispered the reporter.
“No shit,” the preacher's son responded.
“It's goes on and on and on and I saved, I printed out I should say, the link so we can go check it out.”
“Excellent, what else?” the reporter asked.
“The memorial site returns, even with the query word famous doctor, really give nothing more than what
the local historical societies have, but I did find this hand-drawn map posted on this web site that has
some Redbridge landmarks and famous protected grave sites outside what's in the cemeteries.”
“Excellent. What about the last one? What about NYT?” Walterovich inquired.
“I don't know, but literally the first 147 returns were for the New York Tribune.”
“Hmmm...” the reporter mumbled.
“What does it all mean?” Ryan asked.
“Let's start putting together this puzzle,” Walterovich said looking at the maps and tapping on his
notepad. “Maybe the answer is really here after all.”
Chapter Five
“So what's the plan, Stan?” Ryan asked with a smirk.
“Hey, we’ll have none of that attitude, son,” Walterovich chuckled. “Look, I'll be the first to tell you that I am
not a consultant in hydrology so there could very well be clues here, shit, I'm sure there are clues here that
we aren't seeing. So this is my recommendation: Get back on-line and try to find any tips of what to look for
when looking for waters and springs. Anything, we'll take anything.”
“Sounds good,” Ryan replied.
“I'm going to get started on this New York Tribune lead. Remember the paper is defunct, it became the
Herald Tribune I believe in the 60s, but that doesn't mean that articles aren't cataloged.”
“So what, are you going to do to key-word searches for Redbridge?” the preacher's son asked.
‘Walterovich, you shouldn't hide the fact there was a connection between Maxwell and past
disappearances. But what the hell does that have to do with locating anything. It just makes one ask more
questions.'
“Listen Dylan, I have some leads, leads that I am working on for another story but might have some
connection...”
“Like what?” the preacher's son pleaded.
“I...listen...I would tell you but it could lead you down the wrong path...”
“Justin, for god's sake my Mom has a few hours before this door closes...”
“I know, I know. I'll make you a deal, if we don't find what you are looking for before I need to head home,
then I'll tell you all. In the meantime trust me; any other distractions could easily lead us away from a long
shot that is already 1,000-to-1.”
Ryan nodded his head slowly that he understood, but the teen's face betrayed his fierce disappointment.
Walterovich opened the door and whispered, “Try matching things up with your printouts. I'll be back.”
Ryan went back to work and muttered some words of displeasure; the reporter closed the door and
headed to the library computer stations. ‘Who could blame him?' the reporter thought. Walterovich sat in his
now regular spot and refreshed the search engine.
-- NYT: Redbridge, missing persons, spring water, fountain of youth --
Twenty three results showed up from the query.
“You know, this is going to make a great book,” whispered Walterovich to himself, reading the first hit
from his newspaper query. “You keep hitting the jackpot.”
Tribute Editor Karstens to Wed, Resign and Move to Greener Pastures
A farewell tribute from Tribute writer and publisher
F.R. Karstens
Dec. 3, 1854
The function of the newspaper is as strong a fabric in these United States as the magnificent red, white
and blue that bears witness and testament to the success of the Union.
Even in days when states to the south protest some of the directions where this great land is going, I
believe that America the beautiful is growing into a historic and wonderful example of the human spirit. It is
in that very spirit that I must regretfully but with full faith and excitement announce this is my last day with the
New York Tribute. After 21 years of chasing stories, challenging the powers that be and bringing you, our
loyal New York readership everything that's worth sharing, I have found love.
Yes, New York, I am getting married and moving to beautiful and quiet Redbridge, Vermont with the very
woman whom I assigned myself to cover: Gloria Earl Vanguart. You may remember that Ms. Vanguart had
gone missing in that quiet Vermont town this time last year, only to be found safely by her sister (younger by
three minutes) in the nearby town of Tunbridge.
But enough of Vermont history, my self-appointed assignment was to interview the daughter of Vanguart
Shipping International as to what her three days of absence meant to her and her family. Over months,
correspondences turned into friendship and friendship turned into love and only this morning, Ms. Vanguart
and I have decided to wed.
I thank you for all that you have done for me, your inspiration, challenge and faith. I hope I fulfilled your
expectations. Fellow readers, my friends, I am off to try life anew. May all of your stories end as happily as
mine.
Farewell,
F.R. Karstens
Publisher, minority-owner
Walterovich scratched his eyebrows for a moment and tried to process his good fortune. His book on
mystery twins in Redbridge was certain to be a hit. “Walterovich, you're a made man,” the reporter
whispered. “Get that check ready, you're moving Alessandra and the baby to a new townhouse overlooking
Lake Champlain."
“Mr. Walterovich, it isn't healthy to mumble to yourself,” a woman with a secure and confident voice said
from the side.
“You're right, I'm sorry,” the reporter responded in a library whisper. He was too busy processing the
article to even turn his head.
“Well, I can imagine you are working on a big story,” the woman continued. “It's expected considering
what is at stake.”
The voice became created a sufficient disturbance that it successfully sent enough stimuli to have
Walterovich turn his head. His mind ran through his Rolodex but couldn't recognize the face.
“Oh, I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced in person,” the woman said calmly, extending out her arm. “My
name is Jennifer Maxwell. I hope we can put those angry phone calls behind us.”
***
“Hello? Yes, I am calling from the library. Yes, you will never believe this, but she came back to town...
Maxwell, yes, she is in the library right at this very moment...I have no idea, I was never told that she was
coming back to town... She's talking to Walterovich and Dylan Ryan is in one of the study cubicles...I have
no idea, because it is hard to get close enough without tipping them off...I know that Dylan was fishing
around the maps in the reserve
aisle...It's hard to say because when Dylan and Justin are working, they don't talk that much...that's a good
point, I think I did see Dylan put an extra print out in the recycling bag...I'll try. I'll wait until the coast in clear...
yes, I'm sorry, Maxwell parked in plain and open view, in fact, I can see her car from where I am calling...I'm
sure it is her, there is no doubt about it...OK...I will...OK...Absolutely, I will let you know as soon as I find
anything more
out...I may need to duck out and call you from home, because you never know what ears may be listening.
It's a library so naturally sound travels well...Sounds good...I will...OK...bye bye.”
‘Think Walterovich, think,' the reporter frantically ordered himself, his pulse felt as it more than tripled.
‘You need to handle this. You need to handle this situation calmly and coolly. Now go to work.'
“Ms. Maxwell, I can assure you that I never touched your email account after your clear instructions over
the phone, so there is no worry,” the reporter said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am on a deadline.”
The reporter received a “shhh’ from 82-year-old patron Isaac Logan, despite the fact that Walterovich
was barely near the “shh” level.
“I think we should talk," Maxwell said.
“Shh," Logan said again, now hitting his cane once with authority on the new navy blue rug of the library.
‘Think man, think. If you take her back to the study room Dylan could flip out. What to do? What to do?'
“I'm sorry, I really don't have time right now,” the reporter said in an almost inaudible whispered. “Why
doesn't your lawyer, the one that was going to bankrupt my grandchildren, make an appointment with my
administrative assistant and I can pencil you in a meeting for, oh, say, next March.”
Maxwell approached closer and whispered, “aye, but there's the rub, Gasputin Walterovich. It appears
that Dec. 8 is an extremely time-sensitive day for this particular subject.”
Walterovich stopped his typing and looked slightly up at his unexpected source. “Well Ms. Maxwell, what
ever do you mean?” he whispered with a grin.
“Is there's a reading room free so that we can talk for a moment?" Maxwell replied.
Walterovich shook his head. “Let's go outside,” the reporter said. “I'm getting claustrophobic.”
“Are you claustrophobic?” Maxwell asked with a tinge of arrogance.
“Only when I'm about to break the story of the century,” Walterovich replied with arrogance in-kind. The
writer stood up, cleared the history folder in the main homepage of the Redbridge library and removed his
nearly full notebook from his coat.
“What are you doing?” Maxwell asked, fully aware of the glare she was getting from an elderly patron
sitting near the fiction section U-Y.
Walterovich turned and smiled politely; he noted the old man was reading his favorite author, Kurt
Vonnegut, and the classic “Snapshot.”
“Everything is on-the-record from here on out Ms. Maxwell,” Walterovich said walking to the door. “I no
longer have the luxury of time for charity or diplomacy. So am I talking to Jennifer Maxwell or her twin
sister?” the reporter asked as soon as both had stepped outside. Walterovich held out his notebook and
birthday pen.
“I...I...can we just talk for a moment?” the woman asked, taken back apparently by the reporter's
bluntness.
“No, and I'll tell you why, Ms. Maxwell, if that is indeed your name. The sun is setting both on this day and
on this story,” Walterovich said politely but with speed to create an entrance barrier to the conversation. “I've
been burned on this story enough as it is. I know something is going on here, much bigger than the fact of
rich female twins pulling some
disappearance/reappearance/donating-their-life's-savings act. So I'm going to investigate this by the book,
and the pun was intended. Come to think of it, I was actually going to head home and write a nice book on
the disappearances. But all of this Fountain of Youth frenzy, which is apparently contagious, keeps
preventing me from leaving the city limits. So all you say is fair game, and if that isn't acceptable, I
understand, but I can't help you.” Walterovich stopped and took a deep breath.
“Do you feel better?” the woman asked with a chuckle.
“Yeah, sort of, I'm tired and cranky. So what's on your mind? Is there or is there not a Fountain of Youth.”
(‘Hah, and they say I can't ask the tough questions,’ the reporter mused to himself.)
“Yes, there is a Fountain of Youth in Redbridge and it is very much in working order,” the woman said
calmly. The reporter's jaw actually dropped open for a moment. “That is exactly why I came back to town.
You see, I want to make you a deal: Those who guard the Fountain from nosy reporters like yourself have
agreed to show it to you, demonstrate its powers and provide irrefutable evidence that it exists. You came
this far, you might as well know that it exists, and in return we would like you to write a book that effectively
disproves this myth. Think of it as a little inside joke, much like how Shakespeare didn't write half of the
material attributed to him. Or be an artist and look at it as Mona Lisa's smile. You write a book telling the
world it is nothing more than a myth and we prove to you it is true.”
Walterovich stood and scratched his head. “Lady, I...I don't know where to start,” he said slowly listening
to his own words. “First off, there is a kid in town, a good kid, who told me his mother is sick. So if you and
your friends know any way to help her, then take Mrs. Ryan not me. Second of all, I'm a reporter, not a fiction
writer, so I don't want to invent a book. Third, I already have a great story, and I don't need you to help me get
it published. So going by the baseball analogy, strike three, you're out.”
Maxwell smiled; Walterovich though that her expression suggested she was prepared that he might
respond the way that he did. “You're a noble man, and that means something since
you are poor,” the woman said. “I need to make a phone call, but before I do, let me know exactly what your
terms are.”
“Lady, you came to me, what are talking about?” Walterovich replied quickly. Maxwell didn't move. “Listen,
if all of this true then for god's sake, save Dylan's mother. We don't need all of the theatrics,” Walterovich
continued. “You call whoever you have to call. You do whatever it is you have to do. If it will save Dylan's
mom, you know I'm game. So you let me know. Now if you excuse me, I'm losing daylight and it's getting
cold, so I'm going to go back inside.”
“Well don't go anywhere for a few minutes, I mean, stay in the library, OK? I need to make a call,” the
woman said. Walterovich put his notebook back in his pocket and walked back inside, snow crunching
below him, without a clue as to what to tell Dylan Ryan now.
The preacher's son looked up at the door with pride as Walterovich walked in. Ryan thought he was on
to a lead. “Justin, you will never believe this, but I think I found a clue in that...”
The writer raised his hands for a moment. “Dylan, hold on a second. I have something to tell you. It's not
necessarily bad, but I need you to remain calm. Remember that we are in a library so sound will travel,”
Walterovich said. “So just withhold reaction until we can talk about this.” Ryan slumped back with the
impending disappointment.
“OK, Dylan, so it is like this,” the reporter continued. “Jennifer Maxwell just walked into the library. She's
outside now making a phone call. She wants to cut a deal.” Ryan's eyes scrunched in anger, his face
quickly became near purple and a vein showed on each side of the forehead.
“Dylan, Dylan just listen to me for a moment. I told her if she knows anything about the spring or
Fountain of Youth or whatever to take you mom there right away. So just, let me handle this for a moment
and see what is going on. Just play it cool for a moment, OK?” the writer plead in a semi-whisper.
Ryan's hands began to quake and he thrust his body upward, knocking his chair to the ground in the
process. At the same time a loud scream rattled the two from outside the reading room. The preacher's
son and the reporter looked at each and then ran out of the sanctuary. The rest of the library patrons and
Moxley the Librarian were standing nearing the windows.
“What, what happened?” the reporter called out.
“They took her, they took that woman,” old Isaac said.
“What?" Walterovich asked again in disbelief.
Moxley turned to the reporter. “Justin, someone just kidnapped Jennifer Maxwell.”
Ryan took a step back in disbelief, but quickly composed himself. “Someone call 9-1-1 right away,” the
preacher's son ordered with authority. “Justin and I are going to try to chase them down. Which way did they
go?”
“They turned back to town. It was a large black Chevy Blazer with, I think, Pennsylvania plates,” the
librarian said.
“Good, call it in right now, Walterovich, let's go,” the preacher's son ordered his mentor as he ran outside
to the parking lot.
The reporter thought for a moment that he should protest in some way, but everything Ryan said made
sense, so Walterovich just followed his orders and ran to his dog-dented Honda Civic.
The reporter's car was swerving between both lanes of the two-way road as his tires seemingly lost all
traction in the mid-speed chase.
“Gun it, you're going to lose them,” Ryan pleaded.
“Jesus, Dylan, I'm a reporter not a NASCAR driver,” Walterovich snapped back.
Onlookers in town were pointing down the road and back at Walterovich as he fish-tailed by. The reporter
surmised that the lead car was still on Main Street.
“Call Winslow!” the reporter barked.
“Where...how...”
Walterovich stiffened his left arm and quickly reached into his coat pocket and threw his cell phone in
Ryan's direction.
“How do I use this one?” Ryan asked.
“Hit 'call/remember' and type '4-0',” Walterovich said, breathing deliberately and relaxing for a moment as
at least the road had straightened for a couple of yards.
“OK, now what?” Ryan asked.
“Dylan, just press 4-0 and send!”
“OK. OK. I got it. It's ringing. The signal isn't that strong. I...Yes, Sheriff? Sheriff! This is Dylan, Dylan Ryan.
Listen we are chasing some kidnapper. He has that billionaire woman. What do you mean, you are on your
way? Jesus, LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT!”
Walterovich swung his head to the left, as Sheriff Winslow cruiser shot out from a side street and slid onto
the main road.
“Oh shit!” the reporter cried out. In an instant, Walterovich remembered what his father always said about
driving on ice and snow: ‘Never slam on your breaks. You'll do more harm than good.' The reporter hit the
gas and safely sped up in front of the cruiser. ‘Pity that curve in road wasn't 30 yards farther out,'
Walterovich thought to himself as his car failed to adjust to the turn. The dog-dented Honda became air
born and quickly tilted downward towards a snowdrift.
Ryan was screaming out expletives of fear; the reporter conversely had a moment of peace and calm.
Walterovich thought about how deeply he loved his wife and how much joy his daughter brought to his life.
The reporter mused about how he loved holding his wife and
how fulfilling marriage was compared to the false paradises offered up by the working world.
‘Lord, if I survive this, I promise to take my wife dancing,' Walterovich thought.
BOOM!
Everything went black.
Chapter Six
Walterovich and Ryan sat motionless in their seats. The sound a screeching car and subsequent car
horn were heard in the distance.
‘I'm blind,' the reporter thought. 'Oh, sweet Jesus I'm blind.’
“I'm blind!" Walterovich cried out.
“Justin, Justin! Relax. Relax!” Ryan said shaking the reporter. Walterovich felt this tremendous pressure
against his body. “My face!” he shouted. “Oh god, my face. I think I had a stroke.” Ryan started laughing.
“Walterovich, Jesus, open your eyes,” the preacher's son said. “It's just your airbag.”
The reporter stopped and felt the protective membrane in front of him. For a moment, Walterovich felt like
he was six years old again, hugging a great aunt who was larger than the family piano.
“You know,” the reporter said, suddenly much calmer, opening his car door. “I've never seen one of
those things in operation before. It’s like I’m hugging a super model.”
Both shared a hearty laugh of relief.
The rest didn't last more than three seconds. About 100 yards ahead, lay the Black Chevy Blazer on its
roof. Sheriff Winslow was shouting something that sounds horrifically close to “put down the gun, Now!
Stop or I'll shoot!” From around the flipped Blazer emerged a huge, bald, Caucasian male: young looking
but more than 6'4" and 300 pounds holding Maxwell in one arm and appearing to have a robust handgun in
the next.
“Sheriff, don't shoot!” Ryan cried out. “She can take my Mom to the Fountain!” The preacher's son started
running towards the wreckage. Walterovich almost caught up to the teen but baseball made Ryan too agile
for the 30-year-old.
“Dylan, stop, Dylan, Dylan!” Walterovich shouted. The reporter's orders were nearly in sync with the
sheriff's demands to the white Neanderthal. Walterovich threw a snowball in protest and ran after Dylan; the
writer slipped repeatedly along the way. “I’m really getting to old for this,” he muttered, forcing himself back
on his feet. “They should really make me assistant editor.”
“Freeze! Freeze, damn it!” Winslow shouted.
“I'll kill her. Back off pig. I'll do it,” the Neanderthal howled. “You know I will.”
“Oh God, don't kill me,” Maxwell pleaded.
Ryan approached, about 75 yards out. “Stop! Stop! Please, Jesus, don't hurt her,” the preacher's son
cried out.
“Ryan, stop!” Walterovich said, again from the ground; he had slipped again.
“Dylan, goddamn it, stay back!” Winslow ordered, all the while keeping his gun pointed at the
Neanderthal's chest.
“Back off, pig! Back off!” the kidnapper barked back, his face blurred now by red from cuts after the
accident.
“Listen, just let her go,” Ryan tried to negotiate. The preacher's son kept approaching.
Stand down Dylan!” the sheriff growled loudly.
Walterovich approached the young Ryan. The Neanderthal swung his gun around at the cop, Ryan and
Walterovich. Winslow tried for the shot but Maxwell was too close to her capturer's body. Walterovich saw
his life flash before his eyes for the second time in three minutes.
The Neanderthal smirked and for some reason looked at the preacher's son. “Do you want her alive?”
the kidnapper asked.
“Please!” begged Ryan.
The kidnapper went to let the woman go, pushing her slightly forward. Ryan focused on the woman,
unaware that the gun was now pointed at his direction.
Crack! Dylan felt lightning shoot through his shoulder. He was thrown to ground.
Crack. Crack. The preacher's son heard Maxwell, Walterovich and Winslow. The Neanderthal was silent.
The first thought Walterovich had, listening to the puppy-like yelping of the wounded Ryan was, “Thank
God he's still alive. No matter what happens, he's alive.” The reporter ran up to the preacher's son, put
snow on the damaged shoulder. Ryan screamed out in agony and punched Walterovich in the eye, out of
disoriented reaction. The writer actually saw stars.
“I'm sorry!” Ryan said with a blood curdling tone.
“It's all right,” the reporter said calmly, his right eye throbbing. “Everything is going to be fine. Try as best
as you can to breath in as much air as you can. The more oxygen the body has, the less pain it feels. I
wrote a big article on that a few months ago. It's a fact of science.” Walterovich had zero proof to support the
statement, in fact he never wrote such an article, but he thought anything to give psychological relief for
Ryan was worth a try.
Maxwell got up, sobbing, from feet away from her dead kidnapper and went over to Walterovich and the
teen. Winslow was at his cruiser radioing in for an ambulance.
“I'm so, so, sorry,” Maxwell whispered to Ryan. She knelt in the snow and touched his forehead. “Is it...is
it bad?”
The preacher's son grunted in agony. “Oh Jesus, I can't feel my arm.”
“You'll be OK, kid. I know the pain is awful you but look, you're moving your fingers. That's a great sign. It
means he didn't destroy anything that can't be fixed,” Walterovich said.
“I sure wish...I sure wish I was at the Fountain,” Ryan forced out with some semblance of a smile.
“I know,” Maxwell said. "If I knew exactly where it was, I would take you there myself. My sister knows, not
me.” Ryan passed out, unrelated to the woman's confession. The pain was more than he ever thought
existed in this world. Walterovich, who was applying pressure to Ryan's wound, looked at the woman in
disbelief.
“I'm not Jennifer Maxwell; I'm her twin sister,” she said as sirens were heard in the distance of the
darkening sunset horizon. “I'm sorry I've been lying to you. It's a complicated story. I haven't seen her since
at dawn this morning. If what has happened is what she told me, she's a newborn infant somewhere in
your town.”
Walterovich was speechless. He turned back and put fresh snow in the preacher's son injured shoulder,
the trio's collective breathes floated up to the heavens. Darkness was setting in.
Cars and trucks appeared from all directions. Walterovich still felt very much isolated and alone. Ryan's
father, the man who so often was the rock during moments of grief around the town, ran into the snow
crying out his son's name in animalistic hysteria, unwilling to take anyone at their word that his son would
survive. It took four deputy sheriffs to restrain Reverend Ryan as the ambulance crew gently whisked his
son into the red flashing van.
“Reverend, listen, I'm not letting you in that ambulance with Dylan unless you promise to let them do
their job,” Winslow said with authority. “My duty is to your son, not to you at this moment. So if you can't keep
it together, you'll have to ride down with someone else. That's it. Do you understand?”
The elder Ryan somehow mentally sedated himself and regained control. He didn't say a word, but
nodded in the affirmative and climbed into the ambulance.
The reporter looked all around him and only then realized that he should be taking all of this down for a
news report. Despite all of the pleas for decency within his subconscious, Walterovich went deep inside
his second right hand pocket, undid the button, and withdrew the emergency portable digital camera and
started snapping away. The flash seemed to blend enough with the commotion and the emergency vehicle
lighting to avoid the crowd charging at him, and the reporter focused his sights on the large mound on the
ground: The dead Neanderthal
covered with morgue blankets. Today, at least, after his 14-year career as a journalist, the reporter hit the
jackpot.
“I'm going to have to go. You know they are going to take me down to the hospital and make sure I'm not
in shock,” Maxwell said to the reporter, standing near the dead assailant.
“I hope that you're OK,” Walterovich said. “I hope everything works out with you and your sister.”
“It's my brother that's the problem. I know that he sent this monster over. I saw him following me heading
south. That's why I turned around and came back to Redbridge. I was looking for safety,” Maxwell said.
Walterovich stopped taking pictures. “Pete's coming over,” the reporter said, watching the sheriff
marching their way. “If you have anything to say, now's the time. Last call.”
“My brother is after me and Jennifer because he wants his money, or our money for that matter. I'm not
safe and they can't protect me. I need to join the Society even if it will cost me every penny. I understand now
that I can't return to my old life. It's over.”
“You're speaking in tongues. I don't follow,” the reporter said.
The woman smiled knowing a reporter's trick when it reared its ugly head. “Somehow I think you do, but
for the sake of the moment: The rule of the Society is that no one profits from the Fountain. If you join, you
give away everything. That's their entrance and exit barrier and switching cost,” she said.
“How would they even know?” Walterovich asked. “Why not only give away half? How could they tell?”
“Believe me, they have become very good at this," she turned to see Winslow no more than 25 yards
away. “Look I can't help Dylan's Mom but maybe you can. I'd give you a phone number but all it would do is
harm, trust me. You have to find them on your own. Tell them that I wouldn't say a word. They need to
protect me. If you see them, reason with them, tell them that I am loyal and in trouble. Tell them I didn't say
anything to you, but you think I am in trouble. They might take me too. Please, I'm begging you. I could be
dead by sunrise.”
“OK, Ms. Maxwell, the ambulance is ready. No more interviews,” the sheriff said with a growl intended for
Walterovich.
“Where is the Fountain of Youth?” the reporter whispered. “Tell me.”
“Walterovich, step away. You're lucky I don't take that god damn camera,” Winslow barked again. “This
scene is closed."
“Tell me,” the reporter whispered.
Maxwell took a step backward, to appease the sheriff's approach. “Haugesund Farms," she whispered.
“Haugesund Farms...”
“Haugesund Farms,” Walterovich whispered. “Haugesund Farms...”
“What?” said local towing specialist Johnny Katz. “Walterovich, you really gotta stop talking to yourself,
people think that it's weird.” They both chuckled.
“I really appreciate you helping me out Johnny,” the reporter said, taking out a c-note. “I owe you, you're a
life saver.”
“No worries, listen, don't you have some expense account or something? I can vouch for you, come
insurance time,” the entrepreneur said.
Walterovich didn't even give a second thought: Out came the News-Times credit card.
“Just don't get me fired,” the reporter chuckled handing over the card. “Oh, but of course,” the entrepreneur
replied with a smirk.
As the reporter watched his airbags being deflated, his spirits were raised because he would be able to
return safely to his loving wife and daughter in his own dog-dented Honda.
“Haugesund Farms,” Walterovich whispered. “Haugesund Farms...Hey Johnny, hold up...”
The entrepreneur turned around, knuckles white with the corporate credit card. “Yeah?”
“Have you ever heard of Haugesund Farms?” the reporter asked.
Katz scratched his forehead. “Nope. Never, and my family has been here 141 years.
Why do you ask?”
“Um...no reason, no reason...”
Walterovich paced back and forth near his car, watching the numbers of onlookers dissipate. “I'm in a
tough spot,” the reporter mumbled to himself. “I want to go home. This day has completely gone out of
control. I should go to the hospital to check on Dylan. No, I will stop by the hospital. And what about his
mother? Where is she? I should at least find her and tell her what Dylan is trying to do.”
Walterovich rubbed his thumb to his ring finger, an old response he used to do when wanting a
cigarette. It had been a couple of years since his last touch of tobacco, but some cravings die hard.
“Haugesund Farms? What the hell is she talking about? For all I know, she got the name wrong, or the
town wrong, or is just playing with me,” the reporter whispered. “Look, Justin, it's already dark now. There is
nothing you are going to be able to do. The library is about to close...”
The writer felt himself getting into his car; the interior was scarred and exposed from post air-bag
deployment, but Walterovich was still glad it could run well enough to get him home. “I'll at least go back to
the library until it closes,” he said, now more loudly since his engine was running and CD was on. “I'll give
Dylan that much, that I'll work until they kick me out. I have 22 minutes.”
The road back to the library seemed so much less threatening since Walterovich was observing the
speed limit, but the shock of Dylan's injuries and seeing some stranger expiring before his eyes had
begun to set in. Walterovich patted his jacket with a free hand to make sure that his portable camera was
still there.
He pulled over and took out his cell phone. “Time to check in with Trevino,” he said, somewhat
inexplicably, since he didn't want to check in with his boss at all. Although past conventional closing hours,
Walterovich knew his boss would be scheming late into the night. Two seconds after turning on his phone,
the reporter saw seven new messages had been phone in. All seemed connected to the News-Times, and
more importantly, none were from the reporter's wife. “At least she isn't worried,” Walterovich said of his
better half.
It wasn't like the reporter to let phone messages and emails pile up, but this wasn't a normal work day
for him. Walterovich dialed Trevino's phone. She picked up before the second ring.
“Walterovich!” she barked. Apparently life had returned to normal in the newsroom. “Where the hell have
you been? First, you request our legal counsel and never make a call, then you stop checking in with me. I
mean you aren't on sabbatical, do you understand! You better dazzle me or I am going to demote your...”
“Chief, there was a shooting about 30 minutes ago in Redbridge. I got pictures; I was there when it
happened. It all ties in to the disappearance this morning of the billionaire Maxwell. I've got it all. The
pictures were taken on a portable digital, but I've used the same brand before. We're set. We're going to
blow the Free Press out of the water.”
Silence.
“You know Walterovich, I think you may have assistant editor in you after all,” Trevino said with crocodile
sincerity. “Who was shot? Was it Maxell? I need you to drop the camera off tonight by 11. Laurie and Dwight
are working late on some graphic design work and they can process your pictures. How good is this
second story? I'm assuming your first about the twins can still be a stand alone? Who was shot?”
“Someone tried to kidnap Maxwell, or a woman claiming to be Jennifer Maxwell, I should say. Yeah, it
can be a stand alone, but this second article is banner page-one, hands down. Even if the pictures are less
than perfect...”
“What are the pictures of?” Trevino asked.
“They’re of the kidnapper. Sheriff Winslow had to take him down. The pictures are of the covered
deceased kidnapper, but you see the dead man's shoes sticking out,” Walterovich said.
“Excellent,” the editor hissed. “Listen, you need to find a computer out there and crank me out a first draft
right now. We can't wait until morning for this one. We need to know how much space to reserve.”
“I'm heading to the Redbridge Library now. They are going to be only open for about another 18 minutes.”
“Good, get started then. Type like the wind, Walterovich! Break into the place if you have to, just find a
computer. Tomorrow, you are going to make quite a name for yourself,” Trevino said, hanging up before the
reporter could respond. Walterovich switched his car from park to drive and navigated the snowy, lamp-lit
road to the library. His was a troubled soul.
It felt like the fiftieth time that day Walterovich walked into the doors of the Redbridge Library.
“You know we're closing in 15 minutes,” said Librarian Moxley in a clinical and IRSian way.
“Would you mind if I please stayed for an extra 30 minutes after closing, while you get ready for
tomorrow?” the reporter asked politely. “I don't mean to bug you, it's just that I need to get some work done
and I have to...”
“I'm sorry, Justin, that won't be possible tonight. Please finish your library business and leave at the
designated closing time,” the librarian said coldly, walking to the back room before he could respond. The
reporter wanted to protest but the clock was screaming for action. Walterovich took a booth, logged onto the
net, found his mail site and started typing frantically away.
Maxwell Disappearance Ends With Shooting
by Justin Walterovich
West Champlain News-Times
REDBRIDGE -- Dylan Ryan, a local standout high school athlete and young community leader was shot in
the shoulder trying to rescue a woman reportedly kidnapped outside the Redbridge Public Library. Ryan,
17, a senior at neighboring Chelake High School was shot in the shoulder following an incident where the
reported kidnapper (Chief, we still need his name) drove off the road just inside the southern City Limits
and held a woman identified as either Jennifer K. Maxwell or her twin sister by gun point.
Ryan was following the alleged kidnapper's Black Chevy Blazer in a car driven by News-Times reporter
Justin Walterovich. Ryan and Walterovich were researching a related story (see Redbridge Twins, on
page??) when they and others witnessed/heard the victim's cry for help as she was being abducted.
Once on-route, Sheriff Peter Winslow followed the alleged kidnapper off road and repeatedly asked the
man to put down his gun and to surrender peacefully. After about a five minute standoff, the alleged
kidnapper fired and hit Ryan in the shoulder. Sheriff Winslow returned fire, killing the alleged kidnapper.
Ryan and Maxwell were both taken to Orange County General Hospital; Ryan for treatment of his single
gunshot wound, Maxwell for observation.
At different portions of the events, Maxwell identified herself to the News-Times as both Jennifer Maxwell
and her “twin sister.” At the time of press, her identity has yet to be confirmed by additional sources.
Maxwell, the billionaire heiress of Maxwell Oil, was reported missing earlier in the day. SEE RELATED
STORY
Walterovich looked up at the clock and saw his remaining time in single digits. He frantically re-read his
work and added: Chief this is my rough, rough, ROUGH draft. Library is closing. They're kicking me out. I'll
call for further instruction - Walterovich.
Just after the reporter finished his re-read and clicked “send”, Moxley turned off most of the lights and
asked him to immediately leave.
‘Haugesund you idiot, you forgot to search Haugesund!' the reporter thought.
“The library is now closed!” the librarian said sternly. “This means you Mr. Walterovich!”
“I'm just printing out this one thing. I'm going," Walterovich said nicely.
www.vermontterms.vt
HAUGESUND
He typed, hitting the print button multiple times until he heard some movement from the HP DeskJet
970cSE. Moxley was unimpressed and walked very deliberately towards the reporter. Walterovich cleared
his history file and physically shut down the computer. He hovered over the printer as he did years ago the
mailbox when rumor was another report card filled with Cs was on the way home from private school. It
seemed odd to the reporter that he had three printed pages, which apparently had only short text on each
respective page. Yet there was just enough time to take the money and run. The reporter thought he heard
the librarian whisper, “traitor”, as he passed, but he wasn't sure.
Walterovich was out the door and on his way, in the freezing cold, to his car-dented, airbagless black
Honda Civic. He turned back for a moment and saw the librarian glare at him as she abruptly shifted the
sign in the door from “welcome” to “please come again.”
His attentions quickly turned to other things. “Oh you've got to be kidding me. Justin, you dummy,” the
reporter whispered looking down at his data. In the rush of the moment, Walterovich had somehow opened
three windows -- one from his Vermont site and two of the same default search engine -- and only partially
typed portions of HAUGESUND: HAU, GE, SUND." Time was over, the library closed, Andi's was at full
capacity, the weather was frigid, the Lears were busy, Procter probably sleeping; the reporter was tired,
Ryan in the hospital, others broken over magical waters....
“I give up,” the reporter said. “It's time to go home. I'm sorry, but enough is enough. It's over.”
Walterovich stuffed the useless printouts in his now drenched and muddied cashmere jacket, started
his car and finally left the Redbridge City Limits north towards County Medical to check on his pupil before
returning to the peaceful borders of West Champlain.
Walterovich took out his phone and dialed his aunt's phone number hoping to check in and catch his
mother. He only got the answering machine. “Hi everyone. It's Justin. I wanted to let you know that Dylan
Ryan is OK, but he is in the hospital and will probably need surgery. I don't want to worry you, so just check
in with them. I'm fine, I'm just exhausted. I'll need to come back to town tomorrow to meet with Peter
Winslow. Everything is fine. I'll stop by tomorrow. I'm heading now to the hospital to check on Dylan. If there
is any major news, I'll call back. See you tomorrow. Good night.”
Walterovich next went to call his wife, but he stopped after the second digit. He didn't want to tell
Alessandra that someone was shot...not at least over the phone. He would tell her everything in person
over a late dinner. The reporter saw the “Welcome to Redbridge” sign in his rear view mirror. He felt
incomplete leaving the town, but for now, it appeared that his shift had mercifully ended.
“Why do I feel like such a sellout?” the reporter asked himself under the darkness of the early winter
night, his high beams now trying to push out some of the nothingness to steer his way home. “Why did I
use my time at the library to write that article? Why didn't I help Dylan? Jesus am I that easy to buy or just
that weak?”
The road felt iced and unwelcoming. Even a seasoned winter driver such as Walterovich never felt
invincible for six months of the year on New England roadways.
“Well what was I going to do?” he challenged himself. “It wasn't like I left town knowing where the spring
was. It was a crap shoot and what would I have done, gone to Dylan's mom an hour after he was shot and
asked her to go skinny dipping in some Redbridge spring? Get serious, Justin. You have a family to take
care of. You just can't always risk everything on a whim. I mean think about what you are saying for a
moment. The Fountain of Youth? I mean Jesus. You're tired, that what it is. You're tired and a little
disillusioned with work and that's understandable. Swing by the hospital, make sure Dylan is OK and then
go home to your beautiful wife and daughter. It's real simple. Even you can pull this off, Walterovich.”
The reporter tried to relax himself the rest of the drive to the hospital by playing his music loudly and
focusing on the road. As he aged, Walterovich actually found ways to detach and relax himself at times, and
soon found he was comfortably numb and near the entrance of the hospital emergency room. It only really
hit the reporter in the parking lot that he could very well be blamed by the Ryan family for what happened.
Guilt and dread seeped their way throughout his consciousness, yet the writer pressed on.
“This is about Dylan not me,” he whispered himself, walking into welcomed hospital warmth and asking
reception where the Emergency Room waiting room was. Still, Walterovich suddenly felt alone and
uninvited.
As the reporter approached the waiting room, he saw hoards of Ryans and other Redbridge residents.
There were no visible signs of deep grief, so Walterovich took the
personal liberty of enjoying a moment of relief. The young Ryan was alive.
“At least he'll make it.”
Pastor Ryan came out of the men's restroom and bumped into Walterovich. “What? Oh...Pastor Ryan...
I'm sorry, my mistake. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry.” The man of the cloth stepped back and looked at the
reporter.
‘Jesus, here it comes,’ the writer thought to himself, preparing for a public display of anger from the holy
man.
“I'm sorry, Justin,” the pastor said.
“Sorry? Sorry for what? I'm the one who needs to beg for forgiveness,” the reporter said, still relieved that
he was spared the justified anger the holy man could have harbored.
“Please,” the pastor said reassuringly. “Dylan told us in the few sentences that he could that he came to
you about my wife. I know you are a good man, Justin. I know that you try to help people when you can. I'm
sorry everyone was in this situation and I am sorry that a man lost his life in Redbridge tonight. I hope he
finds peace where ever his soul decides to roam.”
“Pastor Ryan, about your wife...I came to tell Dylan that...I promised him to look for a spring...”
Walterovich paused not knowingly how and if he should proceed. Pastor Ryan beat him to the punch. The
holy man lifted up both hands in a non verbal request to have the reporter drop the matter.
“Our family will be OK, Justin. Don't worry about that. Dylan is very hurt, but he will make an amazing
recovery,” the man of the cloth said. “It could have been so much worse. I am...I am so very thankful my son
is alive.” Pastor Ryan walked to the windows looking out at the parking lot.
Under the dated lighting of the room, the holy man's reflection looked old, worn and tired. ‘Then again,
so does mine,’ the reporter remarked, seeing new lines his face could not possibly have had earlier in the
day.
The holy man seemed to chuckle as if he were having a private joke with himself.
‘It does look weird talking to yourself,’ the reporter thought. ‘Even if you don't actually use words.’
“You know Justin, when I was in seminary school I had many spirited discussions with my professors
and colleagues about the importance of faith,” the holy man said. “There were so many times when some
horrible news would come shaking the foundation we all had that this world indeed had some fabric or
semblance of justice and kindness. ‘If only...If only I could see God.’ That's what I heard so many times and
that is what I, myself, said many times more. If we could just see the force, the power that we put all of our
faith in...the power...it would make all the sacrifice and uncertainty go away. It would make sense to live this
life, and all we would need was a simple moment.
The night before I defended my doctoral thesis in Divinity I had an extremely vivid and disturbing dream. I
was sitting in a room and off in front of me was a thin, purple door. There was no one stopping me; all I had
to do was open the door and see the very assurance that so many want to see. It was right there. My God
was on the other side.”
“What happened?” the reporter asked.
“I made myself wake up. I didn't want to open that door. I didn't trust myself, so I made myself wake up,”
the holy man said, directly looking at the reporter through his own reflection in the window.
“You see, Justin, I didn't want that peace after all. The frustration, the uncertainty, the dreaming, the
struggle, the passion, the magic, the secret of it all...I need that in my life. Do you understand? I can't be
complete. I need to stay sharp.”
The holy man turned around and looked at the reporter. “Sometimes in life Justin, we are at the cusp of
solving great mysteries, answering questions that people far smarter and purer than us spent their whole
lives trying to solve...and didn't. But people like you and I, people who go through life trying in our own way to
help other's find meaning in it all...we need the thrill of the next challenge. After all, what would we really
have if we climbed to the mountain top after all?”
Walterovich crackled the slightest grin. The holy man stuck out his hand and shook the reporter's.
“Pastor Ryan...”
“Say hi to your wife and child for me. Come over soon for dinner, OK?”
“But...But...”
“Let it go, Justin,” the holy man said with a paternal smile. “Some doors are better left unopened.”
Pastor Ryan walked back to the waiting room. The reporter popped in for a moment to look for Mrs. Ryan
or his own mom or aunt. It was hard to sort through all the faces in the cramped space. “It's nice to see the
town being so supportive,” Walterovich mumbled with a smile. “What do you say, J. time to go home? You'll
be back here tomorrow.”
The adventure had officially ended. Walterovich had his potentially career changing story. Dylan would
survive the scare of his life; there would be a tomorrow for everyone, except a Neanderthal kidnapper. Life
was good.
The reporter walked out the doors of County General and got ready to set sail for home.
“I even survived with a couple of great stories for the grandkids,” he told himself proudly.
Walterovich fumbled in the exterior pockets of his cashmere jacket and finally found his keys hiding in a
mound of folded paperwork. Out came the keys, and three folded pages, and a piece of square green
bubble gum, all resting at the reporter's toes. “Don't even pick them up,” Walterovich chuckled, lowering
himself slowly to collect his garbage. Silence.
“Oh my god. Sweet Jesus Christ,” the reporter whispered looking at the three pieces of paper he
unfolded and held at arms' length. “Oh my sweet God.” Walterovich dropped his car keys and again
lowered himself and fumbled in the fresh dusting of free snow, unwilling to break his gaze on the three
papers.
ENTER YOUR SEARCH: hau
RESULTS (19)-- Hau: is a hibiscus flower that changes colors from orange to yellow to red during the 24-
hour cycle of the day. It's tough stems can be used to make canoes or huts. Hau has been used as a
natural visual barrier in hiding items; its changing colors are used as a marker.
ENTER YOUR SEARCH: Ge
RESULTS (78)-- Ge: Legend has it that Ge is the mother of Pan and Shellina; she is the Goddess of the
Earth and worshiped as Mother Nature.
ENTER YOUR SEARCH: Sund
RESULTS (1730)-- US>>>States>>>Vermont history>>>Central Vermont>>>Sund, Maureen, b. June 5,
1790, d. Dec. 8, 1832: regarded as one of the matriarchs of Vermont's medicinal movement by working with
elders of the Abenaki Tribe to bring a better understanding to Vermont settlers of flowers, herbs and roots
for the use of health, sustainability and community. She is buried in a private cemetery in the city of
Redbridge.
***
The reporter sped back to town, fishtailing over the road, holding the steering wheel with white-knuckled
hands, letting up on the gas just enough to keep himself road-bound.
Thick, white, fluffy, blanket-like snow flakes began to fall on his windshield. The reporter turned off his radio
to fully concentrate on the road. His high beams were up and soon crossed back into his hometown, all the
time whispering: “It can't be true. No, it can't be true. I don't believe it. Oh, my god, this can't be happening.
This can't be real...I don't believe it...”
***
School was out and the third grade now nothing more than a memory for Walterovich and his friends
from Mrs. Lee's room at Redbridge Elementary, class of 1983. The future reporter looked at his large table-
sized calendar that his father had brought home from the bank and drew circle after circle in blue ink to
denote the complete and dazzling freedom which sat before him.
The black and white television in his room was playing the only station that came in well over the
antenna, Vermont People's Television, and the record player scratched out some songs from the
Fleetwood Mac, a group his mother liked.
Jamie, the oldest of the three brothers, was at a Boy Scout's camping trip in Canada, leaving the middle
child and the youngest, first grade alumnus Jason, to run free around the family home. It would be the last
summer that the family lived in Redbridge full-time. Banking opportunities in West Champlain would draw
the family north, and while still an easy drive away, sometimes, almost cruelly too far from home.
Walterovich and his youngest sibling had a good relationship in that they never fought each other. They
built a voting block to keep their oldest brother in line and the partnership proved to be lucrative. The two
younger brothers had acquired much of Jamie's semi-new camping gear in return for their silence as to
who drank some of their father's home brew. Walterovich and Jason decided to take the long walk to a
longstanding fort for kids, build by kids, many generations ago. The aforementioned camping gear came
with them.
“I hope there are a lot of kids there today,” Walterovich said, already eating his peanut butter and
raspberry jam sandwich no more than 1,000 yards from home.
“Me too, Me too,” the six-year-old Jason replied.
The sun shone brightly through the birch tree branches and created cake-slice-like cuts of sun that
almost looked heavy to the touch. “I love summer vacation,” Walterovich said, breaking off a sizable piece of
his sandwich and handing it to his little brother.
“Me too, Me too,” Jason said. “Thank you.”
“Sure,” Walterovich said. “Hey...I heard that a king and queen once lived in the fort. They were Indians,
wait, sorry...”
“What?” Jason asked, faced filled with jam.
“Mom says it's mean to call them Indians,” Walterovich added.
“What do we call them?” the first grader asked.
“Native Americans,” Walterovich instructed. “Mom told me that a great Native American family lived near
that fort and that they had a big, huge treasure.”
“Whoa!” Jason said with awe.
“I know,” the future reporter continued with the rush that he already found in sharing a great story. “It was
a magical treasure...”
“What kind of magical treasure?” Jason asked.
“No one knows for sure,” Walterovich answered with a voice like his grandfather used telling campfire
stories. “But it was a great treasure. Everyone wanted it.”
“Why couldn't they share?” Jason asked.
“Because...it was too powerful,” Walterovich said. “It made people make bad decisions and do
dangerous things because they felt nothing could hurt them.”
“Whoa!” Jason said again with awe.
“I know, I know,” Walterovich continued. “For many years the king and queen protected that treasure and
they used it to help others, but one day...it was terrible.”
“What? What?” Jason begged.
Walterovich handed his younger brother a napkin. “Here, wipe your face,” the future reporter said. “Well
one day, the people of the tribe had had enough. They wanted all of the treasure too.”
“Is my face clean?” Jason asked in a whisper, afraid to break the flow of the story.
Walterovich nodded that he was fine and continued. “One day, the warriors of the tribe planned a great
feast, but it really was a trap.”
“A trap for who?” the first grader asked.
“For the king, the queen and the queen's best friends, all who guarded the treasure...”
Walterovich took out a brown bag sack of pretzel sticks and gave three to his little brother. “There was a
grand feast that was supposed to honor a peace the king made with a neighboring tribe, but even before
their first bite of food, the king and queen knew something was wrong,” the future reporter said.
“How?" the first grader asked, chewing opening the slightly stale pretzels.
“There was a big, mean warrior who wanted to be king and he carried the food to the king to make
people think he was loyal,” Walterovich said. “Do you want another pretzel stick?”
“Please,” Jason asked.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you,” the first grader responded graciously. “So what happened?”
“His hands. The king and queen saw the warrior's face and knew that they'd been tricked.”
Jason heard natural white noise in the forest and fearfully stopped and looked around.
“Don't worry, everything is fine,” the reporter said reassuringly, himself, startled by the sounds. “This isn't
a scary story.”
“You promise?” Jason asked.
“I promise,” his older brother replied. “So the warrior brought over the king his food and held it out and
waited for it to be taken.”
“What...what happened?” the first grader asked.
“It was his hands...” Walterovich whispered.
“His hands?” Jason asked in replicate whisper. “What was with the warrior's hands?”
“They were fine,” the future reporter said.
“What?” yelped Jason, disappointed in what appeared to be a prank from his brother.
“You don't get it,” the older brother said with a confidence that the story was about to hook in his
audience. “You see up until that evening, and every evening for 19 years before the accident, the warrior
had hands scared badly from fire. As a child, he tripped and landed hands-first into a pile of hot coal. His
hands were scared for life, yet, that evening they were smooth and working perfectly.”
“I...I don't get it,” the first grader confessed. “Why were his hands better?”
Walterovich smirked. “Well, that's the best part of the story...”
“Before the king and queen could make a move, the fierce warrior took a weapon to the queen's throat,”
Walterovich said.
“Did he hurt her?" the first grader asked, wide-eyed and engrossed.
“No, but he threatened her life. He said, ‘Anyone makes a move and the queen gets it!” Walterovich said.
“Really?” asked the youngest brother.
“Ah...well...I think so. Mom said it better, but I don't remember. Anyway, some of the warriors were
supporting the king and some supported the traitor, but with the queen as hostage, none of the king's
friends dared move an inch.”
“Whoa!”
“I know. I know and it gets better,” the future reporter continued. “The warrior and 12 of his men rode off
with the queen and her sister, an all-wise sage.”
“What's an all-wise sage?” the first grader asked.
“I dunno, I forgot to ask Mom,” Walterovich confessed. “They rode off up this very big hill to the place
where our fort is.”
“No way!” Jason.
“It happened just like that,” Walterovich said, raising his hands to defend his story. “The warrior made
the queen's sister show exactly where the treasure was.”
“What kind of treasure?” Jason asked.
“Mom says it is sneaky and hard to hold,” the reporter explained. “So, the queen begged her sister to
keep it a secret, but the sage couldn't let the traitors hurt her.”
“What's a sage again?” Jason asked.
“I think, it's like a doctor with herbs...I think...anyway, they walked on this twisty,
scary path to a place that was covered with branches.”
“What?” the youngest brother asked in disbelief.
“I'm serious. Ask Mom. Really. The warrior cleared the covering and held the magic treasure. He was
stronger, younger, more powerful and invincible.”
“What does invincible mean?”
“Kind of like a superhero but without the flying.”
“WHAT A MINUTE!” Jason shouted out. Walterovich stopped, startled. “You just said that the traitor had
his hands fixed at the dinner. So why did he need someone to show him where it was? You're making this
all up. Sheesh...”
Walterovich chuckled. “You know little brother, you really are the smartest of us all,” the story-teller said.
“Mom said that the sage kept a small bag filled with the treasure for
emergencies. The warrior's wife had gotten very sick after having a baby. She was near death but the sage
saved her. Mom said there had been rumors around the whole tribe that there was a magical treasure that
cured people;. The warrior stole the sage's supply, which was enough to make his hands clean again.”
Jason waited and processed the story. “OK, so then what?” the first grader asked.
“Greed. Mom said everyone got greedy. When the traitor's friends saw him, they all wanted to get the
treasure themselves. When they returned to the tribe, the king's supporters soon begged to get some of
the treasure instead of fighting the traitor.”
“No way!” protested the first grader.
“It totally happened that way,” Walterovich replied.
“So naturally the traitor wanted something in return from the rest of the people who wanted to join him.”
“What?” Jason whispered.
“The power to be king. The tribe turned over their leader to the traitor who promised them eternal life and
that traitor had the king killed right on the spot.”
“NO WAY!” the first grader protest in disbelief.
“I know, man. It was awful, and it only got worse. Nearly everyone had a turn with the treasure and
everyone thought they had become gods. But Mom said that the treasure answered to no one and soon the
traitor and his followers realized what that meant.”
“What did it mean?” gasped Jason.
“Mom says the treasure's powers can be used up, not killed off OK? But used up. So, like, if too many
people use it, it stops working for a long, long time until it gets enough energy again. Does that make
sense?” Walterovich asked.
“So it's like why after a long day, you need to go to sleep and then in the morning you are ready for
more?” the first grader asked.
Now Walterovich stopped in awe. “That's totally how it is. I think,” the story-teller
said. “Have you heard this story before?” Jason shook his head “no.” “Well I tell you what, maybe you
should start telling it,” Walterovich asked. “I'll let you tell the kids at
the fort.”
“Really?” Jason said with pride.
“Sure.”
“Awesome, but wait. How did the story end?” Jason asked.
“Mom said that everyone turned on each other because no one trusted anyone anymore. The tribe in
Redbridge was ruined for generations. It was a mess, which is why the treasure needs to be guarded and
never used without permission. Its power is too great for any one person to be trusted with. Does that make
sense?”
Jason nodded “yes.”
“Come on, we're almost there, I'll race you,” Walterovich said, already sprinting towards the finish.
“Not fair, not fair, you cheat, you cheat,” the first grader laugher; two brothers who didn't have a care in the
world.
June 21, 1986. Walterovich's beloved Boston Red Sox were off to a great start approaching the Mid
Summer Classic, and the 12-year-old joined both brothers and his mother for a Summer Solstice Party
held at Virginia Dell's house. The 67-year-old Dell was the second generation host, the party having been
offered by a Dell for 122 of the last 123 years. (Harold Andrew Dell, Virginia's father, died on the morning of
the Solstice in 1953 and the party was officially canceled, although observed in his honor at the Town
Commons.)
With their mother dutifully driving a tan Ford Granada without air conditioning, the three brothers hung out
any window space they could find, playing games like I spy and license plate spelling games (Walterovich
always lost those).
“Mom, why do the Dells always host the Solstice party?” Samuelovich asked from his commander
position in the front passenger seat.
“The Dells have hosted it for a long time and there were families before them that honored the Solstice
in Redbridge. This holiday has different meanings for different people, as does any holiday,” Sarah said.
“Take out of it what you want. If nothing else, it's a chance to see your old friends and go back home to
Redbridge for a while.”
“Mom, what does the Solstice mean to you?” Jason asked. “Oh, and the by the way, I have to pee soon.”
Everyone laughed. “No, I'm being serious,” the youngest brother protested quietly. “I have to pee.”
“Well I guess the Solstice means rest stops. Hold on, we'll pull off the road soon," Sarah said with a
chuckle. “I think for me, there are meanings on multiple levels. I see the Solstice as a circle of life and
living, of birth and completion. I think the Solstice is a moment that makes me remember how very small I
am and yet the opportunity that my life has to make a big impact with the people I love. I think in all of us
there are dualities, balances and complements that make us the beautiful and complicated creatures that
we are. Besides, I have found out the most important secret of all.”
“What's that?” Jason asked.
Sarah chuckled. “That rest stops also are a good excuse to stop and get an ice cream.” The three boys
cheered in delight as their mother pulled off into Gunvors's Farm Fresh Ice Creamery.
Dell's house was a writer's dream: tall, spacious, hidden, smooth, welcoming, private, seductive,
inviting, and seemingly immune from the evils of the world. The exterior was a combination red brick and
white-painted wood and its church-like vaulted ceilings stole whispers and stored them away for a rainy
day.
Virginia Dell always enjoyed talking with the young Walterovich. His happy, pudgy body always seemed
to glow when he was eating cheese-filled foods, and the 12-year-old's talks of someday running for
president made her feel tied to childhood innocence again. Dell was a writer, non-fiction mostly, an
ecologist with a special interest in wetlands and waterways. She had two sons who moved to Boston and
Albuquerque, respectively, following their wives and careers in sales and management. She was alone
and quite satisfied most times with her freedom; the widow viewed each Solstice as a family reunion.
“So, tell me, when are you running for president, Justin?” she asked between bites of potato salad. The
future reporter was eating a sausage and black olive calzone, which looked larger than his head. “I have to
wait until the first election that I will be more than 40 years old,
at least that's what my history teacher, Professor Veit said.
“Forty years old, now that's really old," the 67-year-old said with a chuckle.
“Tell me about it. It creeps me out just thinking about it,” Walterovich said with his mouth full of
carbohydrates. “Can I please ask you a question now, before I forget?”
“Sure," Dell replied.
“Before we came down here, my brother Jamie told me that people in the church don't like to celebrate
the Solstice and people who like the Solstice don't like to celebrate Christmas. Is that really true?”
Dell nodded her headed in the negative a tribute to the future reporter's hard-hitting question. “I'll tell you
what,” she said in a whisper, moving her chair closer to the boy's. “The truth is that I, myself and many
people celebrate the Solstice and Christmas.”
“Really?” asked the boy.
“Really,” the old woman said. “Many of us also celebrate the Solstice and Hanukkah and Yom Kippur,
too."
“I heard of those, but what are they again?” asked Walterovich.
“All of these days are about humility, appreciation, devotion, faith, mysticism, searching, loving, worships
and healing,” the old woman said. “Don't get caught up in taking sides, Justin. You'll miss out on a lot of
great friends and adventures in your lifetime if you do. Look over there. Do you see Pastor Ryan is here with
Mrs. Ryan and their children? They run the church in town and they come every year, just like we all go to
their church throughout the year. That's the thing about Redbridge that makes us so special.”
“That we get along?” Walterovich asked.
“More than that, Justin; we aren't afraid of each other, and that is something that you can't buy or sell or
fake or impose. That's the lifeblood of Redbridge. It's in the air, it flows in our water, and all of us who drink
it live for something bigger than ourselves.”
The old woman sat back in her chair and smiled, saying hello to new arrivants to the festival. Walterovich
noticed her necklace sparkle under the comforting lighting of the room.
“That's look familiar,” he mumbled to himself. Dell looked back at the boy and winked. “It depicts Mother
Nature. It was a gift to me. You know the artist.”
“Who?” the reporter asked her. Dell chuckled. “How about I get us both some ice cream...”
Fall arrived abruptly the second week of September, 1991 like an unwanted cold wet blanket during flu
season. The weather itself was fine, it was Walterovich who had the problem. The junior at Champlain
High School just didn't do autumn very well for some reason. He had read many articles in the school
library saying that some people get the blues when the days get shorter; Walterovich had other thoughts.
He just didn't fit in.
Jamie, the popular senior, already had part-time work with the West Champlain Police Department. The
sophomore Jason seemed well on his way to the Nobel Prize for Economics. Walterovich had nothing. He
had this deep sense that there was some outlet for his energy but nothing came through. Walterovich's
grades were mostly C’s. He was always thankful just making a varsity roster on any high school squad,
and sporadic panic attacks were coming over him for the first time. Walterovich was adrift in the fog.
When his mother offered to take the boys to visit their aunt in Redbridge, Walterovich jumped at the
chance to get away. Redbridge was his safe place, where life was guarded and predictable. When his
mother's new blue Ford Taurus crossed the town line, Walterovich exhaled slowly and felt his tense
shoulders relax.
“J., there is someone who wants to say hi to you,” Sarah said.
Walterovich had heard his parents discuss his blues, which made the teen feel even more awkward, but
he knew they loved him.
“Who?” Walterovich asked with his perfect combination of teen-aged piss and vulnerability.
“Pastor Ryan asked...”
“Oh Mom...” Walterovich snapped with disapproval.
“What? He just asked to talk with you for a little bit,” Sarah said kindly.
“Mom, come on, it's like...come on, everyone knows that when some kid talks with Pastor Ryan it's like
one step removed from going to a shrink.”
“Oh please,” Sarah said. “Now you're being dramatic. Look, it you don't want to talk to him, that is
perfectly fine with me. But you tell him.”
“Mom...”
“No, I'm serious. You can't have it both ways. If you want to be an adult, then act like one and tell Pastor
Ryan you don't want to talk.”
“Fine, I will,” Walterovich said with determination.
“Fine,” his mother responded with equal resolution.
***
Needless to say, Justin Walterovich, never one for direct conflict went off for his talk with Pastor Ryan.
The teen was relieved that Ryan at least wasn't going to creep him out with lectures that usually teens
reserve for only themselves. Instead, the Pastor talked about his interests in academics and history and
began to share with Walterovich a substantive plan for breaking out of his funk.
“You know, Justin, I don't like the fall either. Sometimes I feel strangled by the lack of sun.”
“Really?” Walterovich asked with new found hope.
“Sure. I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of. I think I read that 15 to 20 percent of all Americans
report getting down in the fall.”
“Huh?” the teen replied.
“You know, that's why having something that is your own, using your gifts for something constructive is
very important,” the pastor said.
“Well...Pastor...that sounds good but I have no idea what my gift is. I'll be lucky to get into community
college, I...I don't know what to tell you. I feel lost,” Walterovich said. “I wanted so badly to have baseball be
my outlet, because I am so happy when I play it, the only problem is that I'm not very good. In fact, I suck.”
“Tell stories...”
“Tell stories?” Walterovich asked. “I don't get it. I always get in trouble for telling stories in school. My
teachers call me the class smart ass.”
The man and the boy chuckled.
“There is an honesty with you Justin, when you talk, because you look vulnerable...”
“Oh thanks, so now I'm weak,” Walterovich said.
“No, no, hold on. Hold on. Hear me out. It's not weakness, it's openness. That's why people listen to you
even if they don't agree with you or even like you. You have 'it' and you just need to channel it now and work
on it for many, many years. It won't be easy for you. I'm not going to lie, but I think you'll find what you are
looking for. Like Maureen Sund.” The pastor walked over to the simple granite grave site that sat alone in
both dignity and exhaustion.
“You know her story?” Ryan asked.
“Maureen Sund was a brilliant woman whose only crime was being alive before her time,” Walterovich
said. “Come on we all know this one. It's like required Redbridge folklore.”
“Just...just go with it...” the pastor encouraged.
“OK...She realized that the native peoples of Redbridge, the Abenaki, were being pushed aside and
there was little that she or the native peoples could do about it. So Sund thought up a plan. She begged her
way for an audience with the tribal elders and pitched with every ounce of passion and faith that she should
be taught the ways of the medicine woman to keep alive for the new peoples populating Vermont. Six times
she was refused, but on the seventh time, as sickness spread amongst many of the Abenaki, the elders
acquiesced.
Sund soon was immersing herself with desperate ferocity as if the whole United States would at any
moment stop her. Sund learned and shared her tools with select apprentices in Redbridge, who, in the
irony of it all, held her in their dying arms when she was struck down by a sudden heart attack. The
students were unable to save the teacher. And so she was buried at this very spot, because her loved ones
wanted to show that for a brief moment, a strong woman made the world stop in its tracks.”
A single tear rolled down the pastor's face. “Justin,” he said with a grin. “There is hope for you after all...”
“Come on God damn it, Come on!’ Walterovich said, urging his car up the steep roadway. He looked
over at his destination and saw a row of cars. Every light in the house seemed illuminated. “They must be
there because of Dylan,” he muttered to himself. He crammed his car into a self-plowed snow drift, putting
his dog-dented black Honda Civic into park, grabbing a small flashlight from underneath the front
passenger seat, and running frantically up a steep hill parallel to the home.
“Oh, well, catch me if you can!” he howled in a crazed growl, slipping, stumbling, and scraping his way
through the snow to more level ground. “What the hell am I doing? This is crazy,” he instructed himself.
“You just can't leave it alone, Walterovich. You just can't ever leave it alone.”
The reporter slipped and felt some branch pierce his numb hand. The cut ran deep enough to bloody the
wound but nothing too serious. “This is insane,” the reporter confessed, feeling an unexplained grin form
ear-to-ear. The snow flakes were growing in frequency, and while Walterovich was in denial, he did think he
heard voices from the house and three flashlight bobbing about heading in the same direction.
“You'll never take me alive,” Walterovich growled. “Justin, Jesus, this is not joke. Stop, Justin. Do you
hear me? Stop. I am serious. Stop.” But the reporter's legs vetoed any such plea. Despite the lack of
footing, the reporter was making ground and soon had enough stability to sprint into the deep thick
collection of birch.
Branch after branch slapped Walterovich in his face. The small cuts cried out into the frigid and
unforgiving air. Walterovich felt disfigured, although he knew the barks were much worse than the bites.
Voices were growing louder off to the reporter's left.
“No fair, they get flat land,” he gasped with a chuckle. “I'm really, really getting too old for this shit." Up
and past the old fort, where relatively fresh shoe marks of the latest generation of young keepers lay.
Walterovich made a sharp turn west towards to old grave stone of Maureen Sund about which he, any every
old-school Redbridg-er, was made to learn. The first of the foreign flash lights pierced their way onto the
landscape.
“Run god damn it. Run!" he ordered himself. A thousand yards away, just barely visible, was a dark
mound that Walterovich could have run to with his eyes closed. In the springtime, it was a thick perimeter of
flowers that change colors throughout the day.
Crack. Crack.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Walterovich yelped at the sound of gun fire. “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” he screamed,
gasping for air, yet running with all the speed his large frame would allow towards the thick brush.
Walterovich's lungs were wheezing so loudly he thoroughly expected to pass out with in five seconds.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Walterovich screamed, closed his eyes and sped through the brush. The reporter felt another body
tackle him mid-jump, and Walterovich landed on his back. Water was all around, so were three rifle barrels
point at his head. The reporter felt the sensation of his skin tightening
and tingling, something similar to getting out of bed on a burning summer afternoon after sleeping on his
arm the wrong way for hours.
“Don't shoot,” Walterovich whispered. “Jesus, don't shoot.” The reporter felt himself being dragged out of
the brush by his feet. “Just make it quick,” he mumbled in defeat. "At least
give me that much. Make it quick.”
“Get up,” said a woman's voice, which Walterovich couldn't quite place. The reporter was in no position
for an interview and quickly obliged. He walked towards the illuminated house with both hands arms raised
high in the air. The cold had begun to completely harden the snow now, and Walterovich felt the crunching
underneath while looking at the fresh dusting he was kicking forward. It was so beautiful; the writer just
wanted the chance to escape alive and go back to his beautiful wife and daughter.
‘Lord, get me out of this and I swear, I'll retire from journalism. Just get me out of this mess one last time
and I'll never bother you again,’ he thought. ‘You can quote me on that.'
The trip to the main house went much quicker than the reporter had gauged. ‘At least I'm alive. I don't think
that they'll do anything to me. If they wanted me dead, they would have finished me.'
In that moment, Walterovich thought about bolting. There was a steep driveway and plenty of darkness.
‘If I could just break free...' His subconscious said different. ‘They'd find me. I couldn't hide out here all night.
I'd freeze, and by morning, if they really wanted me dead, they'd finish me then. Half this town is involved
with this spring, the only problem being that I have no idea which half. I have no idea who to trust.'
Walterovich and his captors filed up the stairs, through the mudroom and into the main den. It was
warm, aglow, comforting and familiar. Yet the 42 eyes staring at the reporter took away any semblance of a
safety net. The reporter walked into the middle of the room, dusted off his dirty cashmere jacket and dutifully
sat down at the single free chair in the center, which conspicuously was set out for him.
Walterovich sat there and looked at all the faces. Sweat ran down his face. ‘My skin feels so tingly.' The
reporter wanted to find a mirror as if to comfort himself that he wasn't permanently scared or disfigured.
None of the 21 faces looking at him revealed a thing.
The exhausted reporter slumped a little in his chair, took a deep breath, and looked for any courage or
strength he might have left. Finally, after three deep breathes, and in a total silence with the exception of an
old and soothing clock, the reporter straightened himself in the chair and looked forward.
“Hi Mom,” Walterovich said.
“Hi son,” his mother replied. “Welcome home...”
“Mom, were the rifles really necessary?” the reporter asked.
“Blanks. We're sorry about that, we didn't know it was you. We get some runners as we call them every
Dec. 8. As you have found out, it's not like the spring is a perfectly kept secret,” his mother said. “Look, I
know you must have a lot of questions, and I just don't know how many answers we are going to be able to
give you. This isn't some movie or book were the ending gets perfectly tied up. This is real life and all I can
say is that I'm proud of you.”
“Proud of me, why?” Walterovich asked. The reporter noted that although he was wet, the dampness
was warm and soothing. “What the hell is this?”
“You figured out what many people spend their whole lives trying to locate and it wasn't for selfish
purposes,” she said.
“Mom, listen, I don't even know where to start. First, Dylan's mom is very sick,” Walterovich scanned the
faces one more time to see if the pastor's wife was there. She wasn't. “Dylan has been desperately trying to
find these waters to save her. I am begging you, please help him. It's my fault that he got hurt. I should
have...I should have done something differently.”
Walterovich's aunt, the woman who worked so tirelessly on the home, her home, for 20 years, came out
of the kitchen and gave the reporter a mug of tea. “Dylan's mom is fine,” the reporter's aunt said. “She was
sick two and a half years ago...go ahead drink up, it's just Earl Gray tea...and the spring cured her. It took
three sessions because she was very, very sick,
but the third time it all went away. She's been in remission ever since.”
The reporter was hesitant to take a sip, but despite his deer-in-the-headlights fear, was settling down.
The farm always had a peace it brought to Walterovich.
“Mom, I don't...I don't understand...Dylan said he heard his parents talk about the spring and how she
was sick,” Walterovich said.
His mother nodded her head that she understood.
“It was only half of the story, sadly. She told us this morning that Dylan had confronted her about it,”
Sarah responded. “Dylan does have a sick parent, a very sick parent, but it is his father. Doctors said
Pastor Ryan has three to six months to live and there is nothing more they can do to help him, except to
ease his pain.”
Walterovich looked up from his steaming cup of tea.
“Dylan's mom has desperately been trying to get Pastor Ryan to use the spring, but he has so far
refused,” Sarah continued. “He believes that his job, his purpose in the world is to help people in pain,
people who lost loved ones, who are sick or troubled. Pastor Ryan never has given anyone grief for using
the spring, he himself just chooses not to use it. We hope he changes his mind, but it's his life and his
right to live it how he feels is best.”
The reporter's mind was swimming. Instead of getting answers he now felt he understood the dynamic
of Redbridge less and less with each passing word from his family.
“Justin, just because we have a healing spring, doesn't mean that everyone wants to use it,” the writer's
aunt continued. “Maureen Sund's grave sits up the hill. She refused its powers to save herself life. That's
why the Society buried her where she fell, as an honor and a reminder that no cure is the answer to
everyone's needs. It's perhaps the most powerful lesson any of us have learned from the spring: Not
everyone wants to live forever.”
Walterovich felt pressure from both of his temples. His mind was screaming, “Write this down, man.
Write it all down to the bitter end. It's the story of the century and it's all true.”
“Mom, you know that I already emailed my stories to my editor up at the News-Times,” he said.
“What exactly did you write?” she asked calmly.
“I sent two stories: one on Dylan's shooting and one on the anniversary of all these missing twins,”
Walterovich said.
“Nothing about the spring? Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?” his aunt asked. “Don't be scared;
just tell us the truth.”
Walterovich thought for a moment. “I'm sure. I'm positive. I...I didn't figure it out until I had already left town
and went to check on Dylan at the hospital,” he replied.
“Son...how did you figure it out in the first place?” Sarah asked.
The reporter gently smiled and fished out a muddy, folded mound of papers from his wet and dirty
cashmere jacket.
Walterovich went to stand up but felt strained reactive vibrations from some of his semi-captors. Instead,
the reporter's aunt took the papers, unfolded all three, soon was chuckling and passing them along to the
reporter's mother.
“Very good,” Walterovich's aunt said. “How did you ever figure it out? For the record, I always thought that
the Haugesund Farms thing was a little too glib, but every secret society needs to be a little tongue-and-
cheek once in a while.”
The attendants laughed, almost in unison. Walterovich cracked a smile.
“This is good work, son. How did you figure to check it that way? I mean, I know this isn't code breaking
per se but still...”
“Pure luck, Mom,” the reporter replied quickly. “I was getting kicked out of the Library and frantically tried
to type Haugesund Farms. There were a couple of windows open. What can I tell you? My horse came in.”
“How did you know about Haugesund Farms in the first place? Who told you?” the reporter's aunt asked.
“It was Jennifer Maxwell or her twin, she has gone back and forth on that, so you would probably know
better than I. Which was is it by the way?” Walterovich asked.
“It's not that important now,” his mother replied.
“Well Mom, no disrespect but she said you were willing to broker a deal to show me the spring and tell
all in exchange for my silence, so could you at least indulge me this one piece of information?”
“We never authorized anything,” the reporter's aunt said. “She called and offered to kill you in exchange
for a little extra spring session. We don't do names in out little Society phone tree, but needless to say, we
rejected her offer.”
“Jesus,” the reporter whispered. “But...but...who was that monster of a man who kidnapped her?”
“We don't know,” Sarah replied. “Hopefully Pete Winslow will find out for us...”
“Winslow is involved?” Walterovich asked.
“My point, son, is we think it was someone in Maxwell's family, probably many people in Maxwell's family
aren't happy about her sudden philanthropic tendencies...”
“So who exactly are the lucky winners of the Maxwell sweepstakes? Are there going to be nice additions
to the farm house...mayhaps an indoor skating rink?" Walterovich asked.
“You still don't get it. You missed the most important part,” Sarah said softly. “We, as the Society, are
forbidden to profit in anyway from the spring, save its healing powers. That's been the law since the
Abenaki and, we believe, the peoples long before the Abenaki who were stewards of the spring. Every dime
that has ever been raised for an at-large use of the spring has gone directly towards feeding the hungry,
medical research, women's health support, and general education. We have never seen a dime. Not a
single dime. Do you think I wanted to move from Redbridge? I didn't. Your father needed the promotion and
West Champlain was the only option. That, in itself, should be my biggest personal defense.”
Walterovich scratched his face; he couldn't feel any stubble anymore. “Why would one twin agree to...to
what anyway? Get younger? I don't even understand how it works, but anyway, get younger or eternal life
and the other one doesn't...and doesn't profit from it? I don't get it?” the reporter asked with more
confidence now, his journalistic tendencies were overtaking his fear.
“You need the perspective that this only has happened...what? Six or seven times over the last 120
years. It's not like we have rich twins lining up at the city limits," his aunt said. “Do we have a system of
identifying potential candidates? Sure, but the rule is one goes and one stays. It's their job to figure that out.”
“Why?” Walterovich asked.
“The twin who stays tries to keep the other's cover. We call it the Elvis effect,” his aunt said. “There are
enough sightings to make enough people believe that both women are fine.”
“I'm sure that the sister who doesn't get the spring gets compensated, maybe it's just the freedom to
escape,” Sarah continued. “Who knows? People are different. But that isn't our job to figure out. We want to
help as many people as we can before this secret gets completely away from us. We know that day could
come any time. I mean look, you're in that chair, so obviously we have planned for such scenarios. Our
point is because the spring is a cyclical power source, not everyone is going to get access. That's just the
cold hard truth of it. We make these awful and complicated decisions every year, but it works. Life does go
on. These millions and billions
of dollars are like the spring to countless hundreds of thousands of people. What we are saying, son, is...
our people, the Society has been doing this for hundreds of years and all and all, we have a rather effective
system down by now.”
Walterovich rubbed his fingers over his forehead; the three deep lines earned in his late 20s were
nowhere to be found.
“Mom, before I ask, my face feels weird. Did I turn into a frog or something?” the reporter asked.
His captors laughed.
“No son. I think you look about 10 years younger.”
“I feel so bad Mom. Pastor Ryan could use this and it was wasted on some unwanted cosmetic surgery
on me,” the reporter said. “From what I've heard, he'll never make it until the next Dec. 8. And Dylan, Jesus,
he has baseball in a couple of months. My God. What a waste.”
The reporter's aunt looked at her older sister for a few moments, as if they were talking without
speaking. Finally his aunt turned back and said: “Don't worry about Dylan. The waters work other times in
the year. We use the Dec. 8 myth as a natural defense, like the hau plants that grow from the warmth and
power of the spring. Think of the spring as a rechargeable battery. It can be spent very quickly or conserved,
but either way needs to get refueled from time to time.”
“How do you refuel it?” the reporter asked.
“Sorry son, you need to join the Society to learn that one," Sarah said. “Which I guess leads us to the
grand dramatic finish of your big adventure today: What exactly are you planning to do?”
“I want to live, Mom. I want to live for my wife and my daughter...”
“Justin, Jesus, stop being so dramatic. We're not going to hurt you. All of that gossip is purely myth. We
just want to know, is there going to be a third article? Is today the day the secret officially gets out?”
The reporter looked at all the faces: family, friends, teachers, artists, writers, doctors, colleagues, baby-
sitters, farmers and researchers. He breathed deeply. He rubbed his soft finger tips over his now
smoothed-again fingers. The room seemed to sparkle with the sign of Ge, Mother Nature, worn around
each woman's neck.
Walterovich exhaled slowly, puffing his smooth baby-faced checks and letting the air seep out as if some
invisible trumpet was near by. “This story...is everything that I ever dreamed of,” he whispered. “All these
years stuck at work, trying to get by...this story could bring me so many things...I...I'm sorry....”
The reporter stood up, brushed off his dirt-cake cashmere jacket and walked slowly over to his mother,
taking his three pieces of paper back from her. “You don't know what it's like for me...I could be so much
more in my profession, I just need that one Woodward and Bernstein break...” he whispered.
Walterovich seemingly shuffled over to the wood stove, opened the door and let his skin feel the
comforting quick shot of heat that he craved so much as a child. Going into his side pocket and taking out
his crammed notebook from the day, Walterovich held both the secrets to his dream story and the three
pages that closed the deal in his left hand. The reporter pressed them twice, wanting to almost hug or kiss
the data for all the doors it offered to open.
He threw the story of the century into the fire, watching the beautiful colors of flames quickly consuming
the scribe's Holy Grail. Walterovich shut and locked the stove door and turned to the crowd.
“You know friends, at this rate,” he chuckled. “I'll never make editor.”
Epilogue
Opening day for Chelake High School's baseball team, and starting pitcher Dylan Ryan walked to the
pitcher's mound to a standing ovation. The local athlete was a hero, both for saving Redbridge tourist
Jennifer Maxwell, and for medical science which heralded his quick and complete recovery from shoulder
surgery as an “absolute miracle.”
Walterovich, his beautiful wife and daughter were sitting in the stands with the other 253 attendants to
cheer the young Ryan on.
“Go Dylan, Go!” the youngest Walterovich bellowed.
The community was together and even Pastor Ryan was present and looking better than he had in years.
“Sweetie, be careful with the baby, she is still a little one,” the reporter gently instructed his three-year-old
daughter who peaked her head over to see the four-month-old baby in the seats in front.
“Oh she's fine,” said proud first-time mother Tammy Blake, holding her pride and joy, her miracle baby
which she quietly had at the age of 41. “She loves to get the attention.”
Walterovich smiled politely and went back to his popcorn, all the while silently wondering what it was like
for Jennifer Maxwell to be an infant again.
THE END
| (c) Lacche-Media, LLC by Justin Lacche Edited by Susan Ermer Locke |
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