Flutter

by L. E. Green

  That night, Frankie’s mind raced incessantly, obsessing over his responsibilities and the difficult decisions that needed to be made each day to keep the pub fully operational. The mysterious Abigail was only one more thing adding fuel to the tormenting fire in his mind. He prayed for the morning news to come on, looking forward to the new day, but sunrise was still a few hours away.

  The TV played real estate infomercials as he pushed up and down against the hardwood floor. He did 100 pushups without stopping. He picked up a pair of 45 lb weights and began doing bicep curls. He did sets of 20, alternating arms. Staying strong and physically fit was a passion of his; it was also a means for him to calm down or think. Frankie was used to his fitness regimen. He had followed it for 25 years. It started as a part of his job requirement in his former life, and remained an important piece of his daily ritual. After the biceps, Frankie focused on his shoulders and then his triceps. He broke a sweat. Little by little his t–shirt began to soak with sweat. It gathered at his chin and eventually dripped down to the floor.

  Once Frankie was done, he sat on the edge of his bed to meditate and pray. Frankie didn’t talk to God much, unless he felt he really needed a judgment free friend. He felt that God was the only friend who could listen without interruption. A talk with God was declared the immediate solution to remedy this headache now pounding between his ears.

  Frankie had suffered from depression for many years. He was haunted by the faces of people he had killed or hurt in his past. When he quit the hired hand business, he had seen a psychiatrist who prescribed him Zoloft. He didn’t like the side effects and quit cold turkey. For three months he had nightmares and found himself walking the ledge of many buildings contemplating life and death. He understood how tormenting nightmares could be to a person. He felt Abigail’s pain and worried if she would find herself, one day, pacing along a ledge. Those depressing days were brutal, and Frankie feared that he would slip back into depression if he didn’t make some difficult choices soon.

  Abigail sat on the edge of her bed. She saw the text from Roger. She ignored it and carried on with what she was doing. Abigail was rummaging through her purse again. She had laid out her license which read:

  ABIGAIL PAIGE

  652 SCOTT STREET

  UNIT 6

  UTICA, NY

  She put the license away.

  She had a small stack of cash totaling about $250, a key, eye shadow, dark brown lipstick, and a small black King James bible– both new and Old Testament. She flipped through the pages from back to front. The only thing she saw in the book was a note on the last page in red ink that read E2 ON THE FIRST FOURTEEN. This doesn’t mean shit to me right now. Her frustration level soared to critical.

  She put her stuff away again and laid down to go to sleep. She let out a deep sigh. Then her phone rang. It was Roger. She picked up with a sleepy voice. “Hey Roggie bear.”

  “Hey Elvis. Just checking to see if you were ok. You seemed a little bothered today.”

  “I’m bothered every day.”

  “You just ignore my texts now?”

  “Yes!”

  They giggled.

  She asked, “What are you working on now? I hear a catastrophe brewing in the background. It sounds like something wants to explode over there.”

  “If I explained, you wouldn’t get it.”

  “Well maybe I can come by and check it out tomorrow.”

  Roger was a little shocked and happy. He always wanted to spend time with her but never had a chance and here it was. “Ok. If you’re not being cynical, then that would be really cool. As long as you don’t laugh. Half of my ideas don’t work.”

  “Half of my brain doesn’t work, so we’re pretty even.”

  “Still can’t put the pieces together?”

  “The rabbit hole goes deeper and deeper every day. Does E2 on the First Fourteen sound familiar to you?”

  “Not in the least. Where’s that coming from?”

  “Good question. It was written in this… oh never mind. I’m hoping something will jar my memory but it’s more complicated than that, I guess.”

  “What about the dreams?”

  “I still have those from time to time. It’s been getting worse. I try to keep my iPod playing while I sleep. It helps sometimes but once the batteries go…”

  Another spark went off on one of Roger’s experiments. “OW! Shit!”

  Abigail laughed. “Let me let you go before you kill yourself. Any final words for the eulogy?”

  “SHUT UP!”

  “Duly noted. Good night!” They hung up.

  Abigail laid her head down on the pillow and tucked herself in. She liked to feel the fleece from the blanket run over her legs when she was tired. Her initial goal was to avoid sleep as much as possible, but her body needed rest. Her head continued to sink into the pillow. She fought the urge all night but couldn’t resist the desire to close her eyes. Her body was getting more and more comfortable. Sleep weighed over her body, sucking her in like a drain. Her head tilted to the side. Slowly she drifted into a deep slumber.

  Abigail’s head moved frantically from side to side as her world spun from a dark city night into a murky rain forest, thick with trees and dense fog. She lay on the muddy soil in a fetal position, naked and cold. The black ground crept up over her body. She peeled her body out of the position and stood up. Her legs wobbled as if it was her first time walking. The trees towered over her, leaning inward with their upper branches tangling overhead. Black snakes slithered down the trucks and hissed all around. She stood in the midst of the shiny black bark that oozed down like crude oil over a rusty pipe. She snapped her neck around upon hearing a faint sound coming from the bushes. Suddenly, she heard feet pounding against black broken leaves, vines and twine.

  “Get her!” voices cried out from between the brush.

  She began to run, dodging the vines that reached out for her arms and legs. One vine caught her and twisted around her neck stopping her in her tracks. Four more vines grabbed her arms and legs, lifting her up off the ground, sprawling her out above the jungle floor. Her wrists and ankles bled from the places where the vines attached themselves to her body. Thorns pierced into her skin. Loud drums played in her head faster and faster as she hung above the slithery ground. Suddenly, the vines let go and she fell; but she landed flat on her feet, which smashed against the wet leaves and tree roots. She ran again and tripped. Her heart pounded against the back of her chest. The leaves closed in around her, getting thicker. It was getting harder to move through the thicket. She looked back and saw jungle natives in pursuit. She stood up again and ran.

  Black oily ooze flowed out of her mouth to the back of her neck and down her spine. She screamed in agony, stretching her arm, gripping at her back as far as she could reach. The oil burned and eventually caught fire as she continued to run. She screamed again and the scream sounded like the screech of a bird of prey. She turned and looked at the men behind her to see if they were gaining ground.

  “Ado a balidah,” she yelled at the men behind her.

  They were closing in on her. She was suddenly hit with an arrow in her shoulder. She screamed in pain. The world became blurry. They must have poisoned the tip of the arrow. She looked back again to see where she was; the native men were gone but two men in suits were now chasing her. She ran until she came to the edge of a cliff. The men were getting closer; she had no choice. She jumped off the cliff into a cloud of smoke. The smoke engulfed her body. When it cleared, she could see the ground approaching fast. Right before she hit the ground, she woke. She sat up straight. Abigail was breathing hard and sweating.

  “What the fuck?” She threw her head back on the pillow and caught her breath.

  Larry Crawford was a tall, big bellied Irish man standing 6’3” who lived a simple, lonely life. He had a one bedroom apartment in Cambridge, not too far from the Boston line. His apartment was in an old lingerie factory that was built in 1826. He lived on the third floor w
hich had four other apartments on it. The interior of his apartment was an IKEA showcase and could serve as a model space in the IKEA department store. His apartment was very neat and clean with exposed brick walls and hardwood floors. The apartment looked like a sports bar lounge with sleek modern furniture and sports memorabilia. He was a collector. In separate frames hanging from the walls, he had a Larry Bird jersey, a Drew Bledsoe Jersey, and a signed Bobby Orr Boston Bruins jersey. On the mantle, he had various signed baseballs, gloves and cards in glass cases. On the side was a wet bar with a granite counter top and various top shelf spirits.

  He had 14 foot high ceilings and a simple ceiling fan. Larry’s bedroom was equally as neat and organized as the rest of his apartment. His closet was carefully arranged. The shoes were neatly stacked on racks. His dress shirts were folded and color coordinated. His slacks and jeans were hung on hangers. All of his clothes fit into the closet. He didn’t have very many. His bedroom had a queen sized bed covered in a fitted sheet with two white pillows and the blankets neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He had a 42 inch Toshiba flat screen TV on a stand, a cable box and no other furniture. Needless to say, Larry was very particular about his apartment. He didn’t have much furniture, so that way he could keep track of what he had. He hated clutter in his living space and refused to allow anyone to enter his apartment while wearing shoes. No eating was allowed out of the kitchen.

  Larry tapped away on his computer seemingly preoccupied with crunching numbers for the pub. In secret, Larry had a hidden agenda. He sat in his apartment on the couch with his bifocal glasses drinking a glass of milk, rum and ice. His eyes were glued to the screen. He typed into the Google search engine “ABIGAIL PAIGE,” searching for missing persons’ reports to see if Abigail’s name or photo had surfaced. Nothing! He tried another search “MISSING WOMAN UTICA, NEW YORK.” Nothing came up. He sipped his drink and grunted. He tried again, “RUNAWAY ABIGAIL PAIGE UTICA, NEW YORK.” Nothing! That slippery bitch.

  Larry had become obsessed with getting to the bottom of Abigail’s mysterious appearance and didn’t trust her situation one bit. She had been around for a while and Larry didn’t understand why her memories hadn’t returned by now. She’s lying!

  He grew to think she was tolerable, but didn’t feel she was worthy of his complete loyalty and adoration, especially since she was curt and often sported an attitude he cared not to entertain. He made a concerted effort to be sure he didn’t get too attached or too emotionally involved. He couldn’t understand why Frankie, who was so street smart, could be so weak for this girl. She could ruin everything. He didn’t even bother questioning why Roger allowed himself to get attached. Horny bastard!

  The soft blue glow of the computer screen illuminated his chubby semi wrinkly face. He kept thinking of search combinations he hadn’t tried. “MISSING PERSON’S REPORT UTICA, NY.” Again, nothing. He was silently enraged. He clenched his fist and took a sip of his drink. He was determined and focused. The time slipped away. Hours passed and Larry wouldn’t give up on finding a lead or a clue.

  “Maybe I should hire a private investigator.” But he had a feeling that wherever she was coming from, she had covered her tracks well. He thought that maybe she was lying about her memory loss. It made sense. Maybe she didn’t want to be found and was intentionally hiding in the pub, away from everything she knew. Even if she was telling the truth, his research would prove that as well. He couldn’t really figure her out, but he insisted that understanding the mysteries of Abigail Paige was going to be his number one priority. He was determined to prove to Frankie that she was not good for business or for him. She had changed Frankie into a person he didn’t understand anymore. Larry didn’t like it.

  The sky was a bluish black as the sun set its course to rise for the day. Abigail counted the cracks in the ceiling until the six o’clock morning news came on. She turned on the TV and waited for the weather report. It was 73 degrees. She decided to go for a short run to buy herself time. She put on her sneakers and sweats, grabbed her keys and headed out the door.

  CHAPTER 5

  BOSTON POLICE STATION 10:00 AM

  The Police station buzzed with detectives, officers and criminals. Many of the detectives had recently arrived for the day and were just punching in. Detective Sydney Brown pulled up to the precinct, ready for the impending argument of Boston baseball versus New York baseball. Detective Brown was a 38 year old New York–born homicide detective for the Boston Police Homicide Unit. He was six feet tall with a medium build, short brown hair and a short beard.

  He had worked for the department for the past eight years as a detective after serving as an officer for the previous five years. He had started in the Narcotics Unit but quickly found out that homicide was his niche. He pulled his 2009 black Toyota Camry into a parking space, locked the door and walked to the front door.

  “Here it comes,” he thought to himself.

  “How about those Yankees?” the man at the front desk yelled out. His name was Barkley Duckworth, a soon to be retired officer who decided to spend his last six months on the force behind the front desk.

  “Good morning, Duck,” he said full of annoyance. It was best to avoid the question. He rolled his eyes and walked to the second floor and into the staff lounge. It was empty for a change. Brown was relieved. He filled a mug with Folgers decaf. One of the rookies was usually on assignment to keep coffee hot and ready. After filling his cup and adding sugar, he headed back to his desk, hoping to avoid an argument about last night’s baseball game. Though he did everything in his power to quietly return to his desk, Detective Chris Duffy noticed Brown’s effort to slip by.

  “Oh Brownie. Where are you going?” Duffy teased.

  “Stuff it Duffy, I don’t wanna hear it.”

  “Just hand over the spoils, Brownie. This is the debt you pay for being a Yankee fan.”

  “It’s not about winning the battle…” Brown insists.

  The crowd of cops and detectives chime in, “It’s about winning the war.” They laugh.

  “No! It’s about winning the game! Shut up with that crap. Pay up you sore loser!” Duffy gloated. Brown handed over two fifty dollar bills. Duffy held the money up to the light, “I gotta check the authenticity of these bills. Can’t trust a New Yorker these days.”

  “Shut up or next time you’re getting your money in pennies and scratch offs. Enjoy your insignificant victory. They don’t happen very often, Duffy. So we know you have to soak it in when you can.” The crowd laughed as Brown bitterly walked away. FUCKING BASTARDS! Detective Brown sipped his coffee as walked back to his desk. Piles of papers were added to his desk since he had left yesterday evening. As he shuffled through some of the papers, he was interrupted by Meghan Finch.

  Meghan Finch was ready to work. “Good morning Detective Brown.”

  “Good morning, Detective Finch.” He barely made eye contact as he shuffled through some papers on his desk. “I can’t believe this.” He was upset about the amount of paperwork left for him to review.

  “I know you haven’t had much time at your desk, but we have to go. A call just came in from Tammy. There’s a new case that’s come in and Downy wants us over there now.”

  “Hope it’s a good one. Debrief me on the way.” Detective Brown and Detective Finch head out quickly.

  Meghan Finch was a new detective that had been assigned to shadow Sydney Brown for three months per order of her precinct. She was 5’4”, strong and red–headed with a few freckles on her nose and cheeks. Meghan had been a police officer at the precinct for about four years before she began their homicide detective training program. Finch was known to be pretty tough. She did, however, have to take a month off after being punched in the face at a Beanie Man concert. Her nose was broken, and when she passed out from the blow, her face hit the pavement and her cheek bone was fractured. This happened her second year on the force. The assailant was a drunken UMass student named Darcy Small who had just lost his mother that morning. Hi
s friends took him out to clear his mind, and things didn’t go very well. Meghan sympathized with the kid and convinced the judge to lighten the sentence if he promised to attend counseling for three months and volunteer at the Every Woman’s Center on campus. They sent biweekly reports of his progress and hour logs to Finch’s lawyer.

  Finch had about a week left under Brown’s supervision. Things were going pretty well and she was ready to embark on her full–time career in the homicide unit. Brown trusted Meghan enough to let her take the lead on the last investigation, which she led successfully. In the last investigation, Finch ruffled a few feathers when she investigated a robbery that led to the arrest of Sean Pearson, the youngest son of Jackson Pearson, a real estate tycoon who was in the process of negotiating the purchase of a highly sought after site by the Boston Harbor. The case against his son was solid. There were four witnesses, 30 minutes of footage, matching serial numbers, and a snitch. The case got even more interesting when Finch was offered $500,000 to “lose evidence.” She refused.

  Meghan was engaged to a young man, Anthony Fowler, who was a debt consolidation specialist at Eastern Bay State Credit Counseling Corporation. Anthony and Meghan met at a Starbucks as she was walking the beat with Officer Hanson Granby. Anthony wasn’t shy about asking her for her phone number after she had given him a quarter to cover the rest of his tab. His bill was $3.17. He found the three dollar bills with ease but fumbled around to come up with the last 17 cents. Finch reached in her pocket and pulled out the quarter.