Steve picked up his phone and dialed the number for Martin Abingdon. It was 7:20 in the evening, so the man might actually be at home. After the third ring, the line connected.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Martin Abingdon?”
“Speaking.”
“Great! Martin, my name is Steve Connor. I am calling you from Charlotte, North Carolina. This might sound weird, but the reason for my call is I think I might be the target of some kind of internet scam, and I think you might be a victim, too. Did you happen to get a recent message from a company called Say Goodbye to Me?”
“Yes, actually I did, just this week. Do you know what’s going on with my Maggie?”
Steve could hear tension in the voice on the other end. “I’m sorry, no,” he said, unsure of how to proceed.
“She’s gone, but, but, she spoke to me,” Martin stumbled. “I don’t understand.”
Steve began to wonder if the call had been a mistake, but decided to press on.
“Sir, you said you did get the message from Say Goodbye to Me?” he asked.
“Yes, I did. And I wrote her a letter. Then last night she contacted me through my radio. I know it sounds impossible. She died not very long ago. But I heard from her last night. I don’t understand.”
Steve felt his stomach drop. He picked up the letter he’d found in his office. Were they related? It sounded similar. To Steve, this man sounded sincere. Confused, perhaps even scared, but definitely sincere.
“I can’t explain it, Martin. But I think we’re being set up for some reason. I don’t know why yet. But I intend to find out. My wife also died recently, and someone forged a letter from her and sent it to me. But I don’t think it is wise for us to talk more over the phone. Can you meet me? I can come to you first thing in the morning.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“No, at least not yet,” said Steve, “but we need to talk. I think you’d be very interested to hear what I have to say.”
“Okay, yes then, tomorrow would be fine. I am in Virginia, but I guess you already know that. There’s a place here in downtown Suffolk—Woody’s Diner. Can you meet me there around noon? Give me a minute, and I can get the address for you.”
“Woody’s Diner at noon,” Steve repeated, taking a note. “I can get the address online. See you then, Martin. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”
“I just hope you can bring me some answers.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll be the tall black gentleman. I’ll be wearing a . . . blue shirt and yellow tie.”
“Got it,” said Steve. “See you tomorrow.”
The next morning, Steve was late to the airport. There had been a large wreck on I-77 that he hadn’t counted on. The wreck, combined with the general Charlotte morning commute left him with only minutes to spare for parking and the security checkpoint. He parked in the garage and jogged toward the terminal. Charlotte-Douglas International was busy, as always. As he hurried past the ticket counters, he was thankful that he had checked in online and that he only had a small carry-on to deal with. He whispered a second silent “thank you” when he got to the security line and saw that it was not creeping around the corner, as he had seen it in times past.
He kept close to the travelers in front of him as he filed through the slow-moving line, and took the opportunity to email Randy that he would be out of the office “for a while.” He knew it was a cop out, but he didn’t know how he could explain to Randy what he was after, so he opted to avoid the conversation altogether.
He checked his watch. It was going to be close. He took off his shoes and his belt well in advance of the counter, and triple-checked his pockets to make sure he carried nothing that might slow the process down. Having made it through the body scanner beep free, he waited impatiently for his luggage and belongings to follow. When he finally was able to collect it all, he made a beeline for the benches to put on his shoes.
A large group of traveling teenagers engaged in the redressing ritual occupied all of the nearby benches, so he walked to the unoccupied rocking chairs further away from the security station. He dumped his belongings unceremoniously onto the chair and began weaving his belt back through the loops in his jeans.
“Does it hurt, my son?”
Steve looked up. Across the small alcove from his chair, a man dressed as a pastor was riding past him on one of airport’s moving walkways. To Steve, his smile looked contrived and almost hostile. The man himself looked like a human version of the thing in his dreams. In the bright sunshine of the terminal, the preacher’s face was pale — too pale. It was yellowish like ancient parchment, and just as wrinkled.
“Excuse me?” Steve called to him.
“Does it hurt?” the preacher yelled to Steve. “The pain you feel?” The walkway was carrying him away, but he remained turned against the stream of other passengers who tried to move around him.
“I would imagine it does,” the voice called out, “but perhaps not as much as the pain she felt!” He cocked his head, like a stray dog listening for a far-off call to dinner and his smile deepened. The terminal PA crackled, announcing the final boarding call for Steve’s flight.
“Hey!” Steve shouted at him. “Who the hell are you?” He moved to the edge of the walkway and considered jumping onto it, then saw from the corner of his eye that his shouts had caught the attention of several TSA agents across the terminal.
“Letitgo,” said the preacher. It seemed be a whisper. But Steve heard it just the same. The man laughed gleefully, as if he were the only one in on a private joke. ..Then, unceremoniously, he turned away and quickly became lost in the heavy line of people on the walkway.
Steve gathered his bag and considered running to the other end of the walkway to tackle the guy right there in the airport, a move that would probably get him arrested. Then, the sight of a jogging traveler reminded him how close he was to missing his flight. He turned and ran to the gate, becoming the last in a small line of stragglers.
He was out of breath and frustrated. He did not like being late, and he did not like being played. This morning he was both, and it did not sit well. His run-in with the jaundiced man of God had his mind buzzing with questions. Did that preacher know what had happened to Julie, or was it mere coincidence? He certainly looked like the figure in all those nightmares. Was this just reading too much into everything? Maybe Steve was trying too hard to make sense of what was going on.
No. It was the same man. And he had answers that I should’ve forced him to give me.
He ground teeth in anger and silently cursed himself for not forcing an explanation from the preacher.
Chapter 23
As Steve waited for Martin to finish reading the letter Julie had ostensibly written, he leaned back against the faded red vinyl cushions of the booth they shared. Woody’s was his textbook definition of “oldie but goodie.” Years of use had worn the formica on their table down to the wood beneath. Some of the booths had duct tape on the corners to keep the vinyl from tearing further. Across the single aisle from the booths along the wall were the gleaming chrome stools that lined the diner counter. On the counter stood half a dozen desserts in a vintage pie display shelf. Woody’s occupied that gray area between shabby and charming. With its age-old character and home-cooked goodness, it reminded Steve of the show Julie used to watch on the cooking network, featuring the unique and often hidden culinary treasures that dotted the country.
“So, what do you think this means?” Martin asked, sliding Steve’s letter back across the table.
“It means that somebody is trying to screw with me. I don’t know who, and I don’t know why.”
“How did they get all the information for that letter?” Martin asked. “It seems so real.”
“I know it does. That’s what bothers me the most—all that detail. They must’ve been rooting through my trash or monitoring my phone calls or following me around or something like that.”
“I dunno. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to know more about what’s happened with you—see if we can make some sense out of it.”
“So, you came here to hear about my experience with it?”
“Exactly,” said Steve. “I was hoping maybe we could put our heads together and figure out who’s doing it, and why.”
“Okay, that’s fair enough. So you think somebody’s got it in for us. Pretty elaborate scheme, wouldn’t you say?” asked Martin.
“Yes.”
“So what would you say to me if I told you that it was my daughter’s voice I heard the other night on my radio?”
Steve didn’t respond. He hadn’t been expecting such a statement of conviction.
“And what if I told you that I think that letter of yours is the genuine article?” Martin pressed.
“Then, I’d say you were nuts,” Steve answered.
“Why?”
“Why? Because it isn’t possible! Look, I’m sorry, Martin. This was probably a mistake.”
Steve gathered his papers and stood to leave.
“Steve, wait, please. Believe me, I am not some crazy old man, okay? Please, at least stay and eat—my treat. Let me ask my question another way.”
Steve hesitated.
“Humor me—please?” asked Martin.
Steve put his letter down on the table and slid back into the booth.
“Thanks,” said Martin. “Listen, I highly recommend the meatloaf platter. I am a serious amateur chef, and I say it’s the best in these parts.”
Steve nodded as he browsed the menu. When the waitress arrived, both men ordered the meatloaf. She jotted down the orders and took their menus, promising to return with their drinks.
“Good choice,” said Martin. “You won’t regret it.”
Steve forced a slight nod, but didn’t otherwise respond.
Martin simply nodded.
“Do you mind if I tell you a story?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Steve, shrugging.
“When my daughter Maggie was two years old, my wife and I put her in a bed. We took down the crib and put her in a little trundle bed, close to the floor. It went real well at first—she stayed in the bed, slept the whole night, no problems!” Martin smiled. “But after a year or so, she started having these horrible bad dreams, ‘night terrors’ the doctor called them. We’d be sound asleep in our room next door, and all of a sudden we’d hear her screaming like someone was using her for a pincushion. The first time it happened, we couldn’t get her to wake up, and eventually she calmed down. And then it happened again, and again. We took her to the doctor, and he told us that although these incidents were very stressful for us, there were no lasting effects for her. He told us they’re caused by being overtired and that there is no real treatment for them in kids, except to get a good night’s sleep. So, for a while there after that, we’d put Maggie in our bed with us. We both thought that sleeping in the big, warm bed, between the two of us, would make her feel safe and comfortable. And it worked.”
The waitress returned with tea for Steve and coffee for Martin. They thanked her as she left. Steve nodded for Martin to continue.
“So, she slept solidly, even snored from time to time. No more night terrors in our house. Problem was, we had created a little bit of our own nightmare. Eventually, we tried to put Maggie back in her own bed. For the most part, she’d be happy to start there. But as soon as the lights were out and the house got quiet, we’d hear that tiny little padding of her footed PJs across the hardwood floor.”
He smiled as he poured a sugar packet into his coffee.
“She’d climb in under the covers down at the foot of our bed and squirm up until she was on the pillows between us, quiet as a little bug. So it became a joke. I took to calling her ‘Snugglebug.’ Every night, sneakin’ in, squirming up between us and resting her little head there like it was meant to be. Sometimes, my wife and I would hear her coming.
“’Snugglebug’s comin’,” we’d say, and we’d pretend to be asleep and then grab her and tickle her as she tried to get up into the bed with us. She’d giggle, we’d laugh and then we’d all fall asleep together. Every night. . .put her to bed in her room, and every night, a Snugglebug invasion. I’d say we went on like that for two years or more. Eventually she outgrew it. She got too big for our bed, and the night terrors went away as she got older. But for those two years or so, she was our Snugglebug.”
Martin’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Snugglebug’s comin’” he said, staring into his coffee as he stirred absently. He looked up. “Steve, that was sixteen years ago, man. Sixteen years! And I don’t think we’ve spoken of it since. The other night, when Maggie spoke to me, she said: ‘It’s me Daddy, it’s your Snugglebug.’
“Nobody stole that outta my garbage can, and I know I don’t have it written down somewhere for someone to use against me. Nobody else knew about that name, except for my ex-wife, and there is simply no question this is something she’d do.
“So, I ask you, Steve,” he said, “how do you know for sure about this?” He jabbed his finger at the letter on the table in front of Steve. “How do you know it’s not from your wife “
“I-“ began Steve. Martin interrupted.
“Come on now, Steve. Don’t give me a bunch of scientific mumbo jumbo and stuff like that. Try looking at it with your heart, not your brain. What if it came from Julie?”
Steve didn’t reply. He knew what Martin was asking of him. He also knew that Julie’s letter had that special thing in it too: the lines from the Sex ‘N Cigs song. It was nothing that he had ever written down, but something that only Julie would’ve known. He still hadn’t been able to wrestle that detail into his own theory of what was going on.
“I don’t know, Martin. That’s a pretty big leap for me,” he admitted.
“I’m not asking you to ‘know,’ Steve. I am asking you to consider that it might be a possibility. Seems like we’re somehow connected here, you and me, and I want to know who I’m dealing with.”
Martin smiled.
Steve re-opened the letter and showed Martin the last lines.
“See that line? That’s from a song called “Better Together,” a Sex ‘N Cigs song, it was kind of our song. Nobody knew that but Julie.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Martin nodding. He leaned back in the booth. “There you go.”
Steve closed his eyes and sighed. The waitress returned with their meatloaf, and they paused the conversation long enough to thank her for the meal. As they started to eat, Martin pressed Steve again.
“Look,” he pointed out, between bites, “I am not suggesting that I don’t question this whole thing. I don’t understand it myself. But I am telling you right now that it was my daughter’s voice I heard the other night. I don’t know how, and I certainly don’t know why, but it was Maggie— no question about it. But boy, it threw me for a big loop. Then right after that, you came along with your story and your ideas on it, and I see how this all affects you.”
He pointed across the table at Steve with a forkful of meatloaf.
“I have a lot of questions, like you. I want to know what the heck is going on here, like you. And I’m still trying to deal with losing someone I love very much.”
Steve smirked and shook his head slowly.
“I can’t explain it either, but you’re right. It seems we’ve got a lot in common all of the sudden. We’ve both got some serious questions burning up the brain.”
Martin nodded.
“You seem so confident about what you heard. But I am still so skeptical about my letter.”
“Regardless,” Steve continued, “it looks to me like we’re both after answers that might come from the same place. Let’s see what we can do to get it figured out.”
“My man!” said Martin, extending his hand. Steve took it, and the two men shared a firm handshake.
“You were right, Martin,” said Steve, mouth full of food. “T
his has got to be the best meatloaf I have ever had.”
“I toldya! Okay, what do we do first?”
“Well, here is the list I pulled off the site. This is how I found you. I’ve added my own notes too.”
He slid a copy across the table to Martin, who studied the list in front of him:
Abigail Nikko — dec. Zachary(bro)- football — SA,TX — online San Antonio??? Killed by a football?
Veronica Ryder — dec. Helen(mot)- SCUBA — NYC,NY — phone scuba diving? No obit?
Martin Abingdon — dec. Margaret(dau)- OD — SFK,VA — radio Suffolk — overdose? Osteochondritis dissecans? No obit?
On Tenterhooks Page 10