Abram's Puzzle

Abram’s Puzzle

Camille Mariani

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© 2012 Camille Mariani. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 7/13/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0631-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0630-0 (e)

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908580

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Contents

PROLOG

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

Dedicated to Jilda Stowe, Sierra Spechler, and Kiarra Mariani, each one a bright and promising star in this dark world.

Ye shall know the truth, and the truth

shall make you mad.

--Aldous Huxley

PROLOG

Memory rode on waves of pain as Abram came to, all at once aware of danger from an invisible enemy. If he didn’t move, his head didn’t spin. Not to move would likely mean a slow and miserable death in this alien place with barely enough air to breathe, little light beyond the slit under a door across the room, cold that penetrated what little clothing he wore and burrowed into his bones. He shivered.

Dammit. Get a grip. Get moving.

He put his hand on the floor to push up, felt hard earth, and decided that this was a cellar, maybe for potato storage. His throat was so raw and parched that trying to swallow was like trying to eat a cactus branch. His cotton shirt, like his jeans, felt damp. Tissue paper would serve as well for warmth.

The last thing he remembered was hanging his coat in Astrid’s closet and calling her name. At the creaking sound of a floor board, he turned to see who was behind him, saw a red jacket. Beyond that, nothing until he found himself sitting in this dungeon.

He did remember that Astrid was missing. Maybe she was here, unconscious like he’d been.

Astrid? he called. You here? Astrid?

Silence spiked his fears. Maybe something worse had happened to her, since she’d been missing since morning. What morning: today, yesterday, three days ago?

Rolling to his knees, he worked his hands upward on the rock wall, bent his head against a soothing cold stone long enough to catch his breath. On the first step, his legs buckled and he went down.

Can’t fold. Astrid needs me.

Again, from his knees upward to a standing position, he stopped to breathe, touched the throbbing sore spot on his head and felt a knob the size of a ping pong ball.

Man! I got a hard blow.

He kept one hand on the wall as he maneuvered around the room, stopping every few minutes to call out, Astrid. Where are you?

He’d never regretted not smoking, but this was one time he did. If he did smoke, he’d have light, but he had none.

The room was high enough for him to stand straight. What had he done that someone wanted to keep him prisoner in this dungeon?

Maybe not me. Maybe it’s what Astrid did. What’s that woman been up to?

Inch by inch, he felt his way around the moist stones to the door. The wood handle felt like an icycle in his hand. He tried to move it. It didn’t budge. He thrust his left shoulder against the door. Shards of pain shot through his right shoulder. Both of his physical therapists had told him the shoulder wasn’t healed enough for him to work yet. He was quite sure they wouldn’t recommend trying to ram an immovable door with his body.

How could he get out? Would anyone find him in time, or would he freeze and starve here until he died? That’s how it would be, wasn’t it? This would be his tomb. Maybe someday, years from now, someone would stumble on this place, whatever it was, and find his bones. They’d think they had discovered a prehistoric man and probably make a lot of money selling the skeleton to some lab, maybe even the Smithsonian, where it would be determined that this person lived in the late eighties…nineteen eighties, not pre-zip eighties.

Good grief, man, you’re hallucinating already.

Pounding on the door with his fist, Abram felt despair like he’d never known. Now he understood how wild animals felt caged for display at fairs and zoos, pacing back and forth, looking for an escape route. He could never watch caged animals again without thinking about having been imprisoned for no known reason in this black hole.

That is, If I ever make it out of here by some miracle.

A jumble of thoughts flashed through his mind: his deep feelings for Astrid, their plans for him to build her new house, the college campus murder, the farm Astrid yearned for and the murder there, Hanna. But frustration peaked at the thought of the unfinished puzzle at the motel. He had planned to ask Astrid to marry him the day he finished that puzzle. What a joke it would have been. He’d rehearsed his words for a week.

He’d planned to say, Well, I solved that puzzle. Marriage shouldn’t be too much tougher to work out. What do you say, Astrid? Shall we see if we can put together the pieces for a good marriage?

He pounded on the door and yelled, listened with his ear pressed against the cold wood.

Help! Anyone out there? Get me outa here.

Not a sound came to him. How he wished he might hear Astrid’s voice. He felt himself drifting into a sort of dream state, mulling over conversations they had and remembering the first time he heard her speak. Her sergeant major voice nearly knocked him over. He laughed now. How comfortable he’d become with her. The more he thought about her, the more he realized how much he cared for her, even though he loved to tease her. It was that quick flare of indignation that he enjoyed bringing out. She’d get all sheepish afterward, realizing she’d been had again.

What a stupid idea, waiting to finish that dumb jigsaw puzzle before proposing. She would’ve thought I was crazy for sure. But she probably does anyway. Hell, I think I’m crazy now, so why shouldn’t she? Why didn’t I tell her how I felt and ask her to marry me? What a damn fool. All because of a puzzle.

Maybe that wasn’t strictly true, but it was easier to blame the puzzle than to admit that he was shy and feared the possibility that she might say no. He never did take rejection well. He had no reason to think she would turn him down. Often there was that bright sheen of admiration in her eyes when she looked at him. Well, that was it, wasn’t it? She never said she’d want to marry him, nor that she wanted to marry at all. She was a dedicated journalist and had that crazy plan to own a farm and be an agriculturist. She’d be just as dedicated to growing vegetables and milking cows as she was to following up on a fatal accident or covering a school basketball game.

He slumped to the floor, his legs too weak to hold his weight. All he could think to do was lie back on his elbows, extend his legs, and pound his feet against the door. Wrong move! He rolled to his left side, moaning.

Idiot. You want another operation?

His shoulder felt like it had come apart. Another operation? If he died here, it wouldn’t matter if the rotator cuff was torn again. He sat up and yelled.

Someone! Anyone! Open this door!

It was hopeless. In pain, dizzy, he needed fresh air, food, and warm clothes. Most of all, he needed, ASTRID!

ONE

Tuesday, October 3, 1989

The Edge of Town Motel provided comfortable rooms and good service, but kept the rooms a lot warmer than Astrid liked for sleeping. She felt dopey as she got an early start on a busy day ahead. For a moment she observed the golf course after pulling drapes open to let in welcome rays of daylight. Heavy dew covered the green like a layer of fresh snow, a reminder that she hoped to be settled in her new home within the next few weeks before it was real snow. She liked this time of year best with colors so bright they looked painted on trees. Breathing the nippy air felt as good as a nip of liquor, she’d heard someone say. Being a tee-totaller, she wouldn’t know.

At the closet, she chose aqua pants suit and black blouse, something new and quite sophisticated for her. No time this morning to swim laps in the motel pool or to join Abram for breakfast or lunch. Randall King had promised to have the documents ready for signatures today to seal her purchase offer on the former Wolf farm. She didn’t really trust the man, though she had no reason to doubt that he’d keep the bargain they made. He welcomed her offer on the former Chris Wolf farm, and well he should. The memory of how he almost got away with his boondoggle to bring in a shopping mall without the public’s knowledge brought on a smile, perhaps with a bit of smugness.

Construcorp would be building that mall today if she hadn’t learned that the Zoning Board placed its public hearing notice in a Bangor newspaper and not in the local Bugle. Because she and other Bugle writers had just time enough to print a story about the hearing, voter turnout jammed City Hall in loud protest to the proposed farm property change from rural residential to commercial in order to accommodate a huge shopping center. Faced with that widespread opposition, the contractor withdrew his application for the variance, and Fairchance residents once again settled down, content with their modest city’s Main Street shops, their neighborly greetings along sidewalks, the Majestic Theater’s new movies, Batman and Honey, I Shrunk The Kids.

However, when that left Randall King with a huge debt instead of profit from the Wolf farm, which he had bought anticipating a quick turnover sale to Construcorp, Astrid made an offer to buy it. Even though she was the one who exposed King’s conflict of interest as a board member planning to re-sell that farm, Astrid made her bold proposition, and King shook hands on it with gusto. She had thought for a very brief moment that he might kiss her.

But he had not produced the purchase agreement documents yet, and Astrid tried to ignore the worry that wanted to surface in her mind.

She and Abram needed a place to live and spread out after being here at the Edge of Town Motel for three weeks. Despite luxurious rooms, the walls tended to close in on a person, especially Abram, confined much of the day while his rotator cuff healed. The surgeon held out little hope for Abram to regain full use of his arm for at least another month, and even then he would be limited in work activity.

She reminded herself to rap on his door before she left. She hated leaving before breakfast with him but had a story to write for sports, having spent a tedious evening last night at one of the high school basketball games. If the team didn’t shape up soon, she was tempted to volunteer as an assistant coach. She could make a winning team of boys just as easily as girls, and Coach Stockton would be a complete idiot not to accept her offer to help. If she should decide to offer.

Feeling unusually upbeat, Astrid hummed no particular song as she reached for the pants suit she bought on a shopping spree after her house was blown up by Jason Trump. Was it only three weeks ago? It felt like a year since that day when she thought Abram had died in the blast. After it turned out that Abram was not home, everyone believed the body that fire fighters discovered was that of Jason, and presumed that he died when he attempted to blow out a section of the chimney in Astrid’s house. But his misadventure in search of money that existed only in his warped mind killed him.

Investigators had not yet reported their findings in the probe for facts concerning the explosion, another loose end to tie up today. Sheriff Larry Knight promised to bring new information to the newspaper before deadline.

Deep in thought while she braided her hair, Astrid was startled by the voice behind her.

Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Thorpe. I thought you’d be gone. You said you’d be outa here early.

Hanna started to back out of the room.

It’s okay, Hanna, come in. You’re getting an early start this morning.

Have to. Housekeeping is short-handed, and we gotta get all the rooms ready by two o’clock check-in.

Though the housekeeping staff wore pink cotton uniforms, shoes were not uniform, and Hanna’s brown low heels were worn down. Astrid thought that if the young woman was poor, then it seemed too bad that she paid good money to have her hair tinted blond. Today, the color needed a touch-up to cover black roots fringing her forehead.

A person like Hanna was difficult to read. Her moves were quick and practiced. Her habit of scowling gave her worry lines. She’d been working here only about a week, but apparently settled into the routine quickly. Astrid found her to be a gentle person, speaking softly, until one day as she walked past a room where Hanna and another housekeeper worked. Hanna practically screamed a command to clean the bathroom sink and not ever leave one that dirty again. She sounded like a different person, and Astrid wondered if this meek manner was perhaps a façade.

I’m almost ready to go. Don’t let me stop you. Go ahead and do what you need to do, Hanna.

Should I tell Mr. Lincoln you’ll have lunch with him today?

No. I’ll let him know on my way out that I won’t see him much before five. We both have a busy day ahead.

Astrid continued to plait her blond hair, aware that Hanna drew closer until she was at the dresser, aligning three books, and looking into Astrid’s eyes reflected in the mirror.

You want to say something to me?

I was wondering about your house explosion. Why did that man go in your house and blow it up, Miss Thorpe?

He was insane, and he thought that the former owner of the house had hidden a lot of money in the base of the fireplace chimney over thirty years ago. I was told that he had gone to the hardware store and bought dynamite. He told them he needed to break up a rock, but apparently he used it to blow out the chimney. Of course, he destroyed my whole house. It didn’t make sense either to dynamite the chimney or to use so much explosive, but I guess it did to him. At least, for a few minutes.

How awful. He must have been blown to bits.

Astrid stopped braiding. What a simple observation. Of course. Jason would have been unrecognizable. She hadn’t thought about that before, maybe because she was so relieved that Abram was alive. When she was told that a body had been found, she thought of it as being a whole body, but it couldn’t have been. Why didn’t she realize that? Why did the police report finding a body, and not body parts? Not that it mattered. It could only have been Jason, given all the evidence.

May I ask you a personal question, Miss Thorpe?

Ya, go ahead.

Well, I was just wondering why you and Mr. Lincoln don’t share a room.

Astrid stared at Hanna, stunned by the question. Struggling for an answer that wasn’t rude, she recalled when Abram returned from Bath, after her painful ordeal of thinking him dead in the explosion. Though he was still in a great deal of pain from his shoulder operation, aggravated by the long ride in his friend’s old pickup, he grabbed her with his left arm and kissed her with urgency, as if they hadn’t seen each other for a year instead of a day.

At the time, each was feeling guilty over their exchange of harsh words when they parted the day before, and they couldn’t express their remorse strong enough, it seemed. She knew that she loved him, and thought that he loved her. But they hadn’t expressed it in words. He never suggested marriage, not even when they lived together. She still wasn’t sure how she would have replied if he had brought up the possibility of co-habitation. That option wasn’t the worst in the world, but she had been brought up to believe in marriage. Her romantic interlude with a young man some years ago had led nowhere, and perhaps she now felt that, if the door were wide open, either she or Abram might just exit through it.

You certainly are full of questions today, Hanna.

I’m sorry. Excuse me.

Never mind. It’s okay. We aren’t married, that’s why. And we haven’t known each other very long. I don’t believe in rushing into anything as important as marriage.

And you don’t believe in living together when you love each other?

Astrid was on the verge of telling her to mind her own business, but she didn’t have the heart to do that.

What makes you think we love each other?

You’re always together when you’re not working. Sure looks like love to me.

It sure feels like love to me, but Abram hasn’t committed yet, so I won’t push him.

Love or not, I do not believe in living together, Hanna.

But you lived together at your house, didn’t you?

We were in the same house, but not living together in the sense you mean. He had shoulder surgery and needed a place to recuperate. That’s why I fixed him up a place to be as comfortable as possible in my dining room. That, and the fact that he was going to do the renovations on my home once he was healed enough. I thought that when he was ready he could begin small jobs even if he couldn’t actually do any re-building.

Astrid began pinning the long braid like a crown around her head.

Do you believe in living together before marriage, Hanna?

Her hesitation was so long that Astrid turned from the mirror and looked directly at her. There was that far-away sad gaze again.

Something wrong, Hanna?

In a way. We’re separated. My husband and me. I’d a whole lot rather just lived with him instead of marrying him. Things would’ve been better. People ain’t always what they seem to be, are they? Well, it’s too late now.

Maybe it isn’t. Maybe you can get back on the right track with him if you try.

No. It’s over. Forever.

For one so young to be so positive that there was no saving her marriage sounded like a very serious problem, not just a spat that they could patch up after a brief separation.

If there’s ever anything you feel like talking about, I’m a good listener and it won’t go any further.

Astrid touched Hanna’s arm to reinforce her offer to help, but the blank look told her to step back. Now it was her turn to mind her own business.

I didn’t mean to sound nosy, Miss Thorpe. I just see you with Mr. Lincoln so much that it looked to me as if you must be lovers.

No, we aren’t.

He’s probably too poor for you.

That statement from Hanna stopped Astrid dead. Too poor? Good grief.

Why in the world would you say that?

Oh, I don’t know. Seems like you pretty much take care of him. I mean, I’ve heard from some of the workers here that you even sign the dinner checks in the dining room.

In disbelief, Astrid took Hanna’s arm and shook it slightly.

Don’t be too quick to repeat gossip, Hanna. Would it matter to you one way or the other if I pick up the dinner check?

No, I guess not.

Astrid let go of her arm, picked up her large carry-all bag, and headed for the door. Feeling she might have been too sharp, considering Hanna’s station and the fact that she had spoken quite innocently, she hesitated.

Now look, Hanna. Don’t do too much in here. If you just make the bed, it will be fine. You have enough to do without fussing with this room, especially since I’m in it so little.

This had become a daily routine, Astrid’s telling her not to do more than make the bed, and, on return, finding all the furniture polished, her things neatly arranged on the dresser, fresh towels in the bathroom, slippers laid out by the bed. She did the work like an old pro, yet Hanna couldn’t be more than twenty. So young to be so old inside.

Oh, and one more thing. Please don’t disturb that puzzle on the table. Abram likes to help on it if he comes in to talk.

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